The Plot to Blow Up Reason (Part 4)

“As two sheets of 8.5 by 11 printer paper, her vague, theoretical predicament was now upsettingly real.”

Apr 5

You’re reading Dog Jail, a fiction newsletter about cops, ghosts, and the humanimal inside us all. This is Part 4 of The Plot to Blow Up Reason, a serialized novel. Read previous chapters on this page or subscribe to Dog Jail here.

6: AVOIDANCE THEORY IN PRACTICE

As Sandra Hopkins sat outside her faculty advisor's office, she thought back to her first visit to Western Cascades College. She took the trip alone, driving 500 miles from Idaho in her brother's truck. In between tours of the library and the science building, a student ambassador had confided that the school was known as "the Yale of the Pacific Northwest." Maybe the line worked better on whoever was footing the girl’s $50,000-a-year tuition bill. Given the college’s 70 percent acceptance rate, Sandra had to suppress a laugh. Still, she found the campus itself handsome and the instructors friendly. Even more importantly, it was the only place out-of-state that offered Sandra (with her sorry grades) enough financial aid to cover the rest of the balance with loans.

After three years at the college (go Woodsmen!), however, Sandra felt no closer to knowing what she wanted to do with her life, a fact reflected by her course history. Using a series of strategically invoked illnesses and imagined family emergencies, Sandra had successfully avoided her faculty advisor for almost three years, allowing her to set her own curriculum. This consisted of a series of classes in, variously, linguistics, music theory, behavioral economics, studio arts (clay), sports nutrition, and Spanish literature (a language she did not speak), fulfilling the requirements of exactly zero degrees the school offered. If she wanted to graduate someday, Sandra now had no choice left but to sit down with Peter McKay, professor of economics, and work something out.

As usual, the professor was running late, a trait that had worked to Sandra's advantage in the past but now annoyed her. Twenty minutes past their 3:30 appointment, Professor McKay came tumbling down the hall looking strangely sweaty for a mild April day.

"Well, look who it is," said Professor McKay. "So, is your sister feeling better, Sarah?"

"Uh, it's Sandra. And yes, her Lyme disease has gotten a lot better. The doctors say she'll be climbing mountains again in no time." Sandra, who had previously reported that her sister had gone missing while hiking, never missed a chance to bolster the narrative continuity of her fabrications.

"I'm glad to hear it," said the professor, pulling a credit card from his wallet. He began fumbling the handle on his office door. "Somehow I keep misplacing my keys. Give me just a second, okay?"

Professor McKay opened the door with a satisfying click, revealing a surprisingly empty workspace. During her sole previous visit, Sandra had assumed her advisor was in the process of moving offices, but three years later she saw that the shelves still held just two books: The Economics of Social Engagement, which Professor McKay had written himself, and a copy of Twilight: New Moon with at least 100 multi-colored sticky notes exploding from its pages.

The professor dropped into his office chair with a twirl, stopping after one rotation by grabbing the (seemingly unused) desk in front of him. "So, how can I help you today?" he said.

“If she wanted to graduate someday, Sandra now had no choice left but to sit down with Peter McKay, professor of economics, and work something out.”

"It's about my credits. I'm not sure they, uh, add up?" Sandra handed her advisor the transcript she had printed out that morning at the library. Until that day, Sandra had managed to avoid looking at the full record of her academic indecision. As two sheets of 8.5 by 11 printer paper, her vague, theoretical predicament was now upsettingly real.

"Hmm, let's take a look." Professor McKay looked at the pages with an expression that was hard for Sandra to read at first. "Good, good — lots of Cs, that's passing!"

"Yes, but my degree? I, uh, still don't have a major, technically."

"Well, it's never too late. Did you know that I didn't learn how to ride a bike until I was 50? 50 years old! Einstein didn't talk until he well into his 20s. Imagine that! I wonder how he bought train tickets." Professor McKay seemed to be lost in thought contemplating this image. “Lots of note-writing, I suppose.”

"So you think I can still graduate on time?"

"What? Oh, no, almost certainly not. Just fulfilling the basic degree requirements — languages, science, et cetera — should take, let's see..." Professor McKay flipped between the two pages. "About three more years, I think."

Sandra felt herself sinking into the chair. After her fourth year, financial aid would be cut off and there was no way she could pay for school out of pocket. She'd have to move back home, worse off than when she left. Indebted with nothing to show for it, her family would surely savor her failure, evidence of her sinful pride.

"Don't look so down," said her advisor. "It could be fun! Lots of people never get to have a college experience. You'll basically be getting two! Hmm, that would, however, cut into your prime reproductive years. You plan on having children, yes?"

Sandra considered her options. As enticing as it sounded, reporting her advisor probably wouldn't give her the kind of leverage she needed to graduate. "What does that have to do with anything?" she said.

"Kids are important! More important, than school, certainly. You don't think about it when you're young, but once you have a little one around, they become something like gravity, a force that defines up from down, right from wrong, in a world of uncertainty and chaos. Hmm, that's pretty good. Can you write that down and email it to me?"

"I'm not sure I caught all that, Professor."

"Ah, it's just as well. I've personally chosen to remain childless, of course. For ethical reasons, you understand."

"Y'know, you make a really great point with that whole kids thing. Maybe you could help me graduate? Before I'm all old?"

"Well, the easiest solution would be for you to drop out. That wouldn't look very good for me though, hah-hah! I've already lost enough advisees! That's a joke, of course — you're my only advisee, you knew that, correct?"

"Um, do you maybe have, like, a colleague who could help you out with this?"

"Many! Tons! You'd be shocked by how often I'm asked if I need help — shocked. I'm somewhat surprised, I must say, that you're considering dropping out instead of earning an interdisciplinary degree."

“Well, the easiest solution would be for you to drop out. That wouldn't look very good for me though, hah-hah!”

"A what?"

"An interdisciplinary degree? It's fairly simple, really. Students who want to pursue a field of study not offered by the college can combine two or more majors. They just need a faculty sponsor but, hah, good luck finding someone foolish enough to do that."

"Um, would you sponsor me?"

"Oh, of course, Sandra! After all you've been through? Yes, yes, happily. Let's see, what could we make up." Professor McKay studied Sandra's transcript again. "Hmm, you have some high-level sociology courses in here and some good political science ones. How about, hmm, how about 'Political Perspectives on Anthropology'?"

"Um," said Sandra. At the mention of politics, she thought about her boyfriend’s latest obsession, V for Vendetta, a movie he had made her watch six times. Recently, he had even bought a replica of the mask worn by the film's anti-hero, a man who looked something like Zorro as a Thanksgiving reenactor. "What about 'Culture and Political Extremism?'"

"Perfect! You will have to write a thesis, I warn you, and it better be good. Despite my reputation, I'm no easy audience. Yes, yes, you should study some of the past theses that cut the mustard. They're all in the library. 'Theses.' 'Theses.' It's a funny word, isn't it?"

Walking back from campus to the house she shared with three roommates, Sandra tried to decide how she felt about the new direction her academic life had taken. There wasn't anything about politics in particular that excited her — she wasn't even registered to vote. Her interest, as much as she had one, was simply in understanding how things worked. She had taken classes in psychology, economics, and sociology for the same reason. Their combined effect only brought Sandra slightly closer to understanding why she made and rejected friends so quickly, why her brother was such an asshole, why her mother... Sometimes Sandra imagined the world to be one of those carnival games where a quarter fell down a series of wooden pegs, landing at the bottom and either setting off a cascade of coins into the tray below or doing nothing at all, becoming just another part of the pile. Which kind was she, she wondered.

7: A LONG LEGACY OF FOLLY

Centuries ago, when even the indigenous Americans regarded the area as a worthless mudhole, Charles Tennyson stopped his wagon on the stretch of land between the Pioneer River the hill that would later bare his name and saw the future of American viticulture. While other settlers staked claims that they imagined as the future sites of bustling mining operations or ranches hosting hundreds of cattle, Charles thought only of grapes. From the three cuttings he had brought from New York, vines would spread across this whole valley — so long as they survived the first, merciless winter. Before he planted a single one, he had even chosen a name for his settlement: Raisinville. But as Charles soon found out, drying fruit was impossible this far North. Instead he became a ferryman, taking travelers from one side of the Pioneer River to the other. The town kept its name, however, until 1918 when a local school teacher campaigned to rename it “Reason” in honor of the divine gift that distinguished the settlers from farm animals, natives, and other common beasts.

Almost 100 years later, and just 300 feet from the site of Tennyson's original cabin, Reason's police chief and mayor sat together on a park bench facing the river on a cool Monday night. It was Mayor K's idea: She liked to jog after dinner and thought that the meeting spot might make them look like two colleagues who just happened to run into each other. Chief Robert Wyatt was a cop, not a spy. The whole business made him uneasy.

"I'm not saying I don't like the plan, Mayor, but we're just a little police department, I don't think we have the resources for it," said Chief Wyatt.

"If this is about money, you can just say it's about money, Robert," said Mayor K. "What is it that you're looking for, new computers? Cruisers? What?"

The word "conspiracy" flashed in Chief Wyatt's mind. "No, no, that's not what I mean at all. It's just that, well, you tell me, how do you see this operation going down?"

"'Operation.' God, do you have to be so dramatic? Think of it as more of a small experiment. Just you, me, and two other officers at most. It really isn't so different from those bait bikes your officers lock up around campus and wait for someone to steal. In this case, the bike just happens to be a bomb."

"Mayor K, you're not suggesting we actually..."

"Keep it together, Robert. I was speaking metaphorically. We don't need a real bomb to attract bombers, just, well, a bomber... group worth joining. I believe they call it a 'cell,' yes?"

"A 'terror cell,' correct."

"Right, so after we put together this cell, the officers in it will finally give us a window into this world of dissidents whom — and I'm just assuming here — you've come no closer to identifying?"

"We're, well, we're still reviewing security footage from around Arnold's restaurant." Arnold decided not to mention that it would be a lot easier to come up with suspects if they could ask the public for tips. "But even reassigning one officer will impact my department's ability to effectively reduce crime"

"Oh, what, you're worried about a big spike in missing street signs? It doesn't have to be your best performer — in fact, it would be better if it wasn't. I'm imagining that whomever gets this assignment will be on paid suspension for the duration of the experiment. We're not looking for convictions here, just insight. You're telling you can't think of a single officer who could use a little time off?"

After the trash can incident, the police chief had been looking for a way to save himself from the embarrassment of firing Chris Hernandez. He wasn't glad to have found it. "Well, Mayor, there is one," said Chief Wyatt.

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