Large Animals in Everyday Life by Wendy Brenner Read Free Book Online Page B

patent. They had paid for his stationary bike, his limestone patio, his wife’s pony, his son’s all-terrain vehicle, and some necessary roof repairs on the house. He puffed confidently away on his bicycle, watching through clean glass doors the steam rising off his lawn. Because of his invention, the sky would not fall on him or his family. He rarely thought of his old graduate school colleague, the man who had invented the machine that measured the screams of fruits and vegetables. That story was too sad. His own story had also been one of grief and long struggle, actually, but now that he was a success no one wanted to hear it. He was expected to shut up and be grateful, and that was what he did.
    â€¢ • •
    Dr. Roland was demonstrating for Pat the plywood turntable on which the oysters would ride during their irradiation. He caressed the plywood with absent, tobacco-stained fingers, gazing up at Pat with a salesman’s pride and determination. “You’ll want to keep an eye on those lids,” he told Pat, “but otherwise feel free to circulate during the dosing.”
    The wax lids on the cartons would gradually yellow as they absorbed the radiation, but there would be no other visible change. A makeshift-looking motor was rigged up under the plywood to spin it, like some child’s science project. The oysters, though an important part of history, did not, Pat had learned, merit treatment by the plant’s showy and immense automated system. This little approximation, which might as well be a homemade microwave, was going to do the job. Pat tried not to show his disappointment. Other than its large capacity, it was no more impressive than the Gammacell back in Gainesville. What did they think he was, a Boy Scout? He scribbled figures on his pad, the minutes it would take to dose a carton with
x
kilograys,the total minutes he would have to keep watch. Dr. Roland stood by with neutral respect, keeping a hand on his machine. “This is quite a load of shells to haul,” he said to Pat. “You order them special?”
    â€œNope,” Pat said. “Just garden-variety Apalachicola oysters.”
    â€œOh yes, and your reporter is here,” Dr. Roland said. “She’s out in the reception area whenever you’re ready.”
    Maura was waking up now beside the Trinidadian; perhaps he sang when he awoke. A weak, sick terror took hold of Pat: what if Maura planned to visit some other student today, someone she had managed to keep secret this whole time? Then he thought of her running her hand through his own thin hair so kindly, so easily—it was impossible. It was impossible that she not love him. “Your body is perfect,” she had told him. “Your body has nothing to do with reality.”
    â€œIf you’re wondering about safety,” Dr. Roland was saying, “as well you might, let me assure you there is no cause for concern. As you’ll see when you take the complete tour, there’s a significantly thick concrete wall between us and the source. I just thought we’d best get started right away with these little devils in case there’s a hitch. Plenty of time later to go exploring.”
    â€œRight,” Pat said. He blinked and stamped his feet. “Let’s go. Let’s load them on.”
    Silent men in jumpsuits moved at Dr. Roland’s command to lift the oysters onto the machine. There was nothing left for Pat to do but watch.
    â€¢ • •
    The insects who ate their way through fruits and vegetables did not waste time worrying about what would become of them. They knew they were romanticized by no one, and they lived accordingly, hurling themselves with abandon at mouths and ears, TV screens and lightbulbs, suns and caves. If they died, theydied. On the wheel of
samsara
, they had no place to go but up. Life for them held no shame, mystery, or promise, and they did not care who spied on them or