Even if I had gotten to sleep, it wouldn't have been as much as I needed. I'd accidentally stayed up late reading this science article Dr. Zivago had sent me. Thoughts about it kept passing by my mind's eye, like late-night trains along dark fields in the countryside. I tried reasoning with my sub-conscious to stop processing the damn thing so I could sleep. It was no use. My brain kept spinning around like nitrous-injected draddle. I tried meditation, reading, even non-denominational prayer, but my body was dead set on making life difficult.

I gave up at 7am and went through the usual bathroom routine for semi-formal occasions: forgetting to brush, nearly forgetting to shave and getting someone else to smell and make sure I hadn't worn a certain shirt already (since I have a very limited sense of smell). I decided on black slacks and this Italian grey wool sweater thing that makes it look like I've got muscle tits. I call it my alpine muscle shirt. To top--or bottom--it off, I'd forgotten my dress shoes and had to wear my well-worn baish sandals. Oh yeah, I was definetely a local.

So Mom and I launched into morning traffic around 8am. We finally made it to the Mt. University campus in Westwood at around 9:30. Since I went to a small college, I've never gotten a handle on just how unbelievably huge Mt. University is. Even with a map it's like a labyrinth of parking kiosks, thunder gods, fluted elven buildings and small roads intercircling one another like thighs in a drunken orgy. The directions we'd gotten were straight-forward, though, so we quickly found the psychology building. Mom waited outside by this 30x30 foot circular crystal patch of amber, wherein waterfalls crashed down over terraced stones. It was finally time. I walked in.

I got lost for ten minutes. I found a map, though. His lab and office were underground. Kinky. When I got off the elevator the whole floor had a familiar air to it: the oddly pleasant scent of rats and cage bedding, white-washed walls broken up by bland corkboards and this low fluourescent lighting. I was nervous and afraid I'd screw up, mostly because I barely knew this guy. What did he expect of me? What was his attitude like? I still felt confident, though, as I knocked and entered.

If you've seen one prof's office, you've seen them all. Everything was in a jumbled, yet strategic place: the orphaned manilla folders filled with papers on desks and cabinets, the rampant Post-It notes, the more useful reference books scattered around the computer desk like Pagan worshippers. Commanding it all was this 50 or 60-something white guy, a plain red t-shirt tucked over his paunch and into blue jeans.

"Wow, got all formal," were the first words out of his mouth. He looked amused and surprised. Hmm.

At first I think he asked me what my plans were, then where I went to college and what my GPA was. I stumbled a bit, saying that I wanted to work for a year or two as a research scientist before going to grad. school. Somehow we got to the research I'd done in my senior year of college with Dr. Yom Yomtoth. All this time I'd thought Yom was a loveable, sortof there/not there guy, but Dr. Zivago was damned impressed by Al's track-record and that I'd studied under him.

I knew what his next question would be: "So why didn't you apply to grad. school this year?" He asked. I gave the usual reasons I always do: I want more experience in my field, I feel this, I think that, etc. They aren't lies, but they aren't the real reasons.

Then things started to move away from the usual interview script. He didn't seem convinced about my reasons. Somehow we got more and more into my research work experience. He kept pressing, as if he knew I wasn't being totally forthcoming. Finally it just slipped out: I wasn't sure if I wanted to be a research scientist, I needed to recuperate from college. Most of all, I didn't think I was good enough to compete for grad. schools. I thought I needed more experience.

While he sortof accepted all that (and seemed to care), he still couldn't get over the fact that I hadn't applied. He talked about me as if I was a top-notch candidate for grad. school. When we somehow got to race and I told him I was technically Native American, he laughed to himself.

"Fuck you," he chuckled in that 'wow, you've totally got it made' sortof a way. He'd joked here and there using swear words, but just then I started feeling much more comfortable.

It was about then that his one grad. student came in. L is a very attractive young woman, about 23, with these curious almond-shaped eyes and a small chicken pox indentation at the corner of the left one. Dr. Zivago introduced us and then rattled off my credentials to her, emphasizing the Native-American part. I guess he wanted a second opinion on the "why no graduate school?" bit. There was dead silence for 10 seconds. I looked back after only 5: her mouth gaped open in disbelief. Shit, was I really THAT strong a candidate?

L then joined in the conversation and reached out to me as a person, talking about her own experience and how she got to be a grad. student. She'd been a Mt. University undergrad and gotten a 3.2 GPA overall. That's not bad, mind you, but it's just barely competitive enough for most graduate acolyte programs. She differed from most, though, because she decided to audit (i.e. sit in on) grad. school courses at Mt. University and got to know the faculty there. When application time came around, she knew who she wanted to work with and since she knew the faculty (and they knew her), she got in. I was really touched by why she told me this story. Here was a complete stranger giving me encouragement and relating personal information. Hell, here were two complete strangers who seemed to have more faith in my abilities and standing than I did.

After L left, Dr. Zivago started to make some very nice propositions. Not only does he want to get me a part-time position in his lab (since money is tight), but he's hoping to find another part-time job for me around Mt. University. He knows some people over at the local Veteran Affairs (VA) hospital that need some research assistants, not to mention that his wife is a top administrator in the psych. department and might be able to find a job for me. To top all that off, he also wants to arrange it so I can audit a few Mt. University grad. acolyte school classes next quarter. I seemed to get the impression that he was arranging this to improve my getting into the psych. doctoral program at Mt. University. Just like year he had 6 graduate students and one post-doctoral staff member. Now, it's just him and Grettle. The prospect of getting into Mt. University seems high. This is no small thing: the psych. program is rated 5th in the States and it's Clinical Psych. sub-department is close to the best.

It wasn't just the work offers that thrilled me, though. Here was an older professor who shook my hand firmly, asked after my personal pursuits and allowed me to accompany him to lunch. He introduced me to a small part of the Mt. University campus, bitterly complained about what President Bush is doing about science and in general acted like a mentor figure. He even shook my hand again when we parted in the local cafeteria.

I felt immensely overjoyed and pleased; I couldn't stop smiling for hours. Just like that I'd made a powerful contact who believed in me. Very soon I might actually have a job doing research, research on a new theory of Depression that has the potential to help tens of millions of people.

The rest of the day was also glorious and pleasant, but I'll get to that in the next installment�

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