Wallace now knew how to give the world every smell they ever dreamed of. That meant it had to come out of the television. TV ruled America ’s desires. Corporate America ruled Americans through their TV advertising, creating “needful” things where no need existed.
Wallace needed tenure. Only creating the next needful thing would get him that.
People forgot that memory was more closely tied to scent than any other of the five senses. Long before he was through with corporate America, they’d know his name and remember it.
Finally, he ejected the dog from the bedroom too. He closed the door firmly against intrusion. Then he showered with an unscented soap and donned a fresh jogging suit that had air-dried on a line in the back-yard. He couldn’t allow any stray odors to confuse his experiment.
Later, when he knew it worked, he’d verify everything in a sterilized lab. Until then, the invention was his and his alone, carefully pieced together from a discarded and outdated mass spectrometer and a sniffer he’d purchased with his own money from the state crime lab, again outdated. He had to come up with a better name for that device.
His next generation of Beebevision would be smaller and more sensitive. When he had grant money and grad students to collect data.
Finally, all was ready. Cautiously, he made the last connection between his invention, a black cube about ten inches on each side, and the television that dominated one corner of the bedroom. The wires slid into place easily. He tightened the screws.
Holding his breath, he fed the special DVD into the player, turned everything on, and sat in his favorite recliner-carefully vacuumed earlier.
A deep organ note played and a lily of the valley logo blossomed on the screen. He’d borrowed the lily from a design on Evelyn’s favorite perfume, changing it just enough to keep from violating copyright. He’d also added radiating lines indicating the flower’s fragrance.
“Welcome to Fully Sensory Theatery. A Wallace Beebee Production,” intoned a husky alto voice, Evelyn, of course.
Her PhD was in medieval history. Physics didn’t interest her. Nothing interested her except her own discipline. He’d make history come alive for her as it never had before: through her nose.
The scene on the TV shifted to a meadow filled with spring wildflowers. A delicate floral scent wafted to Wallace from the mesh face of the black cube.
He smiled. “It’s working,” he whispered.
Then the scene changed again; a hot desert wind that smelled of dust, sage, and mint accompanied the pictures of Smith Rock in central Oregon. Next, another scene, a beautiful woman (Evelyn) dancing lightly in the moonlight. Her phenomenal perfume made his heart beat faster and his hormones soar.
Then the dog scratched at the door, whined plaintively, and farted.
“OK, OK, I’ll walk you now before you crap on the floor.”
Wallace went about his evening chores and put the bedroom back to rights, whistling a happy tune and smiling hugely.
“My, aren’t you in a good mood!” Evelyn exclaimed when he kissed her soundly upon going to bed that night.
His smile continued well into the next morning. As Wallace walked to his first class he sniffed the scent of freshly mown grass and bright spring flowers with new appreciation. He detected hints of gasoline from the mower and oil in the fertilizer spread among the flowers. That nearly destroyed his happy mood. He might have to find a way to filter his gadget. He wasn’t sure how. Yet.
Two weeks later, Wallace attached his little black cube, reduced to four inches on each side, to a different television. This one sat in the university conference room habituated by the tenure committee. Or “God” as most untenured professors referred to it. Life or death in the academic community rested in the TC’s hands.
Wallace made his careful presentation, then switched off the DVD at the end of the third scene, careful not to let the fourth begin. He wanted to hold that one in reserve for emergencies.
“As you can see, and smell, ladies and gentlemen, this new invention has tremendous commercial as well as academic potential.” He then read Evelyn’s notes about how she would use it to bring history alive.
“Frivolous,” Dr. Pretentious declared.
“Impractical,” chimed in Dr. Beta.
“Demeaning,” finished Dr. Shallow.
“Is biophysics even a recognized discipline at other universities?” Dr. Pretentious asked rhetorically.
And that was the crux of the matter for the TC. Never making a decision until they knew it would be applauded by other universities, never hiring anyone who didn’t have at least two other offers, denying tenure to any but the most staid and conservative candidates.
“Tenure denied.” If Dr. Pretentious had a gavel, the old fart would have pounded it. Instead he gathered up his thick file on Wallace Beebee and retreated.
Wallace hit the play button on the remote. Pictures of Max, fresh from the bath and still stinking of wet dog fur, filled the television screen. He wiggled and yipped and farted, then dropped a big dump right in front of the camera programmed to pickup every hydrocarbon in the air.
“Well, I never!” Dr. Shallow declared. She held a lace-edged hanky to her nose and literally ran out of the room.
“Hmm, Max got into the garbage again. He smells a little like coffee grounds and egg shells.”
Wallace stayed on at VDGU for another year. His applications to other universities were rejected or stalled in committee. He didn’t have enough publication credits. He didn’t have enough experience in academia. His work was too controversial.
He didn’t apply for tenure again at VDGU. He and Evelyn made do with their meager salaries and postponed having children once again. She was denied tenure in medieval history because of her association with Wallace.
They postponed having children once again.
Secretly Wallace worked on his invention in the garage at home. Honing, refining, miniaturizing. Paying for every part out of his own pocket. Then, at last, he had what he needed: a commercially viable version ready to roll off the assembly line.
If he could just sell it. He had to sell it. Evelyn was pregnant despite their precautions. They desperately needed the money.
Strange, he’d detected a change in her body chemistry before she even suspected her pregnancy. Working with his invention every day, testing, honing, had sensitized his own nose almost as much as it had the gadget.
Sixty query letters to various electronics companies resulted in exactly one invitation.
He took most of his savings and bought a roundtrip ticket to Kansas City, Missouri, the corporate headquarters of a major televangelist, Dr. John Baptiste Feelwell. (Wallace suspected the man’s PhD in applied religions was as fake as his toupee.) A dozen suited executives and ad men filled the smallest of their conference rooms. Wallace’s entire house could have fit inside it and still had room left over.
Wallace caught a whiff of musky cologne that attempted to mask a man’s body smell. Wallace almost gagged on the intensity. He’d given up all fragrances himself and grown a beard so he wouldn’t have to use aftershave. He’d gotten to the point where he could identify each individual component of artificial fragrances.
He also knew the man had had eggs Benedict for breakfast and sex within the last hour, probably with the buxom secretary who sat in the corner. Heat suffused his face. These morons were no better than the tenure committee. Angry words coiled on the tip of his tongue.
“Out! I demanded no external fragrances. All of you out until you’ve rid yourself of that… that… stink.”
“What’s he talking about?” One of the ad men smoothed his freshly barbered hair with a manicured hand. His charcoal suit molded his lanky frame as if custom tailored. He made Wallace look frumpy and slovenly in his off-the-rack navy blue pinstripe suit.
“How can we appreciate a new dimension to life when all our noses are clogged with your artificial cologne?” Wallace loomed over the man and pierced him with the same gaze he used on stupid freshman who questioned his authority in the classroom.