 I was seduced by mistake.
The 90s
This is a true story,
though so improbable you might not believe me.
My first job out of
college was in a greenhouse, agricultural research for ICI and
later Zeneca. There was a sharp-nosed entymologist, a woman who
grew microscopic nematodes in tomato pots, had buckets of rustling
larvae, and a temp to mist her butterfly cages twice a day. She
was a sarcastic woman from England, no curves, and she brought her
husband the soil man.
Neville, Soil
Specialist, had a brogue so strong I couln't make heads or tails of
it half the time. He was unlike his wife, an entirely different
coin in education and presentation. He was a wizard with keeping
soil* alive, and carried the evidence home beneath his fingernails
-- which he freqeuently scraped with a pocket knife. He kept our
big machines running, squirreled away bags of goods to fill all
requests, and was a general do-gooder and amiable
fellow.
* They call it soil, not dirt, and correct you whenever
you misname the loam or peat. They know the components of each
blend, those horticultural scientists do. Derek and Stott were
gifted in predicting the action of a new structure based on its
homologies. Primary and secondary screening programs cover mass
screening and lead generation, and targeted weed and crop dosage
analyses, respectively.
None of us could
entirely understand his rumbling voice. I just smiled and nodded a
lot, you know, friendly. It was my first job and I liked
everybody. Especially Rick, who was cosmopolitan and owned a
yacht, and knew camping and songs and sails.
I was walking home one
day, thinking about our latest camping trip, walking through a
Richmond neighborhood that had had riots recently after the
videotape of the Rodney King beating was aired, and Neville offered
me a lift.
Dangerous neighborhood. Friendly face. I took the lift.
When we got home, he
was eager to come in for some of the old hurly burly. I understood
that clearly enough! Apparently half of what I hand't understood
had been come-ons, weeks of increaingly forward suggestions that
I'd apparently cheerfully agreed to. Neville was insistent and
rather irritated when I disabused him of the notion that I was
going to have sex with him.
I never could look his
wife in the eye after that.
Should I have told
the entymologist?
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