The End of Time

            Professor Slade Walker stood before the doorway to Dr. Howard Beason’s office, reluctant to enter. Walker understood, once he entered Beason’s office, he would agree to something he did not want to do. Yet, Walker understood he had no choice. Though Beason was elderly and in the twilight of his days, the old archaeologist still commanded Walker’s respect and loyalty. If Beason wanted Walker to do something, even if Walker did not, Walker knew he could not refuse. Slade Walker took a deep breath, knocked, and upon hearing a gruff acknowledgement, squared his shoulders and pushed open the door.

            “Sonny,” it’s been a long time,” Beason said, a smile crinkling the wrinkles across his face. “I’m glad you’ve come.” Beason pushed himself upwards, slowly arising from behind a paper-strewn desk. He shuffled around the desk and after shaking Walker’s hand, said, “You’ll help me?”

            “Doc, I’m not the person you need for this task.”

            “Help me over to my chair,” said Beason, pointing to a leather armchair facing a small couch. Walker put an arm around Beason’s shoulders and supported the 89-year-old across the small office. Beason sank heavily onto the chair. He motioned Walker to the couch. “How old are you now?” Beason asked.

            Walker smiled briefly, a thin line below a grey mustache. “Sixty-four.”

            “Where did the time go?” Beason ran a hand through stringy, white hair. “You were a young buck, back when I rescued your ass.”

            “That was a long time ago.”

            “And look at you now; a respected archaeologist at a great school.” Beason snorted, “And me a professor emeritus, put out to pasture, clutching at straws, trying to be relevant.”

            Walker nodded. What can a person say to someone who hates being patronized?

            Beason pointed towards an open doorway off to his left, beyond which several graduate students huddled over computer screens, their faces lit in blue. “This lab is my life. I’ll die when they take this away from me.”

            “I’m assuming what you want me to do will help you keep your job?”

            “Precisely.” Beason stared at Walker; watery eyes magnified by thick glasses. Walker tried to return the gaze but couldn’t. He looked away, his eyes scanning Beason’s office, a chaos of stacked books, scattered reports, and piles of papers. Beason had always been a meticulous person, but now age’s infirmities had unraveled his scrupulous neatness. Beason pointed a gnarled finger at Walker. “If you don’t find that girl, the money stops coming in, the lab’s fucked, I’m fucked.”

            “I’m not the young guy you remember,” said Walker.

            “You’re sixty-four. Hell, when I was your age, I was still banging coeds.” Beason peered at Walker, his eyes boring into Walker’s soul.

            “My health is not the best anymore,” Walker said, shaking his head back and forth. His moments in front of a mirror still revealed a solidly built man, but Walker knew his body had aged faster than he had wanted it to. Walker had advanced arthritis in his knees, hips, and spine, and though he took a handful of pills each week to stave off things getting worse, on some days he could barely move without pain. Walker closed his eyes. He had read recent studies indicating correlations between the chemicals the U.S. military used in Vietnam and serious side effects now being exhibited by American soldiers exposed to those chemicals. But Walker did not know if this was the case for him as his stay in Vietnam had only been a few months before he was seriously wounded. However, the fact remained, his health was problematic.

            “When did you become a crybaby?” Beason thumped his chest. “I’ve got clogged arteries, high blood pressure, type-2 diabetes, arthritis, and a heart that will probably explode the next time I eat a BigMac.” He fanned his hands towards Walker. “But I’m alive and kicking, and I want to remain that way just as long as I can.” Beason took a deep breath. “I need you. You’re my only hope. Do you understand what I’m saying? I need you to get off your butt and help me.”

            Walker nodded slightly. He knew he could not refuse; he owed Beason, big time. Years ago; 1968, Walker had come home from Vietnam a broken 20-year-old. His first attempt at college had been a disaster. He was a Vietnam vet, and when his fellow students, all anti-war activists discovered this fact, they harassed him mercilessly. Barraged by their verbal abuse, Walker did poorly in every class but one—Howard Beason’s Archaeology 101. Beason, being a Korean War veteran who still carried North Korean shrapnel embedded in his hip, understood what Walker was going through, and provided a safe refuge for him. Unfortunately, Beason’s support was not enough, Walker dropped out of college in the spring of 1969. A year later though, Walker returned, his soul restored by time spent with his grandfather, a wounded WWI veteran. Walker loaded up on Beason’s classes, and with Beason’s tough love and assistance, forged a path to academic success. Walker knew Beason’s care and support had saved his life, and basically, he owed everything good in the years that followed, to him.  Walker sat up straight and gazed at the ancient man. He had to help Beason.

            “Tell me about the girl.”

            Beason smiled, his body slumping into his chair as he relaxed. “I’ve got a file on my desk.”

            “Give me the abbreviated version.”