The symposium was held in a lecture hall in the Engineering Building. I parked in a lot to the west of the building and went in. Traffic had been heavy on the Beltway, so I got there about fifteen minutes late. I slipped in a door in the back of the room and sat in one of the rear seats. The symposium had professors of engineering and economics and political science, and the audience was composed of what looked like grad students for the various professors. No surprise there. I must have been the only member of the general public to attend, and I wouldn’t have been there if I hadn’t been specifically invited.
Nothing new was discussed, although I generally found it interesting. Most of the discussion was about roads and bridges, and how the nation’s infrastructure was deteriorating. This was pretty much true at the time, and was only going to get worse. By the time of the Great Recession, vast areas of the country were being left to rot without any maintenance at all. If a bridge collapsed, it was left that way, and the residents were shit out of luck. Potholes became the new roadways. Putting up traffic cones was cheaper than replacing guardrails when somebody went off the road. Nobody at the symposium came up with any ways to stop the problem, and at the end the grad students left, their mandatory attendance duly noted.
It was just shy of 9:00 when the meeting broke up, and I got out of my chair and walked down the aisle to the front of the lecture hall. Dr. Johnson was the resident expert on bridges and roads. I stepped over the low railing around the stage area and went up to him. “Professor Johnson?”
He looked up at me. “Yes? Can I help you?”
I smiled and put my hand out. “Carl Buckman, Doctor. You invited me to the symposium, remember?”
“Oh, yes, thank you for coming. It’s nice when we can get somebody other than just us academics to one of these things.”
“I quite agree. I remember those days myself.”
“Oh?” he asked.
I handed him one of my business cards with the PhD behind my name. “Yes, a few years ago I was a grad student myself.”
His eyebrows raised slightly. “Where did you go to school?”
“Rensselaer. I got a doctorate in applied mathematics about ten years ago. It seems like another lifetime.”
“I know RPI. I got my bachelors at Clarkson.”
“Do you still follow hockey?” I asked. Clarkson-RPI had been a major Division I rivalry for years.
He grinned. “Not for many years. It was always good for a date, though.” I smiled and nodded along with him. “I should have known by your response to that idiot letter to the editor you had a mathematical background. I just wish more people cared about these things. Nothing gets done until something terrible happens.”
“It’s the nature of the beast, Professor. When times are good we don’t want to spend the money. When times are bad we don’t have the money to spend. Unless you’ve figured out a way to re-engineer humans, nothing happens unless you make it happen,” I answered. I glanced at my watch. We were the last ones in the lecture hall, and it was after 9:00. “I suppose we need to leave. It looks like they are about to lock us in for the night.”
“I wish we could talk longer.”
I was on the verge of saying goodbye, but for some reason I postponed it a bit. “I could do with a late bite to eat. How about you, Professor? Anywhere nearby we can grab a cup of coffee or something?”
He looked a little startled at that. “Not really sure. I think most of the local diners are closed. We might find a sandwich shop or something. There’s a pretty nice place down South Rolling Road on Frederick, Russel’s, but it might be pricey for a cup of coffee.”
I waved this off with a smile. “My treat. It feels good to get back into the scientific world.” Johnson gave me an odd look at that, so I said, “I’ll explain when we get there.”
I waited while the professor packed his briefcase and then followed him outside. Five minutes later I followed him into a parking lot on Frederick. I led him inside. Very nice, large, with lots of tables and a few booths. By now the evening rush was long over and we were among the last wave of diners.
The hostess seated us in a booth and gave us our menus, and a pretty young waitress came over. “Hello. My name is Gretchen and I’ll be serving you. Can I get you gentlemen something to drink while you decide what you want?”
I smiled and nodded. “It’s been a long day. Can I get a gin and tonic?” I looked over at Johnson and said, “Remember, my treat.”
He smiled back and ordered a Manhattan. Then, after Gretchen left, he said, “Well, I don’t turn down too many free meals. What do you normally do? What’s your day job?”
I nodded. “Ah, what did I do when I left RPI with my doctorate?” He nodded, and I said, “Well, for a few years I worked for Uncle Sam. I went to school on an ROTC scholarship, so after graduation I went into the Army. When I got out of the Army, I started an investment company. That’s what I do now.”
“You started an investment company?” he asked incredulously.
I smiled. “Mathematics offers a number of very lucrative career choices, Doctor.”
“I guess so.”
We chatted a few minutes about RPI and Clarkson, and I admitted that I had hurt my leg in the Army, and that was why I used a cane. When the waitress came back with our drinks, she asked, “Ready to order now?”
I had glanced at my menu, and knew what I wanted. “Are the crab cakes good?”
“The crab cakes are great!”
“Sounds good to me.” I handed Gretchen the menu and we looked at Johnson.
“I’m sold. The same for me, please.”
“Two crab cake orders coming right up.” She left.
I sipped my drink and it was just what I needed. “Ahh, that hits the spot. I have to drive tonight, so I can’t have more than two, but it’s been a long day.”
Johnson drank some of his and gave a childish grin. “I feel like I’m breaking the rules, drinking on a school night. My wife and I usually just have a few drinks over the weekend.”
We chatted a little more. Johnson was a few years older than me, perhaps 35 or 36, married to an English professor at the college, with two girls, both in junior high school. He was a fairly average fellow. The absent-minded professor stereotype is just that, a stereotype. Shortly before the waitress brought out our crab cakes, he asked, “So, why did you come to the symposium?”
“Well, I think just because you invited me. I doubt if I would have even heard of it otherwise.”
He shook his head. “I just wish more people were interested in the infrastructure they depend on. Nothing ever happens until something collapses and somebody dies.”
Gretchen came out with our plates at that moment, so I was delayed in responding. I did order a second round of drinks. Then, after sampling my crab cake (very tasty!), I said, “Without a decent advertising and public relations campaign, you’ll never get people to care about infrastructure. It’s just not very sexy, and it costs money.”
He shrugged. “I know. You’re right. What do you do about it?”
“Not really sure. I can tell you one thing, though. If what you’re doing isn’t working, don’t continue doing it in the hopes it will suddenly work. Do something different. Even in the little things.”