It soon became painfully obvious that I would not complete my work and defend my dissertation by the deadline for May graduation. I could have blamed this on Howard for stealing a week of productive time, but it was not his fault. Nor was it my fault for goofing off at the Martinsville Arena, because I certainly had curtained my ice time to zero growth and negative skill progression. I simply had too much work to do and too little time. Even if I stayed up all night for weeks, I would not have finished. Resigning myself to the situation, I looked on the bright side (if it could be considered that). I did not have a job anyway. Nothing pressured me to graduate by a specific date other than my own ambition.

Even after this realization swept me, I did not slack off and occupy otherwise allocated hours doing laybacks in an ice rink. I continued to work, but at a healthier pace. I also decided to spend much of June in England with Gwen, then return to Carolina Tech to put the finishing touches on my research and defend my thesis for August commencement.

Had I been serious about my relationship and potential future with Howard Millbank, I would have seized the opportunity to spend a few weeks in California. He was openly disappointed that I did not choose this option. We argued heatedly over the telephone. We needed time together to solidify our commitment, but I preferred to spend that time with my roommate bumming around the British Isles. As soon as Gwen made the initial suggestion, I applied for a student loan to float my expenses over the summer. I could not allow a chance to see England slip away. I did not know when I would have another four weeks off or a friend to show me the sites and provide a free place to crash. Overall, it was the best decision for me as an individual but not the best decision for Howard and I as a couple.

Howard would have had expectations. He would have wanted to plan for the future, to rough out wedding arrangements. He would have wanted intimacy and attention. I fell ill-prepared to provide those things. I was so tired of Clive Butler’s outrageous demands, that I could not cope with Howard’s more subtle ones. So I left the United States for England in the middle of the night with Gwen at my side. I gave Howard little thought and definitely did not regret this red-eye flight across the pond. I had made my escape from school and, subconsciously, from him.

Gwen hailed from the city of Chester, in Western England near Wales. Chester had stood since the days of the Roman Empire, and ruins of an ancient coliseum testified to its antiquity. Throughout its history, the prosperous port city had been known by many names and ruled by many conquerors. In the middle ages, towers and gates were added to Roman walls that almost completely encircled the city, allowing visitors to imagine life in a fortified medieval town. The downtown area could have been a storybook illustration. Plaster-faced buildings trimmed with woodwork lined the streets forming strong but quaint facades. One could still find thatched-roofed taverns near Chester to drink warm beer and eat greasy boiled pastrami sandwiches. It was a wondrous fantasy place that captured my imagination.

Unfettered by American customs, Gwen drove like a mad-woman across the British countryside. She took me to Wales to view the ruins of centuries old castles and to wonder about the people who lived there lives among these rolling hills in days of proverbial yore. In small Welsh towns, signs with unusual combinations of vowels and consonants declared the Welsh language was still spoken among the people who called this beautiful land home. My long-forgotten background, and high school level excellence, with foreign languages reawakened. Clive Butler had not killed my intellectual curiosity. We stood on cliffs overlooking the North Sea that even on a sunny spring afternoon looked foreboding and cold. In the fog or rain, it appeared wickedly treacherous.

I skated at an ice rink in Wales, very near Chester. We attended an evening public session, which was probably a mistake. Although I brought my skates, I had not come to Britain to figure skate. Yet, I can say that I have skated in Wales. The session was packed with rowdy teenagers, not unlike the crowds that gather at American rinks. I experienced no epiphanies on Welsh ice and actually skated very poorly, partially do to infrequent practice but also because the ice was already destroyed by the throng of recreational skaters. My blades bumped and skittered over a gravelly mass of slush that agglomerated on the surface. Yet, I wove my way to the center, leaving my roommate to circle the perimeter with the mob. Popping into a spin, my free leg extended straight and to the side, as my arms reached overhead in a warm-up L-spin. Although I was not warming-up specifically (it was virtually impossible to do anything more than shuffle around), the L-spin occurred almost by habit, as it had become one of my best most reliable skills. However, the granular snow prevented my rocker from anchoring the spin. I traveled inexpertly across the rink, while thrill-seekers either glided out of my path or lifted their legs fire-hydrant fashion sniggering at their clever mimicry. An L-spin had no place in this disco darkened rink under flashing lights; certainly not a bad L-spin. Had an elite competitor entered the fray and demonstrated a genuinely skillful maneuver, the same kids who giggled at my miserable feat would have probably watched in awe. A truly advanced skater, when seen in person, impresses even the most obnoxious wise guy.

Furthering my humiliation, an ice guard approached me. “I have to ask you not to twirl and to keep your legs down. It’s simply too dangerous.” With that, the fellow darted away into the confusion. He knew nothing of freestyle skating. He referred to my spin as a ‘twirl’, though it probably amounted to little more. And no leg lifting. However, he was correct about potential danger, which might have been more likely to befall me than the youths who cut across the middle, in close proximity to my exposed free blade.

Gwen and I went home shortly thereafter. She apologized for the condition of the rink, but I had been to teen nights before and knew what to expect. Although I could have inquired about daytime sessions, I preferred to hang out with Gwen and visit interesting places.

Upon returning to Carolina Tech, I found messages waiting on our apartment answering machine, hand written on my desk in the laboratory, and in my mailbox in the department office. Fellow graduate students and Dr. Butler himself, also relayed messages to me verbally. A company in Connecticut desperately wanted to interview me. This seemed bizarre and almost too good to be true in comparison to the previous drought of professional opportunity. Within days, I flew to Connecticut and was eating in a fancy restaurant with a man who would become my first real boss.

He was an awkward little fellow who shouldered far too much stress for a man with a Ph.D. in mathematics who had resigned himself, probably for financial reasons, to management in a cosmetic company. Definitely the nerdy studious type, Dr. Ralph Sebetich probably never expected to venture far from academia. Yet, he obviously earned a decent salary, as he could afford to have his well-educated wife stay home and care for their children. I got along with Ralph immediately and saw none of the tell-tale signs of emotional abusiveness that I believed I would immediately recognize after years of working with Clive Butler.

Dr. Sebetich led a consumer research group that studied trends in color cosmetics and personal care products. My background in fashion made me an ideal candidate to bridge gaps between statistical analysis and consumer understanding. A vice president offered me the job the next day. I had only been in the building for a couple of hours and had already given a presentation about my doctoral research topic. I could have taken this quick acceptance as sincere flattery, but I remained cool enough to haggle for a few extra dollars of annual compensation. While I was excited about working for a cosmetic company, I honestly preferred not to move to Connecticut. Although the figure I had been offered was competitive for doctoral graduates in my field, Connecticut was a extremely expensive place to live. The salary was not much more than might have been offered in the Carolinas had I been fortunate enough to secure a position there.

I went home without officially excepting, hoping to find another interview message, but no more prospects came. No one was beating down my door showering me with generous employment packages. I stalled as long as possible, claiming to be preoccupied with my research and final dissertation defense. Dr. Sebetich eventually called to pin me down to a commitment or refusal. They had to hire somebody, if not me, someone else. Left with few options, I accepted the position as a consumer scientist with Contessa Cosmetics and tried to sound as enthusiastic as possible, when in truth I was terribly disappointed.

After years of study, hard work, and enduring my advisor’s heartless nonsense; I had no choices about the career path I chose, at least not initially. Of course, the option still remained to return to California, recuperate, and try to find a better option from there. However, I preferred to avoid a gap on my resume and to go straight to work, consoling myself that a year or two of experience would avail me of other opportunities in less costly locales.

One can never be completely prepared for a final thesis defense. I was definitely ready to present my results and conclusions, and had practiced in front of Dr. Butler and an audience of bored graduate students. Once Butler decided to let me go, he drilled me to make sure my accomplishments would meet the approval of the other faculty members composing my research committee. Dressed in a brand new pantsuit I had purchased from a clearance wrack, I stood before a panel of stony faced professors ready to answer questions at the end of my lecture. Although I paced the building and used the toilet facilities dozens of times during the morning leading up to the definitive moment, I managed to relax during the presentation. I knew my topic very well; although it no longer stimulated me. It had become part of my life; ordinary, mundane and overly familiar.

Those professors grilled me until the odor of roasting flesh wafted into the hallway. Some of the questions were worded awkwardly, intentionally disguising their rather simple intention, to stump and fluster the examinee. I panicked until my ears and cheeks burned glowing red. My heart pounded and my hands began to tremble. Perspiration lubricated the armpits of my crisp new blouse. Certainly sweat steamed into vapor as it trickled over my hot forehead and face. More than once, Clive Butler had to ask me to take a deep breath and think about the question. I was not handling the pressure very well, and he probably feared I might run from the inquisition chamber in a fit of hysteria. This would humiliate him as well as me. Although Butler was a tough, unfeeling egotist; he believed I was ready to graduate and wanted me to succeed in this examination. While preparing me for the dissertation defense, he displayed confidence in my abilities for the first time since seducing me into his research group.

Finally, I was dismissed. I left the room as calmly as possible then disappeared into the ladies’ lounge to splash cold water on my face. I hid in the stall for a long time with my head in my hands trying not to cry and hoping to stop sweltering. Eventually I emerged into the corridor to find the door to the interrogation room still closed with the committee in session. I sat on the floor alone, my stomach churning. I believed I had failed and would have to repeat the examination after another semester of study. If I flunked twice, I would be expelled from the program without a Ph.D. I had never seriously considered the possibility of failing my final defense. If I got that far, I certainly would be able to pass. Now I was not too sure.

An hour later, a professor from the statistics department exited the room and glared at my pitiable form slumped on the asphalt tiled floor against the painted cinderblock walls. “Dr. Butler will talk to you.”

Visit the beautiful City of Chester.

Chapter 49 posted 4/3/02
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