Byron fishes his phone out of his jeans pocket and dials Lynette’s number for the umpteenth time. This time, Lynette answers.
Consultation
Byron needs the name of a lawyer, he tells Mr. Mitch. A good lawyer, someone who understands workplace discrimination issues. Someone who understands issues of persistent, ingrained, institutional barriers, racial or gender or otherwise. Byron needs someone who believes that such issues should be resolved, ideally, through open dialogue but who, if absolutely necessary, is capable of landing a well-placed, legal kick in the butt.
“I need someone like you,” he tells Mr. Mitch. “I need someone like my dad.”
He tells Mr. Mitch how he’s just been passed over for the director’s position a second time. How even Marc, the colleague who’s gotten the job, said Byron was the better man, hands down. Mr. Mitch listens for a long time without saying anything. Byron has noticed he’s good at that.
“I’m not your man but I know someone,” Mr. Mitch says, finally. “You might be able to win this. But Byron, do you really want that job?”
Byron tips his head. “I deserve that job.”
Mr. Mitch nods. “You know, your colleagues are going to give you hell.”
“No, they’re not,” Byron says. “We have our disagreements but we’re a community. We’re scientists. We mostly love the same things. And every scientist knows that every once in a while, if an experiment or calculation isn’t giving you the result it should, you need to be willing to adjust the process, you have to be willing to take a step back and correct your mistakes.” Byron puts on his best TV smile, confident with a tinge of coy. He straightens his shoulders as he leaves Mr. Mitch’s office. Later, he will practice that stance in front of the mirror to convince himself.
Surf
This one’s a biggie, the weather gal says. STAY OFF THE ROADS if you can help it. Byron looks out at the driveway. The trees are bending in the wind. The rain is coming down in leaden sheets. He nods at the window.
Perfect.
Byron grabs a shortboard and his helmet and plunks them into the back of his Jeep, turns on a Black Eyed Peas album and heads for Cable’s house. They sit at the end of Cable’s driveway discussing the pros and cons. It’s a nasty storm, all right, but they’ve seen worse. They are, after all, SoCal guys. Byron shifts the car into drive and they head for the shore.
Byron swerves as the frond of a palm tree breaks off and flies across his windshield.
“Whoa, Byron, good save!” Cable says.
When he gets to the beach, they’re all there, all the regulars, wetsuited and shiny and yelping like a pod of sea lions. One of the middle-aged guys throws a shaka at Byron and Cable, shaking his hand in the air, thumb and pinkie extended. When they were kids, it wasn’t this easy to be around the others. They would get ignored. They would get threatened. Unless, of course, Byron’s bombshell mother was there with them, in which case, the guys were mostly focused on her, only pretending they weren’t. But time passes. And that can be a good thing.
“Oh, no, Byron,” Cable says. “Not the helmet.”
“Rather have fun than be toast, my man,” Byron says, pulling the straps of the helmet into place. He stretches, takes a couple of deep breaths, and runs until he hits the water. He and Cable are laughing as they run, but inside, Byron is burning up. He doesn’t know what else to do with all of this anger. It’s as if everything that has been bugging him for years has been piling up inside like tinder, and his mother’s death, and everything else that’s happened in the past couple of months, has just struck a match.
It’s a little dicey out here but he’ll work with the waves until he begins to feel more like his old self again. Because this is who he is. He was born to surf the waves. He was born to listen to the ocean. This, more than anything, is what he has inherited from his mother, this visceral connection to the sea.
There it is, he’s in the zone. Back to the top of the wave and then down. Back and then down. Byron slips into a long, still moment in his head where he sees that whoever else his mother was in her lifetime, no matter her name or address, she has always been part of this world and always will be. And this is the one place where he knows he can always come to find her.
Director
Byron raps on the open door of the new director’s office. The two of them have been colleagues for fifteen years now. Of the two, Byron has the higher qualifications by far, a sounder track record and better people skills, but Marc is very good at political maneuvering, which Byron admits is a necessary skill in this job.