The Weight of Our Expectation

16:24

(draft 22 SEP 2024)

July.

Oh, how the summer heat brought a brutal intensity. It beat down on Charleston like she owed it money. The streets shimmered with it, making everything feel like a mirage — like maybe if you blinked one time too many, the whole city would disappear, perhaps reappearing somewhere else, but perhaps not.

But Maxwell Copper didn't notice the oppression. In his backyard, bench set up as far away from the house as possible, he was much too involved with his science experiments to notice the heat and humidity. Surrounded by beakers and flasks and tubes, his backyard workstation was his comfort zone. This was the world he preferred, one of molecules and reactions, where secrets lie hidden, waiting for someone to unlock them, like treasures in a chest.

Max measured out his various compounds with the precision of an experienced chemist, his eyes behind protective goggles shining with excitement as he scribbled notes in his leather-bound journal, his field book. Not just any old collection of notes — this acted as his lifeline, one journal of many volumes that served as his confidant, his attempts to make sense of the world, his everything. Its pages held daily observations, detailed experiment notes, sketches and diagrams — everything meticulously organized and annotated using his personal system, making notes comprehensible, even in their mostly disorganized state.

His wrist buzzed with a familiar vibration, signaling the upcoming activity next on his schedule. He tidied up his workbench with long-practiced efficiency, eventually slipping off his goggles and squeaky rubber gloves. He felt a familiar knot in his chest, a mix of anxiety and anticipation that always came whenever he took on something new.

For a brief moment he considered the impact of avoiding today's walk. The sunlight hit his optic nerves like a punch to the face. Wafts of the smells generated by the valley's chemical industry hung too thick in the afternoon air. He knew from experience that disrupting his routine would bring anxiety, so he chose to walk.

He neatly re-tucked his button-up shirt into his trousers, just as his mother had always insisted. Keep yerself smart, son. It costs nothin' but a wee bit o' effort. That was one of his mother's little life lessons. The shirt was a bit oversized, his trousers a bit too short. Nothing ever seemed to fit the boy, which was appropriate, given that Max felt he didn't fit anywhere.

The day's humidity had transformed his cotton jockeys into an uncomfortable wad of cling wrap. Ninety degrees Fahrenheit. Ninety percent relative humidity. Dew point exceeding skin surface temperature. Note to self to self: invent personal dehumidifier, he said to nobody in particular.

Perhaps he should forego the walk and — no. Routines are routine for a reason. Damn the discomfort. Full steam ahead. Or at least a sweaty saunter. He was off.

Grabbing another of his trusty field books, one dedicated to observational walks, he set off. Afternoon perambulations had become a ritual he cherished like a sacred thing. Perambulations. That's what his mother had always called them. She had accepted his peculiarities and habits better than anyone else. He used her words whenever he could as a way to keep her memory around.

These perambulations, then, had a purpose. Whenever Max spotted something new, or had an encounter, or a random thought popped into his head, he would make note of it in the appropriate field book. His daily rambles, er, perambulations, never failed to produce at least one note.

As someone who always acted like an outsider looking in, Max had learned that taking time for himself was not only essential, it gave him plenty of opportunities for novel observations. He'd fill these moments with deep thoughts, equations, and questions, creating a mobile bubble in which he actually felt at home, a sanctuary from the constant threat of sensory overload and disturbance.