Ben Butler

Enrico

I am a particle physicist at Fermilab. I promptly arrive every morning and set to work on very important things. I went to the University of Chicago and I have a framed diploma that confirms this. In addition to my impeccable credentials, I wear tweed jackets with elbow patches and carry a pipe. This, combined with my receding hairline, allows the community to more readily identify me with my stature as scholar and scientist. I am a man among men in my hometown of Naperville, a once pastoral farm community now transformed into a slimy suburban cesspool that could more aptly be called Naperfilth.

I recently had to ask my dimwit neighbor, Dunk, for a ride to work because someone, probably one of the vile neighbor kids, had slashed the tires on my Saturn Ion. Dunk is a pleasant 23-year-old walking jockstrap. He is dumb as a sack of hair and looks out of his element at the helm of his Cadillac Escalade. His homely dog of a wife is the only child of the president of DuPage Federal Bank. She waved us goodbye as we pulled out of their driveway, flashing her canines with her spaniel mouth. Their three-year-old son, Jimmy, sat directly behind me, firmly ensconced in a car seat. Children are a major annoyance to me, and they only grow worse with time, especially after they learn how to drive. Naperville is full of teenybopper driving monsters, the sons and daughters of affluent transplants who made their fortunes off of wholly unimportant ventures.

Just as we were about to pull onto I-88, a traffic cop diverted us out of our way, down Naperville Road.

“Probably a wreck on the interstate,” said Dunk. He flipped on the radio to a news report describing “one of the most gruesome accident scenes in Chicagoland history.” Apparently a car load of teenagers on their way to Moline plowed into a cattle trailer, thus saving the sticker at the slaughterhouse a dirty job.

“Oh my God,” said Dunk. “Six teenage kids, not even in the prime of their lives, snuffed out just like that!” He snapped his fingers.

“Are we there yet?” I said.

“Let me ask you something, Dr. Niles,” said Dunk. “Do you think someday physicists will discover a way to bring people back to life, like in Young Frankenstein, or even prevent death, like when Darth Vader tried to save Natalie Portman?”

I had no idea what Dunk was referring to, but since there was no end in sight to the traffic, and as I am more than competent to address the scientific conundrums to which he was alluding, I decided to have a little fun with him. “You can’t stop people from dying,” I began, “because, naturally, we’re always already dying. Do you understand?”

“I think so,” said Dunk. “You mean we’re dying from the moment we’re born, right?”

“That’s an oversimplification, but yes,” I said. “Reanimation of dead tissue is quite another matter. Of course, it helps when we have an intact cadaver to work with, preferably one that doesn’t have to be separated from livestock parts, but I have heard of cases where human beings have been reanimated from their cremated remains.”

“I don’t believe that,” said Dunk.

“Nobody likes a skeptic, Dunk. As scientists, we’re expected to accept everything on faith.”

“Really?” asked Dunk. “That seems so--”

“Counterintuitive,” I said.

Jimmy pooped. It was audible and it was disgusting.

“Oh God,” I said. “At the rate we’re going I’ll be lucky to get to Fermilab by lunchtime. We have those lead-footed kids to thank for that.”

“Geez, Dr. Niles,” said Dunk. “I’m not sure I like your attitude.”

“Geez, Dunk,” I said. “I’m not sure I like gold diggers.”

“Excuse me?” said Dunk.

“Come on,” I said. “We both know you didn’t marry Mrs. Dunk because she looks good in a bathing suit.”

“Okay,” said Dunk. “You’re right; I married her for money. But I am compassionate enough to know that when teenagers get killed in car accidents it’s a tragedy. I also know something about being neighborly, which is why I agreed to drive your blow hard ass to work this morning.”

“You’re too dumb to recognize that it’s a privilege,” I said.

Dunk hit the brakes. “All right, get out!” he said. “I don’t care who you are. Even if you were a celebrity, which you’re not, you’re just a guy, and not a very nice one.”

“Stick it in your ear, hot pants,” I said. “I am a scientist of considerable renown.”

“You’re renowned for frequenting male prostitutes, and nobody in the neighborhood likes your stuck-up candy ass. Those kids on the interstate will go to their graves with more media coverage than you’ll ever get.”

“All right, buster. I don’t have to take this,” I said. “Stop this thing and let me out. I’d rather walk.”

Jimmy pooped again and clapped his hands. I was not a moment too soon in getting out. I exited the car and made my way to a median strip in the middle of the road, which was filled with suburban sleaze in their Lexuses and Mercedes Benzes.

“Hey!” Dunk shouted. “That pipe makes you look like a douche!”

“Hey!” shouted the smartly-dressed young woman driving the BMW behind him. “Stop harassing that poor old man!” She waved at me to come over, and she let me in her car. “Hi, I’m Catherine,” she said. “Are you okay, mister?”

“Dr. Niles,” I said. “Distinguished nuclear physicist.”

“Pleased to meet you, Dad,” said Catherine. “I’m the president of LL Bean. Where did you get that tweed jacket?”

I blinked at her twice. “I got it at Fermilab, Kitty Cat. Do you think you can drive me there?”

Catharine returned my two blinks. “What the hell is Fermilab?”

Ben Butler has worked as a child model, cabaret performer, and Off-Broadway theater critic. His written work has appeared in Juked, Raging Face, Show Business Weekly, KnowledgeQuest, and numerous student publications.