tolerance
I wake up every morning and drink the same shitty green supplement in my water. It’s disgusting, foul even. I fill the scoop of dry matcha colored powder to the brim, before I mix it into a full glass of water. The liquid is saturated to its maximum capacity, and the extra powder sits in dry clumps at the bottom of the cup. It is said to be flavored like pineapple, but my mouth snarls and I gag to the taste of grass every time. I scarf the foreign fluid down not because I like how it tastes. But I tolerate the taste for the incentive of the reward. Because I believe that success requires the long game. And the long game is nothing more than time and tolerance.
Allow me to provide a simple path of logic while I defend my sanity. We dislike and disagree with a lot of stuff all the time, yet we allow its presence in our lives. It can range from: the shitty taste of green water, uncomfortable yet adorable shoes gnawing on your heels, to your father’s distasteful jokes around guests. Sometimes we sacrifice a small sliver of our dignity to appease the version of self we will be if we just wait out the pain a little longer.
So I ask myself. Was It all worth it? To tolerate it? For the sake of that future self?
At times I fear that this shiny badge of honor I cling to is no more than an inherently flawed virtue; Tolerance will build you up, or perhaps numb you down to a state of complacency for the things that would have been better off not existing. I don't necessarily endorse the pain that I have accumulated, but it has gotten me this far.
I became a millionaire by the age of 28, and achieved complete financial freedom by the ripe age of 24. I wish I was lying when I said the only way that any of this would have been possible is likely to be that flawed virtue.
It began the year of my college graduation, class of 2026 at the University of San Diego. As I glided across the stage with my cap and gown, I felt so sure of myself and the future I had in store. I received my honors degree majoring in Chemistry, and watched as the stage lights reflected off of my degree’s laminated edge. I felt proud but not victorious.
I knew that the path I had planned ahead of myself would be long and arduous. When I got home and decloaked myself, I began to count on my fingers. Another seven years of school and training if I am to become a doctor. And that was a generously quick timeline. My resume was skin and bones compared to the insanely competitive premeds applying in the current cycle. I thought I would take a year off to invest time on clinical hours and research to fatten up my application for medical school.
I planned to study for the MCAT that summer, but my progress escaped me the moment I found myself smoking weed daily. I was home in Minnesota for the summer. There was nothing here for me but memories crawling through the floorboards. I hated this home. I always did. That was why I left as soon as I could.
But now, being alone in this grand house that once held five bodies in unison- I appreciated the silence. My sisters were at school while my parents were off at work. My mother and father were married to their jobs. Classic workaholics to avoid their marital issues. My parent’s marriage taught me something important about the flawed virtue of toleration: tolerance is not love. Tolerance is acceptance of ‘the other’ for the sake of achieving something greater. Though, I'm not sure if they ever did achieve something great.
My love for chemistry guided me through the emotional turmoil of escaping my small town in the hickish Midwest. I could feel myself slowly decomposing there; my purest form being degraded by my environment as time went on. I wanted to be somewhere I could grow and meet others with my shared passion in sciences.
I spent my K-12 experience absorbing as much as I could, perfecting what was in my control and tolerating what I could not. I graduated highschool with a 4.7 GPA and a Valedictorian plaque I tucked into the foreign drawers of my childhood home. My college acceptances guaranteed a one way ticket out of the shit hole town that had taken so much from me.
But then, in those post-graduate months of groggy haze and waking up in the afternoon: I found myself abandoning my hopes of medical school and dreams of becoming a psychiatrist. I was considering going straight into the biochemistry industry just like the rest of my peers. I was good at chemistry, knew all of the proper lab techniques, and I needed a job.
I would not wish this post graduate state of purgatory onto my worst enemy. Balancing between the potential generated through all my years of education, while being undermined by my lack of experience in the workforce. I found myself scrolling through online job applications. All of which had a preference for a graduate degree (which I did not have) and a minimum of two years of research exposure (which I do have). I knew if I went back to San Diego I could hold onto what sanity I had left. I applied to about fifty biomedical industries within a 100 mile radius of the city. Each one I detailed an email of my experience, resume, and a letter of recommendation from the professor whose lab I ran in my undergraduate years. The bottom of the professionally outlined email read,
“Warm Regards,
Zoe.
Such a dumb name I think while I click the three keys that encompass my identity. Such a simple name I roll my eyes back.
It’s not short for anything more grandiose and elegant- just Zoe. The brevity of its single syllable is what I believe to be my curse of false perception by others. Because I am anything but dumb, and I am far from simple.
I click send and rest my laptop shut.
********
The following two weeks, my mailbox was flooded with emails opening with “Unfortunately” and “Unavailable” and my least favorite of all “Unqualified”. I wish I could pluck those two initial letters off of those words and affirm that I am fortunately available and qualified for each position I applied for.
I did however receive a single email filled with just enough neutrality I could interpret as a win. A Biochemical Industry called The Alchemy was impressed by my application and wanted to follow up with an interview the following week. I was elated and responded with my availability.
Upon a single Google search of The Alchemy, I knew something was not right. Their archive of publications was impressive and endless and thoroughly documented procedures of synthetic routes down to the precise calculations. There was a catch however: not a single author was documented on any of the publications. The space held for the name of the scientists was saturated by a bolded copyright claim: All discoveries and publications are produced and owned by The Alchemy Inc.
I couldn’t access any further information on the staff of the company, nor their ethics. The single paged website www.thealchemyinc.com had a drop down menu that gave access to the publications under their company, as well as their mission statement that read,
“Energy cannot be created nor destroyed: we transform our being into each and every one of our projects and achieve perfection.”
It all felt a little ambiguous while being extremely ambitious: two qualities that when combined create chaos. The only way to know for sure was to go to the interview.
I arrived in the parking lot of a warehouse-sized building exactly twenty minutes before my interview began. My black dress pants clung to my sweaty thighs as they absorbed the sunlight pouring onto my lap through the window. I slicked the slides of my brunette ponytail back with my pressed palm before opening my car door. I knew I looked good. Professional and clean. Someone to be taken seriously.
The lobby smelled sterile and clean. My tidy and polished presence was no match for the triple sanitized sanctuary I now stood. I'm sure the second I left, the ghost of my footsteps would be scrubbed away from existence on the marble stone. The building was barren… asylum white walls drenched in fluorescent lighting assaulted the naked eye. A firm hand was placed onto my shoulder.
“You must be Zoe Marie Phillips” the voice sternly stated.
I flinched from the choppy execution of my government name. I smiled and nodded to see an uncanny caucasian face plastered onto the body of a man half of my size. To the unprescribed eye, he would appear as a man in his late seventies. His shoulders were rounded and his spine hunched in the way that made you question his center of gravity. Though his face told another story: it practically reflected the age of a man in his mid-twenties. His cheeks were poreless and tight. His perfect skin stretched across his narrow face like saran wrap over an immortal ham. It was beyond the visual damage of a botched celebrity, or underground plastic surgery. His proportions were simply wrong and discongruent- causing my eyes to blink several times in surprise when I first engulfed him in my gaze.
“I am Dr. McNardy. Follow me this way please.”
His scattered crustacean steps led me down the hall to a dimly lit room, where he pulled out a chair. I anxiously adjusted the waist of my pants to rest on my hips before I crossed my legs and sat across from the man.
His cadence was slow and robotic. I squinted hard at his mouth to make sure that his lips were even moving.
“Your resume is impressive. You are young but you seem to possess a wide variety of knowledge and experience with synthesizing organic compounds. I would like to offer you a Research Assistant position for project #533 starting tomorrow.
I averted my gaze from his mouth and jerked my head straight in surprise. A smile possessed my face in flattery as I picked up the pen to sign the papers he pushed in front of me. It did not occur to me to process my previous suspicions as I stared at the $75 per hour wage. In my post graduate desperation I took the bait immediately without reading the fine print. I would soon learn to regret that.
That next morning I am greeted by Dr. McNardy in the lobby where he hands me my key card programmed with access to the laboratories.
“Let me introduce you to the team” He chuckled while flashing his pearly veneers. He typed a long encrypted code into a keypad that flashed green and unlocked the door.
Before me stood four men in white coats hunched over a lab hood. One as old as Dr. McNardy (with a normal aged face) and the three others seemingly not much older than me.
“This is Zoe, she will be assisting you on project #533. Show her around and introduce yourself” He was out of the door by the time he pronounced the last syllable of his sentence, leaving me alone with those four strangers.
Their eyes devoured my clothing, ripping down my form fitting shirt and baggy jeans off of my body in gluttonous rage. They looked at me like they had not seen a woman in months.
“You cannot wear that,” The old man says.
“You are contaminating my lab. Go change into scrubs immediately.”
My eyes widen and I am taken back with confusion. One of the younger men stepped forward and waved me over to follow him over to a side room. I followed silently, embarrassed I had already messed up on my first day on the job.
The man gently released the door from its latch and issued me inside. I stood behind him watching his dark curly hair spill over the collar of his white lab coat in defiance. He turns to greet me in the new neutral space we found ourselves in.
“Im Rigby” He smiles before turning into a complex cabinet of supplies.
He scratches the scruff on the point of his chin before pulling out a set of small pink scrubs. He folded them into my palms and let his hands linger on mine for a second before pulling away.
“Dr. Acidalius normally isn't that bad. He is having an off day, just please give him a chance” He assured me before leaving the room to allow me to change.
I release my breath and let out a sigh of relief to be alone for the time being. My heart had been pounding since being addressed by Dr. Acidalius. I peel my jeans from my sweaty legs and slip on the loose scrub bottoms that swallow my legs whole. I found it amusing that Rigby had managed to pick me the most feminine looking scrubs he could find. I buttoned my white lab coat over the baby pink scrubs and pushed the door open to unite with the team.
Dr. Acidalius greeted my presence with a scrutinous stare and handed me a lab notebook. The blue notebook was elegantly bound with red stitching that detailed “The Alchemy Inc” across the cover.
“Track your procedural steps and calculations here. This information is all confidential, and none of these notebooks are to leave this lab.”
I nodded while half listening. I was focused on the sheer weight and quality of the notebook as I ran my fingers down its soft fabric spine.
“You will be assisting in the synthesis of Compound X”
he stated whilst showing me the chemical structure of the desired molecule. It was a highly complex structure consisting of interfolding seven membered rings sprouting eight different functional groups in a highly unstable confirmation. I doubted that it was even possible to synthesize on a mass scale to be distributed.
“What is it used for?” I questioned
He looked bothered by my curiosity. He responded to my question with his jaws clenched and brows furrowed in annoyance,
“Understanding the applications of this drug is not in our job description. We are to synthesize this compound in high yield. Where the Alchemy decides to distribute this product is within their own realm.”
He laid an ink scribbled piece of construction paper on the lab bench in front of me. It was a twelve step synthetic route that theoretically would achieve the chemical identity of the Compound X. It reminded me of the retrosynthesis problems in my organic chemistry lecture class. I remember my professor saying that an efficient route is typically as short as it is effective. Twelve steps felt excessive, and his mental map was messy and ambitious. I did not raise perceptible suspicion to his plan, though I jotted down the identity of the final compound to further analyze later.
“Let's get to work then shall we” I suggest with genuine enthusiasm. I was ready to get back into the groove and be a part of something again. The lab had always been a safe place for me to diligently apply my passion and efforts. I was excited to get to know the boys, and even Dr. Acidalius once I caught him on a normal day.
I approached the lab hood and winced. Silica gel coated the surface of the entire hood, mixed with grease spilled from an oil bath. Open needles sprouted from tubes twisted around wires and hot plates. Dirty glassware was crammed in the periphery of all corners and foreign fluids leaked from the open separatory funnel onto the lab bench. It violated at least a hundred separate safety and hazard rules.
“When was the last time you cleaned this hood?” I choked behind gags of dry silica hitting the back of my throat.
Dr. Acidalius looked offended and unamused before I saw his eyes narrow with an idea.
“You can spend your first day cleaning up the hood. It will be good for you to get a mental map of the place and find your way around.” He looked pleased with himself as he slipped off his gloves and went to his desk to play on his phone.
The other men in the room fell silent. Rigby broke the tension suggesting, “We can help you Zoe," they all nodded in agreement.
The following six hours were spent drenched in hexane and acetone. My head felt dizzy from fumes as I walked across the room from the liquid waste to the sink over and over again. I got used to the stench of alcohol rather quickly once I went noseblind. We hand cleaned over 150 pieces of glassware. The boys broke two beakers over the course of the cleaning… though it raised no concern from Dr. Acidalius. The hood was left matt black in premium condition by the time it was time for us to go home.
I hold the elevator as the three men approximate in age step into the elevator. Rigby swipes his card over the keypad and selects the F1 button that glows after his touch. The two foreign men reach their hand out in unison to which I sandwich mine between and laugh while shaking.
“Im Chaz and this is Ronan” The man to my left speaks while pointing to the other.
“Sorry about Dr. Acidalius being a dick. Normally he is pretty chill.”
Chaz’s candidness brought the first real smile to my face that day. His eyes were a comforting brown that swallowed his pupils whole, akin to the resin buttons pasted into teddy bear sockets. On the elevator ride down, Chaz described his experience of traveling to America from China to participate in the company’s project. Ronan chimes in and explained that he came from Ireland in order to pursue the mission of The Alchemy as well.
The elevator doors separate revealing the industrial stretch of the garage before I can pry into what this mysterious mission of The Alchemy really was. We part ways toward our vehicles before waving goodbye. Once I am in the safety of my car, I slip out the piece of paper and stare at the compound in fascination. I found myself driving to the same library I studied chemistry at in my undergraduate years. In the same study room I absorbed my lecture notes and crammed reaction mechanisms, I began to jot down my own synthetic route.
I spent all night in the library. After eight hours and three red bulls, I left that study room with a viable five step synthesis. Down to the calculation of the millimol, I was positive that it would work in high yield. I delicately tucked the folded page into my scrubs on my way to the lab the next morning. Purple hues hung below my sleep deprived eyes as I drank my morning supplement on the way to work.
I greeted the team and placed my synthetic route on Dr. Acidalius’s desk. He looked up at me from his phone and scowled.
“Did you look this up on ChatGTP or something?”
He scanned the simplified synthesis and began to cross red lines of pen ink across my hours of work. I could feel liquid rage boil within me with each X he executed my ideas with, without providing an explanation. He handed my paper back to me drenched in the inky blood of rejection.
“Stick to my synthetic route. I have a PhD in this, and what are you, 20? I have your life in years of research experience on my resume. Do not try to undermine me.”
I took a threatened step back, and placed the folded paper back into my notebook.
“Today I want you to just record the procedure of today’s experiment. Don't touch anything.”
I nodded, holding back hot tears stinging in my eye sockets.
That day I carefully watched and documented notes on the procedure of the reaction without another word. After a waiting period of an hour for the reaction had started, Rigby came over and sat down.
“Sorry about him, again. I guess he is intimidated or something. It might be best to just lay low and do the work like the rest of us for a while. We don't get published anyway, so it's not worth fighting”
My eyes peaked up from my notebook in suspicion. Did Rigby know something about The Alchemy that I didn't?
“Why did you come here Rigby?” I begged in as casual of a tone as I could fake.
“The same reason as Chaz, Ronan and Dr. Acidalius. I came here because I believe in The Alchemy and what it stands for. They are leading scientific innovations in the name of science and nothing else.
“You do realize that this is a multibillion dollar company that does not publish their scientists correct? That is not for the sake of science, but for the sake of man. Do you really believe that this is some utilitarian organization?”
“I have to. I bet my life on it.” Rigby says while picking at the cuticles of his thumb anxiously.
“What does that even mean?” I press
“Once the project is complete, we die with our research and are recycled back into The Alchemy as future scientists. My father, his father, and even his father’s father before him have all worked here. I am here to contribute my own energy toward this goal, and I thought you were here to do the same.”
“Why are you here Zoe?” He stared at me blankly
“Because I needed a fucking job to eat. I found this position on ZipRecruiter. I didn't know about any of this sacrificial cult shit. When was any of this going to be explained to me?” My vision was going blurry at this point and Rigby grew increasingly concerned with my confusion.
“It was all in the fine print. Those documents that you signed with Dr. McNardy. There is no going back now, your contract is permanent.”
It dawned upon me that I would spend my final days within the purgatory between my passion and perseverance of tolerating that sexist professor. I had no one to call. No one to care. Trapped in a system benefitting from the labor of brainwashed scientists. I was not quite at the point of hysteria. I still had what was left of my grip. And I promised myself to hold on.
My gloved hand caresses the bulbous glass collecting the condensing solvent from the rotary evaporator machine. The dry ice has freezed this glass well below zero degrees. My mind can recognize that it is cold. The glass has been frosted over like a nostalgic snowglobe- logically suggesting its temperature. But when I close my eyes and concentrate my hand on the glass, I truly feel nothing.
My mind takes me back to the midwest winters.
******
The sharp air is sub zero and slashing across my cheeks the moment I push the garage door open. The small path encompassing the lake leading to the driveway has been engulfed by the white blanket of snow collecting for the past four days. I click my keys twice to illuminate my car lights- cutting through the snowy wind in my direction.
I counted each step with immense cation and calculation, making my center of gravity low and made my steps deep and controlled. I make it exactly 33 steps toward my car until being whipped down by the wind. My ankle twists on a tree root while my body falls in full motion toward the frozen lake.
It felt like slow motion film- the way they slow it down to the beat of a hummingbird’s flap of a wing- as I watched behind my eyes as my body spun out toward the belly of the lake; my limbs paralyzed in fear. The freezing water welcomed me, as my body weight shattered the ice upon impact. My sweatpants felt like weights attached to my hip as they absorbed the water and slowly sank me down. I watched the bubbles of my breath leak my lips as I let out a defeated sigh. I did not have it in me to die like this. As stupid as it sounds, I remember thinking that I could not die all cold and blue- it would make for such an ugly open casket. I managed to maneuver my frozen joints to unzip my double lined fleece coat and kick off my shoes before sliding off my sweatpants.
I remembered back to when we would test our pain tolerance as kids with ice water. And I of course, always left the competitors in the dust with my mental game. They thought too much, and struggled far more. I learned that you just have to get used to it. There is a maximum to most things, and once you have reached that level of pain, you have achieved the level of coasting. I receded into my mind. Thinking about absolutely nothing and everything at the same time. I would have to be nudged out of my zen state to be congratulated and groaned at by the goons who resisted the pain.
I remind myself not to resist.
I grip my chipped nails into the chunks of ice on the surface, gasping for air while screaming for help. I doubted anyone would have come. I knew that the only way out was through my own will. I snapped my elbows 90 degrees to the surface of the ice and struggled to lift my body weight onto the ledge. I laid there shivering and wet in my underwear, my baby blue blouse frozen over my hardened breast. I army crawled my frozen torso back to the snow pile that encompassed the lake. I used the same tree root that tripped me to pull myself back up onto the snow bank.
My dad found my body propped against the garage door, unconsciously banging against the aluminum cover with what strength I had left. I woke up in a hospital bed at 6pm 1/18/2014 to a doctor flashing a concentrated light into my retinas.
“Zoe M. Phillips?” A foreign voice compels me toward its ambiguous direction. A hand waves past my face and suddenly I am grounded in reality.
The doctor repeated back to me my name and age date of birth. I nodded, and with the slightest jerk of my head felt a reign of terror ringing through my skull. I winced in pain.
“Where are my parents?” I remember begging through confusion
“They are at work, and your father dropped you off.” The doctor began.
“Zoe, you are very lucky to have survived your conditions. You were hyperthermic and your heart rate dropped to a rate so slow… we were close to confirming you as dead. Your thermoreceptors are fried. Your nervous system temporarily shut down due to the extreme hypothermic conditions. I doubt that you will have any sensitivity to hot or cold temperatures for a period of time while your body recovers.
******
It has been eight years since that incident and I stare with disappointment at my hand that reports nothing back to my brain. My sensitivity toward temperature had not been the only thing I became desensitized to that day. After the incident at the lake, you see the world differently after pulling yourself out of the jaws of death. There was an impending numbness that set in after that shock: that no one would be there to help me. The only person that could save myself from drowning was myself. I knew what I had to do.
I stepped back from the machine and wondered how long I had been zoned out.
“Zoe!” Dr. Acidalius barks from behind me.
“Change your gloves immediately they are contaminated”
I internally rolled my eyes while keeping a neutral expression on my face. This was the fifth microaggression of the day and honestly I preferred the traumatic reminiscence of my frozen teenage body. I released my sweaty fingers from the wet interior of the rubber glove and placed them into the trash.
“Place that compound under nitrogen and then the freezer after you get an accurate mass” He muttered while scrolling through Facebook on his phone.
I was getting impatient. I wanted to wrap my freshly changed gloves around the gullet of his neck and squeeze until I saw purple. But I knew that would be unprofessional, and unlike me. If I was going to do this, it would have to be my way.
“Of course” I nod, presenting no threat with my dimpled cheeks and relaxed tone.
The next day Dr. Acidalius allowed me to conduct my own reaction. I hid the excitement behind my eyes as I accumulated the tasks he had assigned me for the day. I was to execute his third synthetic step to produce the next intermediate product. The procedure was straightforward and I was confident that with the demonstration of my effort and lab techniques that I would be able to get on Dr. Acidalius' good side.
Chaz and Ronan were in the neighboring hood preparing solvents for the column to further purify the compound. Large jugs of hexane and dimethyl chloride stunk up the fume hoods as they measured out their massive volumes in a graduated cylinder. They messily transferred the liquid, spilling some on the white tile before laughing and ensuring that it would evaporate.
The reaction had been going perfectly, and was set to stir for another thirty minutes before continuing with the next step in the procedure. I skipped over to the cabinet to retrieve a beaker to decant my reaction mixture into. Upon my pivoting step forward, my sneaker lost all traction on the wet floor- propelling my weight back, and smacking my head against the marble tile. The shattering of the beaker ricocheted off the wall, fragmenting into a million shards of glass.
“Hey butterfingers, that glassware is expensive and you just created a whole hazard inside this lab!”
Dr Acidalius shouted at me- though by this point I found myself adjusting back to consciousness. My skull buzzed around the throbbing impact of my occipital lobe, while my eyes were engulfed by the shadows of my peripheral vision. The harsh hum of Dr. Acidalius' voice itched the insides of my ears for what seemed like an eternity before coming to a silence.
Rigby’s hand guided me back to my vertical posture. I wiped the glass shards off of my lab coat that was now splattered with specks of ruby red.
“The wet floor was the hazard. How could you possibly make this my fault?”
I scoffed at Dr. Acidalius, whose gaze now fell parallel to mine. He stepped forward, hunched over me so close I could smell the stench of hot nicorette gum on his breath, as he sternly stated: “Clean this up immediately, and if I hear another word of defiance leave your lips I will file an early termination document in your name.”
I stepped back to evade his threatening exhale. I averted my eyes directly down to the shattered glass then nodded in a slow defeated motion. The other men said nothing as they watched me sweep up the glass with tears streaming down my face. My safety goggles were visually impenetrable through the condensation of lament fogging up the lenses. The sound of clinking glass shards rang in the silent room saturated with tension. When I was done cleaning, I stripped myself of my lab gear to go to the bathroom. With my pants still tied, I sat on the toilet seat and sobbed. I sobbed until my sinuses were so full of tears and snot that I was gasping for air within that tiny bathroom stall.
They were tears of rage. Tears of frustration. A cry of exhaustion from a toddler in need of their parents. Though I knew they would not come to help me now. No one would. I would need to pull myself out of this one, just as I had always done.
I go into work the next day with bright eyes and a new goal in mind: to tolerate this until the end.
I begin to get into a routine of things to disassociate from the nine hours of lab I would have to endure for the day. I wake up and take my antidepressants that I wash down with my green powder supplement swirled into my water. I gag from the taste of grass and slightly topical undertone. I scarf down the reminisce of a box of Raisin Bran, while I cook myself scrambled eggs. I rip my hair brush through my bed-matted brunette locks into a slick ponytail that constricts my scalp. My scrubs are laid out for me the night prior, to which I slip into its cotton stitching seamlessly. I am out the door by 8:15 am with my water bottle filled and my shoes tied so tight they choke the tongue of the sneaker.
I enter the lab on time and first on most days, while I wait for the boys to roll out of bed and enter with droopy eyes. Their lack of punctuality only gave me more time to catch up on my reactions and adequately prepare for the day ahead. Though no amount of proper preparation could prevent the incessant badgering and suspicion from Dr. Acidalius. He would lurk behind my hood watching my hands with such intense scrutiny my hands shook with fear. Any sign of weakness or hesitation would be followed by him cussing me out in his breath and the reach of his ungloved hand toward my reaction.
I was far beyond the point of achieving the satisfaction of his approval. Some days I wondered if he intensely strained himself to tolerate my presence to the same degree I did to tolerate his. Though the excuse always fell through my nets of empathy when I reassured myself that he was just in fact, a sexist prick.
I kept my head low and my opinions quiet. I knew that soon enough we would be approaching the end of our project. And the end of our project, meant the end of tolerating the heaps of bullshit I put myself through. It would all be worth it. In the long run. I just had to accept it day by day, and little by little.
It was September 18th 2028 when we achieved synthetic victory. The NMR sample that we ran that Tuesday afternoon was as clear and definitive of data that we were ever going to get. The results of the data confirmed the identity of our target compound with no ambiguity. We had done it. We had executed the synthesis of a concentrated batch of Compound X.
Dr. Acidalius cried over the perfect peaks that climbed across the axis of the graph. His life’s work quantified within the integrals of the tiny triangles that decorated the page. I felt happy for him. Knowing he reached the point that he had bent over backward to achieve.
It was over by that point. We all knew it. The second that data was filed into the computer and printed, it would be sent straight to the supervisors of The Alchemy. From there, we understood our project would be successfully “wrapped up” or in other words- the team of researchers terminated.
“Have you given any thought to how we do it?” Ronan murmured between exhausted breaths of realization. His Irish accent bounced across the morbid syllables in a way that managed to diffuse the reality of our situation.
“I say we die by our creation” I suggested.
The men turned to me in unison, their eyes as every bit curious as they were cautious.
“We eat our compound. About a gram of each product is concentrated enough to end our lives quickly and painlessly.
Dr. Acidalius laughs. A cackling, mischievous laugh that rang in my ears. This may be the first time I have heard such a joyful sound leak his chapped old lips.
“Zoe, that may have been your first good idea yet” he squeaks with condescending cheer.
I had to keep my pupils focused to avoid rolling them back into my skull. Almost over I remember thinking.
Ronan, Rigby and Chaz nodded their heads in unison and agreed. Dr. Acidalius began to scrape the bottom of the round bottom flask carrying the compound. The army green dust accumulated in the bottom in a small ant hill. He poured out the solid onto a weight boat and measured out 5 grams of product on the scale. Even in his final days, he aligned the precision of the instrument with great attention to detail and calibration. While he continued to weigh out one gram proportions, Chaz grabbed five beakers to use as a makeshift cup. 300 mL of deionized water was measured out into the beakers and placed into the hood on a stir plate. Dr. Acidalius transferred the crystalline solid into each beaker, and watched as the stir bar whisked the tornado of powder throughout the swampy colored water.
I instinctively watched the hood and wrote down in my lab notebook:
Procedure: Death by Compound X
In a 500 mL beaker, add 300mL of DI water
Weigh out approximately 1.0g of Compound X
Place the beaker on a stir plate with a magnetic stir bar inside
Qualitatively transfer Compound X slowly into the beaker while stirring rapidly
Allow reaction to stir for approximately 20 minutes while monitoring for any undissolved precipitates
Observations:
Final solution should be a transparent dark green homologous liquid.
See Zoe M. Phillips for further details (248-981-3333)
I shut my lab notebook and stacked it on top of the rest. The room was silent. The only sound that reached the ear was the sound of the magnetic stir bar skipping across the glass of the beaker unbothered. The men were all positioned around the hood- watching the small magnet spin in a hypnotic spiral. The timer set for 20 minutes went off and pierced their unprepared ears- snapping them out of their existential hypnosis.
I lifted the hood and used the magnet to retrieve the stir bars from the beakers. It was ready.
“Bottoms up” I flush, as my hand shakingly addresses the glass. Rigby smiled while cheersing Ronan and Chaz. Dr. Acidalius stared into his beaker as if someone spit into his drink. I wish I had thought to do that.
“On three we chug?” I say, breaking the stale apprehension hanging in the air.
Nods bobbled in my peripheral as I began my count:
One…
Two…
Three…
Five elbows raised in unison as the green fluid climbed down our esophagus and met the lining of our stomach. The taste of murky water clung to my taste buds in the same revolting manner as my morning cup of water. That morning drink of toleration. Taste the bad to embrace the benefits- I recited to my psyche as the last drop of water leaked down my lips and my head started to spin.
It all happened in slow motion. The hummingbird’s flap of a wing. Dr. Acidalius fell first. His angular head struck the side of the hood before smacking the tile and bleeding out in a syrupy pool of red. Chaz and Ronan fell one after the other, their bodies slouched upon their chairs twitching and unresponsive. Rigby’s eyes bulged in fear as he watched his peers drop like flies before feeling faint and drifting into the dizziness that stole his center of gravity. I cradled his fall, misjudging the extent of force his full weight would have once in motion. His heavy limbs laid stiff over mine as I ran my fingers through his knotted hair. His boyish curls sprouted dark ribbons from his scalp that in my clenched fingers, felt just like my childhood dog. Rigby was a good boy. One of the kinder and gentler types that I have encountered. It really was too bad that he wanted to be part of the boys so badly. Now he would die with them.
My initial nausea had been undermined by the rapid adrenaline rushing through my veins.
I did it.
Well actually, I did it a while ago. Six months to be exact.
*******
That same synthetic route that I ripped my hair out over, just for Dr. Acidalius to ignore was successful within my first few initial attempts. The NMR sample and Gas Chromatography results I ran all confirmed the identity of the final product with complete accuracy. I had written a detailed procedure including calculations and proof of the data all diligently tracked in Chaz’s notebook. I knew it would be the perfect spot because he never used it, and we all knew it was empty so no one cared to look through it.
What took him five years to accomplish in 12 synthetic steps, I perfected in three months with five steps and only my organic chemistry lecture notes from my undergraduate years. The mornings I arrived on time while they rolled in at their preference, granted me the time and resources to perfect my procedure. I had synthesized a 100g batch of Compound X by the time they approached their 8th synthetic step.
I devised a timeline of six months to build up my tolerance of the final product before suggesting it as our suicide method to the team. Each morning I weighed out a milligram more than the last, stirring it into my morning water with greens. It was virtually undetectable to the eye and the taste was beyond bad regularly, so I tolerated the daily ritual with ease. Every other week I would carefully increase my dose to increase my tolerance over the dizzying effects of the compound.
After a while, you realize the habit of doing something takes care of the mental effort expended tolerating it. What I am getting at is the desensitized bliss of achieving maximum exposure to something. It's a presence so powerful that it unites the mind and body to detach from the stimulus completely. To zone out: brushing your teeth or driving your car. That's what this whole project felt like to me after a while. Yet I knew that my body was getting stronger and more resistant to the compound exponentially each day. It was a game of time and consistency.
The last few weeks of waiting for the men to reach the solution were long and painful. By that point I could digest 2 whole grams of the compound without a problem. I began to drop hints. Not that they would have listened.
On the afternoon of their successful NMR scan, I practically clicked my heels in excitement. I was so proud of them. Genuinely satisfied with their efforts and results- I just wish they had cared to include me along the way. I think about how things could have been so great as a team. I wanted that. I really did.
But I did not feel bad for doing what I did. They knew exactly what they were getting themselves into with The Alchemy. Their deaths were contractually binded to their success. I simply provided the rope.
I turned off the lights in the lab, and walked out that afternoon in my pink scrubs. I slipped two manilla envelopes into the UPS mailbox on my way home. One addressed to my lawyer, the other to Dr. McNardy. I would not exactly call it blackmail, but it was certainly a gray of sorts.
I explained the situation as well as my motives. Along with a detailed procedure of my findings, I supplied him with a journal article I wrote about the ethics and secrets behind The Alchemy as a surviving scientist. Unless I was contacted and offered a leading position within the company, the article was scheduled to be sent out to every news outlet within the next 72 hours.
I received a panicked call from Dr. McNardy that following morning. He promised me the CEO position and to be the face of the company so long as I kept my mouth shut. I could do that. I had gotten very good at keeping my mouth shut.
And that brings us to now. Where I am the owner of The Alchemy: a company that now pays their scientists and rightfully credits their findings. I dropped the whole culty propaganda and made what The Alchemy was always supposed to be: a place of discovery, stimulated by the support of likened minds.
And I would do it all again. Tolerate all of the bullshit a million times over for what I was able to achieve. Because if toleration has taught me anything, it is not complacency when compounded with awareness. We know what we tolerate is bad because we know that it does not meet our standard of good. We must trust our intuition that reminds us of what is good and just. We must listen to our nerves signaling pain to pull our hand off of the stove, and our eyes secrete tears when we are upset. To drive this division between body and mind for the sake of pleasing idols is a crime on humanity. To fall victim to agony at the cost of equilibrium.
In an infrastructure built upon centuries of powerful men with a white knuckled grip around their positionality- perhaps it is a waiting game. A game of toleration for these wigged white men to grow old and wither until they die and cycle through the system. But I grew tired of this scheme that is unlikely to be resolved in my lifetime. Sometimes you need a catalyst to make the reaction occur faster. I knew that's what I needed to be: a substance that increases the rate of a chemical reaction without any permanent chemical change. I came out of this as the same woman that walked into that lab. All of the in between was my work to drive change. And little by little, lot by lot, the tolerance I accumulated birthed something beautiful.
