“What’s this?” the man donning the Stars and Bars growled when Cooper handed him the note.
“They asked me to give it to you,” Cooper said, trying to make out his face through her goggles. “Those guys over there.” The man leaned back in his chair and looked behind Cooper at the knot of scientists. After a beat, he smiled and, without reading it, handed the note back to Cooper. “I know what this is about. Tell them to fold it up lengthwise, roll it into a tiny tube, and shove it deep into their asses. Tell them to pass it like an ass-joint.”
As Cooper walked away, she pushed her goggles onto her forehead and read the note. It was a plea to join a pool tournament, addressed to someone named Bozer—presumably the proud son of the South with whom she’d just spoken. She shrugged at the scientists, who looked crushed.
Across the galley, the scientist she’d rescued back in fire school during the partner exercises sat alone at a table, studying a book without turning the pages. Around him, guys in Carhartts and feather boas wolfed down mac-and-cheese casserole and talked about how the load of grade beams that had arrived on a flight the day before had maxed out the vertical cargo space.
“Can I sit here?” Cooper asked the scientist. He looked up, startled, then gathered in his utensils as if they were taking up too much room.
“Yes,” he said.
“What’re you reading?” Cooper said as she attempted to cut into the rubbery Salisbury steak. The man gently closed the book and placed his hand over it, but Cooper had spotted the title: Alarmism and the Climate Change Hoax.
“I find reading as I eat relaxing.” He slid the book off the table and dropped it into the bag at his feet. “One has to eat, right?” he continued. “It’s inconvenient, this need to eat.” He finished off his juice in a long gulp. “You look familiar.”
“Yeah, I saved you from the burning synthetic fires of hell, remember?” He looked at her for a moment, as if he were translating her words into his native language. Cooper marveled at the utter strangeness of his face: too long to be comprehended at a glance, and too finely cut to be traditionally handsome. Red patches marred the pale skin of his cheeks.
“Yes, that’s it,” he finally said. “I failed fire training.”
“I thought they DQ’ed everyone who didn’t pass.”
“Not everyone, apparently,” he replied. “And you—you’re an artist Fellow, correct?”
Cooper was surprised. “Yes. Though it’s been implied that we’re parasites that contribute net zero to the station.”
“Scientists say that because they can only quantify the value of a Monet by giving you a rough estimate of how many quarks might be in it.” Before Cooper could process this, the man gathered his dishes onto his tray and then departed with an awkward wave. Cooper turned to call after him, but realized she didn’t know his name. It was as if they’d both silently agreed not to bother with them.
When she turned back to her tray, Cooper found a flyer lying atop her mac and cheese. She looked up to find Sal staring down at her.
“Pick a side, Fingy,” he said. Cooper lifted the flyer off her food, and shook toasted bread crumbs from it.
Sal hovered over her, one hand gripping the back of her chair, the other palming the table. Cooper returned the flyer to him. “Yeah, I’m not signing this.”
“Why not?”
“There’s no box for Sasquatch Studies,” she replied, shoving a forkful of meat into her mouth. She looked up and met his eyes, which had widened in disbelief. Luminescent hazel, with depth. Not like Forrest’s, whose mud-brown eyes seemed affixed to his face only because they were required to be there. “Seriously, this is dumb,” Cooper said. “You scientists really put too fine a point on things.” Sal looked amazed for a moment, and then he laughed. It was a nice laugh, Cooper thought, and the dimple sweetened the pot. Still, he was a little too pleased with himself. Cooper piled her tray with her dirty silverware and headed for the dish pit.
“You are strange,” Sal called after her. Everyone turned and looked at her. Pearl took Cooper’s plates with a pitying smile, and whispered, “Everyone here’s strange.”
*
Armed with her South Pole Station handbook and map, and her painting supplies, Cooper made her way to Substation B, the trailer near the elevated dorm, where the artist and writer studios were located. At the top of the metal stairs leading to the door was a large sign that read Off Limits/Restricted Access. She pulled the door open anyway and nearly ran into Tucker. He seemed unsurprised to see her, and peered into her face.
“I heard it was the Crud,” he said. “How bad is it?” Cooper slid the goggles onto her forehead. Tucker recoiled and began laughing behind his closed fist.
“I’m overwhelmed by your compassion,” Cooper said, sliding the goggles back down.
“I have nothing but compassion for you, having been afflicted by acne and facial tics for most of my life.”
“Well, I’m already on antibiotics, so don’t worry yourself sick over me,” Cooper said.
“Antibiotics. Well, you are now officially a Fingy.”
“God! If I hear that term one more time I am going to rub my infected eye all over you—sorry, that was bitchy.”
“It’s okay. I like bitches. I seek them out. You have a ways to go, though.”
“I’ll do better next time,” Cooper said, thinking that would make for a very accurate tattoo.
“Come on, I’ll show you to your studio,” he said, ushering her down a short hallway. “By the way, I hear you’ve already become enmeshed.”
“Enmeshed?”
“You ferried a note between Beaker and Nailhead at lunch.”
“What the hell are Beakers and—you know what, never mind.”
“Beakers are scientists. Nailheads are construction. But if anyone asks, the Beakers are the prophets and the Nailheads are the patriots.”
Cooper growled at Tucker.
They stopped at a door. Someone had taped a postcard portrait of Foucault’s cheerful face just above the doorknob. “I’m so glad Denise is back,” Tucker said. “You’ll like her!”
“Who’s Denise?”
Tucker began whistling ominously and sauntered back the way they had come.
When Cooper unlocked the door to her studio, she found it was a small, square room with no window, just a desk, a couple of chairs, and an old easel lying on its side. Someone had carved Don’t eat the yellow snow into one of the legs. A web of frost grew on the south wall of the room, and in the corners, clear ice collected like tiny frozen waterfalls. The lighting, Cooper noted with disappointment, was abysmal—On the Waterfront without the symbolism. On the desk, someone—Denise?—had left a green canvas bag and a pile of books (The Sociology of Isolation, Sociological Materialism in Remote Communities, Achieved Status in Areas of Limited Resource). Cooper let her roll of canvas fall at her feet and began unpacking her supplies.