Gerrie Nelson - Lab Notes

Dear Olimpia: In a research environment where a grant from the National Institutes of Health is far from a guarantee, I thought it well worth our time to meet with a recruiter from a Houston biotech company to determine what his organization had to offer.

Diane spun her desk chair away from the keyboard, shaking her hands as if drying nail polish or limbering up for the Flight of the Bumblebee . An email to Olimpia frequently had false starts like this. It wasn’t writer’s block—she’d been known to plug up Olimpia’s internet server with her wordy missives. It was more like an emotional block. After the words “Dear Olimpia,” any form of expression, other than lifeless facts, seemed to get hung up between her brain and the keyboard.

Too often, notes intended to be friendly read like term papers. And when asking Olimpia for advice, Diane frequently presented her problems and goals with backup research as if submitting them for a grade. Her grandmother would have called it a “Twinkie Complex.”

Twinkie was her Grammy’s portly yellow cat who frequently yowled for help after wedging her body between the backyard fence slats or behind the clothes dryer, which had been her favorite spot during her kittenhood. Grammy said that as Twinkie grew older and rounder, she continued to judge her body clearance by the width of her whiskers, which had not changed in years.

So, people who seemed to be hung up on self-perceptions from their early years were forever after dubbed “Twinkies.”

Olimpia and Vincent had been Diane’s teachers before they’d become colleague and husband/research partner. And though she was intimately aware of Vincent’s foibles, and she had swum naked and showered under waterfalls with Olimpia and stood guard while she squatted to pee in the jungle, she often had to recalibrate her mindset to avoid reverting to her student roles.

Diane knew that other scientists thought she’d had it easy, that, as a graduate student, she’d hitched a ride on Vincent’s star and never looked back. Of course there was some truth to that. But it wasn’t like she skipped ahead to a Nobel once she signed on as Vincent’s assistant—in fact, only in recent years had she emerged from the “et al” designation that followed Vincent’s name on their publications.

Her tenure track ran uphill like everyone else’s. And even now, she sometimes felt like a shadow puppet, backlit by Vincent’s professional acclaim.

She had to admit that the party invitation had her daydreaming about a change, about trading the political theater played out in academia for a focus on the bottom line in the corporate world, about having her income tied directly to her successes—and maybe having a star of her own someday.

That thought in mind, she spun her chair back around and accosted the keyboard:

Dear Olimpia:

I haven’t heard from you since receiving your voice mail when you were in Houston. I wish I had known you were in the States; I would have flown down to see you.

I take your silence to mean you’re in the wilderness downloading the brain of a shaman who is, in turn, planning to have yours for lunch. I’m envious. And I’m anxious for your return to civilization; I need your advice.

Most of my rites-of-passage regarding schooling and career have been imprinted with your influence. So, once again, I seek your counsel.

Two months ago Vincent and I were asked out to lunch by a man named Raymond Bellfort who was recruiting for his biotech company (BRI) in Houston. I accepted the invitation and talked Vincent into going along. Big mistake.

To say that conversation did not flow at the lunch table would be a gross understatement. Vincent took the opportunity to express his scorn for the growing number of “mercenaries” lured away from their university posts by biotechnology companies who seduced them with promises of great wealth. Despite my efforts as moderator (and referee), Bellfort’s conversation became strained and disjointed. He put me in mind of a distracted bulldog, and I was sure we’d never hear from him again.

But now we’ve received an invitation to BRI’s Christmas yacht party. And it sounds intriguing.

At the very least, the hop down to Houston for a “Black Tie” party aboard BRI’s company yacht could be a great holiday diversion. Besides, it wouldn’t cost anything—they’ve sent plane tickets and reserved a hotel suite for us. And I wouldn’t even have to buy a dress; I have that little black YSL—the one I spilled red wine on at the Botanical Society meeting in San Francisco. (My mother-in-law—may she rest in peace—bought that designer dress for me a few years back, fearing I’d wear my old gold lame’ to their country club dance). And Vincent, the serial award-dinner honoree, owns two tuxes. So, we’re all set.

But for the past three days Vincent and I have been engaged in a lively debate about whether to go or not. As often happens, I see the trip as an adventure; Vincent considers it folly.

People had warned me against marrying a man ten years my senior, but after twelve years together, I still feel his sterling qualities by far eclipse his lack of derring-do.

However, in this case, there’s more at stake than a party. I have a premonition that our government funding will not be renewed.

Granted, we have always thought of ourselves as intramural researchers. But, who knows, maybe Bayside Research could prove the perfect non-university venue for us. Vincent could complete the development and testing of Peruvase without funding worries. I would continue collecting and analyzing plants for medicinal compounds. And, if BRI is affiliated with a university, I wouldn’t have to give up teaching. As a matter of fact, I would stipulate that as part of our contract.

Commercial biotechnology. To many, the term conjures up a brew of crazed scientists, evil clones, bioterrorism, super bugs, Frankenfood and super drugs. But in my mind, I see it as a soft landing if our government grant doesn’t come through this time.

I understand Vincent’s resistance. If we left Pittsburgh, he’d miss the gaggle of relatives who assemble at his father’s house on Sundays and holidays. He seems to thrive on that tumultuous camaraderie. Whereas, now lacking the unifying force of grandparents; my aunts, uncles and cousins have all scattered. Family interface has been reduced to words on a computer screen. So, I can communicate with them wherever I go.

Then there’s Vincent’s position as department chairman—he’d have to give that up if we moved on. I, on the other hand, might possibly improve my circumstance.

Is it heresy for scientists to entertain the idea of becoming rich from their intellectual properties? Raymond Bellfort hinted at generous salaries and royalties and unlimited funding that day at lunch. I find it all tempting enough to want a closer look. But Vincent, the trust fund baby, does not in any way measure success by his income. He says (never unkindly) that salary’s such an issue with me because I’m running from my blue-collar background. Maybe so.

I have to admit that even though it was my grandmother’s small, plastic-covered, herbal greenhouse that set me on this path, at times I avoid any disclosure of my background to colleagues—as though I’d left behind a childhood riddled with crime; as if, exposed, I’d be remanded to “et al” limbo once again.

Am I being naïve in my thinking? Do my glossy expectations come from lack of any other experience? Has my growing up in the science world, under Vincent’s peerless tutelage, been akin to finding my way wearing sterling blinders? Is it safe for me to go out into the world at large?

I can’t use my friends and colleagues at the university as sounding boards. They’ve made it clear that they’d consider a move to Texas akin to giving up my U.S. citizenship.