the first first chapter

Here's something I've been toying with the idea of doing: posting first chapters of pieces I'm writing that I haven't finished yet. 

It's a way of keeping me honest. These pieces are not done because I haven't done them. They are longer, which tends to be an issue with me. I can finish shorter works in a single sitting, and do. Longer pieces, I run off and do life and get distracted and then remember, oh yeah, that thing ... .

It's not the work's fault. Usually, there's a bit of the overall story that is fuzzy in my head, and that's where I hit a roadblock. A wiser lady than I would just keep ramming the roadblock until it got out of the way, but as I said, life. That, and I go write something else that's shorter. It's not that I'm not writing --I write all the time. It's inefficiency. I'm working on it.

In the meantime, here is the first chapter of something that is not available yet: The Infinite Monkey. It will be. If you are someone who knows about philosophy, medicine, or academia, I'd love feedback because it's complete and utter fiction.

1.

Dr. Bartholomew

“Where does one find primates for short-term lease?”

Dr. Nathan Bartholomew was generally full of practical thoughts. At the moment, his practical thoughts involved monkeys, which left Dr. Bartholomew feeling unsettled and staring at his framed diplomas. Preparing a study with monkeys was proving to be a challenge as it was his first time working with animal subjects. It was certainly different than preparing a study with human subjects.

“At least there’s no need for informed consent,” Dr. Bartholomew muttered to himself in an attempt to soothe his nerves. How would one seek informed consent from a monkey?  Chatter at it, offer it bananas, and hope it would say yes? It would be completely impractical and, fortunately, was not required.

His mind drifted back to some of the undergraduates who had served as human subjects in past research studies. The monkeys might be better equipped to understand the consent paperwork. He shook his head in an effort to refocus. He stared hard at the calendar on the wall. What day was it? September 8. There was work to do.    

Other more practical questions bullied their way into his mind, shoving the undergraduates aside. He would have to organize; a man of intellectual inquiry requires order. Dr. Bartholomew scrubbed at a spot of tomato soup that marred his favorite blue-and-white striped tie with his thumb. Lunch had an unfortunate habit of succumbing to gravity when he ate. One does not worry about how to eat soup, however, when one is contemplating the Universe. He scrubbed some more. Julia would take care of this. She’d have it out by tomorrow without difficulty, like she always did.

Julia. Julia wasn’t there.

No, he would figure it out himself when he got home. That would be later. Now, a list was needed because a man of intellectual inquiry requires order. He swiveled his chair back towards his desk and the computer with purpose. He stroked his bearded cheek absentmindedly with the back of his hand, then began typing.

Where does one find primates for short-term lease?  He assigned this task to one of his research assistants, the tall one who looked like he should be playing basketball.  What was his name?  Matthew?  Mark?  He typed an M.  That would do for now.   

Has the paperwork cleared for conducting research on animal subjects?  This one would be handled by the the improbably-named Kimberlee, another research assistant. Kimberlee had a very pretty face and an excellent mind, but Kimberlee?  She would never be able to advance in her career with a name befitting a trailer park resident.  

What do monkeys eat?  He was certain it couldn’t possibly be bananas.  If Nathan Bartholomew had learned one thing in his thirty-seven years as an academic, it was that the most obvious answer was almost never correct.  Indeed, entire careers had been built on finding obscure answers to questions that the rest of the world never bothered to ask.  He assigned this job to that short one with the purple hair. Eugene?

Where will we house the monkeys?  Dr. Bartholomew gave that task to Kimberlee again.  Of the three lab assistants, she was the one most likely to get things done, despite her pretty face and horrible name.  Struck by this thought, he also assigned her When do we get the computers for the monkeys?, Do monkeys require special sleeping arrangements?, and Are monkeys toilet trained?

The grant had seemed like a good idea at the time it was written; money is always a good idea when one seeks paid work.  The grant proposal---Nonhuman Primates & Generation of Meaningful Text: A Case Study Examining Viability of the Infinite Monkey Theorem---was a logical one for the Department of Philosophical Inquiry of the University of New College to tackle under the direction of Dr. Bartholomew.  

He and the department were building a reputation for innovative thinking. From the time he had arrived from Patrick Henry University eight years earlier, Dr. Bartholomew had set immediately to work establishing himself as an academic with vision and an ability to carry out groundbreaking research. He was beginning to suspect, however, that even he would have difficulty with this latest grant.

Monkeys. What had he been thinking? He shook his head and stroked his chin. He must have become overly confident based his previous successes. He could not allow this monkey study to become another Las Vegas. He took a deep breath, glanced quickly back at his diplomas, and exhaled. No. More than likely, this would be another success.

His first project in the Department of Philosophical Inquiry had certainly been successful. Based on Wittgenstein’s concept of Internal Language and the pain scale typically used in hospitals, it could be conducted quickly at very little expense. Any project requiring limited time and money which related to the field of medicine was guaranteed to be funded, Dr. Bartholomew had reasoned correctly. His grant had been approved without difficulty, and the study---comparing the pain scales of people undergoing the same surgical procedure---had been simple to supervise. The resulting articles (cited as Bartholomew et al., the first time he had been the primary author) had appeared in journals with impressive titles: American Journal of Pain & Palliative Care, Northwest Journal of Medicine.

Dr. Bartholomew had tried to explain the basis of the study to Julia at the time. It was one of the few instances she had listened, he recalled, pursing his lips and frowning.

“Wittgenstein said that feelings and perceptions are like having a beetle in a box,” he had told her, trying to simplify it for her as if she were one of his students. “No one else can truly know what is in that box---only you can. Maybe there really is a beetle, maybe there’s no beetle. Only you know. Things like pain and color---they're like those beetles. You can describe them, as people do with pain scales, but it's not the same.”

Although Julia’s voice was growing quieter and quieter in his memory, he could still make out her words: “We all have a bit of the beetles, don't you think? People can never really know each other's beetles.”

“People can never really know each other's beetles. ...”

Dr. Bartholomew waggled his head for the second time that afternoon, wanting to erase that moment. He stroked his bearded cheek absentmindedly with the back of his hand, then checked his email. It was time for monkeys, not beetles.