(R)evolution

By Greg Mertz

Joe Montour, paleontologist and aspiring radio show personality, confronts the forces of the 1% who machinate the beliefs of America through marketing and public relations campaigns. Joe uncovers the unholy alliance between the crack-pot beliefs of the Christian right literalists and consumer driving corporations.

Joe starts to fall in love with Shelly, an associate radio producer, at WSCI, America's premiere science radio station, only to have his hopes and affections dashed by a series of seemingly unfortunate coincidences. Marshall Franklin, one of the 1%'ers, becomes Joe's rival in career and love.

There is a cast of colorful characters who romp through Joe's life and projects: everyone from Reverend Patrick Melvin, an evangelical, Bible-thumping protagonist to Shotgun a demure house mouse who lives in the glove box of Joe's car.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Greg Mertz
• Release date: Mar 18, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476403342

Greg Mertz

Greg Mertz is a biologist who lives in Massachusetts.

Book preview

(R)evolution

by

Gregory Mertz

Smashwords Edition

Copyright, 2011, Gregory Mertz

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

(R)evolution

Chapter 1

By now I was on my hands and knees, a stick of homemade dynamite stuck in my back pocket. The shadow I followed was made by a monster spotlight I had erected for the sole purpose of creating this shade.

I knew my neighbor would think I was spotlighting his snowman. As impressive as it was I wasn’t going to tolerate it’s hideous, pudgy face looking in at me in my second floor bathroom. So I was planning to blow him up.

It had taken Jerry three days to build this monstrosity. He had used a front-loader, two-by-fours, chicken wire and of course the heavy deep snows of this interminable winter.

They are like cold, depraved clowns. You never know what they are thinking.

I could hear Jerry start his snowmobile; the bright light had caught his attention. Never one to miss the spotlight Jerry was on his way over to investigate. I wanted him to see the whole thing go, so I rammed the pole end of a broom deep into the gut of this fatso, secured the long fuse, popped the dynamite down the tube, lit the fuse with my lighter, and ran like hell. I wanted to see the look on Jerry’s face when it went up so I ran in his direction.

I could see the headlights of his snowmobile coming toward me. The snow through here was shallow because Jerry had bulldozed it to make Harvey, his snowman friend. It was ten seconds since I lit the fuse, I knew the blast was coming soon. Jerry was still a hundred feet away. The first part of the blast was muffled by snow, but when the snow cleared the roar came with debris flying in all directions. I stumbled backwards looking and tripping over the metal tail of a Tyrannasaurus rex.

It was like living next door to a madman. I wanted peace and quiet. Instead all I got was commotion.

What the hell? Jerry yelled. Did you do that?

Pieces of ice, wire and wood were raining down around us. Nothing was big enough to hurt except for the clod of ice that struck me on the back of my head. I went to my knees.

Jerry jumped off his vehicle and caught me by the arm.

He helped me to my feet and walked me to his snowmobile. Get on, he growled. I’ll take you home.

I was groggy and a little unfocused. Jerry helped me into my living room. I sat roughly on the sofa. Jerry came back to me with a quarter glass of scotch. Daisy, my faithful Doberman sniffed at me and then lay down.

Drink it jerk.

I grinned. So much for Harvey, I said. He won’t be peeping in my window anymore.

I worked three days on him. He was some of my best technique. Jerry is a sculptor when he is not teaching art at the local university.

Why? Joe? Why? he asked

Why, I said. We know why. I don’t have to look at his pudgy, leering grin any more every time I have to use the bathroom. You put him there on purpose.

So? You are afraid of snowmen, still. Even all grown up. You know the cops are going to come, again, right?

This snowman was not one of his works of art; I saw it as his way to get back at me for some undeclared childhood folly. We had grown up together, from backyard friends to sophomoric allies in a world of adults.

His art had gotten quite good. He had permanent outdoor field displays at the Hirshhorn in D.C., at the Storm King Art Center in Mountainville, New York, and the de Cordova near Boston.

Stick to metal, I said. It’s more durable. Can you watch Chester and Sophie while I am gone this next week?

Yeah, sure. Disinterested. When are you leaving?

Tomorrow. I responded. This time Sophie needs water while I am gone. Jerry poured me another finger of Maker’s Mark and then drank straight from the bottle.

Then the cops came. Daisy was happy to see them. It was Patrolwoman Livery and her partner Sargent Whethers. These were the usual two who came to our houses when we went off course in the eyes of the community.

Professor Edwin Thurgood complained that he heard an explosion about a half an hour ago. He was concerned for the safety of his family. His wife was unappreciative that her three children were awakened. Sargent Whethers reported to us.

Joe, you need to stop making dynamite, Patrolwoman Livery said to me. I knew her as Molly.

That’s right, Jerry said. He blew up Harvey!

Molly choked back a laugh. Sargent Whethers was more stern. Guys, we are getting tired of this feud. Thurgood’s going to put real pressure on us and then we are going to have to arrest you. Tone it down. Next time I will take you in, handcuffed and all.

Chapter 2

By six AM I was on the road, Daisy on the seat beside me, looking out the window like a nagging wife. We were heading for central Pennsylvania to my collection and study site. Unlike Jerry, I taught only one course at the university and that was a basic introductory earth science course. We were on spring break. I am a paleontologist but I teach about physiography, present day earthquakes, mountains, oceans, and atmosphere, and nothing about the fossils that I love. It’s a good gig, but it doesn’t pay much. Jerry is so much better at the university milieu.

On my drive south I ignored the short-comings in my paid work life and considered the upcoming reconnaissance. I was planning to walk a railroad bed and collect fossils off the cliff-side exposure of the Keefer Sandstone. This is a walk I have taken many times. It lies on the banks of the Susquehanna River and exposes a set of rocks that have taught me a lot about paleontology.

I was looking for eyeballs, fossil eyeballs. Specifically, the eyes of trilobites. I am interpreting the evolution of eyesight and trying to compare it to day length, ocean water turbidity, and predator-prey relationships. It is ho-hum stuff if you are not interested in crawling around in the dirt.

At 10:00 AM, as I drove along I tuned into my favorite radio talk show, Science Today. It came out of New York City on FM station, WSCI. The host of the show is an upbeat, techno-holic named Brett Faraday. He knows everything there is to know about science and technology except in the fields of biology and earth science.

Today was no different. His guest was an architect talking about the types of designs that would be used for inhabiting the Moon and Mars. A caller from the public came on the air asking a question about Earth and its atmosphere and how that changed the external surface of the structures that they were designing.

From there the talk went to the formation and evolution of the atmosphere. Traffic was light but it looked like another snow was coming in this record snow fall winter.

My cell phone rang. Brett wants to talk to you on air, you ok to talk? You are not like having an argument with a sales clerk or entertaining kindergartners are you? That was Shelly, Brett’s producer. She knew my foibles and diversions well.

No, I am good, driving half-way across New Jersey, signal’s good. Daisy beside me, I responded. Hey, when do I get paid for this crap, I mean for this expert information?

Shelly laughed. Don’t hold your breath, you’re on.

Joe. Dr. Joe Montour? Brett asked in his hyperbolic radio voice.

Right here, Brett. I responded. I’ve been following right along. Earth’s atmosphere is an ever-changing fluid, in an airy sort of way. Everything with a gravity field has an atmosphere.

Does that mean you have an atmosphere all your own? I’ve been in your atmosphere, it stinks. Brett said to the 3 million people that listened to him every day.

The denser and bigger the body the thicker the atmosphere. Your atmosphere is much bigger than mine, I said.

We finished this discussion with me talking about the composition and evolution of air. Shelly came on the line again just before we finished and told me to hold the line after Brett said good-bye, no one the wiser except her and me. The wonders of technology.

Hi Shelly, what’s up? I asked.

"Can you come to the studio the Friday after next? Do the whole show with us—the full two hours. It is on evolution versus intelligent design. It probably will encompass the new ‘science’ versus ‘all knowledge’ controversy. Brett’s trying to keep it to fossils though.

Sure, I jumped at the chance.

This is going to be a block buster cat fight. You will get paid, Joe. If the show is well received I’ll take you upstairs to Carol’s office and talk. Carol Blanchard is syndicate manager for WSCI.

Who’s the other guest? I asked.

Marshall Franklin, with you in the same studio, and she let it hang.

Are you freaking kidding me? I asked.

You are going to have to keep your temper under control. Good radio is in the voice, they can’t see fist fights, dagger throws, strangling.

I know, I know. Couldn’t you have him call in?

We could have you call in, Shelly jabbed.

All right, Shelly. You know I will do what you say,

Until next week then, Shelly responded. Unless Brett talks himself into a hole, then I’ll talk to you sooner.

Thanks, and I pushed the end button.

Chapter 3

I pulled into my usual parking spot surprised to see another car sitting along the roadside pull out. I gave myself a good stretch after the four hour drive. The clouds were heavy above; the air was sharp on the blusters of wind that bounced onto the cliff side coming off the river.

I knew I wouldn’t last long, but I wanted to get right to my collecting site so that I had some samples to measure this evening after dark. I hooked up my iTouch and put the headphones into my ears. I turned the volume to high so that I could distract myself from the cold. I started down the railroad track, Daisy beside me.

This railroad bed was still active, but barely. The Pennsylvania Railroad had long abandoned this line, and a local group of citizens had created a non-profit to preserve the heritage of rail shipping and travel. So on sunny days in the summer a tour train would occasionally pass by, but in March and the rest of the cold months this was a deserted area. The cliff kept neighbors out, the river kept anyone but fisherman from seeing up in this direction. There were no fishermen on this day. I liked the solitude.

I carried my pick hammer to pry sample rocks off the cliff face. The Keefer Sandstone is an old beach barrier bar