Love in the Age of Chemicals Ch. 01

This is the first installment of a seven chapter series. Many thanks to GaiusPetronius, my faithful and diligent editor.

Chapter 1

"And so you see, notions such as love or fear or depression are really just outmoded ways of describing specific synaptic activity -- activity which we are approaching the point of being able to stimulate and activate almost at will."

I could tell I had already lost them. Eyes glazed over, heads bowed to gaze toward laps where thumbs worked furiously to communicate with some other poor soul held captive in a classroom down the hall. This wasn't my passion, lecturing to undergrads. This was the price I paid for the time and space and funding to continue my research. Occasionally I led a seminar of graduate students who were worth the time I put into each lecture, but this was not one of those classes. This was one of the universally dreaded "gen ed" requirements, loathed by teacher and student alike. It was a basic applied-science course that every history, art, and P.E. major was required to pass in order to prove they had received a good old-fashioned, well-rounded education.

"So," a hesitant voice spoke up as a hand rose tentatively above the line of heads in the front row, "you're saying there's no such thing as love?" A dozen or so heads lifted, curious eyes looking towards me. Someone had been listening. And now more than half the class was realizing that I had said something important. Something they could talk about.

"What I'm saying, uh..." I paused, making uncomfortable eye contact with the young lady who had asked the question.

"Miranda," she offered confidently, probably hoping there were points to be awarded for class participation (there weren't).

"What I'm saying, Miranda, is that words like love and happiness and disgust and anything else we habitually call 'emotions' are chemical reactions that occur within the body, where they can be localized, studied, and controlled. They exist, but only as chemical reactions. Insisting that they exist apart from that is just... ignorance."

"Wait," interjected a young man in the front row, one of the few who had seemed to be actually taking notes during the lecture. "You're saying we can control love? Or fear?"

"Yes, uh..."

"Laurence."

"Yes, Laurence. I'm saying these things can be manipulated. That we are approaching the point where that same romantic swelling you have towards some young... uh... lady... can be chemically stimulated and manipulated so that you feel it towards... uh, I don't know... say... a piece of old chewing gum stuck under your desk."

That comment was met with expressions of disgust around the room and a few uncomfortable movements as people tried to back away from their desks. It is curious how easily we forget what we always know is right in front of us. Noticing several students glancing at the clock, I saw that it was close enough to the end of class for me to wrap up and dismiss in good conscience.

"Potential test question," I said loudly as a few people started packing their bags. I ignored the chorus of groans as students opened computers and notebooks again. "Describe the chemical process of emotional stimulation and suggest some significant marketable applications of such 'mood morphing' technology." I stuffed my folders into my bag as the sound of furious typing spread over the room. Then, without waiting for a word from me, the exodus began.

One student, however, walked towards me instead of towards the exit. The young lady who had asked about controlling love stepped in front of me, clutching her laptop to her chest. She was nearly my height, which was about average for a man and perhaps above average for an adult woman.

"Professor," she began, looking like she was still seeking the precise words for her question.

"Yes, uh, Melinda?"

"Miranda," she corrected me.

"Oh. Sorry," I said awkwardly, looking longingly towards the door. I tried to avoid students, whenever I could.

"It's OK. I was wondering... I mean, this is all such a strange concept for me, but... are we going to talk about the moral implications of this technology?"

She surprised me with that. It was well and truly an original question. I stammered a moment, casting about for a pat answer. "The morality of scientific discovery is a little outside my field," I finally suggested.

Her eyes flashed with concern. "But... isn't that a moral judgment in itself? To say you don't have a moral responsibility?"

I looked again in the direction of the door. Only the two of us remained in the classroom. Miranda suddenly shook her head, as if clearing it. "I'm sorry," she said, seeming to relax a bit. "I'm also taking Ethics 201 this semester, and it's hard not to, you know, cross-pollinate."

"Botany, too?" I muttered, more in confusion than in jest. But then Miranda did something completely unexpected. She laughed. It was a sweet, friendly laugh that may have gone on longer if I hadn't just stood there, frozen in confusion.

In such situations, my instincts kicked in. "Miss, uh... Miranda, I am a neurochemist, and in the hard sciences, only material things matter. I study brain patterns and see chemicals at work. Those chemicals become speech, behavior, habits, personalities... the whole person. The point of my lecture, if I had been given time to finish, was that these things to which we apply moral categories are really just chemical reactions." OK, I didn't say my instincts were good. I could see I was shooting her down. Or, as I preferred to think of it, I was disillusioning her, in giving her a scientific education.

"Well," she said dejectedly, "I guess I'm not the one with a Ph.D., but it still feels like chemicals don't tell the whole story." She turned slowly to leave.

"They do, Miranda. There's nothing more than that. And once we come to terms with that fact, things are much easier."

"I'm not so sure about that," she said, seeming sad. Old categories, I knew, do not die easily.

But for some reason I will never understand, I felt compelled to offer some word of encouragement or comfort. Perhaps it was an educator's desire to keep the student from losing interest. Perhaps it was a momentary lapse in judgment. I heard my own voice saying, "Miranda, you've raised some very good issues. Please continue to pursue them. And if you need any help with anything, please don't hesitate to ask."

She paused and squinted her eyes slightly, digesting my words. Then, with a genuine half-smile, she said, "Thanks, Dr. Kirsch." She stepped into the hallway and bumped into Laurence. She seemed startled by his presence, but then I watched with a scientific mind the interactions between them. His overtures of friendliness. Her feigned reticence betrayed by body language. His cautious touch of friendship. Her smile of reassurance. They were flirting. They were playing the game that would cost them so much valuable time and energy during their years here.

I waited a minute for them to walk out of sight down the hall before heading towards my office. My interaction with Miranda was another typically (for me, at least) awkward encounter, but at the time I had no idea how significant it would turn out to be.

*******

Miranda lay low and struggled through the rest of the semester. I hoped, for her sake, that her performance in my class was not indicative of her level of achievement in other courses. Near the end of the semester, she asked to see me after class for a few minutes. She was writing a paper on scientific ethics (for her Ethics class, of course) and wanted to ask me a few questions. Reluctant, but seeing no way out, I let her interview me on the spot. She followed up with one more series of questions a week later, and it was almost intriguing enough to make me want to read her final product. Almost. But then the semester ended and so did her presence in my lecture hall.

Miranda finished the semester with a low B, which certainly didn't set her apart from the crowd. I was forced by my leadership to bring such courses within reach of the nonscientific minds that were required to endure them. Inwardly, I bristled at the very idea of "nonscientific minds," but I knew I should pick my battles carefully. I was still an assistant professor, and tenure was on the horizon, so long as I didn't jeopardize it with bad politics.

*******

The next spring, several months into the new semester, I was in my office during my posted hours, answering tedious emails and dreading the prospect of a student intruding with a question that was clearly answered in the assigned reading. I had had the foresight to set my office hours in the late afternoon, when there were no other classes going on, so no students were already in the building. Most of them were on their way to dinner, and so I was less likely to be bothered. It was in that state of mind that I answered sharply, "What!" when someone knocked on the half-open door to my office.

"I'm sorry, is this a bad time?" a voice answered softly. I sighed and spun my chair towards the speaker. It was Miranda, which was surprising because she was not one of my students that semester.

"No, come in," I sighed, gesturing towards a less than comfortable folding chair on the other side of the desk from where I sat.

She walked slowly around the desk and sat down. Her eyes glanced towards the open door. I always kept it open when a student was present. School policy.

"Miranda?" I asked, knowing I was right.

"Yes, that's right."
"What brings you to my office?" I asked, trying to be polite. It was easier to talk to students when I followed the script. I had asked a veteran professor to give me a script -- typical ways to respond to different questions students had. Usually it was the same things over and over, but I wasn't very good at, well, chatting.

"Well, first, I wanted to thank you for your class last semester. I may not be on the science track, but I really enjoyed your lessons," she said without taking a breath. It seemed I wasn't the only one with a script. I started to wonder, Has she come to complain about her grade? That was common, but it was far too late for that.

"And I also wanted to thank you for grading very... generously," she said with some caution, then waited for my response.

"I... uh... I followed the same scale with everyone," I explained. "But, like the syllabus said, lacking a student with an A average in the class, I curved all the grades until there was an A. So your, uh..."

"B minus?"

"Yes, your B would have been a C minus, which is still average, and, I assume, acceptable."

She looked at me with a bit of confusion. "Yeah, it's... it's fine. I'm very happy with it."

"Well... very good then." Script, script... get back on script!

"And of course, I really appreciate you taking the time to answer questions for my Ethics paper. The teacher gave me extra points for getting firsthand research." She frowned slightly. "It probably saved my grade in that class."

With another glance at the doorway, she sighed and said, "In fact, yours is the highest grade I've gotten this year. I'm really struggling to have time to study. I'm working two jobs and falling behind on bills. I know you say fear is just a chemical reaction, but I'm having a lot of those chemical reactions these days." She paused but didn't look at me. It was clear she had more to say. "And you once said that if I need help with anything to not hesitate to ask."

I remembered saying that, but what exactly was she asking?
"I keep thinking that if I just had more time to study, I could do a lot better, even take a full class load. But I can't quit my jobs." She paused again. I cleared my throat nervously. I had no idea what to say or do. I tried not to stare at her as the glistening of a teardrop formed in the corner of her eye. Miranda took a deep breath to compose herself, then continued. "But then I found what might be a way. And this is going to sound so weird, and I'm sure you'll say no, but I knew that if there was any chance you would say yes, I had to try. I'm just that desperate." As she spoke, her hands folded together and gestured toward me, seeming almost prayerful, petitionary.

"Miranda... I don't know what you think I..."

"I just want you to hear me out, OK? And... promise you won't tell anyone else about this, even if you say no."

I was beginning to worry about what she had in mind. I shifted in my seat and fidgeted with a pen I had picked up at some point during the conversation.

"It's like this," she said, straightening up in her chair and not waiting for my consent to her terms. "One of my jobs is processing papers at the Financial Aid office. And I'm not supposed to look at the details, for privacy and all that, but someone had spilled a whole box of folders, and I had to put all the papers back in the right places. And while I was doing that, I saw that one student had a full scholarship. It was a really distinct last name, and I recognized it as the last name of one of the professors in the Economics department. I looked into it some more and found out that it was the professor's daughter. No big deal, right? I did a little asking around in my office and learned that immediate family members of full-time faculty get free tuition."

She paused but still didn't look in my direction. My mind was slowly connecting the dots, but not without a strong sense of disbelief. Miranda started speaking more slowly and softly, glancing again at the door. "Since you have a more... fluid stance on ethics, and I remembered you said that if I needed help with anything..."

There was nothing in my script about this. Her words hung in the air for a few moments while I looked around in disbelief. Finally, I found my voice. "You... want me... to adopt you?"

And then she did it again. Miranda laughed. That sweet, musical laugh that was almost enough to set me at ease. As if its frequency resonated with just the right chemicals in my brain. "Oh God, no!" she giggled. "Can you imagine? That would be so transparent. No one would buy that. Besides, you're not that much older than me, are you?"

She was right. I was less than ten years her senior, by any guess.

"Then, you're suggesting...?" I really could not imagine what her idea was.

She shrugged her shoulders and gave an embarrassed smile. "What if you married me?"

*******

It's a joke.

That was my first thought. My heart raced. My palms began to sweat. Fear. Anxiety. Shame. The glances out the door. Someone must be watching, or listening. They would laugh soon.

A prank. Or a trap.

It's just chemicals. Just a bunch of stupid chemicals pulling up pictures from your memory. Associations. Something like this. Something cruel.

"Professor?" She was looking at me, concerned. False concern? Mocking me? How long would she draw it out? Until I thoroughly embarrassed myself? What was the expectation? That I would get excited at the prospect of the pretty young woman offering to marry to me? That I would giddily agree? That I would play the lecher?

"I think you should leave now," I said tersely, trying without success to hide the quiver in my voice.

"Dr. Kirsch," she said, nicely imitating the sound of someone very worried. "Let me finish... please! It's not what you think."

"Leave. Now. You should leave now," I said, standing up and tapping my pen on the desk. Dammit, Deke, don't cry! I cleared my throat and raised my eyebrows in challenge. To my surprise, Miranda responded by quickly standing up and rushing out of the room. Red-faced, flushed, agitated, breathing rapidly. She was upset. Not frustrated, not angry. She was very upset. I heard her footfalls going down the hall -- she was running. I stepped to the doorway and looked after her. She was alone. Then she was gone.

I exhaled loudly, releasing the breath I had been holding for a few moments. My heart was still racing. I felt exposed... vulnerable. Like an animal caught in the open. I glanced up and down the corridor -- no one, nothing. I stepped back in my office, closed and locked the door, and slumped back into my seat.

I stared at the monitor for a minute. No, writing emails would not be enough to distract me now. There was too much happening in my head; too many chemicals.

Figuring no one was going to report me for leaving my office thirty minutes early, I locked up and went to my lab. With the flip of a switch, four monitors came to life, along with the comfortingly familiar hum of equipment around the room. I sighed in relief. No one would come knocking on that door tonight.

*******

I couldn't forget my conversation with Miranda, obviously. But I did try to distract myself. Over the ensuing 24 hours, I seized every opportunity to be in my lab, focusing on the things that mattered. The lab was my sanctuary, a refuge, a holy place, a mighty fortress.

And so it was with no small amount of irritation that I went to open the door in response to someone's insistent knocking. I was even more irked to see that it was Miranda pleading to talk with me.

"Please!" she begged as soon as I opened the door, "Just promise me you won't tell anyone." Her eyes were red and puffy, her look desperate. If she was acting, she was good at it.

"I'd like to pretend it never happened," I mumbled, looking anywhere but in her eyes. An irresistible chain of neurochemical reactions took place whenever I met her tearful gaze, and I knew it was a chemical concoction that would make me pliable to her requests.

"Thank you," she whispered, her breath shaky. "I just don't know what I'd do if anyone found out I... I mean, I'm probably not going to be able to come back in the fall anyway, but still, I just don't want anyone to know I tried to... That I asked you to... I mean, I could get in real trouble." She was wiping her nose with a tissue and was starting to calm down. But I had no script, no idea what to do in this situation. Was there ever such a situation before?

"It's... OK," I said softly, shrugging.

"Really?" she asked, almost hopeful.

"Well, I still don't believe you were serious," I confessed. "I'm still kind of expecting a hidden camera to pop into view."

"Oh, I'm dead serious," she said, nodding her head in assurance. "I don't think you understand how desperate I am," she added in a hushed voice, glancing up and down the hall.

"Desperate enough to marry a complete stranger?" I asked, stepping to the side to let her in.

"Well, not a complete stranger," she objected, while looking around at my set-up.

"Close enough."

"Look," she said, stuffing the wet tissue into her handbag. "You never even let me finish explaining. Like, what if it were on paper only? I think if I can just produce the legal document, there wouldn't need to be anything else. There's literally no cost to you."

"Yeah, but no incentive, either," I pointed out. A look of disgust flashed across her face, and I quickly continued. "Not like that. I don't mean... that. I just mean... what is my motivation in all this?"

"I don't know," she confessed. "I suppose the satisfaction of helping a damsel in distress isn't something that appeals to you..." Her words hung in the air a moment while I stared blankly. After she sensed I was offering to response to that, she continued. "Since it doesn't cost you anything, I didn't think you'd really need anything in return. But I guess I could... do chores around your house or something? Or grade papers? Or help you in your lab?"

I didn't think her suggestions were really good ideas, to be honest, and I told her as much. Her shoulders slumped and she said, "I know. Like I told you, I was pretty sure you'd say no. But if there was any chance of a yes, I had to try it. You understand, right?"