I’m writing this confession in part because I think it’ll be healthy to admit my mistakes, but I’m also writing it because the court mandated it. It’s not the most fun admitting your mistakes but it’s much better than prison!
Autumn, 2014. Boy, I needed a job. Girl, I wanted something that would put cash in my snakeskin wallet, but would also keep my ever-growing brain on its proverbial toes. In short, I needed an opportunity at a capitalistic establishment that wouldn’t dilute my ego, superego or I'd and continue my quest on the path of being a renaissance man. After carefully avoiding anything having to do with food prep or keeping children alive while parents pretended their offspring didn’t exist for several hours, I found a position that offered exactly what I needed. I would be a lab assistant for a professor at an institution of higher education.
The job called for nothing extreme in the “experience department.” I didn’t even need to submit a resume. Just show up, do what you’re told, make spreadsheets and take extensive notes. I’d learned how to do that thanks to the profoundly designed American public school system, so none of those tasks would be any problem for an American public scholar like myself! I’d be working in a lab, so I would need to provide my own lab coat and goggles. A small price to pay in the long run.
My supervisor was a wiry-haired, stocky professor who looked like he’d been ripped from a potions school in one of those terrible young adult books that offer no enrichment to a mind like mine and in his free time dressed up as Doc Brown from "Back to the Future" at a bunch nerd birthdays. An esteemed scholar, sure.
He took me through the lab and pointed out massive sterile devices that seemed too big to perform the micro-level tasks they’d been created for. Finally, he grabbed a key from under one of those “it looks like a rock but it’s not a rock” that was sitting on his desk. He walked to a poorly lit corner of the room and unlocked a metal cabinet. In it were several metal containers, each labeled with bright warning stickers reading, “Do not touch, but more importantly, don't ever mix!" He didn’t say anything, just pointed to the labels and that was that.
I thought that working in a science lab would be glamorous. You know, vials and maniacal laughs and making gold out of other elements and stuff. Isn’t that called polygamy? Instead, I was writing numbers in spreadsheets. That’s it. Whenever I asked if I could run a few tests or mix a few solutions, I was met with a curt “absolutely not.” This was not the enriching path to success I had expected. Like when your toothpaste falls from the top shelf, I was crestfallen.
It was a few weeks into the job when I decided I’d had enough. I couldn’t look at one more box filled with rows and columns of smaller boxes. I decided I’d quit. I felt pretty bad about it, as nobody likes a quitter and now the lab would have slower output because I wasn’t there to be an extra set of data-logging hands. My conscience decided I should stay behind after everyone locked up and organize all of my data logs and at least make their lives a little easier. As I was setting the papers down on the wiry-haired scientist’s desk, I knocked the “rock but isn’t a rock” off the desk. The key fell into my palm. I sighed. My conscience was screaming. I strapped on my goggles, walked to the cabinet and pulled out the first two metal containers I could find. I grabbed a beaker, set it down on the counter, and took a deep breath. I unscrewed both lids and poured one, then the other into the beaker. I took a quick step back and waited. Nothing happened. What a joke.
I started pacing. How could this be? No experiment on TV had ever been this lame. How could I have been so foolish? Just then, the beaker emitted a teakettle worthy squeal. I whipped around to see smoke rising from the glass container. Then, a stream of sparks erupted from the mouth of the beaker! Then, a flame! I had done it! I had succeeded! A deep, uncontrollable laugh fought its way from my throat. What a thrill! And then, at the peak of my joy, an alarm sounded and I knew I was caught.
What follows next is a blur of handcuffs, aggressive reporters and disapproving looks from the general public. My family was disappointed. My former boss embarrassed. How could I have been so stupid? I found myself sitting in front of a judge, being asked hundreds of questions, but there’s one that’s burnt into my mind forever.
“What were you thinking? How could you rationalize doing something so vastly inappropriate?”
“I don’t know, Your Honor. I just thought everyone experimented in college.”
