Moving day
Jillian Holtzmann, new minted doctor of experimental particle physics, is moving into her new lab today. She is coasting on the fumes of excitement at the prospect of working in Dr. Yates’ lab. Her beat up Honda Civic is filled to the brim with pieces she started in Rebecca’s lab at Cornell. Holtz, unable to part with any of her precious babies, pulls over 4 times on in the four-hour drive from upstate to readjust an unstable piece of equipment. Not crossing any state lines with nuclear material though, so you are killing the safety game today. Self-five.
Abby Yates has been fidgeting in her lab almost constantly for the entire two weeks since she offered Holtzmann her postdoctoral position. That afternoon Holtzmann had walked Abby through her blueprints for hours. They stayed late at the lab, ordering Chinese food, the blonde engineer enthusiastically digging through Abby’s newest complex computer simulations. Abby still couldn’t believe that someone had taken Erin’s equations and Abby’s models and applied them to tools that might be able to detect the presence of the paranormal. She couldn’t help but smile at the thought of the slight woman climbing up on her desk in her mismatched socks, all scrawny limbs and eagerness, to show her a crucial detail about a particular piece of equipment she had designed.
When Holtzmann arrives at Higgins Institute she has been awake for almost a full 24 hours, having made use of her own personal energy drink recipe that involves more than a legal amount of guarana. The door to the lab is closed. She braces her boxes on the outside of the door fiddling with her phone to check the time. I knew that last adjustment break threw me off my ETA. And who knew that getting to this part of New York City would add an extra hour? I bet Abby’s already home for the day. I knew I should have brought that extra coolant rig.
Holtzmann stops, staring at the door. Underneath Dr. Abigail Yates, there is a shiny new name plate with the words “Dr. Jillian Holtzmann” engraved on it in neat print. Her eyes fill with unwanted tears. Holy cats. Dr. Jillian Holtzmann. That’s me. I am Dr. Jillian Holtzmann. I, Dr. Jillian Holtzmann, postdoctoral researcher in the lab of Dr. Abby Yates. Get it together Holtzmann. You knew the committee signed off on your Ph.D. You don’t need to fucking cry about it. She dashes the sudden exhaustion-driven tears away, snaps a selfie to send to her Grandma and pulls on the door handle to see if it’s unlocked.
Abby looks up from the computer she appears to be working on in the lab, hearing someone outside of the door. It’s unlocked. She can get in. Just act casual, this is definitely not a life-affirming moment. Deep breath, yeah that’s it Yates. In actuality, Abby has been working on the same piece of complex code for days, totally unable to focus on troubleshooting bugs. Instead, she pulls up a finished model and stares, determined not to look at the door, waiting for Holtzmann to enter the lab.
Holtzmann pulls on the door handle. Locked. She dumps the boxes onto the floor and pulls out a credit card. Flicking it between her fingers, she deliberates, making a series of complex calculations in her head. How long can a nuclear reactor sit in a Honda civic on a summer day with no air conditioning? All’s fair in love and science, I guess. She sets to work on the lock, her elbow jostling the handle, setting her off-balance and into the door which now opens smoothly. Holtzmann trips ungracefully over her own boxes landing sprawled in the now open doorway to the lab. The door was a push, Holtzmann. A push. Dr. Holtzmann, my asshole.
Abby hears the commotion at the door, refusing to look away from the model on her computer. Casual Yates. Just act casual. Jesus fuck, what could possibly be taking her so long opening the door. Maybe she needs help? I should definitely help her, right? No, no, casual Yates. She sees Holtzmann trip through the door out of the corner of her eye and suppresses a laugh. She appears for all intents and purposes to be intensely focused on her work.
Holtzmann, sprawled in the doorway, jumbled up with her boxes, face red with embarrassment notices Abby working at her lab bench having not seen her new postdoc’s entrance. No Holtzmann spectacle to see here. Holtzmann rearranges herself on the ground to be propped up on one elbow. She salutes with two fingers declaring “Dr. Jillian Holtzmann, reporting for duty.” That totally solved the problem Holtz. I suppose GETTING UP WASN’T AN OPTION!?
Abby lazily presses the enter button on her computer, figure after figure starting to generate as she, casually, looks over to the doorway. “Oh Holtzmann, sorry I didn’t notice you were there!” she exclaims excitedly as if noticing the other woman for the first time. She blinks at her colleague, taking her position in “Why do you look like you want me to paint you like one of my French ladies?” Oh I guess we’re throwing the whole casual thing out, eh Yates?
Holtzmann lazily smiles and, winking, peels herself up off the ground. She dusts off her hands and picks up her boxes, carrying them over to an empty lab bench.
It only takes an hour for Holtzmann to insinuate herself into every corner of the lab. Corners that were empty are now full of bits and bobs. The engineer herself is settling into a workspace, rearranging fire extinguishers that she is sure she will need.
Abby leaves the lab late, stomach full of nerves and broth that should have had wontons in it. She hasn’t worked with anyone this closely in a long time, not since she and Erin wrote the book. The two years she spent with Erin working on those 460 pages were life-changing. They changed how she viewed science and people. They changed how she viewed Erin. They had gone from being friends to something more so gradually over so many years. She didn’t know when she had started to think that she wanted to spend the rest of her life with Erin, but she did. Now she didn’t know when she had stopped wanting that. She only knew that having this new person in her space made her feel like she could change her life again, get her brain out of her computer and maybe, just maybe, believe in something again. It made her want to call Erin, to tell her that she had made a career out of what Erin had dismissed, to tell her that she found someone inspiring, someone who found her inspiring. This desire was so strong in fact that Abby reaches into her pocket, feeling for the cell phone containing the physicist's number. Goddamit Yates…. why can't you tie a cell phone to your bra strap? She heads back to the lab.
Abby can hear the blare of classic 80’s synthesizers from down the hallway. Arriving in the doorway of the lab, she is floored by the sight of her new postdoc dancing gleefully, tools in hand, carefully arranging her new workspace. Her dancing is more erratic than erotic, all elbows and knees, awkward angles, and goofy grins. Abby can’t bring herself to enter the lab and interrupt, something about the way the way this human moves is mesmerizing. Holtzmann is now twirling a lit blow torch. Abby wishes she cared even a tiny bit about safety regulations, but she doesn’t.
Holtzmann is totally blissed out on 80’s music, bad Chinese food, and the natural high of having a job doing exactly what you love to do with people who you think will value your contribution. She is halfway through a complex blow-torch twirl when she finally notices Abby standing in the doorway staring at her. She dashes to turn off the boombox slamming into it with her full force and knocking it off the lab bench in the process.
“Sorry, Holtzmann, I hate to DeBarge in! I just forgot my cell phone. You don’t have to silence the music for me! I love the 80’s!” Abby pulls herself out of her stupor. Jesus Yates, she probably thinks you’re some sort of voyeur now. DeBarge? Isn’t that song by Devo? I love the 80’s? It’s a whole decade, fuck, maybe she thinks you love Ronald Reagan now. Maybe you should clarify?
“Ah, yeah, sometimes I dance and work. Helps calm the ole noggin." She pauses gesturing to her head, slightly cross-eyed. "Uh, would you mind showing me where the thermostat is before you leave again? It’s a bit toasty in here.”
“Well, your sleeve IS on fire.”
Holtzmann snuffs it out, self-consciously facing her new employer, red creeping up her neck from embarrassment.