As she was examining her palette knife, the door opened and a dark-haired woman walked in. “Hi,” she said. “Just popped in to say hello. You must be Cooper.”
“Yep, that’s me,” Cooper said. The woman’s eyebrows arched questioningly over her cat’s-eye glasses.
“Interesting name for a woman.” She paused, and turned her eyes to the ceiling. “Cooper. Barrel maker. Lunar crater. D. B. Cooper.” She glanced at Cooper. “I’m making associations. Not a mnemonic device, exactly, but I lay these associations down in my memory palace, which should lead me to your name, Cooper, if I become toasty over the course of the winter. I’m Denise. We’ll be sharing a studio for the duration.”
“Toasty?”
“It’s a slang term that covers a whole range of psychological disturbances brought on by the extreme environment here.” Seeing Cooper was confused, she added, “I’m a sociologist by trade.”
“I thought this was the Artists and Writers’ Annex.”
Denise shrugged. “Well, this is where I was assigned. I’m not offended by being housed with the artists, if you’re wondering—though it does suggest that my field of study is viewed as one with less precision than, perhaps, cosmology. But then that idea would be offensive to artists, wouldn’t it? As if they are not precise in motivation. But is art about motivation?”
Cooper wanted to roll her eyes. Of course it was about motivation. But she only said, “I don’t really think about those things.” Denise, Cooper learned, was on sabbatical from Columbia and was supposed to be in a favela in Rio, living among transitioning transgendered men who injected industrial-grade silicone into their bodies to give themselves hips and breasts. She’d received institutional encouragement to delve deeper into this point on the gender matrix, but here she was, at Pole, four thousand miles away from her research subjects.
“I take it there are one or two transitioning men here to study in isolation?” Cooper asked.
“I like that you’re confident enough to joke with a new acquaintance about a sensitive topic. No, after traveling here a couple years ago, I simply lost my passion for my work in Brazil. I felt it best to hand off the research to my younger colleagues. I’m now studying the population here.”
“I guess anybody who’d voluntarily come to South Pole is probably worth studying.”
“Yes, it’s fertile ground,” Denise said. “The station population is most analogous to a penal institution—I mean, on a macro level. For a social scientist, it’s a dream. I have it all here—defended neighborhoods, degradation ceremonies, a chance to test the contact hypothesis.”
“Examples?”
Denise had allowed her glasses to slip, but she pushed them back up now, her face flushed with excitement. “Let’s see—defended neighborhoods, that’s easy: Beakers are not allowed in the fuel shed or power plant, except for one or two exceptions, while the Nailheads are only allowed near the scientific equipment when occupying narrowly prescribed roles, such as repair and logistical support. Degradation ceremonies would be something like the bag-drag for the Fingys, where they are forced to transport their own luggage to Summer Camp. It’s like a perp walk. Something to introduce the novitiate to a total institution and prepare them for external control.”
“Christ,” Cooper said.
“I know, intense stuff, right?” Denise said. “But I’m most interested in how the scientific community here is going to cope with the arrival of a climate change denialist.” She used her pen to scratch a spot on her scalp hidden by her prodigious brown curls. “Hmmm. I keep adopting the terminology of the dominant group. The more appropriate term here would be skeptic—climate change skeptic.” She pulled on one of her curls until it was perfectly straight, then released it. “Although that, too, is problematic. The scientists here would object to that term. I’m still trying to parse this one out. Anyway, let me know when I lapse into group jargon. It has the potential to affect my neutrality if I’m not careful, and I don’t want to go all Margaret Mead.”
After Denise left, Cooper realized she’d worn her goggles the entire time they’d been talking, and Denise hadn’t batted an eye. She decided she liked Denise very much, and turned to her sketchpad with some optimism. She put on an Etta James CD to drown out the roar of the machines rumbling through the fuel arches downwind from her studio and picked up her pencil.
*
2003 October 28
20:40
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Changing the subject line
B.,
What are you and the High Priest of Divination by Punctuation doing for Halloween? It’s apparently a big deal here. You are expected to wear a costume. Some people bring their costumes to Pole. Others just cobble something together. In other news, I got an eye infection and experienced the finest in frontier medicine. Drinking is an endurance sport, scientists included, who, by the way, are currently pitching a collective tantrum about a climate change denialist doing research here. The overall literary aesthetic can be summarized as Tom Robbins Rox. Haven’t heard from Mom or Dad yet. Write back. I’m told that after about three months down here, the letters and e-mails stop because loved ones forget you exist.
C.
p.s. Don’t ask me if/what I’m painting.
*
2003 October 29
00:43
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Re: Changing the subject line
C.,
The High Priest of Divination by Punctuation and I have agreed to disagree about the semicolon and have moved on to dry humping on my loveseat. Afterwards he consented to letting me call him Phil. When I asked him what his plans were for Halloween, he indicated that he’d be honoring the ancient roots of the holiday with cocktails at the Minnesota NeoPaganist Society. Apparently, Minnesota is a hotbed for paganism—Phil referred to it as Paganistan, which I thought was in poor taste, considering our current military commitments. I had dinner with Dad on Sunday. He says he’ll write you a letter. He doesn’t “do” e-mail, which he believes is written E+MAIL, and which is also how he pronounces it. I choose not to correct him for obvious reasons.
B.
p.s. See, I didn’t ask you what/if you’re painting.
*
“And so she comes up to me—now keep in mind, I’m in a hostel in Cheech and I’m in boxers with one of those half-staff morning boners. Anyway, she asks me if I’ve heard of Larry McMurtry.”