Dressed for Success
The beach in Santa Monica is lovely on this spring morning. Although it’s only 7:30 a.m., the temperature is already in the sixties, and the sky is blue and clear. It’s supposed to be in the high seventies later in the day. I’m wearing cutoffs and a polo shirt. I’m barefoot, and Howie and I are enjoying a walk along the shoreline only a few blocks from our apartment. In one hand, I’m holding my flip-flops. In the other, I have Howie’s leash.
Howie is an Italian greyhound. If you’re not familiar with the breed, think regular greyhound, only smaller—much smaller. Weighing in at twelve pounds, he’s oversized for the breed standard. Some are much smaller. With a short velvety coat and cockeyed ears, we get a lot of comments. I used to think it was all about Howie, but lately I’ve begun to realize it’s the contrast. Where Howie is miniature, I’m tall. It’s the combination that sticks out in people’s minds: “Look at the tall, skinny man walking the skinny dog!”
I don’t mind. Howie’s family. Against my mom’s wishes, I got him as a high school graduation present to myself. Rescued from an elderly breeder that passed away, Howie came full-grown but with a lot of puppy energy. As an undergraduate, he rode around in my backpack and was very popular in study groups. Now he’s ten years old, and I’m trying to start out in college again—this time as a professor.
I finished my doctoral dissertation this last winter and am scrambling to find a teaching job. My PhD in Physics turns out to only be useful in a few areas: the military, energy production, and academia. Not wanting to further the evolution of weapons of mass destruction or promote nuclear energy, I’ve been looking for teaching posts. My motivation is threefold:
Luckily, I’m flying out for my first interview today. Honestly, I don’t even remember sending a letter of inquiry to Miskatonic University in Massachusetts. I applied for a lot of graduate teaching fellowships online, though, so it’s possible. I remember uploading my qualifications to an academic headhunting website, too. Maybe the referral came from there. In any case, I received a promising letter of introduction from Miskatonic University. They’re paying for a two-day “greet, tour, and evaluate” trip to see if they want to hire me.
Howie’s enjoying our walk along the beach. He’s running off the leash now, along the edge of the water. “Would you like to live on the East Coast, Howie?” I ask. He looks up at me quizzically and pauses for a moment. Then, like a rocket, he launches himself after a seagull.
For a minute I worry about how he’ll adjust to New England. Massachusetts has a beach, but it’s not like this one. The winters in the Northeast can be brutal. I’ll have to do a little research on dog clothing—sweaters and such.
For another minute I worry about my car. Can my 1999 Toyota RAV4 even make it to Massachusetts? I’ll have to do a little more research on getting a newer car or see if I can get by at Miskatonic without a car. I’ve been thinking it would be environmentally responsible to have an electric car. Do they have charging stations in Massachusetts?
“Slow down, Mac,” I say to myself. First there’s the interview.
❖
I’m checking my suitcase. Not being much of a traveler, I wonder what I’ve forgotten. I have the usual underwear, toiletries, and socks, of course, but do I have the right clothes? I assume that I need a button-down dress shirt and sport jacket for the interview, but is a tie necessary? Could I wear jeans? I nervously pack slacks and an emergency necktie in addition to more casual clothes. Better to be prepared.
The coordinator of this visit, a Ms. Claire Barry, indicated there would be some kind of “meet and greet” reception party when I get there tonight. “Do you think I need fancier clothes for the party, Howie?”
Howie is sitting on the end of my bed, his paws folded in front of him. He’s been watching me intently. He knows I’m going somewhere and knows he’s going to be spending some time at Mom’s. She’s going to come by and pick him up from my apartment on her way home from work.
I get out my tickets, maps, and information about Massachusetts and Miskatonic University. I don’t really need the map; a driver is picking me up from Boston airport. Still, it’s nice to visualize where I’m going.
Naturally, I’ve been doing some Internet research on Miskatonic. The campus is a few miles outside of Arkham, Massachusetts, on a 150-acre plot. Founded in 1775, it is one of the few US universities established before the American Revolution. Although it is not one of the Ivy League schools like Brown or Columbia, it’s certainly old enough and well pedigreed. It’s a small university with about 4,000 students and 380 academic staff members.
The Internet claims that its specialties are literature and oceanography (it is only a half hour from the coast.) The online catalog of classes indicates plenty of physics classes that I could teach. Hopefully they will allow me to concentrate on some of my specialties.
The photos of the campus are impressive, if a bit austere. Many of the buildings are so old that they have that gothic look. If there’s Internet access on the plane, I’ll see if I can research the architecture a bit. The administrative building looks like a medieval cathedral or castle, and some of the other buildings are quite striking. I wonder if there’s on-campus housing or if I have to find a place in Arkham.
The doorbell to my apartment interrupts my thinking. I see that my taxi to the airport has arrived. The driver picks up my small suitcase and backpack and puts them into the back of the cab. I say goodbye to Howie and lock the apartment behind me. The journey has begun.
❖
Later, on the plane, I have a realization: I’m going to get this job. Since the letter of inquiry arrived, I’ve been feeling it getting closer. The job, I mean. I know that sounds a little crazy, or maybe desperate, but it’s not that. Sometimes I know things before they happen. Sometimes I can feel when something is a sure thing—and generally it is. I have that feeling about Miskatonic. My life there is “getting closer.”
I’ve also had one of my dreams.
I remember almost all of my dreams. I was trained to do that as part of a work-study research project at UCLA. As an undergraduate I was paid to do dream research. I still keep a dream journal, and I can generally record several of my dreams every night.
My numinous dreams are different, though. They seem portentous. They stand out from the other dreams. They also generally come true. Not in a literal sense, not always, but almost always in a recognizable way. My backpack is under the seat in front of me, and I pull out my dream journal and find my notes on the dream I had about Miskatonic.
It was like this: I’m standing in a lecture hall in front of a green blackboard. A piece of chalk is in my hand. Rows of seats are arranged in tiers going back and up so that everyone has a good view. The hall has high ceilings and is well lit with arched palladium windows. The room is old, stately even. Although it has some modern touches and AV equipment, it looks like it’s been in use for at least a century.
The hall is full of students, and they’re all looking at me intently. In the dream it’s not scary, though. I’m their professor, and they’re just caught up in my lecture. It’s a comfortable feeling and one that I’ve had as a graduate teaching fellow at UCLA. The difference is that it feels like home. It feels like it’s my lecture hall. It feels like these are my students.
The classic Star Trek episodes had a weird lighting technique. It made a character or scene “stand out.” In the midst of the otherwise well-lit Starship Enterprise, one actor (usually Captain Kirk) would have moody, shadowy lighting. His face would be strangely highlighted amid the shadows.
My dream journal says, “Star Trek lighting,” because it was like that in the dream. I was the featured actor. I was the one getting the special lighting treatment in my own lecture hall, just like Captain Kirk got special lighting on the bridge of his starship.
That’s how I know I’m going to get this job. The lecture hall is already mine. I’m the featured lecturer.
❖
Flights going east across the country take all day. Even with a morning flight from LAX I spent most of the day on planes and then a ninety-minute trip in a hired car. We make it to Arkham near sunset, and as we approach the university gates there’s just enough light to admire the campus.
Miskatonic University is impressive. It was built over two centuries and features some of America’s most monumental architectural styles. Granite, sandstone, and brick are the featured materials, and some of the buildings are like medieval castles complete with turrets, colonnades, cloisters, and bell towers. The grounds are well maintained, and I feel like we’ve entered the estate of European nobility. Using a circuitous utility driveway, we pull up to the main administration building, University Hall.
Getting out of the hired car, I can’t help but stare. The building is imposing. It stands tall at the head of an oblong grassy area and looks like it is carved out of solid granite. A sense of ponderous age assaults my senses. This building will be here long after my passing. It is both solid and graceful. It seems impossible that flying buttresses and filigreed window casings could be made of stone!
A cool wind blows across my face, making me shiver. I realize that I’m not alone, and I step forward to meet a woman standing in the entrance portico.
Extending her hand, she says, “I’m Claire Barry. You must be Dr. Mackenzie.”
Ms. Barry looks extraordinary. Although in her fifties, she has a youthful bearing and an energetic handshake. What I notice first, though, is her shock of orange-red hair. This color, clearly out of a bottle, complements her almost-black skin perfectly. With striking looks and an easy-going manner, she seems larger than life. She’s wearing a yellow blouse and a russet-colored skirt and jacket that accentuate her slight figure.
“Nice to meet you,” I lamely say, noticing that her long fingernails are painted the exact color of her hair.
“You look a little tired,” says Ms. Barry, motioning me to follow her into University Hall. “That’s not surprising, considering your all-day trip.” I take my suitcase and backpack and follow her into the foyer of this grand building, back toward a hallway to the left of the entrance. As I follow, she continues speaking. “Let me show you our visitor’s suite and you can freshen up before our meet-and-greet party tonight. This building was built in 1750, and although it’s drafty and cold in the winter, it has some beautiful rooms.”
At the end of the hall, she opens a tall door, and I see what she means. If this is the visitor’s suite, they must have been expecting royalty. We’ve entered a sitting room with a travertine floor, white paneled walls, a travertine and alabaster fireplace, and lovely modern (and comfortable-looking) furniture. An oriental rug is centered in front of a fireplace and subdued lighting warms up the entire space. To the left, I see an opening into a bedroom with more of the modern furniture to contrast with the three-hundred-year-old dark wood paneling and vaulted stone ceiling. The effect of both rooms is one of amazing luxury.
“I’m sure you’ll be comfortable here, Dr. Mackenzie. The bedroom is through there and a bathroom beyond. You have an hour or so to get ready for our cocktail party. I’m not sure if that’s enough time for a nap, but you can at least take a shower if you like.” She’s smiling and getting ready to make her exit. “The meet-and-greet is at seven, and I’ll come by to take you there.”
I’m putting my suitcase down, still taking in the room. It has arched gothic windows looking into a walled garden. The dwindling twilight barely illuminates a cherry tree in early spring bloom.
As Ms. Barry heads to the door, I stop her with a question. “How should I be dressed tonight?”
She turns to look at me, and her smile widens a bit. “Nervous?” she asks. “You needn’t be. Although the university faculty may tend to dress up for holiday parties, it’s more a matter of form than it is of judgment. You brought a suit, didn’t you?”
I pull my sport jacket and slacks out of my suitcase and hold them up. Ms. Barry looks less than impressed.
“A tie?” she asks.
Reluctantly, I pull my tie out of the suitcase.
Ms. Barry looks from the clothes to me and back again. “Yes, that will do,” she says, turning to leave.
“You mentioned a holiday,” I say with a question in my voice.
Without turning back, Ms. Barry says, “Tonight’s the beginning of Ostara.”
❖
An hour later, a chime sounds in the sitting room. I’m almost dressed—just struggling into my necktie. I feel much better after a shower and am looking forward to meeting my colleagues at the party. I fuss some more with my tie, then realize the chime was probably some kind of doorbell.
Ms. Barry is at the door, and she’s holding a necktie of her own.
“I hope you don’t mind,” she says. “This belongs to my son, and it will go much better with your shirt and sport jacket.” She’s smiling again, and I realize this is probably the way she smiles at her son. Maybe I remind her of him. Maybe he also has trouble dressing properly.
“I don’t mind, if you help me put it on,” I say. “I’m having a heck of a time getting the two ends to be even.”
“Of course,” says Ms. Barry. She deftly puts her son’s tie around my neck, and ties it in a few seconds. She was right, too, it looks like it was made for my sport jacket.
“I thought you said they wouldn’t mind how I looked,” I say, inviting comment.
“That’s not exactly what I said,” clarifies Ms. Barry. “I said that dressing well for tonight was more a matter of form than a means of judgment. I also think that first impressions are important, and I want you to make a good impression.”
I’m not sure how to respond to her kindness, so I say, “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” she says.
“You mentioned Ostara. I don’t think I’ve heard of that holiday. Is tonight a special occasion?”
Ms. Barry looks puzzled for a minute, then asks, “Did I say Ostara? I meant Easter, of course. It’s this Sunday, and we like to celebrate it at Miskatonic. Ostara is just an old word for the beginning of spring. Easter’s an old holiday, you know, based on the lunar cycle. It’s celebrated on the Sunday following the first full moon after the vernal equinox. The early Anglo-Saxons used it as a time for planting spring gardens and to herald new life and new ideas.”
I’m wondering how the resurrection of Christ fits into all this, but not being a churchgoer I make no comment.
“Shall we go ‘meet-and-greet?’” asks Ms. Barry, pointing to the door of the visitor’s suite.
I follow her down the corridor nearly all the way to the grand entrance hall, but we make a turn down a short hall and through a doorway at its end. It opens into a small, lovely ballroom. The room is square, with twin fireplaces on opposite sides. Both are lit, and they add to the warm glow of the room. An inlayed wood floor is in shades of honey-oak with ebony accents. A rich tapestry covers much of the stone wall opposite the doorway. A bar has been set up near the fireplace on the left, and a few small tables and club chairs furnish the rest of the room. The ceiling is quite high, with amber-shaded lights hanging from imposing wooden beams. Flanking the tapestries, arched windows look out into the same garden I see from the visitor suite. It’s dark now, but the garden is bathed in moonlight.
The room has about a dozen people in it, and Ms. Barry guides me toward a group seated at one of the tables.
“Dr. Mason, I’d like to introduce you to Dr. Mackenzie,” she says, brightly. “Dr. Mason is chancellor of Miskatonic University.”
Dr. Mason is pale and lean and rises to shake my hand. In his late sixties or early seventies, his hair, eyebrows, and small mustache are surprisingly dark. He is wearing a black evening suit and tie. His clothes look like they were tailor-made just for him. I’m clearly underdressed for this evening.
“Glad you could come out east for a visit,” says Dr. Mason, smiling warmly. “It’s almost impossible to find good teaching staff these days, and you are highly regarded at UCLA. It’s hard to get to know people in just one day, but I hope we can at least start the process.”
I’m thinking, Not well regarded enough for UCLA to hire me, but I say, “That’s nice to hear! I’m looking forward to meeting some of the people I might be working with.”
“Then, let me introduce two of your colleagues,” says Dr. Mason. “This is Dr. Marianne Christianson, the head of the Science Department. She would be your boss and advisor. Marianne has had the pleasure to mentor quite a few new faculty members here at Miskatonic.”
“Nice to meet you, Dr. Mackenzie,” says Dr. Christianson. Marianne Christianson is dressed even more extravagantly than Dr. Mason. Although I’m not much on ladies’ fashion, it’s easy to spot some of the more expensive accessories. Her Hermés scarf must have cost more than my monthly salary at UCLA.
“My pleasure,” I say, shaking her hand. She is about five-and-a-half feet tall and a little plump. With an expensive short haircut and manicured nails, she is every inch a powerful businesswoman. Her smile is genuine, though, and I can tell that she’s more interested in me than in how I’m dressed.
“Your dissertation on black-body energy was most promising. Do you think it might be put to practical use?” Dr. Christianson’s eyes gleam in the soft light of the room.
“Science always has real-world potential,” I say. “The trouble is how much time and resources must be spent to make it useful. In the case of harnessing black-body energy, containment of a mini black hole will be the first issue to be addressed. It won’t be contained using any current techniques, that I know of.”
Dr. Christianson smiles broadly as though I’ve passed some test. “Oh yes, time and resources! Time and resources! I guess everything boils down to those!”
“Luckily, we’re teaching the theories that will eventually allow such things,” I say, with an encouraging smile of my own.
“Quite right,” Dr. Christianson says.
Dr. Mason continues his introductions. “And this is Dr. Horace Alvarez. Dr. Alvarez, this is Dr. Mackenzie.”
“We’d be partners,” says Dr. Alvarez. “We’d share lab spaces, conference rooms, and lecture halls.” With coffee-colored skin and dark hair that has turned mostly gray, Dr. Alvarez must be in his early sixties. He’s tall, like I am, and has a strong, confident handshake. He’s dressed a little more casually, in a dark brown suit, a cream-colored shirt, and a patterned necktie. I immediately get a good feeling from Dr. Alvarez. His clear brown eyes are friendly and welcoming.
“What is the lab space like?” I ask.
Dr. Alvarez shakes his head. “We have two. They’re a bit stuck in classical physics, I’m afraid. One of the reasons I’m looking forward to having you here is to modernize things. The labs are a good size, but the equipment needs updating.”
“And I’ve promised to help with that,” says Dr. Christianson. “We have a significant budget for lab equipment upgrades over the next twenty-four months. We’re just waiting for a proposal on how to use it.”
Dr. Alvarez is looking at me directly, and I say, “I think Dr. Alvarez and I could have fun spending your money, Dr. Christianson.”
“Call me Horace,” says Dr. Horace Alvarez, with a happy smile.
“I’m Mac,” I say, smiling right back.
As we get drinks from the bar, I can’t help but notice the tapestry on the stone wall. It’s huge, and it’s so old that the once-bright colors have faded considerably. It appears to be a coastal scene. The blue, green, and gray colors depict a shoreline with cliffs, a prominent reef, and a small town. It also appears to be a battlefield. The people from town are attacking people from the offshore reef. It’s a confusing design, and it’s difficult to see whether the townspeople are fighting other townspeople or creatures from the sea. Some of the “people” on the reef look human. Others look more like fish or mythological creatures.
“That’s one of our famous tapestries,” says Ms. Barry. “It’s over two hundred years old and depicts Devil’s Reef and the uprising of the townspeople of Innsmouth against the Dagon merpeople.” Ms. Barry is trying her best to keep from smiling.
“Um, OK.” I say. “I didn’t realize that tapestry makers would spend all that effort on myths.”
“Oh yes,” says Ms. Barry. “They do, actually. There are wonderful tapestries depicting St. George and the dragon and others featuring unicorns and mythical creatures. What makes our tapestry unique is that it is a new-world myth. Stories of the merpeople, or Dagon as they were called, go back before the founding of America by white settlers. Innsmouth was one of the first settlements in Massachusetts, and this depicts how that initial settlement was destroyed.”
“By merpeople?”
“That’s the myth,” says Ms. Barry, peering closely at the tapestry.
We’re interrupted by the approach of a shy man of middle age. Ms. Barry introduces him. “This is Dr. Shyam Gupta. He’s one of our dissertation advisors and one of the true scientists on staff.”
I extend my hand and say, “Pleased to meet you, Dr. Gupta. I’m Dr. Mac Mackenzie.”
Dr. Gupta is olive-skinned and has dark hair and shining black eyes. Ms. Barry leaves the two of us to talk as she heads over to a table of finger food.
“Yes, I know,” says Dr. Gupta, shaking my hand as he speaks. He’s clearly interested in my research, and excitement shows in his voice. “We’ve actually met once before. We were at a conference together. You were part of the team that presented a wonderful paper on miniature black holes.”
Remembering the conference in New York, but not Dr. Gupta, I say, “Thank you. It was a great conference. Were you presenting that day, also?”
“No, just an observer,” says Dr. Gupta. Brightening, he continues, “Do you think we’ll be able to create mini black holes in the laboratory?”
“Maybe we already have,” I say, slyly.
“Not for real!” exclaims Dr. Gupta, clapping his hands together.
“Well, it’s possible,” I say. “A mini one would be microscopic. They would be devilishly hard to detect. With such a small event horizon, they could remain unnoticed for a long period of time. We may have already created one as a result of one of the particle collision experiments at CERN or at Beijing’s IHEP.”
“Wouldn’t it siphon off matter, though?” asks Dr. Gupta.
“Oh yes. Little by little. Because it would work its way through matter, it would fall into the nearest gravity well. Then its event horizon would slowly eat away at the matter drawn into that well.”
“My stars! But you’re talking about the Earth!” says Dr. Gupta. “If the black hole was created here, it would sink down into the Earth’s core. It would be digesting the planet from the inside out!”
“Little by little,” I say again.
A pause, then we both laugh at my little physics joke. We both know that in theoretical physics most anything is possible. Not likely but possible. As we laugh, I think Dr. Gupta is warming up to having me on campus.
“And what about transversing the realms?” asks Dr. Gupta. “Do you think we can manage it through physics, or will we have to continue using trance states and lucid dreaming?”
I’m completely baffled by his question. Unsure what to say or ask, the conversation halts. Ms. Barry rejoins us with a plate of crackers and Brie and sees my inquiring face.
Dr. Gupta explains, “I was asking Dr. Mackenzie about his thoughts on transversing and…”
Ms. Barry gives Dr. Gupta a Medusa stare that cuts him off in mid-thought.
“Dr. Gupta,” she says with a surprisingly cold voice, “Perhaps you would consider refilling our glasses?”
Ms. Barry continues to look at Dr. Gupta as he heads to the bar. Without a word of explanation, she holds out her plate of finger food. “You really should try one of the rice paper rolls,” she says. “They’re quite good.”
After more chatting and with fresh drinks in hand, Ms. Barry introduces me to a table of gentlemen from the Oceanography Department. I must be starting to get tired (or a little drunk), because I almost immediately forget their names. They’re all complaining about funding and the expense of submersible equipment. After a bit, I realize that they’re talking about Innsmouth. Miskatonic University’s Marine Science Center is located in modern-day Innsmouth.
I point to the tapestry and ask the group, “Do you gentlemen know more about merpeople and the Dagon myth? Ms. Barry told me that the tapestry depicts Innsmouth from two hundred years ago.”
The gentlemen look at each other in silence. Finally, one of them, a blond professor of oceanic currents, says, “Do you mean the creature or the worship?”
The others at the table look down, but the speaker continues. “The word ‘Dagon’ pertains to both the mythical creature thought to live off the coast of Massachusetts and also to a cult that worships those creatures.”
He says this with such seriousness that I’m not sure how to respond.
“The Dagons still exist,” he says, shrugging. “They have a church in Innsmouth.”