The caption under the photo says she works for her mother getting rid of gophers in Homedale, a town of about 2,500 residents that got its name when it was drawn out of a hat.
Jonnie Burns' is a weird job, but the look on her face tells me she doesn't think so. It's a different kind of weird than running a head shop in Eugene, where everything is an euphemism for weed. It's the rare bird that smokes tobacco out of a four foot tall "water pipe" with a marijuana leaf etched onto its chamber.
I can't imagine her telling her friends "I kill gophers for a living" with the same wink and nod as the chipper blonde behind the counter of this particular head shop located just off the University of Oregon campus. She told me a story about an especially elaborate, salmon-colored bubbler that reminded me of the synaptic network of a human brain.
"The artist was here, and offered it to a girl for $300, which is way less than what it's worth, but she didn't buy it," she told me. She explained that while it was a beautiful bubbler and an original work of art, and that the girl was flattered the artist had offered her a sweet deal, $300 was still more than she could afford.
It occurred to me that the girl behind the counter may have been the girl from her story.
Ian, whose meeting with a project collaborator from out of town had given me the morning and most of the afternoon to snoop around downtown Eugene, spied me from across the street as I left the head shop. He waved and called out my name.
We found ourselves at McMenamin's, a distinctly Oregonian pub chain where I sometimes ate as a child. (My dad's office was across a parking lot from the first Portland location.) Ian snickered as we passed the table at which we ate the last time we ate there. It was situated between the doors to the men's and women's bathrooms.
We settled at a bench on a shady back patio. On the bench to my left, a tatted-up bald man talked incessantly about the broadening effects of travel; at another sat a growing group of physics students whom Ian chucklingly derided as "novices" when one of them complained about a programming language. Ian's derision reminded me of first-year journalism students obsessing prematurely over their master's projects.
The air was still on the patio, and the heavy, sweet smell of brewing beer hung in the air like dew, which seemed to delight Ian. I imagined that the tables were sticky with muggy, sugary air. We ordered beers, over-seasoned Cajun tater tots, and for my lunch, a pulled pork sandwich.
Since Thursday, I'd obsessed over the proper pronunciation of the word "Boise." Is it "boy-see," or "boy-zee?" Ian responded to my musing out loud, telling me he couldn't hear the difference. I later consulted an expert on the subject––my cousin Carley––who informed me in no uncertain terms that it's pronounced "boy-see." My sandwich safely in my stomach, our conversation dwindled, and we decided on a change of scenery. We paid the bill, and walked to the physics building.
The University of Oregon's Willamette Atrium, which houses the physics department where Ian works, looks like a refurbished gothic ruin. Its wraparound offices and classrooms enclose a cavernous interior doused in natural light from massive windows, and a high ceiling with exposed supports. Ian's office is in the basement, far from the distractions of natural beauty.
The basement workspace where Ian and his colleagues conduct their experiments is at the end of a hallway, where offices and labs cluster around a common area with a cumbersomely positioned desk, a whiteboard, and a few examples of the furniture one commonly finds in a university setting. It looked almost like a scene from a play.
Ian gave me a brief tour. In one of the labs, he showed me a few products of a machine that creates black and white drip paintings. Some of them I would have been proud to have on my own wall. In the same lab, I was drawn to a huge canister, probably two feet in diameter, sunk in the floor, containing a supercooled gas used in optics experiments. Hanging in the rafters was what appeared to be a paper maché worm, a ghost of grad students past.
But what interested me most was a map of the United States that had been put up in an obscure corner. The distance I flew the day before was worth pondering.
My tour was cut short by a long-haired man who called to Ian from the top of the staircase that ended in the cluster's common area. He beckoned at Ian using his whole arm in a gesture I couldn't quite read. The identity of the long-haired man remains a mystery to me, but if I had to guess, I'd speculate that he was either a professor or the aforementioned collaborator himself. Ian disappeared up the stairs, and I sat at one of the university-type chairs to read.
Time did not fly.
In my book was a story about unrequited love and/or star-crossed lovers that ended in what seemed to me to be a particularly Idahoan fashion, taking place near the Salmon River in Idaho in the 1880s. A man who ran a booming business in a small mining town fell in love with a married woman. When the woman was mysteriously widowed, the business owner paid for her husband's funeral, and the businessman and the widow lived happily together for two years. In the second year, a third gentleman entered the picture, and the woman married the newcomer. A year later, both husband and wife were found shot to death in their home. The business owner paid for both of their funerals, let his business lapse, and became a loner in the hills. Later, miners found his decomposed body in his cabin, and in his hands he clutched a photo of the deceased widow.
When Ian returned, it was almost time for dinner. We climbed the stairs, walked through the atrium, and made our way to Taylor's, a pub that was simply too close to campus to be worth going to during the school year, to meet some of the other physics graduate students.
We found several of Ian's colleagues already there, including an incredibly awkward but sincere Indian and a tall, chubby, bearded man who had buzzed the sides of his hair and drawn the long strands on the top into a tight, shiny ponytail. Insanely shrewd flies buzzed all around.
More people showed up: Wes, the wiry, curly-headed fast-talker I met last year; two girls, one of whom chatted boisterously; an attractive couple. In the meantime, our flirtatious waitress brought me my beer and chicken pot pie.
The long table on the patio at which we sat split between two conversations. Ian, Wess, and the couple talked shop, while the rest of us probed my irrational dislike of the state of Colorado. Finishing our dinners, we went inside to play pool and shuffleboard in the back room, where Spanish-language news, with its too-attractive anchors and sex-charged soap opera commercials, played on televisions mounted from the ceiling.
I've always felt unobservant; it seems I always miss something important. While I talked with Wes about an injury he'd sustained to his elbow, Ian suggested that we invite a few people back to his apartment for drinks. I found out later that one of his former romantic interests, now dating one of his colleagues, showed up at Taylor's and had made staying at the bar uncomfortable.
We left Taylor's with one of Ian's friends, a short, Nepalese version of Snooki from 'Jersey Shore' named Martha who made every effort to communicate that she despised me.
On the way, we were intercepted by the soft-spoken couple we met at Taylor's. They absconded with Martha, who ended up buying a $3 avocado at a grocery store, while Ian and I tiredly made our way back to his apartment to wait for Martha et al.
The rest of the night went by in a hurry. Martha complained bitterly about her $3 avocado, fumbling at it, evidently with the intention of eating after she'd penetrated its plastic-looking skin. Once she'd halved the fruit, she stared blankly at the pit until someone hacked it with a knife and drew the pit out. "What the hell are you doing?" Martha cried.
That evening, I held my tongue while Martha alternated between laughing hysterically at the words "Tamil Tiger," and throwing everything I said back in my face. At one point, sitting on Ian's crowded couch and drinking red wine, she looked me straight in the eye and told me I wasn't funny.
In a moment reminiscent of that scene in True Lies in which Arnold Schwarzenegger contemplates wrecking the used care salesman Bill Paxton's face, I thought about giving Martha a what-for: "That's nice, you yak shit-eating Sherpa. Keep running your mouth and I'll put you in the common grave where the University of Oregon puts the diversity admits that just didn't work out."
But that isn't what happened. I just gave her a cold stare until she looked away. I'm not much for tact, but I didn't want to put Ian in a weird position, and I wasn't going to run my mouth at someone bent on being a bully. At that point in the night, I would have given just about anything to get her to stop talking.
Everybody left. Meeting too many new people after a full day of walking and reading and face-time with Ian had exhausted me. Ian was exhausted too, I think. We watched an episode of '30 Rock' and went to bed: We were going to the Country Fair the next morning bright and early, and we needed as much sleep as we could get.
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