Frankentown (2 page)

“Their behavioral patterns have been a mystery. In fact, it is only known they have been multiplying exponentially each year, rapidly approaching the point of overpopulation.”

At this point, Frank’s explanation on the subject would have forever sufficed.

Either nobody cared, or the audience might have all fallen asleep,
because
nobody cared. He waited for at least a single question to answer, but when none arrived, he continued.

“These tentacled creatures make some of the largest numbers of the ocean population and are generally regarded as the low-common-denominator.
Similar to humans. Just a regular joe.”

There was no enthusiasm to be had. Hope was failing. It was over. Against the sharp light of the projector, Frank couldn’t see through the piercing darkness of the auditorium that most of the listeners were long gone. “You can find more about this stuff in my publication from earlier this year, which you can find on my website.”

With defeat, he dismounted the stage and headed for the door, desperate for a way out.

The whole publication kind of came out of the blue; misunderstood and unprecedented spot on Frank’s otherwise perfect reputation for academic publications.
It actually took anyone from the committee almost four months to get around to reading any of it and to react in the way they reacted. He discredited himself months ago without even knowing it.

Up until then, Frank’s research was renounced in the field. At least in the field of marine biology, which had not gathered much traction on the East Bay campus.

It was not by accident that two weeks later, when budget announcements were made by the board, his department had not made the research grant list.

Despite outward appearances, Frank had not slept in his clothes often, only on the odd drunken occasion. Untidy hazelnut hair that was long overdue for a cut had started graying with the coming of life’s punches, and his four-day stubble were only a contributing factor of endearment, especially for the two flirtatious asian students who took his class without hope for any kind of fulfillment.

He may have been an authority in the Marine Biology department, and second most respected authority on Biology on campus, but he would always be living in his father’s shadow.

His father, Walter T. Cabella also used to be a teacher at the University before him. He taught Archeology, and was the strictest teacher around. A teacher who made many a student cry.
Unlike Frank, he was not an engaging speaker, and regularly put his audience to sleep with his droll, monotone voice, only to be surprise him that most of his students were failing his class. He was known for being a hard-ass, and frankly, even to Frank, he was always a bit of a nazi, figuratively speaking.

His tests were notoriously difficult and his expectations of the students were unreasonably high. Most people undeclared archeology as their major and were glad to get a passing grade. Several determined students finally broke through each year, all of whom went on to become respected authorities.

He wasn’t a very good teacher. The few that survived through the hell that were his lectures, had to deal with the dick that he was, and passed his class with an A or a B.
           

His students distinctly disliked him, but couldn’t help feeling respect simultaneously. Walter Cabella was very smart, when he wasn’t being condescending.

Those who had enough would say:

 
“Fuck that guy!”

Those that survived him would reply:

“Just don't piss that guy off.”

Of course, they were right.

As a kid growing up, Frank had no intent or interest in pursuing archeology.
 

Blatantly ignorant of all truly good things life had to offer; Frank grew, unable to grasp their value through his old man’s darkened view. His dad was a dick, and archeology was just as dreadful, so the thought of it alone failed to ignite even a sliver of excitement in him.
He promised himself he would be the exact opposite of what was left of the memories of his long lost father.
“Rocks, is all it is.” Frank once said to his father.

“Rocks? I’ll stuff a rock down your throat.:
As he saw it, Walter left Frank without any good qualities.
In a way, it was as though he knew of his father’s disappearance ahead of time.
 

Clairvoyance, however, was not one of his identifying characteristics.

Chapter Two

Big Head or Passing Bottles

A couple of months before it would have been about the time to have a mid-life crisis, had he ever gotten married, Frank got a farewell email from the head of biology, a sixty-nine year old Marlon Anthony Alabaster who was finally hanging up the towel and was retiring. Then, mere few days later, he got an email from the Dean about ‘them’ making decisions about who to recommend to take over his duties.
Although it was not done in the traditional way, it was not out of the blue. He was still the second best biology professor on campus and was not easily replaceable, but more importantly, the University was protecting their investment. When word passed around that University would indefinitely suspend research on Marine Biology, Monterey Bay welcomed him with open arms and agreed to sponsor his research by making their proprietary equipment available.
 
The data collected would have to remain proprietary to Monterey Oceanic Research, subsidiary of ‘NERD’,
the National Ecologic Research & Development, unless tagged with one of the few tags from the University inventory.

He was being being baited elsewhere.

With the grant for his main field of research being cut, Frank had to make a choice, which the University has decided to make easier to avoid the loss of one of the best teachers on campus. With the few tags that the University had, they were allowed to tag squid while on Monterey trips to use as a teaching aid. The last of the equipment came from the last grant came in, along with a lead-lined jacket Frank requested months ago as replacement, but started wearing it downtown instead.

Frank, along with two professors from the university, glorified drinking buddies, Allen and Steve, went out to drink to courage.
He already had tenure, but becoming Head of Biology is a very important thing. Perhaps even a frightening thing.

That evening, the fall air around the University campus was uncharacteristically heavy and humid.
Leaves fell from the trees simply out of thirst.

On this atypical warm fall Friday night,

not a Thursday night for student’s sake,

(though it would’ve been timelier)

 
   
the three friends went out to celebrate.
Allen Page was a year older than Frank. They’d known each other since high school, and never really got along with Steve Fassen.
Perhaps it was because Allen kept writing Steve’s last name with a sharp
ß
, despite being told about it several times over, or that both Frank and Allen made fun of him for no other reason than his German accent, which to them was un-admittedly endearing.

Steve busied himself with algae and underwater flora. He might’ve been three years younger than either of them as far as Allen and Frank guessed. They never failed to cut through the ‘niceties’. As someone who busied himself with studying algae and underwater flora,
Steve was a guy who didn’t need to be told twice.
And he never minded any of the abuse.
He was never able to take it seriously from either of them. Frank was a drunk and Allen was a guzzled mumbling fool.
 
But they were good people.
Friends on a leash.
Like-it-or-not co-workers.
The first attempt that night took them to their go-to bar, Jack’s, but it was overcrowded. They looked into several other still bars on Telegraph avenue before settling on buying a bottle of scotch and some weird looking bourbon and hiding on the University campus to conduct their festivities. Even though drinking on campus was strictly forbidden, it was one of those rules that was enforced by teachers, aimed at students and disrespected by everyone.

Sipping from brown paper bags along the way, the three went up the stairs of the north biology building up to Frank’s office. After viewing Frank’s new certificate and deciding they can barely stand in place among the towering paper stacks, the room being far too crowded with numerous books and documents, they proceeded to classroom B and sat on counters.

The plan was simply to loiter.

“There are no cameras here, right?” Allen queried, taking the small pint bottle out of the brown paper bag to raise a toast; asking a little late.
Frank shot him a befuddled look, which may have come off to them both as jovially devil-may-care. Drinking commenced in full swing.
 
Within twenty minutes the alcohol ate at their empty stomachs. Soon they laughed at the rather large specimen of a Humboldt squid pickled in formaldehyde in a large jar with a rounded top. Its appendages were swirled in their final position and looked like folded arms, as though the squid has been anxiously attempting to get out. Frank was suddenly overcome with a brilliant excuse to prolong their celebration.

“What are you guys doin’ this weekend?”
Allen and Steve talked over him, so he continued conversing about the rum they were drinking.
Come out with me to check out the squids. It’s on Monterey’s tab now, and this time of year there’s going to be hundreds of them floating around.
His words slurred.
This was the excuse both Frank and Allen were looking for and they didn’t need to stop to think about it. They would keep the weekend afloat, both figuratively and literally and go on a first Monterey-sponsored expedition. Steve, the youngest of the three and the one not attached to that special someone joined in. “I’ll bring some of this brew I got last time I was coming up here from Europe. The bottles are over three liters and they’re 85 proof.”

Both Frank and Allen always pegged Steve for having a knack for exaggeration on anything he’d say. To them, he was younger, therefore he must have never learned responsibility, nor has he ever had any interest or need for doing so. A rebel without a cause.

 
He was a loyal friend, and his search for common ground with them usually ended up being alcohol.
They thought of Steve as their pupil. The drinking provided another excuse for them to continually hang out, for in his company, Frank could drink his troubles and memories away, and Allen would just be ‘partying’.

Steve never treated either of them as mentors, but rather as equals
,
in the hope that one day it would be reciprocated. This in turn made Frank feel a little younger, more vital.
Steve always had this energy about him.
He was well aware this was just an illusion and only treated him this way when Allen was not around.
Allen had a wife and two kids in high school. Frank was jealous; not having had any family for years himself, and unintentionally sabotaging every single relationship that came along, friendly or otherwise.

In return, Allen looked up to Frank and often wished he hadn’t rushed into having a family himself.

 
It made Frank particularly nauseous when Allen used the phrase “sowing wild oats” when referring to Frank’s single status as an item of fortune.

His father established Frank’s last name at the university years prior as a well-respected, but evil paleobotanist and a professor you don’t want to have.
   
Frank’s younger brother Lyle, who was always his dad’s favorite, studied archeology in his father’s footsteps. They both went missing one spring in the early nineties on a dig in southern Peru.
Only his brother returned,
and with zero recollection.
Trauma from head injury, they said.

The authorities theorized that they were probably attacked by bandits, because Frank’s dad, Walter, was too cheap to get a guide to show them through the safe parts of the land and thus stuck out like sore thumbs.

Frank took another swig from the now two-thirds empty bottle.

“Guys, I have been thinking about it, and I’ve concluded that in order to prevent us from throwing up all over this lab, and making the cleaning lady’s hair stand on end, we should hit the streets to obtain some nutrition.” Whenever they were drunk together, they continuously driveled like a pack of pompous idiots.

There was only one choice that could guarantee a shield from student’s eyes, and besides, it was friday night and Telegraph avenue will be crowded as hell.

Within half hour a walking cliche of a pimply twenty-something in a red baseball hat arrived at the bottom of the biology building. Steve volunteered to go get the pizza. The pizza boy left with a generous tip, confused about why Steve said anything about Boston. When he asked the pizza guy about his cap because he noticed the Boston “B” emblem on his cap, the kid was puzzled. The kid delivered a large hawaiian pizza and left with a generous tip, justified only until the unwarranted discovery of jalapeños several minutes later.

Thankfully Frank was quick-witted enough to advise against leaving the building until they sobered up more for fear of being seen by faculty, or worse, students. Students nowadays were entwined in online social networking and anything remotely incriminating would burn its way online and spread like wildfire.
They could all lose their jobs.
After losing so much in his life, healthy amount of paranoia became a part of Frank’s outlandish lifestyle.

 
But not really.
Both Allen and Frank were already tenured, so Steve was really at their mercy, but in the safe.

The squid-in-the-bottle wasn’t doing any favors to their appetite, so they agreed to take the pizza to the top of the southern campus media building.

 
They technically weren’t supposed to be there, as they had nothing of UC business to be doing here, but it was a popular student hangout with a great view and some of the teachers and students mingled here on friday nights.

 
Steve made right for the stairs. Fortunately the building had an elevator which saved Frank and Allen from a heart-attack; for Steve it was a mere brisk climb up the stairs. Steve ran up the stairs, and got there faster than the lift took to come down and go back up.