unlikely that a barmaid could convince a professor that she had the credentials to study medicine. Rosie seemed insulted by this and argued that it did not matter in any case. We only had to persuade him to have a drink with us.
A bigger problem was how to present me, as Rosie did not think she could do the job alone. “You’re my boyfriend,” she said. “You’ll be financing my studies, so you’re a stakeholder.” She looked at me hard. “You don’t need to overplay it.”
• • •
On a Wednesday afternoon, with Gene covering a lecture for me in return for the Asperger’s night, we traveled in Phil’s toy car to Deakin University. I had been there many times before for guest lectures and collaborative research. I even knew some researchers in the Medical Faculty, though not Peter Enticott.
We met him at an outdoor café crowded with medical students back early from the summer break. Rosie was amazing! She spoke intelligently about medicine and even psychiatry, in which she said she hoped to specialize. She claimed to have an honors degree in behavioral science and postgraduate research experience.
Peter seemed obsessed with the resemblance between Rosie and her mother, which was irrelevant for our purposes. Three times he interrupted Rosie to remind her of their physical similarity, and I wondered if this might indicate some particular bond between him and Rosie’s mother—and hence be a predictor of paternity. I looked, as I had done in Eamonn Hughes’s living room, for any physical similarities between Rosie and her potential father but could see nothing obvious.
“That all sounds very positive, Rosie,” said Peter. “I don’t have anything to do with the selection process—at least officially.” Hiswording appeared to imply the possibility of unofficial, and hence unethical, assistance. Was this a sign of nepotism and thus a clue that he was Rosie’s father?
“Your academic background is fine, but you’ll have to do the GAMSAT.” Peter turned to me. “The standard admission test for the MD program.”
“I did it last year,” said Rosie. “I got seventy-four.”
Peter looked hugely impressed. “You can walk into Harvard with that score. But we take other factors into account here, so if you do decide to apply, make sure you let me know.”
I hoped he never went for a drink at the Marquess of Queensbury.
A waiter brought the bill. As he went to take Peter’s cup, I automatically put my hand on it to stop him. The waiter looked at me extremely unpleasantly and snatched it away. I watched as he took it to a cart and added it to a tray of crockery.
Peter looked at his phone. “I have to go,” he said. “But now that you’ve made contact, stay in touch.”
As Peter left, I could see the waiter looking toward the cart.
“You need to distract him,” I said.
“Just get the cup,” said Rosie.
I walked toward the cart. The waiter was watching me, but just as I reached the tray, he snapped his head in Rosie’s direction and began walking quickly toward her. I grabbed the cup.
We met at the car, which was parked some distance away. The walk gave me time to process the fact that I had, under pressure to achieve a goal, been guilty of theft. Should I send a check to the café? What was a cup worth? Cups were broken all the time, but by random events. If everyone stole cups, the café would probably become financially nonviable.
“Did you get the cup?”
I held it up.
“Is it the right one?” she said.
I am not good at nonverbal communication, but I believe I managed to convey the fact that while I might be a petty thief, I do not make errors of observation.
“Did you pay the bill?” I asked.
“That’s how I distracted him.”
“By paying the bill?”
“No, you pay at the counter. I just took off.”
“We have to go back.”
“Fuck ’em,” said Rosie, as we climbed into the Porsche and sped off.
What was happening to me?
twelve
We drove toward the
A bigger problem was how to present me, as Rosie did not think she could do the job alone. “You’re my boyfriend,” she said. “You’ll be financing my studies, so you’re a stakeholder.” She looked at me hard. “You don’t need to overplay it.”
• • •
On a Wednesday afternoon, with Gene covering a lecture for me in return for the Asperger’s night, we traveled in Phil’s toy car to Deakin University. I had been there many times before for guest lectures and collaborative research. I even knew some researchers in the Medical Faculty, though not Peter Enticott.
We met him at an outdoor café crowded with medical students back early from the summer break. Rosie was amazing! She spoke intelligently about medicine and even psychiatry, in which she said she hoped to specialize. She claimed to have an honors degree in behavioral science and postgraduate research experience.
Peter seemed obsessed with the resemblance between Rosie and her mother, which was irrelevant for our purposes. Three times he interrupted Rosie to remind her of their physical similarity, and I wondered if this might indicate some particular bond between him and Rosie’s mother—and hence be a predictor of paternity. I looked, as I had done in Eamonn Hughes’s living room, for any physical similarities between Rosie and her potential father but could see nothing obvious.
“That all sounds very positive, Rosie,” said Peter. “I don’t have anything to do with the selection process—at least officially.” Hiswording appeared to imply the possibility of unofficial, and hence unethical, assistance. Was this a sign of nepotism and thus a clue that he was Rosie’s father?
“Your academic background is fine, but you’ll have to do the GAMSAT.” Peter turned to me. “The standard admission test for the MD program.”
“I did it last year,” said Rosie. “I got seventy-four.”
Peter looked hugely impressed. “You can walk into Harvard with that score. But we take other factors into account here, so if you do decide to apply, make sure you let me know.”
I hoped he never went for a drink at the Marquess of Queensbury.
A waiter brought the bill. As he went to take Peter’s cup, I automatically put my hand on it to stop him. The waiter looked at me extremely unpleasantly and snatched it away. I watched as he took it to a cart and added it to a tray of crockery.
Peter looked at his phone. “I have to go,” he said. “But now that you’ve made contact, stay in touch.”
As Peter left, I could see the waiter looking toward the cart.
“You need to distract him,” I said.
“Just get the cup,” said Rosie.
I walked toward the cart. The waiter was watching me, but just as I reached the tray, he snapped his head in Rosie’s direction and began walking quickly toward her. I grabbed the cup.
We met at the car, which was parked some distance away. The walk gave me time to process the fact that I had, under pressure to achieve a goal, been guilty of theft. Should I send a check to the café? What was a cup worth? Cups were broken all the time, but by random events. If everyone stole cups, the café would probably become financially nonviable.
“Did you get the cup?”
I held it up.
“Is it the right one?” she said.
I am not good at nonverbal communication, but I believe I managed to convey the fact that while I might be a petty thief, I do not make errors of observation.
“Did you pay the bill?” I asked.
“That’s how I distracted him.”
“By paying the bill?”
“No, you pay at the counter. I just took off.”
“We have to go back.”
“Fuck ’em,” said Rosie, as we climbed into the Porsche and sped off.
What was happening to me?
twelve
We drove toward the
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