“Good question. I always had a weak spot for science, I guess because of my father, but mainly I saw it as another way to make a buck. I figured I could get support for anything scientific if people thought they would benefit from the results. They forget about the gap between the science and the reality of having it be useful.”

He glances at the farm girl. “If only she were real.”

Mr. Mellows continues.

“Anyway, I thought I would challenge myself and start a biotech company. I didn’t know any medicine or molecular biology or fancy stuff like that, but I knew people dreamed of cures to nasty diseases, everlasting life and eternal happiness. And that’s what biotech was for me, at that time, anyway: promises. I didn’t pick a stereotypical problem like cancer or blindness or diabetes. No sir. Those obvious areas were overcrowded. Competition’s a nuisance. I wanted to solve everyday issues that people didn’t realize were problems. I settled on a rather silly idea when I think of it now, but it worked, however not as I expected it to. Life is full of curve balls. I wanted to make sweat smell good, appealing, sexy. I know one can simply put on cologne or perfume, but I figured people would like to find a way to make their own sweat appealing rather than cover it up. Vanity, you know. I got $50,000,000 of venture capital from the Miss Universe Foundation, and I established a company in Florida, where they sweat a lot. That was good for another $10 million. At first, I called my company ‘Sniffme’.”

“What happened?”

“Never touched the market I targeted. Had to change the name. Too bad. I liked it. My group of researchers busted their collective ass to find a chemical that could be ingested to make sweat produce a sweet aroma, but nothing really caught on.”

“So, you lost money?”

“Of course not! We came up with a cream made from crushed cranberries, or was it strawberries? Whatever. Anyway, it attracted lobsters. Lobsters are a big industry in Florida. Do you know that lobsters have noses? Well, I didn’t either, but they do, and they are attracted to good smells, good for them that is. We caught them by the thousands and made a ton of money since everyone loves to eat them. I changed the name of the company to ‘Taste’em’. I met a scientist who spent his whole life studying lobster noses and he never made a cent. Actually, he begged for money to continue his research by writing grants all the time. Scientists are weird that way. I always went where the money is rather than try to have the money come to me. You can write that down too.”

“Yes, sir,” said the reporter as he jotted down ‘went where the money is’.

A musical sound distracts Mr. Mellows. He reaches into the inside pocket of his suit jacket that is hanging on the back of his chair.

“Hello,” he says into the cell phone. “Senator Birch’s office? I’ll wait.”

He excuses himself and walks to the far end of the room.

“Yes, Senator, this is Mr. Mellows. Good to hear from you. It was such a pleasure having lunch with you last month. No, no, I have all the time in the world. You’re not disturbing me in the least. What’s on your mind?”

Silence, except for the low rat-a-tat-tat of syllables flowing from the receiver, and the “uh-ha, yes, umm, interesting, ahh, yes, of course…. hmmmmm, absolutely,” uttered by Mr. Mellows.

The reporter waits, looks around and fixates on the print on the wall. His pupils dilate. He puts down his pen, leans back in his chair and smiles. He looks relaxed for the first time.

“It’s a wonderful idea, Senator. Increasing the visibility of steel will certainly harden the resolve of the American people. You can rely on USC. We must not let terrorism frighten us. Steel is impenetrable, resilient, shiny, strong. It says don’t mess with me. A model suburban showcase of steel houses with built in steel furniture powered by the steel-grass lawn says, ‘Bring industry back to America’. What an idea! The houses will be bomb proof, tough as…as…won’t need repairs. Yes sir, with your support and taxpayers’ money, we can do it. What’s that? You need cost estimates and a slogan before the President writes his campaign speech next week? No problem. Consider it done. And thank you sir, for your confidence, support, for your great idea. It’s an inspiration. America owes you a debt. How about lunch next week, sir? Oh, of course, of course, I understand. We’ll lay low. Until later. Bye.”

Click.

“Excuse me for another minute, Bob. That’s correct, isn’t it? Bob? I need to call my deputy.”

Mr. Mellows is alert, as before battle. He calls his office.

“Hello. Stacey, get Karl. Quick. Karl? Cancel all meetings for the next two weeks. I don’t give a royal damn what we agreed on, just listen. Remember the steel family houses? It’s no joke now. Quiet! I told you to listen to me. I’ll tell you more later. Damn it, Karl, you’re working for me. That’s better. Talked to our Senator just now; he swallowed. Who would have guessed? There’s big money here. Get Sam and his crew to come up with blueprints for steel houses in which everything is steel: toilets, tables, chairs, everything. Yes. I know, it’s crazy. Don’t argue. Tell the econ guys to gear up for cost estimates. And we need a catchy slogan. See you within the hour. Don’t breathe a word of this to anyone. I told you things always work out for the best. It’s all about having a positive attitude. You pessimists slay me.”

Mr. Mellows replaces the phone in his jacket pocket. He re-buttons his collar and tightens his tie.

The reporter writes ‘positive attitude, don’t be pessimistic’ in bold letters and underlines it three times.

“Let’s finish up, young man. I’ve got to leave in a few minutes.”