Chapter Text
A wrinkly, slightly shaking hand picked up an obviously fingerprint covered black receiver sitting complacently on upon the glass top of a wooden desk and, with only a bit of difficulty, dialed in a phone number memorized in 2006. Three cities away, another phone rang. A dark, steady hand answered it immediately.
"Hello, Doctor Bettencourt! How lovely to hear from you. Yes, I'm well, thank you. How is Edith? And yourself?....Oh. Oh, god. I'm so sorry. Yes, of course. I'll drive over right now. It's not a- yes, tomorrow then. Yes. Okay. Rest well, doctor. I'll see you tomorrow. Tell Edith I said hello. Good day, sir."
Carlos sat down and ran a dark hand through his black hair. God almighty. Cancer. How he hated cancer. He'd lost his father and a brother to it. His sister had survived breast cancer, and a decent handful of friends were in the battling stages. He'd already seen one friend buried before her time.
But not Hector. Hector had saved Carlos. He'd been there to guide him through so much. It wasn't long ago, Carlos thought. Not so long since he'd felt like a failure. He was a Hispanic man with a degree and a brilliant mind, yet no job to speak of thanks to an ill-planned move from his home in Boston to Phoenix, where, according to the residents, his skin defined him more than his intelligence. They took one look at him and lowered him in their minds, kicked him to the curb when he walked in their direction.
If he'd just stayed in Boston, then maybe he wouldn't have turned to drinking himself stupid every night. But then how would he have met Hector? He wouldn’t have. No, Carlos had left Boston for the same reason he wanted to leave Phoenix: no jobs anywhere. Very few were accepted into MIT and Harvard, where he’d graduated. His own wouldn’t take him back! After being denied several positions he was more than qualified for, and a few high school biology positions that turned him down simply because the schools couldn’t pay him what he deserved, Carlos packed up two suitcases, put the rest of his possessions on the curb and jumped on a plane, falling asleep outside the familiarity of Logan and waking up in the heat of Phoenix.
He was ruffled and annoyed by the first four rejections. He was upset and cried after the seventh. The eighth led to purchasing more alcohol than was necessary and going through it all in three days. He showed up to the tenth and eleventh interviews drunk as a noodle. The cycle repeated from that moment on.
It was his twenty-third interview that did it. Carlos once again heard the overused empty promise of ‘we’ll call you’, and it threw him over the edge. No longer able to afford his dingy, rat-infested hotel room, and without a car, Carlos left yet another university seeking science dorks to teach and join research boards only to hire another white male just as qualified as himself.
Enraged, Carlos tossed his leather briefcase, packed full of research, his three year thesis, documentation and photographs, into the nearest dumpster, tore his meticulously clean and wrinkle-free jacket from his torso and handed it to the first homeless man he saw. Then, with his last fifty dollars, marched into a liquor store, bought the largest bottle of Jack he could find and proceeded to drink it in public, swigging the sharp liquid from behind a stiff paper bag.
Stumbling towards the Chase Tower, tallest in all of Phoenix, Carlos swore loudly in a mix of Spanish and English vehemently at anyone who dared look his way. Even the concerned old women walking their little dogs and feeding ducks watching this wreck of a brilliant young man were not immune to his furious verbal attacks.
One woman, a lovely older madam with white hair, stepped out of her way to ask the young man, in Spanish, if he was all right. Carlos roared back in English.
“I’m fucking fantastic! I’m great! I’m homeless and I’m gonna go kill myself, but yeah, I’m fucking wonderful! Thanks for asking, abuela!” Carlos proceeded to drink even more, now halfway through the bottle when an older gentleman, angered at the verbal treatment towards his wife, limped over on his polished cane and grabbed Carlos by the hair.
“How dare you speak to my Edith that way!” He tugged the black hair tightly.
“Lemme go,” Carlos bellowed, too drunk to free himself. “Leave me the fuck alone, old man!”
The old man did not let up. Instead, he snatched the bottle of Jack from Carlos’ hand, shoved the man down into the dirt and poured the remainder over his head. Carlos was too stunned to fight back. As his last fifty dollars poured over his head, through his hair and through his clothes, there was only one thing he could do.
The old man and his wife stepped back as Carlos began to sob into his shaking hands. This was what he’d become. An angry, alcoholic genius, sitting in a puddle of liquid comfort. God, he hated himself. He wanted nothing more than to run to the Chase and throw himself from the roof. But he couldn’t bring himself to move. People were watching from every angle, any one of them could tackle him down. In the near distance, a police siren wailed. He felt a chill run up his spine. Fearing arrest, Carlos rose to his feet shakily and began to walk away as nonchalantly as he could trick himself into thinking.
“Oh, no you don’t,” said the old man, grabbing Carlos’ arm. “Not after that. What’s your name, son?”
“Please. Just leave me alone,” Carlos slurred. “I ‘pologize for what I said to your wife. I need to go.”
“Just give me a name.” The man was patient, his tone steady. He knew the young man was suffering and wanted to do all he could to ease his pain.
Carlos groaned, ready to just die right there. “Carlos.”
“And what’s happened that led you to this moment, Carlos?”
“Stop. Please. I just need to go.”
The man shook his head, understanding what Carlos meant. “I’ve met many young people who claim they need to go. And they don’t need to go there. Tell me, please. Or I’ll have to call the cops and have you arrested to keep you safe. I’d rather not do that.”
“Please don’t,” Carlos groaned. “I just…I need to go. It’s important.”
“Suicide is not your answer,” the old man said. “It feels like the right thing at the time, but time passes, and situations change. All I ask is for you to talk about it.”
Carlos, soaked and angry, penniless and lost, closed his eyes and clenched his fists. He wanted to go home, see his family and just forget all the hard work he’d done for nothing. But he was far from home and loved ones. So he took a nervous breath, let the man and his wife walk him to a park bench and there he told his story. And from that moment evolved his new life, for the old man was no ordinary old man. He was Dr. Hector Bettencourt, Chairman of the Department of Scientific Studies at Nightingvale University, far from Phoenix and the racist community that shunned Carlos.
As the story concluded with Jack Daniels in his hair, the good Doctor requested to see Carlos’ work. They walked together towards the dumpster where years of incredible research waited to be disposed of, and he read through it in the air-conditioned comfort of a Starbucks while Edith and Carlos chatted in Spanish.
Hours later, Carlos had a job offer as a biology professor at Nightingvale U, and from there, he bought everything he deserved. A car. A condo. A fat, stupid mutt he named Barium (but she responded to Bari) he loved with all his heart. And, most importantly, a reason to put away the bottle and live life the way he always dreamed of.
----------------------
End Chapter One.