Going Nuclear. Stephen Hart
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lot, Arthur loosened his tie and took off his sports coat. At his car, a white Porsche with a black leather interior, he popped open the door and tossed the coat onto the passenger seat. His first day on the job completed, Arthur decided to take a spin around the campus. He had always been a bit awed by the ambience of Notre Dame: the architecture and statues, the golden dome. As he drove, he recalled his tour through the main building during the job interview process—the ornate wood paneling, the distinguished portraits on the walls, the mosaic-tiled floor, the ever-ascending staircases. Not that the University of Illinois didn’t have a traditional college look; it did. But Notre Dame seemed more ideal, somehow. Maybe it had something to do with the students themselves. For the most part, they were more clean-cut, more conventional. A throwback to the early sixties.
As he turned a corner, he recalled the day he’d purchased the Porsche, the same day he’d learned that his PhD thesis was approved. It had been a magical time, an exciting culmination to his college career. He had hoped that owning a hot set of wheels would help jump-start his social life, help him meet the girls in miniskirts who had so far eluded him, but it didn’t work out that way. No one’s head was turned. No one seemed to care. He thought about his life at the University of Illinois—a Spartan-like existence, late-night hours in the lab and at the library, studying for written examinations and oral presentations, trying diligently to win over his thesis advisor. But his focus on school work didn’t fully explain his lack of success with the opposite sex. He’d had opportunities. They just never went anywhere. Maybe it was his lack of ease around girls, the sense that he was out of his element somehow. Maybe he just never learned how to play the game. His only sexual experience had been with his high school sweetheart, beginning the night they both graduated. But that fall, they each left home to attend different colleges, and although they continued to see each other for a while on school breaks, she sent him a letter during his junior year breaking off the relationship, telling him that she was going to marry someone else that spring. He dialed her number several times after that, but always hung up before the call could go through.
After a second lap around the campus, Arthur turned off in the direction of a bar that one of his new co-workers had mentioned, Frankie’s, supposedly a good place to meet young women. He pulled into the parking lot, cut the engine, and got out of the car. So, what kind of girls go to Notre Dame bars? He wondered. He straightened his tie and put his sport coat back on. Inside the bar, two dozen or so young men, obviously students, were drinking and talking. “Magic Carpet Ride” was playing on the jukebox. And to Arthur’s disappointment, there were only two girls in the whole place, both of whom were accompanied by guys. So much for jumping into the fast lane, Arthur thought. He climbed onto a stool at the end of the bar, wondering if he would ever feel at home in South Bend.
Five minutes later, as he stared at the half-empty beer glass in front of him, two young women walked in and sat down on two stools next to his.
“I can’t believe only five people turned out today,” complained the young woman closest to him, a thin red-haired girl in bell-bottom jeans, a tie-dye tee shirt, and sandals. She dropped a handful of fliers down on the bar.
“I know,” the second young woman echoed. She had dark hair but wore nearly the same attire as her friend. “The Dow recruiters will be right here on campus in November and nobody cares. I don’t know what to say.”
Arthur turned to the girls and asked, “Why would anyone care?”
The girls looked back at him but said nothing. Arthur suddenly felt very conspicuous. He had no reason to think they would answer his question or even acknowledge him, and his coat and tie certainly didn’t help. Feeling that he must look like a freshly minted establishment icon hot off the assembly line, Arthur desperately wanted to tell the girls that his appearance was misleading, that he knew they were talking about protesting the war, that he had protested against the war himself at the University of Illinois, that he simply wanted to join their conversation. He felt his face turning crimson but was afraid to look away, afraid he would lose the girls if he did.
“Who are you?” the brunette asked at last.
“Arthur, Arthur Weiss.”
“Are you a professor?” the girl with red hair asked.
“No, I work at the Radiation Lab.”
“Are you sure you’re not just a student after a job interview?” the brunette gibed, eyeing his tie.
“No, I received my PhD from the University of Illinois last spring. This was my first day on the job. I didn’t know what to wear, so I wore a coat and tie. I think I overdressed a little.” Arthur cleared his throat. “So why would anyone care about recruiters from Dow showing up on campus?”
“Have you been living under a rock?” the brunette asked.
“Dow Chemical makes napalm, in case you didn’t know,” the redhead added. “It burns and kills everything it comes in contact with, including the people in Vietnam it’s dropped on.” She scanned Arthur’s face for a reaction.
“Of course—I’m well aware of that,” Arthur replied. “But what good does demonstrating against Dow do? People have picketed Dow for years. Napalm is still being dropped every day.”
“We can’t just give up,” the redhead insisted, raising her voice somewhat. “Producing napalm is a way for Dow to make easy money, blood money. We want everyone to know what they’re doing. We want everyone to boycott their regular products. We’re not going to give up until they stop.”
“Yes, I know, but—”
A deep male voice interrupted the conversation. “Would you two young ladies like to join my friends and me at that table over there?” A huge young man with a crew cut planted one hand on the bar between Arthur and the redhead. With his back to Arthur, he nearly let his flexed triceps rest against Arthur’s chest. Arthur said nothing, despite a strong urge to jump up and shove the young man backwards across the room.
“No,” the redhead said firmly. “We’re just having a drink, and then we’re going to go.” His hand still on the bar, the young man turned and sneered at Arthur. After a long second, he skulked back to his table. Arthur wanted to smash the overgrown bastard with a chair or something, but he didn’t want any problems with the campus police. And to be honest, the guy looked big and strong enough to easily put Arthur away.
“Those guys are something else,” the redhead groaned. “They think they own this town.”
“Well, they do, in a sense,” the brunette said, smiling.
“Football players?” Arthur asked.
“Notre Dame football players,” the brunette answered. “They think every girl in South Bend wants them.”
“You have to admit they have their share of groupies,” the redhead noted. “And they do like to party.”
“That’s right,” laughed the brunette. “Sometimes they get drunk, get up on the tables, drop their pants, and moon everyone.”
Arthur looked taken aback.
“Welcome to Notre Dame,” the redhead said, grinning at him.
Arthur looked directly at the girls. “You never told me your names,”
“Donna Will,” the redhead replied. “And this is Sandy Swenson.”
“Glad to meet you.”
“So, you moved here to work at the Radiation Lab?” Donna asked.
Arthur noticed that her eyes were taking in everything about him as she talked. “Right. Like I said, this is my first day. I still have unpacking to do.”
“Does that mean you’re an eccentric scientist or something?” Donna pressed, continuing to smile at him.
“A radiation chemist.” Arthur answered with a shrug. “It’s an interesting area, at least to me.” He looked back into her eyes.
“Where