Eighty-Sixed: Chapter 12 - Einstein's Tavern

Photo by Edgar Chaparro on Unsplash

As Becca left the podium, for some odd reason Dr. Sam Hollander was reminded of employee orientation with Drake at the start of their tenure with ENH. 

Upon arrival at work that first morning, they were immediately escorted to a windowless room with a single rectangular fluorescent light that barely lit the space. It was a tiny square box that could have easily been nothing more than a storage closet and was most likely originally designed for that purpose. Whiteboards hung on all four walls, each with a scattering of markers and erasers cluttering trays at the bottom of each board. A video monitor was mounted next to the doorway with its power cord dangling, unattached to an outlet. Against the front wall were several black rolling office chairs that faced the single flimsy table that was set up in the center of the room. Behind the table were two uncomfortable folding chairs set up facing the entrance to the room. Sam and Drake were instructed to sit there.

“I thought this was just a formality,” Sam said.

“What are you talking about?” Drake responded.

“You know, like a quick welcome to ENH. Get our badges and parking passes and whatnot. A company t-shirt and book bag. Something with the ENH logo.”

“It does feel a bit like an interrogation room,” Drake suggested.

Five minutes later ENH’s human resources director, Cassandra Montrose, exploded into the room and scared the hell out of them. 

Wordlessly, she swept in and dropped three inch-thick binders on the plastic table with a loud boom.  She stared at Sam and Drake for several uncomfortable seconds before rolling an office chair from the corner over to the table and taking a seat before them.  Cassandra had lips emblazoned with startlingly red lipstick and a skeletal-like pale face drawn back by the tension of her oil-black hair, dark as ink, that was pulled into a ponytail coiled tight as a spring.

“These are your employee handbooks,” Cassandra said, all business, as she slid one to each of them.  

She reached into the interior of her jacket and pulled out two ballpoint pens.  Clicking the tops of each pen to expose the ink cartridge, she then presented them to Sam and Drake.  

“Open it to the first page,” she instructed.

Sam and Drake both sat up straighter in their seats as they opened their binders.  Sam adjusted his tie.  

“We already signed a non-disclosure,” Drake said.

“That was the non-disclosure for the hiring process,” the HR director said.  “This NDA will bind you to everything you’ll see from this day forward. Is there a problem with that?”

“No problem,” Drake said, and Sam nodded in agreement.

For the next ninety minutes, Cassandra painstakingly walked them through a nearly fifty-page NDA where they signed, initialed, and then signed their names again on nearly every corner, paragraph, and page. 

“Good,” Cassandra finally said as she slapped all three binders closed and gathered them in her arms. I’ll have copies made for you both and have them delivered by close of business today. Now follow me.”

She swept out of the room as swiftly as she’d arrived. Sam and Drake had to chase after her.

As they were led to their new cubicles, Sam leaned over and whispered to Drake.  

“Now that we signed those papers,” he said, “I’m pretty sure if we ever speak of our work here that we’ll lose not only our firstborn children but also our left testicles.”

“Shut up,” Drake said.

“Also, did you see that paragraph where we agreed that any dental work you ever received will be extracted — painfully — by a burly gorilla with dirty hands in a back alley hovel somewhere?”

“Shut up,” Drake repeated.

Their probationary period had ended uneventfully, and enough time had passed at ENH to know that sharing any of what they’d just heard Dr. Becca Watts announce at that all-hands emergency meeting was undoubtedly something that would invoke the devastating consequences they’d agreed upon at their orientation. Neither could imagine a scenario where they’d dare utter a word of what was just revealed.

As they sat in the auditorium amidst the hasty retreat of their co-workers, Drake leaned to his left, looking over Sam who was still staring at the stage just vacated by their boss, Dr. Becca Watts. 

“I’m with you,” he said.

“What?” Sam answered, turning to Drake with a pruned expression.

“Not you,” Drake replied.  “Her.”

Sitting to Sam’s left was Dr. Tabitha Small.  After challenging Becca’s intentions in such a public venue, Tabitha gathered her computer and purse into her lap but had not yet decided whether to go home and drink alone or risk running into her co-workers who would surely be convening at Einstein’s Tavern just around the corner from ENH.

“Dr. Small?” Drake said.

“Excuse me?” she responded.

“There’s something weird about the rush of all this,” Drake said.  “I agree with what you said.”

“Well, then you’re an idiot,” Sam said.  Then turning to Tabitha, “No offense.”

“How exactly am I an idiot?” Tabitha asked.

“He meant me,” Drake said.

“Dr. Watts laid it all out,” Sam said.  “She singlehandedly accomplished the unthinkable and generated the first ever manmade — well woman-made — black hole.  But the real goal is harnessing the other side of that black hole, and the subsequent wormhole.”

“I have no issue with that,” Tabitha said.  “But I don’t think that’s what we’ll be doing. Her urgency is suspect.”

“Exactly,” Drake said.

“We’ve always been heading in this direction,” Sam said. 

“I think her ambitions have shifted,” Tabitha said. “And not necessarily in a positive direction.  This seems to be more about what Becca, and Becca alone, plans to do with this discovery.”

“That’s a big assumption,” Sam argued.

“This isn’t the first time she’s said or done something to make me question her intentions,” Tabitha said.

“Listen,” Sam interjected.  “Talking about timelines, the clock is ticking.  I don’t expect much downtime for a while, so let’s take this conversation elsewhere.”

“I don’t want to go to Einstein’s,” said Drake.

“You never want to go to Einstein’s,” Sam said.  “But I don’t care.  I drove carpool today, and I’m not taking you home right now.  So let’s go get a burger and a few beers before going home to crash because all we have to do is blink and we’ll be right back here slipping on our polyester lab coats and diving into black holes.”

Tabitha sighed.  

“I was thinking of going there myself,” she said.

By the time they arrived at the tavern, there was only one open table left.  Though it wasn’t even eleven o’clock in the morning yet, the place was full of scientists downing their drinks. Some were already on their second or third rounds. 

The three of them followed the hostess to a booth in the back near the restrooms. Sam shuddered when he realized their table was right next to one occupied by Cassandra Montrose and her cronies from HR. 

“I’m definitely ready for a drink,” he said as they took their seats. 

Tabitha sat rigidly, regretful of her decision to be seen in the company of her junior colleagues.  

“So what do you suppose she’s up to?” Drake asked, leaning inward.

“She’s going to expose existent wormholes,” Tabitha answered.  

As Tabitha spoke, a stout man with gray hair at his temples and a stern look upon his face came stumbling out of the men’s room and stopped at their table.

“I know you,” the man said and pointed at Sam.  His words were slow and slurred, tainted with Scotch: I-eh KNOooW hugh. 

Loud music started playing from speakers hidden in the rafters above.  

“Sorry,” Sam answered, speaking louder to be heard over the music.  “We’ve never met.”

“I didn’t say we’ve met,” the man said.  Again, the words came out with a hint of a slur.  But then he yelled.  “You work for my wife!”

Sam turned to Drake and laughed. Their colleagues at nearby tables turned toward the commotion.

“Why don’t you go get yourself another drink, Grandpa?” he said.

Frankie reached out and poked Sam’s shoulder.

“Hey!” Sam said.  “Back off, old man!”

“BECCA!” the man yelled.  He bent over and slapped his palms on the table. 

“What?” Sam asked.

The man violently shook his head, as if to shake out the noise of the bar. He cleared his throat and glared down at Sam.

“You work for Dr. Becca Watts,” the man said.  “I’m Frankie, her husband until just recently, I suppose.  I’d bet a nickel that you’re the little weasel who’s always crushing on my wife.”  

Again, he pointed at Sam.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sam said. His cheeks felt like they were burning.

“You and I need to have a talk,” the man said.  His slur was frighteningly gone from his voice.  Sam’s face went pale. 

“I don’t know what you’re…” Sam started, but Frankie suddenly turned his attention to Tabitha.

“Excuse me, Miss Red,” he said, as if Sam and Drake weren’t even there.

“My name’s not ‘Miss Red’,” Tabitha responded.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Frankie interrupted. 

“I know you, too.  You’re Dr. Tabitha Smalls.”

“Small,” Tabitha said.

“What?”

“Small, not Smalls.”

“Whatever,” Frankie said. “Add that to my wager with this one, who I’m guessing is Sam Holland or something like that.”

Frankie looked at Drake and sized him up.

“I don’t know who this fellow is,” Frankie said.

“I’m afraid…” Tabitha said.

“Scoot over,” the man said to Tabitha.

“I’m sorry, but…” she started.

“I’ve been waiting for the last three days and nights for you folks to arrive,” Frankie said.  “I knew eventually some of you would show up.  Now scoot the hell over.”

Tabitha begrudgingly obeyed, crossing her arms over her chest as Frankie sat heavily on the cushioned seat next to her.

“All you ENH folks,” he said.  “The Black Hole Gang.”

“What?” Sam said. 

“This is your hangout.  Einstein’s.  Of course.  Can I have some of your water, there?”

Without waiting for a response, Frankie reached across, grabbed hold of Sam’s water, and chugged it down.  Sam, Drake, and Tabitha watched him empty the glass.  

“You’re all the Black Hole Gang,” Frankie continued.  “Making Black Holes in a laboratory.  You’re ‘so close’ to this or that breakthrough.  Faster-than-light travel and negative mass.  Wormhole experimentation and whatnot.”

“We, uh, we don’t know what you’re talking about,” Drake lied.

“Save it,” Frankie said.  “What about you, Miss Red?  Miss Dr. Tabitha Small? I’m sure you have an idea of what I’m talking about.”

“You’re not supposed to know any of those things,” Sam said in a low whisper.  He scratched at his skinny neck and looked around the bar, half expecting the HR department at the next table over to jump over their booth and attack them with cease and desist letters.

“I’ve been married to Dr. Becca Freakin’ Watts for going on forty years,” Frankie said, nearly spitting as he spoke.  “I damn well know a thing or two about the mess you folks are working on.  Your blessed project.  Your top secret interdimensional travel agency.  Transchronological transportation like you’re freakin’ Buck Rogers.”

“Transchronological?” Sam said. “You mean transdimensional.”

“Shut up, Sam,” Drake said.

“No, I don’t mean,” Frankie said.  “I mean what I mean.  Or, what I said.” His words slurred again.  Wuut I saaihd. 

Tabitha cleared her throat.

“So it’s true, then,” she said.

“What’s that?” Frankie asked.

“She has her own plan,” Tabitha said.

“She always has her own plan,” Frankie scoffed.

“What’s happening now?” Sam asked, confused.

“Time travel, or time jumps, or ripples, or whatever the hell you’re calling them today,” Frankie said.  “Transchronological transportation is Becca’s favorite term.”

“That’s not what we do,” Drake said with genuine befuddlement. 

“Transchronological transportation?” Sam asked.  “Is that what you just said?  Transchronological?”

“Keep it down,” Tabitha said, just as the waitress walked up to their table.

“Okay, then,” the waitress said.  “What are we having?”

Frankie looked at his watch.

“Yeah, alright,” he said.  “Another Scotch, neat.  And whatever potatoes you’ve got in the back there.”

“Alright,” the waitress said.  “And the rest of you?”

“Just make it a full round for the table,” Frankie said and made a circular motion with his hand.  “We’re going to be here for a while.”

“I, uh, don’t drink Scotch,” Drake said. 

“You do today,” Frankie told him.