[7] Coding Humans: Dr. Quasar’s Nightmare; Entry: J.F.

CODING HUMANS
CODING HUMANS
[7] Coding Humans: Dr. Quasar’s Nightmare; Entry: J.F.
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[7 | Entry: J.F.] Download or Read PDF

Journal 12/13/2020, J.F.

The semester is over, and a drink is in order, for it has been three months and a fortnight since the last. 

I sit at my office—gazing upon a brick wall—wishing for the long-lost love I have never known. Note something about antivibration and subatomic measures…

The students await their final grades, and my research is coming to an end. Dr. Onellion expects a finished essay over quantum entangled particles on a non-subatomic scale by the end of the year, and I haven’t even started the work. There is a young girl in my hypothetical physics course that has had me in knots all semester. Something about her just takes me out of reality and sets me into a bizarre sensation of bliss—even though we haven’t but spoken once. She must be at least ten years young than me as well. She would probably run for the hills if she ever saw me while drinking anyways. I suppose I am doomed to a life of anti-intimacy bounded by the shackles of a genuine passion, a passion no one else on this planet could ever experience or even understand exists. Somewhere along the line, I must have been cursed to hold the knowledge and capability of true love but to never share it with another. Oh, how I dream of her, though. I wonder where she is from; she doesn’t look like she is native to the lands of Wisconsin. Whatever. I shall move on and erase the semester with a fresh drink this day, for it has been 14-weeks plus 2 since I last entered the land of delusional harmony. 

JF

Postscript: I almost forgot that it is my birthday today – It must be kismet!

JF

[7.1 | First Snow]

The first snowflake of the year has made itself present to the city of Madison. It falls from the sky, swirling and flipping until it finds a home somewhere in the center of the isthmus melting instantly upon its arrival. Soon to follow, its billions of brothers and sisters will litter the earth bringing beauty back to the baron city currently speckled with leafless trees and brown, wilted grass. 

Young J.F. has finished his first semester as a TA at the University of Wisconsin—Madison. He has spent the past 14-weeks teaching his original course on Hypothetical Physics. A system and subject he developed and of which his doctoral research was over. He waits in limbo to receive his Ph.D. as the other professors do not have faith in his claims, stating: “Until the work can be proven, we cannot award J.F. his Doctorate.” A challenging task to accomplish considering the mere vastness of simplicity his work is. However, many of the professors found the result quite intriguing and beneficial to up-and-coming research in theoretical physics, so they allowed J.F. to host his own course teaching the subject. At the same time, he pursues another topic of research so to obtain his degree. 

In the basement of Science Hall on N Park St., Bricks line the walls floor to ceiling with creaking wooden blanks above at the end of an abandoned hall. These planks would puff out spores of dust if the right stomp was placed on the floor above. He is a minimalist, only keeping a plain drawerless desk and old straight-back wooden chair in the office. There are no paintings on the wall, cabinets, shelves, or anything other than another old desk chair someone had brought in at some point to sit across from the desk. tap-tap-tap

While scribbling gibberish in his notebook, J.F. is startled by a light knock on his door. He looks up to see the very girl he was daydreaming about and instantly loses his ability to be his natural-eccentrically-suave-self. 

“Dr. Quasar” “No. It’s just J.F. I am not worthy of the title just yet, my dear.” “Oh. I doubt that very much, Dr. Q.” “Please. I am fine with being called J.F. What can I do for you?” “Well. I just wanted to thank you for the great semester and give you this. It’s an early Christmas card. Nothing special. You can wait to open it.”

The young girl walks up to J.F.’s desk hosting the most appealing physique and face accompanied by a voice and angel would say is above them. J.F.’s heart stops, and his stomach syncs, just being within her bubble. Her scent is not that of cosmetic fragrances but of natural origin. It diffuses his brain like the loss of the internet amidst a great movie. She leans in to set the card down, putting both hands on the desk, and moves close, kissing J.F. on the cheek. She then whispers into his ear, “Don’t worry about a thing.”, and pushes herself back up, making the desk slide just a hair. She turns and walks off, either purposely swaying her thighs and hips or naturally; J.F. doesn’t know w, but it is overly intoxicating to watch. “See you in Xanadu, Dr. Q.” Says the girl as she disappears into the hall. 

J.F. had said but only a few words to her, yet it felt like it had been a lifetime in that less than a minute moment. 

He stares at the desk, looking at a small envelope that reads in beautifully written cursive. Dr. Q

[7.2 | Unit 6140]

The semester is over, and final grades are in. All students have passed J.F.’s class with an A. An easy A as they only needed to show up for a class to give, and considering all students were physics majors at the advanced undergraduate or graduate level, they had much interest in the work as well as the easy A. 

(I think I think. Hmmm. What shall it be today? It has been. Indeed it has, been a fortnight plus fourteen—or was it sixteen. I cannot recall, but the holidays are upon us all and for I have not the work to do, so drink I shall pursue. Sheet. I forget. I do have the research to hand into the old twit. I doubt he’ll care; his belly is as big a beer drunk bear, so my paper shall come whenith it cometh for that is that, and I shall become drunk and fat. Until the end of the winter, my friend drink, I shall, for it has been a night of fort plus twelve.)

Out of the office, down the hall, and up the stairs, J.F. makes his way to Langdon street,t where he walks a half-block u,p swings a right,t and heads to State St. The snow is beginning to fall heavier now, and it helps to ignite his desire for drink. His passions of life go in the order of 

  1. 1) The love of his life he feels he’ll never end up with,
  2. 2) Drink, and
  3. 3) Physics.

Fresh snow triggers his desire to drink most of all, and the semester has ended, so his responsibilities are nullified. He will consume until the brake disappears. He always found it fascinating that he is revered as a genius, a man above men when he is on campus. Still, when he is at a bar and has a few drinks, he instantly becomes the drunk talking out his ass. The bartenders and other guests, at first, always found him to be delightful and impressive, but by the 15th drink or so, the tables turn. They then could never believe in his educational accomplishments and position at the university. To J.F., it was just fun and games. He had no reasoning to care what others thought or will think. Some people would ask him why he wouldn’t carry himself in a more presentable fashion, to which he would respond: “Because I am not trying to get laid.” 

He makes his way down State Street, saddened by the boarded-up windows caused by the protesting terrorists hiding behind the B.L.M. movement and happy that the lack of business and traffic has driven the panhandlers away, so he doesn’t have to zigzag the streets to avoid them.

It is a short walk down State St. until he reaches Broom St. and swings a right, then stops at Riley’s Wines of The World to grab a bottle of Tanqueray Gin, a 6-pack of club soda, and a bag of ice. 

“The night is young, my son,” J.F. says to himself as he leaves the liquor store. 

The Lobby

J.F. finishes his short walk from the campus back to The Metropolitan Place on Mifflin St., where he lives in a small Condominium. The building has a communal lobby just after entering and exiting the vestibule where J.F. would sit and chat with the residents from time to time. His intentions are to go to the bar/counter and pour himself a drink in hopes that someone else may show and drink with him, but when he exists the vestibule, the place is empty; a weird kind of pointless that leaves the sense that it has been vacant for decades. J.F. invites the creepiness. He twists and cracks open the dark green bottle of Gin, fills a cup with ice, pours some gin over it, and then slowly twists a soda bottle open to keep it from fizzing out after the walk and then tops the Gin with it. He walks around the empty lobby sipping his Gin, observing the strange choice of colors used to decorate the place. The Lobby is a rectangular room with some off rooms. A mail depository station painted a pea-soup green with old Victorian-style chairs. An odd choice, J.F. thought, considering the building was built in the 21st century. 

It felt like only a few minutes to J.F., but he realized that hours had gone by when suddenly the sunlight was fading, and his bottle of Gin was almost two-thirds of the way drunk. 

“Well. There you have it.” (Should I run to the store before it closes and grab another bottle? No. No. No. I will continue the drink at Tornado. It is a glorious night for a snow-filled drunk at the bars!)

J.F. dances alone, twirling around the lobby, pretending to embrace the young girl from his class. He moves left and right with his left arm stuck out and his right arm cupped around her midback. He can hear The Second Waltz by Dmitri Shostakovich playing in the background as he fantasizes about him and the young girl closing in for a gentle kiss. Unknown to J.F., a few of his neighbors had come into the Lobby earlier and have been watching him. He had forgotten that about a third of the bottle ago, he had been in deep conversation with them. When he sees them, he stops and becomes erect, putting his right arm in front of his stomach to take a bow saying, “Good evening, my kind sir and madam. Tonight’s soiree will feature locally squandered turkey with a wood blewit gravy. Please find your way to the banquet hall, and your seat shall be labeled with your name.” The lady and gentlemen that had been sitting with him look to each other in a confused state as they watch J.F. walk off with a sort of fancy step in his foot to the elevator and disappear. 

Two hours earlier: J.F. pours his third Gin and soda while conversing with the neighbors at the community bar.

Six hours later: J.F. blinks and opens his eyes to find himself surrounded by people packed shoulder to shoulder. He looks up to see his reflection in the mirror across from the bar he is sitting at. He is dressed in a sharp pin-striped suit with a well-matched fedora. (I don’t own a fedora or a suit, for that matter. Do I?) The barkeep comes up to J.F. with a significant smile, and a freshly corked bottle of Dom Perignon, saying, “This one is on the house, Dr. Q.” 

J.F. suddenly feels a slap on his chest. He looks up to see a larger burly man with a thick black beard, long hair wearing circular sunglasses slamming his journal into his chest. “You wouldn’t want to be forgetting this now.” 

J.F. doesn’t say anything. Maybe he is too drunk, or perhaps he is just confused about where or when he is. He just grabs the journal and slips it into the jacket. As he starts to recalibrate where he is, he sees on the counter of the bar a newspaper with a date of 1945 titled “The War is Over.” It looks around him to see hundreds of people crammed into the small storm cellar that had been converted into a bar. 

Drunk and confused, he decides he needs to get back to his office at Science Hall to review his Journal, so he makes his way there, hiking through the snow. In the excitement of the war ending, the staff must have forgotten to lock the doors, and he can make it into the building and to his office. When he arrives, he fails why he went there and removes a loose brick from the wall next to his desk to find his spare bottle of whiskey. He takes it out along with a small tumbler, pours a drink, and then puts it back in the hole along with his journal. He sits back in his chair, takes one sip, and falls dead to the floor, passed out.

12/13/2018 

“Celebrating your birthday early there, J.F.?”

A familiar voice awakens J.F. from his twisted slumber on the floor. His face is smushed up against cold cement, and his legs and arms are pretzelled and numb. He pushes himself u,p wiping drool off the side of his mouth and chin. 

“You think you can make it out tonight? We all planned to celebrate your recent publication on theoretical physics.” 

“My what? 

That” J.F. pushes himself up off the ground feeling the hellish reminiscence of the processing chemicals in his body come in to play, 

“That, that was years ago.” 

 

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