Alfred was late, there was no denying that. What was supposed to be a leisurely morning of preparation for his panel on his newest research had turned into a frantic rush to even attempt to make it at all. He didn't remember hitting the snooze button on his alarm but apparently he had, and by the numbers on the clock it had been done repeatedly. Completing his morning routine in an impressive five minutes, he moved to put on a suit from his closet and collect the mess of papers from his desk, throwing them into his briefcase. Grabbing his phone and keys, he ran out the door.
His phone had been constantly buzzing for the last ten minutes as texts poured in from his colleagues in various stages of panic. The man sent a quick response letting them know he was on his way and began to hunt for a cab. Hurriedly weaving around the crowds of the city he spotted one idling just ahead of him, running to it before it had the chance to drive away.
"I need to get to the AAAS Building, pronto," Alfred said to the driver as he jumped into the seat, tossing his briefcase on the other side of the cab. To his surprise the object flew back at him, landing hard against his chest.
"You know, it's quite rude to toss your things on complete strangers and even more ill-mannered to freeload on their transportation," came an irritated voice, startling him. Alfred turned his head to the left to see an obviously annoyed man; his arms crossed tightly over his chest and his impressive eyebrows drawn together to accompany his scowl.
"Jeeze!" the American exclaimed, gripping the fabric at his chest. "You nearly scared the pants off me!"
The other man continued to look unamused. "Well thank goodness I didn't manage that," he said flatly. He began to smooth over his clothes, brushing the areas of his blazer that the case had struck. "Are you even going to apologize or are you going to continue groping your chest?" he concluded not looking up from his task. Alfred looked down to see his shirt and tie clutched in his hand. He quickly released them and turned his focus back towards to the irate gentleman.
"Look, I'm really sorry," began Alfred, his apology sincere. "I didn't see you in here, honest. I've just had this crazy morning. Ya see, I'm supposed to be giving a presentation, right now actually, but I woke up late. I've just been trying to get there as fast as I can and when I saw this cab I thought it was empty…I'm sorry. I can try to find another cab." His hand moved towards the door handle and he prepared to exit the vehicle.
A heavy sigh came from the man seated next to Alfred. "No…no it's fine. As your luck would have it I'm headed to that area as well."
"What? Really? Thanks, man! You really saved my skin here." Alfred set his briefcase down in the space between them and settled more comfortably into the seat. The other man nodded curtly in response and moved himself closer to the door, bringing his bag closer to his side. With both men sat the driver pulled away from the curb and headed for their destinations.
The occupants were quite for a while, neither of the men looking at each other. The silence was uncomfortable in Alfred's opinion and he turned to face the other blond. He decided that since they were sharing a cab they might as well be sociable.
"My name's Alfred," he began in a friendly tone, hand extended out towards the other. The man turned towards him and took his hand, shaking it briefly.
"Pleasure," he responded, though his tone gave Alfred the impression that it really wasn't. He turned back towards the window. The American waited to see if he was going to continue the conversation. The moments of silence that followed made it obvious he wasn't. Alfred decided to try again.
"You gonna tell me your name?"
"Possibly." The man didn't turn to look at him this time. Silence fell again but Alfred was determined to keep the conversation going.
He had noticed that the man next to him spoke with an accent, the tone and inflection distinctly English. "You're not from here, are you?"
"What an astute observation," he replied sarcastically.
Alfred couldn't understand why this guy was being so hostile towards him. Sure, he had accidently assaulted him with his briefcase and unknowingly attempted to highjack his cab, but he had been friendly towards him which made the other man's responses sting more. "Who pissed in your coffee?"
The Englishman whipped his head towards Alfred, clearly offended by his words. "I beg your pardon?"
"Sorry! Sorry…"The American slouched down in the seat, attempting to shield himself from the others glare. His travel companion let out an exasperated breath and began to rifle through his bag.
Alfred didn't want that to be how their conversation ended, deciding it would feed into the Englishman's already negative opinion of him. He was going to make a final attempt of contact, hoping that this time it would go smoother. "So," he began slowly, "what brings you across the pond?"
"If you must know I'm here on account of my work," stated the Brit as he pulled a notepad and pen out of his bag.
"Hey, same as me!" Alfred excitedly exclaimed. "I mean, I'm here- here because of work…I am American I'm just not from D.C. I came in from Kansas. It's a state out in the heartland of the country."
The Englishman rolled his eyes. "Yes, I know where Kansas is."
"Oh…right." Silence fell again.
Well, Alfred tried to make friendly conversation with the impossible man. He had tried to be sociable but it seemed that the other man wasn't interested in polite conversation. If there was going to be any form of interaction it would have to stem from the Brit.
The silence continued for a few moments, both men shifting awkwardly in their seats. Alfred glanced over at the other man who immediately dropped his eyes to his notepad, a light blush on his cheeks as he scribbled furiously on the paper. The American continued to look at him, watching his cursive scrawl appear with each stroke.
The Englishman laid his pen down and turned his gaze towards Alfred, his expression softer than before. "What do you do in Kansas?"
The blond smiled at the other's curiosity, glad that he started the conversation again. "Meteorology."
The Brit gave an impressed look at his answer. "Oh, well that's a rare career to hear…but why-"
"Kansas?" Alfred finished for him. The other man nodded. "Man, if I had a nickel for every time someone asked me that," he laughed. "Well, you see my field of work is a little bit more hands on."
The Englishman furrowed his brows in confusion. "I'm afraid I don't understand."
"I'm a storm chaser. My team and I go down to Tornado Alley for four or five months a year and track cyclones. It's a helluva good time." The animated smile on the American's face was returned with a look horrified shock from his companion.
"That sounds absolutely dangerous and suicidal!" the man replied. "Why on earth would you want to do a thing like that?"
Alfred shrugged. "I like the adrenaline rush."
"So-so go on a roller coaster or something along those lines! I don't understand how anyone could drive into an unpredictable storm just for the hormonal high it would give," continued the Englishman.
"Well, I don't just do it for that. Our research goes towards perpetration strategies for communities living in The Plains. The more data we collect the better we can analyze patterns, severity, and frequency of tornadoes. We can education towns on how to better prepare themselves and work on methods for quicker storm detection…. We're helping people." As Alfred proudly explained his work his companion's expression changed from hostile confusion to admiration.
"Oh...well, forgive me," he replied, regretful of his tirade against the other's work. "I shouldn't criticize your profession. I gather that you're very passionate about your work…but I still think it's utterly insane."
Alfred chuckled. "I'll take that as a compliment. Thanks, er…" He paused, realizing that he still didn't know his companion's name.
"Arthur," the Englishman finished with a smile, offering a handshake to the American.
"Arthur," he repeated, taking his hand. "Pleased to make your acquaintance."
"Is this the research you're supposed to be presenting today?"
"Yeah!" Alfred grabbed his briefcase and opened it, grabbing a handful of papers from it. He handed them to Arthur excitedly. Graphs, charts, and equations covered them, accompanied by intense analyses of the data. He rifled through the pages in an attempt to understand at least some of what Alfred was sharing with him. "We're showing the data we've collected over the past five years. We noticed that there had been an increase in the frequency of storms up until this past year. 2013 saw a record low in the number of tornadoes and we're theorizing why that might be."
"That sounds…scientific," Arthur replied, handing back the man's research. An overwhelmed expression covered his face.
"I hope it would seeing as I'm sort of a scientist," Alfred laughed taking his research and putting it back into his case. "What about you? What work brought you to the capital?"
Arthur smiled his posture relaxing as the conversation moved to a topic that he could understand. "I'm here to open an exhibit at the Library of Congress."
The American's face lit up, intrigued at the others response. He turned his body so his back was against the door, fully facing the Englishman. "Cool! What's it gonna showcase?"
"It will be displaying trench poetry of World War One, "he stated smugly, the interest the other man showed boosting his ego slightly.
Alfred's excited expression fell. "That's depressing."
"That's an awfully rude thing to say about a man's work," Arthur replied defensively.
"Hey you did it to me first, remember?"
"Oh…" He sheepishly looked away, dropping his gaze back to his notepad and falling back into silence.
"So, you get paid to read sad poems written by soldiers?" Alfred asked, not wanting the conversation to end. He found himself wanting to know more about what the man did, to understand why he had chosen that to be his life's work. It was an interesting topic of study and definitely not one that many people would want to dedicate their time to which made it all the more fascinating to the American.
"That's one way of putting it," Arthur muttered, bring his attention back to the man next to him. "I do more than just read the poems. I'm a Literary Historian; we put the writings into sociocultural context, study the time period in which they were created, string together every facet of each event which led to the authors inspiration…one can learn a lot from reading literary works of those who lived to see history."
"But what made you pick an area like that?" the American pried, trying to analyze the man's character. "There's gotta be more happy poems and books to read. What made you stick to trenches?"
Arthur thought for a moment, his brows furrowed as he carefully formed his answer. "I…I guess why I focus on trench prose is because of their importance. The Great War saw the beginning of modern warfare; new technologies were employed, chemical weapons were deployed, and it was the first time we saw the image of the professional soldier…The poems from these men are unlike any other as they truly are outlets for their pain. They romanticized their hopes while exposing their darkest fears and exploiting the horrors they saw in front of them. They often wrote of their longing for home or their compliancy with their fate. Reading them puts one in their shoes and immerses you in their world…A firsthand account of the hells of war. It's the way that that described their world; with beautiful imagery and metaphor. It's truly an art form that only those who fought could master."
The Brit looked over to the American, a small smile on his face. Alfred smiled softly back at him, his intrigue sparked by the other's words. They were full of passion and thought, a reflection of what had to be years of hard work. Watching him speak on his livelihood captivated Alfred and made him want to research the area himself. Arthur's face went red under Alfred's gaze and he cleared his throat, looking away from him. "I'm sorry. This must be all terribly boring to you."
"No, no! I actually think that's pretty neat. I've never really thought about that stuff before." Arthur looked back at Alfred and smiled shyly at the other's kind expression.
The cab pulled up against the curb, arriving at the American's destination. Alfred gathered his belongings and stepped out onto the sidewalk. Leaning against the open door he said his parting words to his once reluctant companion.
"Thanks again for letting me tag along. I may be showing up late but at least I made it." Alfred pulled out his wallet to give the driver his fee.
"You're welcome. I'm glad I could assist you," Arthur replied, his tone genuine.
"I'd like to pay for his fare too," he said, addressing the driver.
The Englishman looked uncomfortable, shaking his head frantically in protest. "Oh no, please! I can't let you do that!"
"Yes you can." Alfred handed the driver more than enough for the two fares. "It's the least I can do for you after I nailed you with my briefcase and tried to steal your cab."
"Oh…well thank you," he mumbled, his face reddening again at the man's generosity.
"Don't sweat it. Say, maybe I'll see you at your new exhibit sometime," Alfred said, his voice full of hope. He was intrigued by Arthur's work and curious to find out more about the subject area, as well as the man himself.
"Yes, perhaps you will," Arthur smiled kindly at him. A few moments went by as he waited for Alfred to say his farewell, yet he just continued to stand at the cab door, grinning at him. Arthur broke the silence. "Well, go on. You don't want to keep your audience waiting any longer."
His comment seemed to bring the American back to reality and he hastily looked at his phone for the time. "Oh, Jeeze you're right! I'll catch you later, Arthur!" Alfred called, closing the door as he turned towards the entrance. As he rushed through the doors, all he could think about was which type of World War One poetry he should research first.