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“As a matter of fact, I did,” I tell him.
“So Mrs. Bowles-Tillington has sold the Destroyers to you.”
“Not yet, but she’s agreed to sell them to me. I still need to deal with some paperwork and shift some money around, but it’s basically as good as done.”
“I still don’t understand why you are buying a football team. You don’t even watch it,” he says.
“It’s a good investment,” I answer vaguely. I can’t explain the real reason I’m buying the team to him. Revenge is not exactly something of which he’ll approve. “Plus, maybe you and I can start going to games once in a while. We can sit in the owner’s box so you won’t have to hear it, and they serve really great food. We could fly straight home as soon as the game ends.”
“If it would make you happy to do that, I’ll go along with you, but I won’t watch the game. I’ll eat the food though.”
“I don’t want to push you to go,” I tell him. “But maybe we could try it once and see how you like it. If it’s not your thing, we could even leave at halftime.”
“Or sooner?” he asks.
“Sure, or sooner.”
“What time will you be home, taking into account any traffic issues, both air and motor vehicle?”
“Taking all of that into account, I should be back by seven.”
“I’ll ask Greta to have the cookies ready for seven, then. Or maybe three minutes to seven so they can cool a little.”
“That sounds perfect. I can’t wait to get home.”
“All right. I should go. Greta and I are playing Rummy and I paused our game to take your call.”
“Of course. Have fun. I’ll see you in a few hours.”
As soon as I hang up, I get a text from Donna.
Donna
Dick’ll be staying in Vanuatu for the next five days. Something about a lava dance ceremony tonight. Tomorrow, he’s going to an island called Malekula to visit the former cannibal sites and be inducted as an honorary chief in the Big Namba tribe (Namba being the name of the penis sheath worn by the men. There is also a Small Namba tribe, but apparently he didn’t want to join them).
Book me to Vanuatu. Get a yacht to take me to Malekula and find out if he’s willing to meet me on board for a few hours.
Donna
Aye, aye, captain.
I should be happy. Thrilled even. This is it—the moment I’ve been waiting for my entire adult life. All I have to do is get one little signature from Richard removing me as co-chair of the foundation and get him to pay me out, then swing back to Dallas to get Muffy to sign off, transfer five billion dollars to her, and boom! I’ll be the new owner of the most expensive football team in history. As Michael would say, easy peasy, lemon squeasy.
So why do I feel absolutely dead inside?
2
Stupid Human Tricks
Gwendolyn Fox - Mountain View, California
When you grow up in a house full of very serious scientists, you learn two things: 1) How to argue any topic into the ground in an attempt to prove you are, indeed, the biggest brain in the room, and, 2) the scientific method (obviously).
My parents met one November morning in the PhD students lounge at Yale. At the time, my mother was studying condensed matter physics while my father was getting his doctorate in Analytical Chemistry. They had a huge argument over crystal growth (my dad believing that it was both a controlled and predictable experiment, while my mom insisted it was about as scientific as witchcraft). They fought until the custodian came in to clean up that evening, then continued their argument at an all-night Denny’s, finally reaching the following conclusions at eight o’clock the next morning: 1) They were going to have to agree to disagree, and 2) They should get married. Which they did that afternoon, after each going home to shower and change first. They’ve been happily arguing ever since.
When it was time for my older brother, Benjamin (a total people pleaser), to choose a field of study for his doctorate, he decided to go for a double in both Analytical Chem and Condensed Matter Physics. He works for NASA and is married to a psychiatrist, Carla, who he never argues with, on account of them having developed ‘healthy communication boundaries for which to create a safe space for growth.’ I’m happy for him, I really am, but honestly, their relationship sounds boring as fuck. Give me a hot debate every day of the week and twice on Sundays because to debate is to truly be alive. Luckily, Ben still brings his A game when we go visit our parents at Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Independence Day. The volume and vitriol around the dinner table has scared off more than a few boyfriends in the past. But that’s okay. It only means none of them were the right ones for me. Forget love at first sight. It’ll be love at first fight for this girl. He’s out there somewhere. I just haven’t fought him yet. But when I do, it’ll be glorious. He’ll hold his own without getting nasty or personal. He’ll also know when to back down, which will be as soon as I prove him wrong. And he’ll know it’s all in good fun.
Speaking of fights, and more specifically, things over which to fight, my career of choice has become a rather large bone of contention between my parents and me. Because I have a bit of a rebellious streak in me, or maybe it’s because I’m unusually optimistic for a scientist. After completing my PhD in astrobiology, I went immediately to work for the SETI Research Institute. If, on spec, you’re not sure what SETI stands for, allow me to jog your memory (because you most definitely have heard of it).
