Wendy Stories
The 90s

I was seduced by mistake.

The 90s

This is a true story, though so improbable you might not believe me.

My first job out of college was in a greenhouse, agricultural research for ICI and later Zeneca. There was a sharp-nosed entymologist, a woman who grew microscopic nematodes in tomato pots, had buckets of rustling larvae, and a temp to mist her butterfly cages twice a day. She was a sarcastic woman from England, no curves, and she brought her husband the soil man.

Neville, Soil Specialist, had a brogue so strong I couln't make heads or tails of it half the time. He was unlike his wife, an entirely different coin in education and presentation. He was a wizard with keeping soil* alive, and carried the evidence home beneath his fingernails -- which he freqeuently scraped with a pocket knife. He kept our big machines running, squirreled away bags of goods to fill all requests, and was a general do-gooder and amiable fellow.

* They call it soil, not dirt, and correct you whenever you misname the loam or peat. They know the components of each blend, those horticultural scientists do. Derek and Stott were gifted in predicting the action of a new structure based on its homologies. Primary and secondary screening programs cover mass screening and lead generation, and targeted weed and crop dosage analyses, respectively.

None of us could entirely understand his rumbling voice. I just smiled and nodded a lot, you know, friendly. It was my first job and I liked everybody. Especially Rick, who was cosmopolitan and owned a yacht, and knew camping and songs and sails.

I was walking home one day, thinking about our latest camping trip, walking through a Richmond neighborhood that had had riots recently after the videotape of the Rodney King beating was aired, and Neville offered me a lift.

Dangerous neighborhood. Friendly face. I took the lift.

When we got home, he was eager to come in for some of the old hurly burly. I understood that clearly enough! Apparently half of what I hand't understood had been come-ons, weeks of increaingly forward suggestions that I'd apparently cheerfully agreed to. Neville was insistent and rather irritated when I disabused him of the notion that I was going to have sex with him.

I never could look his wife in the eye after that.

Should I have told the entymologist?

Follow the Adventure Back in Time...
Navigation Map
Home | Wendy_Stories | Family | Resume | Bizarre_Tales | Contact_Me
Since 1994