CHAPTER ELEVEN
Sheldon woke up to find he was alone in the hotel room. Mildly alarmed, he called Amy, but the call went directly to voicemail. So, he decided to continue as normal, and went to the bathroom to shower, shave, and—as always—empty his bowels. Once clean and dressed, he began to think about what he should eat.
In his search for food, it seemed like a good idea to at least try the mini-fridge first. He opened it, only to find it bare except for a Styrofoam bowl of unidentifiable soup, a half-eaten pack of Captain Wafers, and what he recognized as a large, metal, cryogenic thermos. Curiosity overtook him, he slowly withdrew the silver missile from the refrigerator. In plain letters along the sides were written "Live Tissue. Handle with Care." He returned it to the fridge and suddenly had the pressing urge to leave the room.
That morning, breakfast would be coming from the vending machines.
Fortunately, lunch was considerably less adventurous. When Amy finally showed back up, she suggested that they eat in the hotel restaurant.
"Amy," Sheldon began, after they had received their food, "Do you remember when we would attend general science 'lectures' at bookstores and heckle whomever the speaker was?"
Amy smiled. "I remember that fondly." She took a bite from her grilled cheese sandwich.
"Has your formal stance on the matter changed any?" he asked.
"I would hardly call it a formal stance," she answered. "Although, on the whole, I find such books to be misguided ventures of largely comic value."
"I see," he said.
"Why?" she asked.
"I am afraid I've found myself in a bit of a dilemma," he explained.
"How so?" Amy asked.
"Well," Sheldon continued, "I have recently learned that, while in the eyes of the wider Physics community, I am a bona fide rock star," —Amy nodded in agreement— "within my department, I am the Hunchback of Notre Dame, the marginalized servant, dutifully slaving away at his craft while largely ignored by his colleagues, unable to advance or be accepted."
"That's unfortunate," Amy said. "How does that relate to popular science?" she asked.
"Well, a few days ago I was approached by the Dean with a series of criticisms—all of which were completely unfounded—in regards to my performance. In short, he asserted that, because I don't bring enough money to the department, my future tenure was still a matter of debate. However, he presented me with a proposition: if I were to take a sabbatical to write a book on," he sighed, "popular science, not only would I be financially rewarded handsomely, but I would receive instant tenure and the distinction of a University Endowed Professor."
Amy's jaw dropped.
"You have to write a book on popular science?" she gasped.
"My sentiments exactly," he answered, slicing away at his steak.
"You have my sympathies."
"And, to make matters worse," he continued, "those whom I have consulted have all eagerly encouraged me to write the book without giving the slightest consideration to how doing so may affect my—if I may—street cred."
"May I ask who you have consulted?"
"My mother and Penny," he answered.
Amy nodded. She was still smarting from what she had learned about those two women the night before. "With all due respect, I wouldn't expect anything else from them."
"Then you think I should reject the offer?"
"Well, I didn't say that," Amy said.
Sheldon was surprised. "So you think I should write the book?"
"The offer of money for work—except in particularly odious cases—should always be at least considered. Money is difficult to come by, and often meted out unfairly. Essentially, you have to get when the getting's good."
"I'm listening," Sheldon said with rapt attention.
"Well, I'm sure you are familiar with Steven Hawking."
"Of course," Sheldon said. "He's the theoretical physicist responsible for providing theorems regarding gravitational singularities in the framework of general relativity."
"Sure, but most people know him as that guy in the wheelchair with the robot voice that wrote 'A Brief History of Time.'"
"How unfortunate," Sheldon moaned.
"Maybe; but more likely, he just found a way to reach the maximum number of people without watering down his message, and I see no reason why you can't do the same. While writing you book, don't target soccer moms and ballet dancers; imagine an audience of retired teachers and chemistry majors. In the end, you'll be fulfilling the wishes of the University while still maintaining your professional integrity. Whether or not it is popular in the end, excuse my French, be damned."
"Amy," he said, "I rue the fact that I did not consult you earlier. Once again, you have advised me in a way that is both practical and logically persuasive."
"High praise," Amy said, smiling.
"And much deserved," Sheldon replied. He took a merry swig from his Diet Coke.
Sometime after they got back to the hotel room, Amy brought up a neglected topic.
"You might have been wondering where I was this morning," she said.
"You mean when I woke up?" Sheldon asked.
"Yes," she replied.
"No, I wasn't, actually," he answered. He totally had been.
"Anyway, I went out to buy this."
She held out her hand. In it was small plastic cup with a small plastic lid. He stared at it with no recognition.
"I've been tracking my basal body temperature for the last several months and, from the data collected, determined that I most likely ovulate tomorrow…" God, this is awkward. "So I have to… do it… tonight."
Sheldon nodded as if he understood, but there was still a disconnect. He looked like a deer in headlights.
"So, you just do what you have to do while I run to the store and go grab some… anything. I'll be back in like, what… a half hour?"
Nothing.
"An hour?"
He sat silently, providing no feedback.
"Sheldon, I need you to communicate with me," Amy said calmly.
"What is it that you want me to do?" he asked finally.
Amy sighed. "I want you to put your… genetic material in that cup."
"Of course," he said. He was squirmy, and weird, and ill at ease, and Amy, quite honestly, was deflating with each passing second.
And so it had come to this. There was, really, no way around it. She was about to—had to, really—pose the most horrifyingly awkward question she had ever parted her lips to ask anyone in her entire life.
"You have masturbated before, haven't you?" she said.
Sheldon, a prude by anyone's standards, visibly twitched at the question. Amy was so positively sure he was going to say no, that she was nothing short of astounded when he said:
"Yes."
Maybe this won't be as bad, she thought.
"But," he added, "it's been quite some time."
"Um…" was all that she could get out.
"My older brother, crass knave that he was, made a passing remark to me about 'beating the monkey.' Despite being 11 at the time and already attending college, I was completely unfamiliar with the term. I did some investigation and found that it was a favored pastime of many persons my age. Ever the researcher, I indulged in a little self-experimentation and found it to be a suitable diversion. What my brother, and pre-Internet Era research, failed to tell me, however, was that discretion was of utmost important in this particular activity."
"Oh dear," Amy said.
"My negligence in this area meant that my mother quickly learned of my budding hobby, and, need I say more, put a swift end to it."
"As many a mother does," Amy added. Despite her sympathies, Amy was no less determined that he—in the most literal of ways— would have to 'man up.' "I'm happy to report," Amy said, "that, despite your being rusty, self-pleasure is much like riding a bike."
"Painful and exhausting?"
"No," Amy said. "Something you never forget how to do."
"Well, I hope you're right," he said. He looked at the cup and back at Amy. Despair was on his face.
"I'll be back in an hour?" she said. He wilted some. "I'll make it two," she said and left.
Meanwhile, back at Sheldon's apartment, Raj was having absolutely no problem pleasuring himself.
Since Sheldon's mysterious disappearance a few days before, Raj had slowly turned the apartment into his own personal nerd cave. His non-working hours had become a never-ending carrousel of leisure bliss: perusing hundreds of comic books, cataloged and ordered by issue number; playing on various gaming consoles he couldn't afford (without actually having to play with Sheldon); trying teas of every variety… the list went on and on.
There was a knock on the door. Raj took another sip of his beer and opened the door.
It was Howard… alone.
"Where's Bernadette?" Raj asked.
"She's over at Penny's," he answered, walking past Raj and over to the couch.
"So you mean I drank two cans of Miller Light for nothing?" he asked.
"She'll be over in a minute; fear not, your drunken attempts at self-medication will not be in vain."
Raj nodded. Howard took a sweeping look around.
"I like what you've done with the place," he said approvingly.
Raj nodded. "Thanks!"
"Sheldon doesn't mind you throwing that Indian afghan over the couch?"
"He doesn't not mind," Raj answered cryptically.
"And the poster on the cabinets of the electromagnetic spectrum?"
"I use that as a reference guide when I'm doing my research," he said gleefully.
"And Sheldon's cool with that?"
"He's not not cool with it," Raj answered. He rushed over to cut out the lights, a giddy grin on his face. "Look, I replaced the light fixture with a convertible disco ball. Office by day, party by night."
"Nice," Howard said nodding. "But, come on-there's no way Sheldon is alright with that."
"Well, he's not not alright with it."
"What's with the double negatives?" Howard asked.
"English isn't my first language," Raj said as an excuse.
"You minored in English as an undergrad and got your Master's degree at Cambridge. Your English is better than mine."
"Then I'm drunk," he said. Howard looked at him with nagging suspicion. There was another knock at the door.
"I'll get it," Howard said. He opened the door.
"Hi, Howie Wowie!" Bernadette greeted him.
"Hello, Bernie Wernie," Howard cooed back.
Raj rolled his eyes. It almost made him glad that his girlfriend was in Canada.
Amy got to the lobby and suddenly realized that she was too nervous and tired to go out anywhere. Besides, by the time she would have gotten in her car, drove around and finally decided on a place to go, it would be time to come back and…
Get herself pregnant.
She would have to find distraction within the hotel. She took a look around her and then walked over to the concierge desk. She saw something that piqued her interest.
Endnote: In the dark. Follow the Son makes this story better. And, as always, thanks for reading.
