In search of the right word

I nodded absently as he spoke, reminding myself not to squint as I focused on finding the right adjective to describe him. Weird certainly worked, I decided, but sounded a bit too cruel. He was harmless – a completely benign and largely unnoticed presence. So…different, even among PhDs. He was smart – definitely possessing knowledge I struggled to obtain. But I was looking for the right descriptor. I just couldn't make anything work in my mind.

“Useless.” Was an adjective Steve picked. We happened to be discussing Martin during one of our meetings. As Steve has progressed through his career, finding himself neatly in a faculty position, he’s noticed how quirks in grad school students or postdocs - charming when you're a peer - eventually become pains for faculty members.

“He was supposed to figure something out for me – a quick and easy solution.” He shook his head. Steve has the patience of saint. Or nearly so. Apparently you can push him too far. “But he didn’t. I asked – he had excuses. I offered to help – he was always too busy. I finally figured it out myself.”

“Was it hard?” I asked, for sometimes ‘quick and easy’ solutions turn out to be neither.

“No!” He laughed. “It was intuitive and the manual is actually decent. So I got it all set up.

“Then,” Steve continued with a dark frown, “he used it without asking me. And broke it! Took it apart and left it in pieces when he could have just left it alone! Or asked for help! Or done his job!”

“What’d you do?” I was greatly amused. Steve is normally very mellow – mild curses result from hours of work I’d consider destructive to my very sanity. He can answer endless questions. Offer reading, then work with students until they understand it. I’d never seen him so baffled by someone before.

“I went to see him. Told him he really screwed up my work. Then I explained exactly how it should have gone.”

“He screwed it up again, didn’t he?” I asked, refilling our wine glasses. Exasperated Steve was fun, and if alcohol kept him there, I was pleased to provide it.

“Yes.” He shook his head. “Hours. I spent hours fixing that damn thing.”

“You should have had him write it down.” I said lightly, then continued my advice undaunted by his look. “I use post-its. Then I can consult my post-it space for the little note I need. I take it with me, then put it back.

“Or!” I remembered another technique I use. “I type out a how-to sheet – with bullets and sub-points – then I file it with the other project materials. It takes some time in the beginning, but then I can always practice the technique correctly. And!” I like my how-to sheets, so I was praising them enthusiastically, “when I train a new person, I have documentation to offer.”

He just stared at me, then drank some more wine.

“You made him take notes, didn’t you?” I finally asked.

“Of course I made him take notes! Hell, I took notes for him! On post-its, in notebooks, I even left notes on the equipment! One of them said ‘Call Steve before you touch anything.' Nothing worked! Screwed up.” He lamented. “All the time – screwed up.”

Now I know myself well enough to understand that if a person can drive Steve to resigned despair, I’d probably beat that person with a stick. I’m not overly patient or tolerant, so I decided it was best to avoid Martin. And it works fairly well – we don’t share research interests, nor do we cross paths much.

Until he stopped in my office one day – early for a meeting we were both attending.

“Ready for your close up?” He asked, and I smiled vaguely.

“Sure.” I answered. I had been nervous for my very first journal club presentation. After that, I’ve been eager to talk. It's a small group – all faculty members and the post-doctoral fellows – where the questions were discussion based. It was friendly and casual and I hadn’t worried much at all about my little paper. “It’s a short article, so I don’t have much to say about it. But it’s good to be quick when other people are also presenting.”

“Yeah.” He said, his voice slightly nasal. He took a seat across the room, and I turned my chair to face him. He’s a short man. I tended to notice his too-short pants and socks with sandals more than his height though. I tried to think of the last time I’d seen a beard quite that long. I failed.

“So…” I said, guessing he wanted to waste some time before the meeting started. But I still wanted to check over my slides, transfer them to my USB drive. Deal with email since I’d arrived far later than I should have. In my defense, I emailed a draft of one section of my grant to Boss last night around 2 AM. Against my defense, I should be working on another section right now.

“How are things going?” I finally asked.

“OK.” He answered, and I tried to guess his age. 50? I should ask someone, I decided. He’s definitely closer to my parents’ age than mine, but I wonder how much so. And to be doing a post-doc at that stage of your life? Wow. I’m not sure if I’m horrified or impressed. “I was supposed to be interviewing in Scotland next week.” He shared.

“Scotland? Very cool.” I said. “For a faculty position? That’s great!”

As he explained the intricacies of the position that wasn’t faculty – more a staff scientist – he also listed all the reasons working abroad would be good. Health care for his wife. A new start with research and service responsibilities.

Odd. I tried out the word, cocking my head to consider him. He’s an odd little man.

I have a theory about people with advanced degrees. Crazy – every single one of them. In some way, shape or form, something glitched in our brains and we decided that going to school for-freaking-ever seemed like an excellent idea. Avoid the lucrative careers that would seem relatively easy for someone of reasonable intellect! Instead, enter a highly competitive field dependent on grant monies that are increasingly difficult to come by! Or you could teach all those classes you took for so long! Do research that can only be truly appreciated by those in your very specific niche. Tolerate years of people saying, “Are you still in school?” There’s something wrong with me and those like me. I’m convinced of it.

But even among us – and I realized that I rarely interact with people I can’t call Dr. – he stood out. Unique? Was that the word? He has two doctorates in unrelated fields – one in the humanities (from his youth, I assume) then another in the technical realm where I make my professional home. Perhaps that makes you super-crazy, I decided. Going through grad school and writing a dissertation once, then deciding – of your own free will – to do it again.

Perhaps the adjective was nutso. Cuckoo. Not so right in the head.

But, no. I admire those who change career paths – I’m thinking of doing it myself, though I guarantee mine will involve no more formal education. Down that path – for me – lies pain. Studying, wrong answers on homework and exams, rejection of papers, rewriting material for a grade rather than a publication. No, thank you. I’ll figure out another way.

But he didn’t. Martin decided to get this other degree. He was certainly talented enough to do the work, but he appears to have failed miserably at fitting in. But there are others who stand out as exceptional. Have some interest or personality that causes them to linger at the fringes rather than joining the departmental softball league. Hell, I deleted that invitation email before I’d completely read it. So perhaps I should think about glass houses and throwing stones.

Martin was now talking about his cats. Telling me how long they’d had each of the seven animals. They, like his wife, had numerous health problems. Though I hadn’t heard stories about them from anyone other than him.

“She’s a bit…out of the ordinary.” Jill offered once when I asked if she’d met Martin’s wife. “She came to a party for the department, but was quite demanding. Everyone who tried to speak to her was ordered to fetch and carry things. She was rather demeaning when she spoke of Martin. Maybe that’s why he’s like that.”

As I started to wonder about him, I realized I know very little of the people with whom I work. Even Martin belongs in some sort of novel – quirky and worthy of some decent character development. But the surface details are easily dismissed. He doesn’t do what I do. I can’t think of a way he could offer me publications or abstracts. So screw it. Pay no attention to the strange little man.

I heard him speaking on the phone several days later. He was offering sympathy to his wife – her injuries too severe to work.

“She has a bad back, I think.” Someone offered. “I’ve met her – she seems fine. I’m not sure what the problem is, actually.”

I listened to him stop mid-sentence as he described one interview possibility. “Oh.” He said. “I’m sorry. Well, I’ll let you rest then.”

I felt badly for him then. Nobody wanted to hear his stories. I get the feeling that my current institution would be relieved to see him go. His wife is apparently disinterested, though I’m not sure I can blame her after supporting him through two doctoral programs that have yet to yield a stable career. Perhaps she set aside dreams to allow him freedom to achieve his own goals. Maybe she’s just mean. Hard to tell, and I’m not interested enough to find any true adjective for either of them.

I was listening to an audiobook on the drive home, as is my new habit. It keeps me from moping or growing hugely irritated on my commutes.

“Peculiar!” I repeated, having just heard the word. “Thank you! That’s the word I wanted.”

Then I thought some more. There are far worse things, I decided, than going after a fulfilling career. Locating your passion at any age, then dismissing those who think you won’t fit in and burrowing out a niche that fits you. Being excited about the possibilities and forgetting about those people who demanded you stop taking apart the freaking equipment and consult the notes they left you. Maybe he wanted to see how it worked. Perhaps he doesn’t appreciate us any more than we do him and takes some pleasure in mucking up research plans. Maybe he’s so busy trying to figure out himself and his life that he has no extra time or energy to use to conform.

Peculiar. I think of it as a gentle word. Not as harsh as weird. Just different. Worthy of notice because he just doesn’t fit very neatly. In word and deed, he’s just peculiar.

I saw him walking down the hall the other day. He nodded a brief hello before overtaking me in order to reach some unknown destination. He has to be at least 3 inches shorter than I am – putting him barely over 5 feet. He was wearing dark green pants and a bright blue turtleneck – they didn’t match. But as he scurried toward his next appointment, his arms were bent at the elbow and pumping rapidly at his sides. Wherever he was going, he was getting there fast.

I shook my head, allowed myself to think once again that peculiar was a fitting word for him, then smiled. I sincerely hope that when he arrives at his chosen destination, he finds something that makes him happy.