Continued from here.

Cooper held onto the podium with both hands as he gazed out at the crowd in front of him.  Thanks to the spotlights focused on the stage, they were nothing but vague whispers in the darkness, the hint of something out there beyond the bright lights trained on him.  His hands clamped so tightly onto the sides of the podium that the knuckles were white.

“And so, without any further ado,” Cooper announced, the microphones in front of him grabbing his words out of the air and blowing them up loudly, “let me present my research.”

Cooper turned towards the large screen beside the podium, clicking the button on the laptop in front of him.  The professor was proud of how well he had adjusted to the most recent technology.  Many of his fellows were still struggling to use word documents and email, but Cooper had taken quickly to the new digital age.  Perhaps that had helped spur his research.

The man clicked through the first few slides, laying out the background for his discovery.  “For a long time, the Y chromosome has been believed to be largely useless,” he explained to the listening crowd.  “Indeed, in less developed organisms such as C. elegans, there is no Y chromosome at all.  These nematodes simply pass on one or two copies of their X chromosome, where two copies designates a hermaphrodite.”  He clicked to a picture of the microscopic worm in question.

“However, when we move up to more advanced organisms such as Drosophila species,” he continued, “we begin to see the appearance of a Y chromosome.  Given the results that will come soon, this may prove to be very significant.”

Cooper clicked to the next slide, a large schematic of a chromosome.  The banded pattern that represented chromatin staining made the picture immediately recognizable to the crowd.  “The Y chromosome in *Homo sapiens*, which we all should recognize,” he labeled the slide.  “We do know that there are a few genes on here.”

Advance to the next slide.  The large chromosome was still visible, but now labels pointed towards several areas.  “Here are some of the main genes,” he went on.  “Several sex determining proteins, as well as some kinases.  However, genes on this chromosome are prone to microdeletions, making them a risky prospect in evolutionary terms.  It also makes the Y chromosome markedly more unique than the others when compared across individuals, as well as populations.”

There was a large area towards the center of the Y chromosome schematic that had not received any labels.  Cooper nodded towards this area.  “For a long period, it was believed that this section of the Y chromosome contained nothing but junk DNA,” he said.  His voice dropped, the mikes having to strain to carry his words out to the crowd.

“But we now know that this isn’t true.”

To be continued…

I gazed around at the other two people in the room with me.  With the clinical detachment that comes from years of experience in observing the uniquely human condition, I watched the other two men struggle to make sense of what they saw.

Both of the men were dressed similarly, I noted.  Of course, they both wore the straitjackets that were required by the authorities in this room.  But beneath those straitjackets, long white robes flowed down over their legs and towards their feet.  When they shifted back and forth, I noticed that they were also both wearing thong sandals.

The man on my left shook his head back and forth, making his long, light brown hair fall in waves over his bearded face.  “This is totally inappropriate, man,” he complained.

The man on my right had similar brown hair, although his was cut a bit shorter and he was clean-shaven.  “This is no way for me to be treated,” he agreed, blinking a few times to clear his eyes.

“Yeah, man,” the bearded fellow agreed.  “They should be glad I’m a forgiving dude, or I’d be laying out some smiting right about now!”

“Oh, if I gave them a smiting, they’d wake up next to my dad, having to explain their actions,” the clean-shaven man snorted.  “Don’t even get me started on smiting.”

I briefly wished that I had a notebook to write my observations in.

The bearded man was still grumbling, but the clean-shaven man started to look around and to notice that his arms were pinned.  “Hey, what gives?” he called out.  “You can’t treat me like this!  I died for your sins!  And this is another big sin, right here!”

“Excuse me?” spoke up the bearded fellow.  “I believe that I’m the one who died for your sins, not the other way around!”

The clean-shaven man leveled a menacing glare at his companion that would likely have held more weight if he hadn’t been similarly restrained.  “Do you know who I am?” he asked in tones of ice.  “I’m Jesus freakin’ Christ!”

The bearded man just shook his head back and forth.  “Nah, man, you’ve got something loose in that head of yours,” he said back.  “I’m Jesus, man.  Maybe you’re one of my disciples or something?”

As the men argued back and forth, I watched and made sure to listen carefully.  The administrators had warned me that there were people impersonating me, that I would have to learn what made these poor souls claim to be Jesus.

After all, it’s no good being the Son of God if you can’t distinguish yourself from the competition.

The internet is a wondrous place, ain’t it?  There’s just all sorts of things that a fellow can learn on there.  Especially if he’s got a drive to learn, a dedication to a cause, and a lot of time on his hands.

I had all three.  Actually, I even had a bit more than that.

I’ve always been interested in learning, reading and fiddling with anything I could get my hands on.  When I was young, I used to creep back downstairs after my parents tucked me into bed.  There might not have been internet, but there were books and screwdrivers and my dad’s old soldering iron.  Not everything made it back together in quite the same way that it had arrived, but it all still worked.  And my parents, so well-meaning in their intentions, never noticed the differences.

A dedication to a cause?  I had a dedication to many causes.  Every cause I found on the internet, in books, in the backs of magazines.  They all spoke to me, they all called out for help and participation.  Who was I to turn away?  So I enlisted everywhere, wrote back to pledge my support, swore that I would fight the good fight for every cause I came across.

As for time, well, I already alluded to that.

It never bothered me much.  Maybe I should have gone to see a doctor, a sleep counselor, a specialist, a shrink.  But what would they have done?  At worst, they would have turned me away with no aid.  At best, they might have found a change, some way to make me fall dead for eight hours every night like the rest of the world.

Maybe I have that best and worst backwards.

The point is, I’m perfectly happy with my extra time.  Like I said, it gives me time to learn.

And oh, there are so many end points that I can see, so many uses for all that I’ve learned!  Even before the internet, I knew about a lot of things that men would probably prefer to keep silent.  But now, there’s no limit to my knowledge.  And I astonish even myself at how much I can cram into this noggin of mine.

Right now, I’m just relaxing.  There are a lot of people looking for knowledge, people willing to pay just about any price to get their hands on what they seek.  And they don’t usually say no to a finder’s fee when a helpful fellow is willing to point them in the right direction.

But someday, I’m sure that I’ll be in demand.  Sure, I keep my work quiet, but I know that I’m on the radar of some powerful forces.  Hell, I’m watching them at the same time.  I generally just play them off against each other, keeping my distance at the center.  Waiting.

Because I know that someday, they’re going to need a man with skills.  A man with knowledge.  A man who doesn’t need to spend a third of his time lying down on a mat with his eyes shut.

And I’ll be waiting for them to come knocking.  What’s one more cause to add to my list, after all?  They will request my aid, and I will happily give it to them.

For a price, of course.

He was sitting in the chair next to my bed when I walked into the room.  I groaned and chucked my book bag at his head, aiming for that ridiculous stovepipe hat that he always wore.

He blocked the throw, of course, batting my bag down.  Those long arms gave him a reach far beyond my own.  “Ready to talk about it?” he asked, bringing one leg up over the other.

I glared at him briefly, and then flopped down on the bed.  “It’s nothing.  Really,” I insisted, refusing to turn around.

“Well, I see why they call me Honest Abe, and not you,” the man quipped in tones dripping with sarcasm.  “Come on, we both know that you’re lying.  You might as well just open up and start pouring out all those feelings bottled up inside your little brain.”

Still holding the pillow on which I had been laying in my arm, I sat up and turned around.  “You know, you’re a pretty crappy conscience,” I griped.  “What sort of conscience just insults the mind it comes from?  Aren’t you supposed to be encouraging me, building me up?”

“Hey, I’m a figment of your imagination,” Abe shot back.  “Besides, maybe the reason you’re always picturing me as the sixteenth president.”  He reached up and pretended to straighten the stovepipe hat balanced on top of his head.  “Or maybe you just like talking to a bona fide badass.”

I thought about pushing him further, but it really wasn’t of any use.  I’d never get anywhere arguing against myself.  “It’s a stupid thing,” I said instead, squeezing the pillow in my arms.

“It often is,” Lincoln agreed.  “But you might as well just say it anyway.  The sooner we’re done here, the faster I can be back inside your head, frolicking around without all this focus on me.”

“Look, it’s too much of a good thing!” I protested.  “She loves me, right?  And that’s totally fine with me!”

Lincoln tilted his head slightly, peering at me with those scrutinizing eyes.  “So what’s the problem?” he prodded.

I let go of the pillow and gestured with my arms, trying to communicate what I was feeling.  “It’s just so… so strong!” I finally managed to get out.  “And she’s just so convinced of it!  It kind of scares me a little, you know?  Like what if I mess it up?”

“Are you going to mess it up?” Abe asked.

This time, he wasn’t quite as quick with his reactions, and the pillow clipped the hat off of his head before he managed to get his arms up in time to catch it.  “Come on!” he yelled at me, his voice slightly muffled by the cotton covering his mouth.

“Don’t just throw psychology 101 questions back at me, then!” I retorted.  “Of course I don’t want to mess it up!  But it’s just so strong, so sure!  How does she just know like that?”

Lincoln managed to get the cotton out of his mouth, and then made a spitting noise.  “Ugh, a cat has been on this,” he complained.  “I always hated those damn things.  Shedding everywhere, and they don’t even show any affection like a dog.  And now I’ve got cat hair in my mouth.”

“I’m sorry,” I broke in.  “Can we get back to me?”

“Oh, yes.  Always back onto you.  Like I don’t even matter.  I’m the one who keeps you on the straight and narrow path, you know – you ought to be a lot nicer to me!”

“I listen to you,” I said.  “And that’s effort enough.  Now, how about some advice?”

The president sitting in my bedroom chair finally stopped picking at his tongue.  “I’m in your head,” he told me.  “And that means that I know this isn’t the real problem.  So why don’t we cut the bull and you just tell me what you’re really scared of.  Deal?”

I sighed, but the irritating personification was right.  “Fine,” I said…

To be continued!

My next class was Chemistry, a class where I usually paid attention, but my thoughts were anywhere but on the lecture.  Instead, I was playing back the events of the last half hour or so, trying to figure out what had been so different.  For twenty to thirty minutes, my life had just felt, well, different.  It was like someone had turned up the brightness and contrast on my vision, and while I was distracted, had given me a shot of adrenaline and serotonin in the ass.  What had happened?

I had been sitting at my desk in math, drumming my fingers.  I put my fingers on the side of my current seat and began tapping, trying to remember what the rhythm had been.  It had been the first couple measures of Metallica, and then that weird syncopated beat, and then back to…

My fingers keyed in the sequence, and as soon as I hit the last beat, it happened again.  This time, I was paying more attention, and I felt the world brighten around me.  It was a powerful sensation, making my whole body jerk.  I was left tingling and just feeling different.

I grabbed my chemistry book and flipped it open, picking a random problem set.  I knew every answer before I had finished reading the questions.  I scooped up my pencil and flicked it; it spun three times around my fingers, a blur of motion, before landing perfectly back in the cradle of my grip.

Awash in power, I grabbed my phone out of my pocket and quickly typed in the number written on the back of my hand.  “Hey Vanessa,” I texted.  “It’s Davis – how about I tell you a few more jokes over drinks tonight, maybe around eight?”  I didn’t even think as I typed.

My phone lit up with a reply less than a minute later.  “Sounds good :)” I saw displayed on the screen.

I quit out of the message application, and then ran a finger over the touch screen surface.  The “Stocks” app popped out at me.  Now that would be a fun experiment, I thought to myself.

Leaning back in the desk, I put my hands behind my head and briefly closed my eyes.  I still wasn’t sure what I had stumbled upon, but I couldn’t feel down or depressed while everything was glowing in my eyes.

All of my normal worries were washed away, replaced by easy confidence.  It didn’t matter what the world was going to throw at me next; I’d be able to handle it.  And so instead of concerns, I could think only of what I could try to attempt next.

There were only a few minutes left in class, and I was still trying to reason out what had happened as I packed up my still-blank notes and headed out of the room in the middle of the crowd of other students.  My vision still seemed to have that same fuzziness around the edges, and I felt as though someone had turned all of the lights up just a little stronger than usual.

I caught a flash of red hair next to me and turned to see Chris, my best friend, come popping out of the crowd.  “Hey Davis!” he greeted me, nearly bouncing off the ground with excitement.  Chris always gave off the impression that he’d just downed a half dozen energy drinks.  “Did you see who’s just over there?”

I looked up in the direction my friend was pointing, and my mouth dropped open.  On the other side of the hallway, leaning against the wall and looking bored, stood an angel.

As I watched, my mouth still agape, the woman shrugged and sent her blonde hair falling in new waves down her back.  The motion exposed her low-cut top and made the tops of her breasts jiggle slightly, irresistibly pulling my eye.  Her jeans hugged every curve of her long, slim legs, sending my imagination into overdrive.

I knew her name, of course.  Most of the school did.  That was Vanessa Miller, the collective crush of every single hot-blooded male.  She had posed for our school’s Hustler issue a year ago – copies of that magazine, dog-eared and treasured, could be found in most dorm rooms.  But unlike most models, she was also a good person in other respects.  She volunteered regularly and organized charity drives twice a year for the local homeless.  She was, well, perfect.

Chris poked me again.  “You should go talk to her!” he insisted.

Normally, I would have totally ignored this.  I wasn’t anything special!  What could I even talk to an angel like this about?  But that tingling feeling was still inside my head, and before I even knew what I was doing, my feet were carrying me across the hallway and over to stand next to her.

“Hey, Vanessa,” I said, my voice somehow not squeaking or cracking from nervousness.  “Waiting for class?”

The woman looked up at me, and I felt like her eyes shot right through me.  For one split second, I felt as though I was about to melt into a puddle of shame and soak down into the floor right there.  But then, to my complete and utter amazement, she smiled.

“Yeah, my biology class is about to start in a few minutes,” she replied, nodding towards the door across the hall.  “Usually, the previous class is done by now, but it’s running late today.”

“Biology!  I actually know a biology joke – wanna hear it?”  I didn’t know any biology jokes.  What was I saying?

But the girl next to me was smiling and nodding, and those big eyes of hers were on me.  And my mouth was somehow still running.  “What do you get if you inject human DNA into a sheep?” I asked.

I paused for a second, letting the suspense build, and then delivered the punchline.  “Kicked out of the research facility!” I finished with a grin.

Vanessa’s face froze.  I immediately shot into panic mode.  What had I just done?  I’d totally blown it!  That joke was so offensive, so out of line, that I’d be lucky if she didn’t report me to the college and get me kicked out.  She had been actually talking to me, but it had all gone wrong.  I got ready to make a run for it.

But then, incredibly, the girl burst into peals of laughter.  Not polite, quiet little giggles; no, this was real and genuine.  It lasted several seconds as I grinned wildly back, not sure quite what was happening.  She finally subsided and reached up to wipe at one eye.  “Oh my god, that’s so terrible,” she said, her voice still filled with mirth.  “I’ve never heard that before.”

I kept the grin plastered across my face and waited, not sure what to do.  Vanessa took another breath and let it out, and then looked at me again.  Her eyes looked suddenly thoughtful.  “Do you have any more jokes as bad as that?” she asked.

I tried not to nod too rapidly.  “Much worse ones,” my mouth promised, as my brain looked on helplessly.

The beautiful girl fondled around in her pocket and pulled out a pen.  “Let me see your hand,” she commanded.

I held out the limb to her, and she carefully traced some numbers onto it with the pen.  “That’s my cell,” she told me, letting go of my fingers.  Her touch had been soft and warm, soaking into me.  “You should give me a call this afternoon.  Maybe we could go grab coffee or something and you could tell me some other jokes?”

“Definitely,” I promised, and I watched the girl walk into her classroom.  I didn’t risk moving for several seconds, fearful that my legs wouldn’t support me.

A moment later, as Chris came bounding over to me to see what had happened, I experienced another strange feeling.  The brightness that had seemed to suffuse the world abruptly faded, and the fuzziness at the edge of my vision snapped back to hard edges.  I slipped on the wall a little before I caught myself.  What had just happened?

I stumbled upon in math class, of all places.

Mrs. Jefferson may be a nasty old bat of a teacher, but her eyesight is still as sharp as ever, and we’d almost all gotten warnings at some point in the year for having our phones out.  I knew better than to rely on that method of distraction.  But really, anything is better than trying to learn differentiation.

So every day became a new exercise in sending away my mind.  One day, I counted every tile in the ceiling (548, by the way).  Another day, I used only the random accumulations of items from the bottom of my backpack to build a small working projectile cannon, which I used for the rest of the class period to launch small paper wads into Suzie’s hair.

But one day, I found myself with no other tools or implements to distract myself.  Bored nearly to the point of paying attention, I began tapping my fingers on the side of the desk.

I started with a simple repetitive beat, and then shifted into more complex rhythms.  My mind kept on switching between “Enter Sandman” and one of those songs where Lil John is always yelling, which made for some interesting beat patterns.  And to be honest, I’m not quite sure when the code actually hit.

But next thing I knew, I was looking up as someone yelled my name.  Mrs. Jefferson was looming over me, her eyes two hard points behind the bottlecap glasses.  “Davis!  Are you even paying attention?”

“Yes, I’m listening,” I stammered out quickly.  It was a blatant lie, but I hoped that she would just gloss over it.

Unfortunately, I didn’t have that much luck.  “Well then, why don’t you take a crack at the problem on the board behind me?” Mrs. Jefferson suggested, a smile appearing at the edges of her lips as she gestured and stepped aside.

I turned my gaze to the chalkboard without much hope.  Sure enough, there was a doozy of a big problem up there, with plenty of symbols that were definitely not numbers.  But to my surprise, as I stared at the equation, it seemed to glow and fuzz slightly, and the answer was immediately clear in my head.

“Three zeta over two pi,” I recited, reading off the words burning on the inside of my forehead.

Mrs. Jefferson looked taken aback, but recovered after a second.  “Yes, that’s correct,” she said, and quickly moved on with the lesson.

I sat back in my desk, proud of myself but not sure how I had pulled that off.  I definitely hadn’t been paying any attention.  How in the world had I solved that problem?

To be continued!

I stood in my living room, my robe hanging open around my waist, a steaming cup of coffee in one hand and a smile on my face.  The sun was pouring in through the mostly-closed blinds in my living room, and I could hear the sounds of faint sirens from outside, but I had nowhere to be.  And it was glorious.

I lifted my mug to my lips, taking a long sip of the hot liquid.  “Ahh,” I let out as I lowered the hot porcelain from my lips.  I had been a little reluctant to call in sick today, but this feeling was worth it.  Knowing that everyone else was headed off to their daily grind at their jobs, while I could sit on my own couch, in my own underwear, watching my own television as I drank my own coffee, made me curl up my toes from happiness.

Speaking of that, I sank down onto the couch.  I was careful to hold up my mug as I landed on the soft cushions, not wanting to spill any of the lifegiving liquid onto the fabric.  I pulled it off, took another sip as a reward, and then rummaged around for the remote.

I found it, pointed it at my television on the far side of the living room, and clicked it on.  The picture fuzzed into life to show ESPN.  Ah, yes.  The last thing I had been watching was that basketball game.  Shame, that had been.

I didn’t really have any program in mind; what was even on the air on Tuesday mornings?  Lazily, I began simply clicking down through the channels, waiting for something to catch my eye.

I landed on a news program.  Boring.  But as I paused for a second to lift my cup to my lips once again, something caught my ear.  “California,” the announcer had said.  What about California?

“…I say again, California has just been hit by a devastating series of earthquakes,” the announcer repeated, his eyes wide.  “The activity has apparently triggered a massive tectonic fault shift, splitting off most of the state from the rest of the country.  Emergency evacuations are underway, but they are hindered by…”

Slowly, as if in a dream, I turned my head to gaze towards the windows where the blinds were drawn, blocking out the view of the street.  Now that I listened, that I really listened, I noticed that the sirens from earlier hadn’t stopped.

I leaned forward and set my coffee cup down on the table in front of the couch.  I used both hands, making sure not to spill a drop.  With my drink secure, I then slowly rose up to my feet.

I walked over to the blinds, my hand hesitating as it reached for the drawstring.  Thinking better, I raised a single finger, pulling down one of the thin metal slats, and lowered my eye to stare outside.

My house had been built up on a hill from the street; I’d always resented that, since it gave me trouble with the mower.  But now, I seemed to be on an island.  In both directions, up and down the street, there was at least six inches of water covering the pavement.  I watched as my garbage bin floated by, bobbing slightly up and down.  It had been garbage day this morning.

I didn’t know what to say.  “Huh,” I said in lieu of actual thought.

My gaze rose to stare across the street.  Jenkins’ house was over there, but unlike mine, his house had been built in a slight depression.  He had made the most of this with elegant landscaping that I had no hope of matching, making sure that his house always drew the eye while mine simply made it sore.  Plus, I was pretty sure that the mean-tempered coot was stealing my paper.

Now, there were at least three bundled papers floating wetly outside his front door, bumping against the handle.  As I watched, a shape flitted behind the door’s frosted glass, and the door opened.  The water and floating paper boats came rushing in, and I could swear that I heard a faint curse from the far side of the lane.

A slight grin on my lips, I turned back around and ambled back to my coffee.  I picked up the mug and the remote, hitting the channel button again.

Ooh.  Community was on.  Pulling my legs up onto the couch beside me, I watched the show’s opening credits roll.  And with a whistle, I settled in to enjoy my day off.