by Bear Jack Gebhardt
“I’ll be out of the office tomorrow, Gladys, so here’s my monthly report. I’ve footnoted the expenditures with a copy of my receipts so you can itemize how each was necessary and what line item it references for each of our projects.”
Gladys, sitting at the front desk, was looking up at Dr. Weingarten, not aware that her mouth was hanging open. Dr. Weingarten’s wide grin made his normally thin sunken cheeks puff out. He knew he’d surprised her, again.
“Thank you, Bruce,” Gladys said, meekly.
“My pleasure,” he said. “Just doing my job.” He almost clicked his heels as he turned smoothly, went through the doors, and disappeared.
“Something’s really changed with that guy,” Gladys turned and whispered to Belinda, her co-conspirator. “You think he’s on drugs?”
“Definitely,” Belinda responded. “And whatever he’s on, I want some.”
For the seven years he had been with the department, Dr. Bruce Weinstein was notorious for missing his monthly deadlines and quarterly summaries, so necessary for grant administration and renewal. It had been Gladys’ unhappy challenge to regularly coax and pry the reports from him.
“Some of us are actually too busy doing the real work,” was always his irritated excuse.
Not only was this the second month in a row that he had turned in his reports ahead of deadline, he had also found time to repair a long faulty drawer in one of the front desk filing cabinets, fix the leaky faucet in the sink in the break room, and transplant two African violets wilting and overcrowded that had been sitting forlorn in the administrator’s waiting room.
Gladys and Belinda were not the only ones who had noticed a change in his behavior.
“Bruce, my God, what have you done to your laboratory?” asked Dr. Murphy, the department chairman, one day in passing.
“Morphic resonance,” Bruce replied with a smile. “Every form evolves towards its ideal.”
“Don’t give me that crap,” Dr. Murphy said, obviously irritated. Bruce just shrugged and grinned. “Well, whatever it is, it looks good, even slightly professional, for a change.” Dr. Murphy continued on to his office.
Bruce Weinstein’s small genetics lab had been notorious for its disarray. Old coffee cups on top of the mass spectrometer, buried under journals and loose papers in no apparent order. Last year’s test tubes and beakers shoved aside to make room for this year’s new projects.
“Morphic resonance,” Bruce repeated after Dr. Murphy had disappeared down the hallway.
“Explain it to me again,” his wife Denise had begged. They were sitting on the newly cleaned patio with a glass of wine and salmon on the grill. This was a different man than the one she had known the previous twelve years. This new man was clean, tidy, and very adept.
“The magical germ crawled out of the test tube and into my brain,” he said, raising his glass to her.
“Bruce, quit talking in riddles. You’ve used that silly phrase before and I don’t know what it means or what the hell you’re talking about. Explain it to me again. What’s happened to you?”
“Morphic resonance,” Bruce said. “That’s the germ of the magical idea that I saw in the test tube. I saw that the higher level field modifies the probability structure of the lower level field.”
“I don’t get it,” Denise said. “Talk plain English.”
“Sorry, love, I really don’t mean to be flippant. It has to do with hierarchal structures. Every form in the universe is part of a field, with an ideal form towards which it is moving, or evolving.”
“English, Bruce, English,” Denise said, taking another sip of her wine, studying him, truly wanting to understand.
“Okay, take our patio,” Bruce said. “There’s a living field here. We could call it a patio field. Our patio wants to express its own unique version of every patio that has ever existed.”
“You’ve lost me.”
Bruce drank from his own wine. “Okay, let’s simplify. Take a stuck drawer in a filing cabinet. Because of morphic resonance…”
“What’s morphic resonance?“
“It means higher form, or field, rules the lower form, or field, or at least influences it. Big fish eats the little fish.”
“Okay, go ahead, but I don’t know how this relates to a stuck filing cabinet drawer.”
“The stuck drawer is a lower field. It actually wants to become unstuck and act like the other drawers in the bigger field. Drawers are designed to function. There’s an underlying harmony in the universe.“
“The drawer wants to become unstuck?”
“Well, in a manner of speaking, yes. But we are human beings. The human being field is inherently a very high field—an incredibly higher order field. Just being present, we influence our surroundings. So all outer forms and functions want to conform to the human field, or at least are willing to conform. The higher field influences the lower field.”
“Are you taking some kind of drug?” Denise interrupted. “The germ out of the test tube thing? Gives you energy? Makes you want to fix things? Did you cook something up there in your lab?”
Bruce laughed. “No, no, love. Not at all. I just finally understood, at least a little, how things come into existence. They do it through morphic resonance.”
“Sorry, but I just don’t get it,” Denise said. She took another sip of her wine, then held her glass back, studying it. “Where’d you get this stuff? This isn’t what we generally drink, out of the box. This is really, really good.”
Bruce looked at her, somewhat frightened, but understanding perfectly how it happened.
Bear Gebhardt is a freelance writer. His seventh book, The Potless Pot High: How to Get High, Clear and Spunky without Weed, was published last year by Seven Traditions Press. His fourth and favorite book—-Practicing the Presence of Peace— was published in 2009 by Pathbinder Press. He has fiction, non-fiction and poetry credits in a wide variety of national and international publications, including The Columbia Journalism Review, The Christian Science Monitor, Jive, Fitness, Modern Maturity, and Hallmark.
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