genesis
We are not a collection of independent processes in successive moments. Every moment of our existence is linked by a peculiar triple thread to our past -- the most recent and the most distant -- by memory. Our present swarms with traces of our past. We are histories of ourselves, narratives.
-- Carlo Rovelli, The Order of Time, page 178
2,199 days
The worn green countertops and faded cabinets of the classroom have been polished with decades of fingerprints. The bunsen burner hook-ups, long disabled, sprout up from the green like withered silver plants. The skeleton is yellowed, a couple teeth missing from a former student’s determination. The periodic table hanging from the ceiling is out-of-date and has graffiti in the corners. The air smells of formaldehyde and sulfur, copper and smoke. A window with broken blinds lets the late-afternoon sun in crookedly. Room 213, the biology and chemistry lab, is the domain of Dr. Stephen Strange and Mr. Kato Wong.
Stephen circles the classroom, keeping an eye on the three students who had volunteered to help clean up. He pulls at the hem of his sweater, scuffs a toe against the tile. The two girls finish quickly and grab their bags, happily telling him to have a good weekend. Only the boy is left, washing the slides that were left over. He finishes quickly enough, and Stephen is left to stare off, listening to Wong grade homework.
“Dr. Strange?” His head jerks up, startled at the appearance of another of his students. “Can I talk to you?” He studies the boy, one of his freshmen. Peter Parker. He nods and follows the tiny teenager into the hallway.
“What’s up?” he asks, leaning against a locker. Parker fidgets with the strap of his bag, eyes looking anywhere but at him.
“Well, uh… I need help?” he breathes out and then the rambling cadence Stephen recognizes from class hits full swing. “Our academic decathlon coach is having a baby, you know? Mrs. Johnson? And we need a coach. Could you sit in as our coach until she’s back?” Stephen tilts his head and runs through his (admittedly empty) calendar. Oh, why the hell not?
“Sure,” he says, nodding. “Where do you meet?” Peter starts on a rapid-fire explanation of where the decathlon team meets, what they are studying, and how they should totally make awesome team shirts for the spring tournament. Stephen has him follow into the classroom so he can pack his bag. Wong has finished grading and is getting ready to go as well.
Peter follows them both out of the building, chattering away happily. Wong gives Stephen a look and receives a shrug in response.
“Peter, do you need to catch the bus?”
The boy’s eyes grow comically wide and he races off, yelling his goodbyes behind him. Wong bursts into laughter.
“You’ve got a fan,” the shorter man says, still chuckling. Stephen adjusts the bag on his shoulder and raises an eyebrow, questioningly. “Most of the kids are scared of the two of us. Parker is the only one who talks to you on a regular basis.”
It’s when he’s clumsily letting himself into his old brownstone (useless hands missing the keyhole for a good minute, that he gives into the emptiness of his life. He greets his ancient dog and settles in for the evening, wondering what he’s gotten himself into.
I am not this momentary mass of flesh… I am my loves, my moments of despair, my friendships, what I’ve written, what I’ve heard; the faces engraved on my memory. …If all this disappeared, would I still exist? I am this long, ongoing novel. My life consists of it.
-- Carlo Rovelli, The Order of Time, page 178
2,167 days
He doesn’t offer his hand to shake, the cramping too much for him to even try to flatten his hand out to grab another. Instead, he offers a stiff nod and receives a grin in reply.
“Dr. Strange, it’s great to finally meet you. Pete’s told us a lot.”
“Dr. Stark,” he says in greeting, glancing at their nametags. “Ms. Parker.”
“Hi Dr. Strange!” May Parker happily says, taking a seat at the battered cafeteria table that’s been dragged into the gym. This is the second parent-teacher conference of the year and the fourth time he’s met the woman since the summer orientation for incoming high-schoolers. She’s the female equivalent of her nephew and it’s endearing in its way. “I’ve heard you’re doing blood typing next week.”
“We are,” he replies, smiling. Talking about curriculum always calms his nerves.
“Peter is convinced that a spider bite he got last week will somehow show up in his blood and I told him it was ridiculous but he’s been going on about it.” Both Stephen and Stark laugh at this.
“I told her that Pete’s joking,” Stark says, as if sharing a secret. His brown eyes twinkle and Stephen feels his lips quirking up.
“Peter is one of my best students,” he says, fighting a grin. “I’m sure he’ll be the first to successfully identify his blood type.”
The three discuss Peter’s strengths and weaknesses, his social skills (as far as Stephen can attest to), and his progress on the academic decathlon team. Eventually, their time is up. Stephen is almost sad to see them leave. Most of the parents demand things from him, but Ms. Parker is always happy and kind. It’s a welcome break.
As he’s stretching and packing his bag, Stark shows back up. Stephen is handed a business card and he blinks, confused for a moment.
“If you need sponsorship to make sure you have the right supplies for the team, let me know. I want to help out.”
Stephen opens and closes his mouth a few times before nodding. “We could use a volunteer if you could spare the time. An adult from the community - not a teacher - would be helpful.”
“Oh, awesome!” Stark’s grin widens and the wrinkles at the edges of his eyes deepen. Stephen notices suddenly, alarmed, that he finds the man handsome. “I can definitely do that. I’ll get the schedule from Pete.”
It is memory that solders together the processes, scattered across time, of which we are made. In this sense we exist in time. It is for this reason that I am the same person today as I was yesterday.
-- Carlo Rovelli, The Order of Time, page 179
2,139 days
The first few meetings with Stark in attendance are a shitshow. The younger kids fawn over him, the middle ones try to act too cool to be impressed by him, and the oldest ones are a mix of affected teenager indifference and hero-worship. It gets better, though, thank God.
They’re on their fourth meeting since then and are running through a mock competition for the quiz bowl this weekend. The kids chose boys versus girls, to the protests of a single girl - Michelle or MJ or something like that. The girl decries it as inherent sexism and some of the other students roll their eyes.
It’s when the tie is broken and the kids stop jeering at each other that Stephen speaks up.
“Mrs. Johnson wanted to have me let you all know that she will not be returning at the end of her maternity leave.”
There are groans and chatter, then Peter - sweet kid - pipes up.
“Will you stay as our coach?” The other kids nod and agree. Stark gives him a thumbs up and he rolls his eyes.
“If you’ll have me, sure. Now, we’re meeting tomorrow to tie-dye shirts for this weekend. I’ll host in my classroom as it’s better for messes than the library. Everyone have a shirt to bring?”
“I’ve got you guys covered,” Tony says. “I’ll bring the shirts if you guys bring yourselves.” There’s excited chatter and the kids start to leave, packing up and wandering out.
“You don’t have to do that,” Stephen says, pulling apart the buzzer system. His hands are killing him, but it needs to be done and he doesn’t want to leave all the work to Stark. Unlike Wong, he’s not paid to be Stephen’s hands. He’s the team sponsor.
“What’s the point in being a sponsor if I can’t help the kids out? I was also gonna bring pizza if that’s alright with you.”
Steady hands join his trembling ones in taking the system apart and wrapping the cords into neat piles. Stephen tries not to watch them too closely. The nails are neatly trimmed, though there are some healing cuts on the fingers and the cuticles are worn to shit. Working hands, Stephen thinks to himself.
“That’s fine. Sodas would also probably be a good idea. I’ve already gotten the dyes, so that part is done.”
He had looked up Dr. Tony Stark, curious as to what the billionaire CEO was up to. He had known that Stark Industries had stopped making weapons a while back, but he didn’t realize that Stark had stepped down as CEO to become head of Research and Development instead. SI had moved into medical technology, revamped their domestic products, and were even building a smart-car prototype.
“No worries, Doc. That’s easy enough.” Stark helps him bundle all the pieces into the worn black case and zips it closed. Stephen becomes hyper-aware of how close they are standing and swallows. “Do you think one ot the kids will help me make a shirt? I’ve gotta admit, I’ve never done tie-dye before.”
“It’s simple enough,” Stephen says, voice hoarse. Butterflies fill his belly and he moves away, heading to his own belongings. “You wrap the rubber bands on and dip or set it into the dye.”
“I can definitely do that!” Stark laughs. “I’m sure your shirt will be better than mine, though.”
To understand ourselves means to reflect on time.
-- Carlo Rovelli, The Order of Time, page 179
2,135 days
Stephen sits in the auditorium with the kids that aren’t competing and the parents, watching on as Midtown slaughter their competition. The kids are all wearing their brightly colored shirts, buzzing with excited energy. Even Stark had shown up in his own red-and-yellow monstrosity, sunglasses on his face even indoors.
Stephen fidgets with the sleeve of his sweater, wishing the event would hurry up already. While he is happy to be there for his kids, his hands are killing him and he is worn out, socially, for the day. He will likely be expected to socialize more at the end of the event with other coaches and parents and even the damn bus driver.
Eventually, the match ends and Midtown emerges victorious. The kids go wild, jumping on each other. Good to know that nerds are just as enthusiastic as sports fans, he muses as he goes to speak to the opposing coach. They congratulate each other and say ‘good game’ before Stephen tries to herd his boisterous children out to the bus.
Tony comes over to him then as he’s checking which kids have gone home with their parents and which remain.
“That went well!”
Stephen nods and smiles, a small little thing. The beaming face in front of him, the muscular forearms framed almost perfectly by the fitted (hideously tie-dyed) t-shirt - his stomach flutters in nerves again and he swallows, mouth dry.
“I think you’re good at this, Doc. They had a losing steak and just broke it under you.”
That’s not the only thing that I want to break under me.
His face burns and he runs a hand through his hair. “Thanks, Dr. Stark.”
“No worries! I’ll bring snacks on Tuesday. See you guys later!” Stark wanders off and Stephen stands there, staring at him before shaking his head and climbing aboard the bus. One of the kids offers him a high-five and he returns it as he sits down, hiding his wince. Gary, the driver, starts chattering away as he pulls onto the street.
See you later, Stark.
...to understand time we need to reflect on ourselves.
-- Carlo Rovelli, The Order of Time, page 179