Playing Possum
This is literally the first thing the Epilepsy Foundation tells you to avoid.
Several months into our first year of grad school, a classmate of mine - let’s call her Lisa - convinced a few of her fledgling scientists to spend a Friday night stargazing at the University’s observatory. The interested parties were a motley mix: Lisa and I were joined by Pavlo (a Ukrainian guy who should be the subject of several other stories) and Kwon (a friendly Korean student with a severely limited command of English).
For this story, it helps to know that Lisa was a stunning girl: trim, long blonde hair, and strong angular features. She also had epilepsy; we’d become friends in part because I treated her same as I would anyone else. Nothing was ever sacred, including epilepsy jokes. One of my favorite routines for Lisa was to spew out terrible medical wisdom for how I would manage acute seizures. I would earnestly report that a spoon between her teeth would snuff out the electrical activity in her brain, or casually mention how wedging a wallet in a seizure victim’s mouth was the proper way to prevent them from swallowing their own tongue. Each time I’d spout off these horrible wives’ tales, Lisa would laugh nervously and I would shoot her a puzzled look.
For this story, it helps to know that Lisa was a stunning girl: trim, long blonde hair, and strong angular features. She also had epilepsy; we’d become friends in part because I treated her same as I would anyone else. Nothing was ever sacred, including epilepsy jokes. One of my favorite routines for Lisa was to spew out terrible medical wisdom for how I would manage acute seizures. I would earnestly report that a spoon between her teeth would snuff out the electrical activity in her brain, or casually mention how wedging a wallet in a seizure victim’s mouth was the proper way to prevent them from swallowing their own tongue. Each time I’d spout off these horrible wives’ tales, Lisa would laugh nervously and I would shoot her a puzzled look.
This creature is proof god does not exist.
The campus observatory was thrust into a remote corner of campus, built as far from light pollution as possible. We arrived shortly after midnight, only to find the facility closed for the evening. Understandably disappointed, the four of us tromped off, bound for my car parked roughly half a mile away.
Strolling through the University of Florida campus late at night, it's impossible to ignore the cacophony of sounds from the multitude of wildlife that crawled and flitted unseen through the dense vegetation; in addition to the gator ponds the university drew its nickname from, there were all manner of creatures, both domestic and wild. In addition to quad squirrels and raccoons (known universally as “trash pandas”), the wilder animals included armadillos, skunks and opossums. The latter are walking nightmares, a raccoon-sized ferret whose terrifying countenance is matched by its disposition. For those of you who’ve never had the pleasure of meeting one, I can report that possums are nasty bitches: they have sharp teeth, eat rats for breakfast, and sleep upside-down in trees (where they are well-positioned to drop onto unsuspecting prey like ninjas). They also like to scavenge trash bins, which frequently thrusts them into close encounters with unsuspecting suburbanites. To quote a great unknown poet, one cannot prepare for a possum encounter, one can only endure it.
Strolling through the University of Florida campus late at night, it's impossible to ignore the cacophony of sounds from the multitude of wildlife that crawled and flitted unseen through the dense vegetation; in addition to the gator ponds the university drew its nickname from, there were all manner of creatures, both domestic and wild. In addition to quad squirrels and raccoons (known universally as “trash pandas”), the wilder animals included armadillos, skunks and opossums. The latter are walking nightmares, a raccoon-sized ferret whose terrifying countenance is matched by its disposition. For those of you who’ve never had the pleasure of meeting one, I can report that possums are nasty bitches: they have sharp teeth, eat rats for breakfast, and sleep upside-down in trees (where they are well-positioned to drop onto unsuspecting prey like ninjas). They also like to scavenge trash bins, which frequently thrusts them into close encounters with unsuspecting suburbanites. To quote a great unknown poet, one cannot prepare for a possum encounter, one can only endure it.
The other major risk factor for seizures (especially if you're a Korean pop star).
As we reached the edge of one of the ancillary paths that ran through campus, a possum the size of a small bear lumbered out of a dumpster not twenty feet in front of our group. For the male members of our groups, the occurrence elicited surprised cursing in three different languages. For Lisa, however, the possum’s sudden appearance coincided with (or possibly precipitated) the arrival a grand mal seizure. She emitted a sound best described as 50% scream, 50% violent exhale, and abruptly pitched forward, face-first, onto the concrete sidewalk, where she began writhing uncontrollably.
Within a second or two we realized what was happening. Immediately, Kwon and I scooped the still-spasming Lisa off the sidewalk and carried her to the grass, where we rolled her onto her back. Lisa was unresponsive, save for jerky resistance each time we attempted to assess her.
The episode lasted another few seconds, ending abruptly as it began. It was as though a circuit breaker had been thrown in her head. Kwon, Pavlo and I exchange worried glances. Lisa was still, temporarily lost to the world. Her eyes were open, but no one was home. A tiny line of spittle formed at the corner of her mouth. Mindful of her dignity, I brushed it away under the pretense of examining her injuries, which were significant. Unlike a fall caused by loss of balance, Lisa had face-planted without putting so much as a hand out to catch herself; her orbitals were scraped and she had long, angry gashes cut into her jaw and cheek. Subsequent convulsions had ground bits of dirt and asphalt chips into the abrasions. Her leather jacket had been ripped at the shoulder and scuffed at the elbow, but appeared to have spared her further bodily injury. The good news was that she was breathing and appeared to be, you know, still alive.
Within a second or two we realized what was happening. Immediately, Kwon and I scooped the still-spasming Lisa off the sidewalk and carried her to the grass, where we rolled her onto her back. Lisa was unresponsive, save for jerky resistance each time we attempted to assess her.
The episode lasted another few seconds, ending abruptly as it began. It was as though a circuit breaker had been thrown in her head. Kwon, Pavlo and I exchange worried glances. Lisa was still, temporarily lost to the world. Her eyes were open, but no one was home. A tiny line of spittle formed at the corner of her mouth. Mindful of her dignity, I brushed it away under the pretense of examining her injuries, which were significant. Unlike a fall caused by loss of balance, Lisa had face-planted without putting so much as a hand out to catch herself; her orbitals were scraped and she had long, angry gashes cut into her jaw and cheek. Subsequent convulsions had ground bits of dirt and asphalt chips into the abrasions. Her leather jacket had been ripped at the shoulder and scuffed at the elbow, but appeared to have spared her further bodily injury. The good news was that she was breathing and appeared to be, you know, still alive.
A few minutes passed. Ever babysat a seizure victim? It’s not as exciting as you’d think - with Lisa out like a light, a sort of lull formed. None of us knew when she would be coming back. Calling an ambulance seemed prudent, albeit possibly unnecessary.
In the end, I broke the impasse. “Kwon, why don’t you and Pavlo go grab my car and bring it back,” I suggested, tossing him the keys, “I’ll sit with her ‘til you get back.”
As I sat next to Lisa in near-total darkness, I remembered my joke about putting something in a seizing person’s mouth (get your mind out of the gutters, perverts - it's not that kind of story). Never one to pass on a prank, I fished out my wallet, imagining Lisa’s first sight upon reawakening being me poised to stuff said billfold into her gob. As I waited for her to come around, I idly rummaged through my wallet, discarding old coupons and evaluating the waning integrity of a prophylactic purchased during more optimistic times.
Then we hit an unanticipated wrinkle. It was Friday night; the campus was full of undergraduates moving in pairs or small groups, each headed to the bars or a house party. One such couple rounded the corner and took in what I imagine was quite the sight: a pretty blonde with a battered face and tiny miniskirt lying unconscious next to a six-foot-five man who appeared to be going through her wallet.
I froze. The couple saw me and froze. Lisa continued freezing. It was awkward*.
I imagined they would attack me, try to drive me off. Fortunately, real people are rarely heroes. The couple had sort of skidded to a stop when they spotted me. They exchanged worried glances and murmured something between them, seemingly debating whether to turn around or keep going. After another uncertain step, the pair apparently made the decision to rally forth, skirting around me as though I were a particularly dangerous houseplant. Moments later, a pack of chattering sorority girls passed, with similar reaction. “Possum seizure,” I explained, pointing to Lisa. “She’ll be up in a minute.” If nothing else, they could tell the cops I was a charming rapist.
Six people had now passed my inadvertent tableau, meaning there was roughly a 99.6% chance that the cops had been called. I checked my watch, eager for Kwon and Pavlo to return with the car or, barring that, for Lisa to come to long enough for us to perambulate ourselves somewhere else. On cue, her eyes fluttered open at the exact moment I heard a lone siren in the distance.
“Hey gal,” I greeted Lisa. "Feel like getting going?"
Lisa groaned and shook her head. “Funny stuff, asshole,” she mumbled. For a moment, I thought Lisa had turned on me, before realizing she’d noticed the long-forgotten wallet I'd been dangling in front of her. At least she'd gotten the joke.
“Never mind that,” I said, tucking away my billfold. “Let’s sit you up, shall we?”
In the end, I broke the impasse. “Kwon, why don’t you and Pavlo go grab my car and bring it back,” I suggested, tossing him the keys, “I’ll sit with her ‘til you get back.”
As I sat next to Lisa in near-total darkness, I remembered my joke about putting something in a seizing person’s mouth (get your mind out of the gutters, perverts - it's not that kind of story). Never one to pass on a prank, I fished out my wallet, imagining Lisa’s first sight upon reawakening being me poised to stuff said billfold into her gob. As I waited for her to come around, I idly rummaged through my wallet, discarding old coupons and evaluating the waning integrity of a prophylactic purchased during more optimistic times.
Then we hit an unanticipated wrinkle. It was Friday night; the campus was full of undergraduates moving in pairs or small groups, each headed to the bars or a house party. One such couple rounded the corner and took in what I imagine was quite the sight: a pretty blonde with a battered face and tiny miniskirt lying unconscious next to a six-foot-five man who appeared to be going through her wallet.
I froze. The couple saw me and froze. Lisa continued freezing. It was awkward*.
I imagined they would attack me, try to drive me off. Fortunately, real people are rarely heroes. The couple had sort of skidded to a stop when they spotted me. They exchanged worried glances and murmured something between them, seemingly debating whether to turn around or keep going. After another uncertain step, the pair apparently made the decision to rally forth, skirting around me as though I were a particularly dangerous houseplant. Moments later, a pack of chattering sorority girls passed, with similar reaction. “Possum seizure,” I explained, pointing to Lisa. “She’ll be up in a minute.” If nothing else, they could tell the cops I was a charming rapist.
Six people had now passed my inadvertent tableau, meaning there was roughly a 99.6% chance that the cops had been called. I checked my watch, eager for Kwon and Pavlo to return with the car or, barring that, for Lisa to come to long enough for us to perambulate ourselves somewhere else. On cue, her eyes fluttered open at the exact moment I heard a lone siren in the distance.
“Hey gal,” I greeted Lisa. "Feel like getting going?"
Lisa groaned and shook her head. “Funny stuff, asshole,” she mumbled. For a moment, I thought Lisa had turned on me, before realizing she’d noticed the long-forgotten wallet I'd been dangling in front of her. At least she'd gotten the joke.
“Never mind that,” I said, tucking away my billfold. “Let’s sit you up, shall we?”
If you haven't seen this movie, stop reading this story and go watch it.
As the sound of the siren intensified, Kwon piloted my car into the lot. Later, I learned that neither he nor Pavlo had a driver’s license at the time. Evidently, Kwon’s childhood experiences of steering a car while sitting on his uncle’s lap trumped Pavlo’s driving resume.
Lisa was rapidly scooped up and deposited in the backseat, whereupon I took the wheel and sped off at an unsafe rate of speed. Once we’d made it a safe distance, the question of what to do about Lisa’s injuries was revisited. Lisa was adamant we not go to the hospital. This is apparently a big problem for epileptics; every time Lisa had a seizure in public someone would call 911 and she’d wind up paying for an expensive ambulance ride. Nevertheless, in spite her protestations that she was fine, Lisa was still more than a little foggy. Her words were slightly slurred, and it wasn't clear just how hard she’d hit her head when she collapsed.
As a compromise, I suggested we take her to my lab, where we had a first aid kit and alcohol for disinfecting cuts. At this late hour, the entire building would be deserted, sparing us unwanted questions. This last point was particularly important to me, as I’d only joined the lab a few weeks earlier.
Lisa was able to move under her own power by the time we reached my building on the southeast corner of campus. Using keys I'd received only a few days earlier, I let the four of us into my lab. We sat Lisa on a table in the middle of the large central workspace and set to treating her scrapes.
Under the harsh fluorescent lights, Lisa's injuries were even more apparent. The main threat to her modeling career were two nasty scrapes along her jaw and around her eye. Patching them up would involve tugging tiny bits of asphalt and stone from where they’d imbedded. "This is gonna hurt like a bitch," I said, using my best bedside manner.
Remember the scene in The 40-Year-Old Virgin when Steve Carrell’s character is getting his chest waxed? This was much worse; each time I touched Lisa's face she released a torrent of profanity containing violent imagery. After three or four passes of the alcohol swab, Lisa abruptly demanded the Kwon and Pavlo each take one of her hands. They obliged, though their matching grimaces suggested Lisa was doing an admirable job of communicating her pain level through grip pressure.
Lisa was rapidly scooped up and deposited in the backseat, whereupon I took the wheel and sped off at an unsafe rate of speed. Once we’d made it a safe distance, the question of what to do about Lisa’s injuries was revisited. Lisa was adamant we not go to the hospital. This is apparently a big problem for epileptics; every time Lisa had a seizure in public someone would call 911 and she’d wind up paying for an expensive ambulance ride. Nevertheless, in spite her protestations that she was fine, Lisa was still more than a little foggy. Her words were slightly slurred, and it wasn't clear just how hard she’d hit her head when she collapsed.
As a compromise, I suggested we take her to my lab, where we had a first aid kit and alcohol for disinfecting cuts. At this late hour, the entire building would be deserted, sparing us unwanted questions. This last point was particularly important to me, as I’d only joined the lab a few weeks earlier.
Lisa was able to move under her own power by the time we reached my building on the southeast corner of campus. Using keys I'd received only a few days earlier, I let the four of us into my lab. We sat Lisa on a table in the middle of the large central workspace and set to treating her scrapes.
Under the harsh fluorescent lights, Lisa's injuries were even more apparent. The main threat to her modeling career were two nasty scrapes along her jaw and around her eye. Patching them up would involve tugging tiny bits of asphalt and stone from where they’d imbedded. "This is gonna hurt like a bitch," I said, using my best bedside manner.
Remember the scene in The 40-Year-Old Virgin when Steve Carrell’s character is getting his chest waxed? This was much worse; each time I touched Lisa's face she released a torrent of profanity containing violent imagery. After three or four passes of the alcohol swab, Lisa abruptly demanded the Kwon and Pavlo each take one of her hands. They obliged, though their matching grimaces suggested Lisa was doing an admirable job of communicating her pain level through grip pressure.
After the better part of an hour, I was almost done. I pried one last fragment of stone from Lisa’s cheek, eliciting a scream from the patient and audible sighs of relief from her two sherpas.
“Alright, that’s about it,” I announced, checking my watch and stifling a yawn. It was getting pretty late. “Doubt we'll forget this night anytime soon.”
Before anyone could reply, the unmistakable thrump of key being inserted into lock rang out. The main door to the lab swung open and in walked Oleg, a 40-year-old Russian postdoc who I barely knew. Now he was here, at two AM on a Saturday morning taking in the four of us.
Tactical analysis: If anything, this situation was worse than the one by the dumpster. Just before the door opened, Lisa had loudly compared the removal of the last pebble to a violent sex act involving a sea urchin, at a volume that couldn’t have been missed from the hallway. Things didn’t look any better once the door was thrown open: It looked as though Lisa had been beaten to a pulp, possibly by the three men standing over her. In fact, Kwon and Pavlo were still holding Lisa’s hands, ostensibly restraining her, while I towered over her like a medieval dungeon master.
Oleg’s baby face betrayed his shock. “What’s going on?” he asked in his thick Russian accent.
The real gravity of what was at stake hit hard. I had only recently joined this research group. While I didn’t work for Oleg, he was a trusted member of the team; if word of this little peccadillo got back to my boss, there was a good chance I would be shown the door.
I looked to Pavlo and Kwon for inspiration. They hastily released their grip on Lisa and shot me looks nominating me as the group’s spokesman. In the seconds since Oleg entered, I'd immediately discounted telling the truth. Who would believe it - even if Lisa (who was currently goggling at Oleg along with Kwon and Pavlo) backed my account, it would look as though she was being intimidated into going along with my story. My backup plans were equally pathetic. I thought there was a small chance I could intimidate Oleg into silence. I imagined myself staring daggers at him and saying (in a gravelly voice) Go in peace; the spider’s already caught tonight’s fly. If that didn’t work, I could fake a seizure (having seen one recently, I felt I could pull it off convincingly), then sneak off in the ensuing confusion. I’d lose my job and two years of school, but I could probably re-enter society eventually, after living off the grid for a few years.
The internal debate between idiotic and merely inappropriate courses of action turned out to be helpful. Before I could say anything or get my shake on, another set of footsteps clacked down the hallway. Oleg reacted badly, glancing nervously from us as he made a spastic, abortive move to block whoever was coming from entering.
Before he could reach the door, an unfamiliar woman a good twenty years older than Oleg strolled in as though she owned the place. She was plump, matronly, and took our presence in stride. Regarding the scene aplomb, she quietly said something into Oleg's ear. As she spoke, one of her leathery arms snaked out and encircled Oleg’s forearm.
Oleg seemed equally flustered by her presence as ours. In a low voice, he spoke to the woman in rapid-fire Russian. The madam appeared somewhat hurt as she grudgingly withdrew from Oleg’s arm. “Hey guys,” Oleg said, turning to us and breaking into a shaky, panicked grin. “This… is my… mother. I am… giving her tour… of lab.” He said this in sweaty English, leaving long pauses that just screamed improvisation.
Although my friends and I have rarely spoken of this incident, I’d bet none of us really believed this strange woman was Oleg’s mother. Even if it was, the notion of giving her a lab tour in the middle of the night was inexplicable. Almost as inexplicable as three men restraining a battered woman in a research lab.
At about the same moment, both Oleg and I realized that we simply didn’t give a damn. The fact that Oleg had probably been planning to make love to an aging Muscovite on my desk was far less troubling than explaining myself, as was Oleg's desire to confront an international gang that battered and imprisoned innocent women. All either of us wanted was to go about our business and pretend as though none of this had ever happened.
Without any of the conversation demanded by polite society, Oleg and his “momma” maneuvered past us into the lab, circling wide to avoid stepping on the sea of bloody gauze. As they squeezed past, Oleg and I exchanged the tiniest of nods. The compact was signed: don’t ask questions and keep your mouth shut, and I’ll do the same. Plausible deniability and all that.
“Close one,” I murmured as they left the room.
“You cannot trust Russians,” Pavlo announced. Everyone turned to him, awaiting elaboration, but he merely nodded as though he had delivered God’s word.
Postscript
We kept our word - neither Oleg or I ever reported the encounter; I even waited to write this story until he no longer worked for the same group. On a possibly-related note: years later, I caught Oleg watching specialty porn in the lab.
*When I tell this story, people usually interject with some great idea about how to smooth things over. I tell them to either invent a time machine or shut the fuck up. What do you want me to do – change the narrative to accommodate your idea?
“Alright, that’s about it,” I announced, checking my watch and stifling a yawn. It was getting pretty late. “Doubt we'll forget this night anytime soon.”
Before anyone could reply, the unmistakable thrump of key being inserted into lock rang out. The main door to the lab swung open and in walked Oleg, a 40-year-old Russian postdoc who I barely knew. Now he was here, at two AM on a Saturday morning taking in the four of us.
Tactical analysis: If anything, this situation was worse than the one by the dumpster. Just before the door opened, Lisa had loudly compared the removal of the last pebble to a violent sex act involving a sea urchin, at a volume that couldn’t have been missed from the hallway. Things didn’t look any better once the door was thrown open: It looked as though Lisa had been beaten to a pulp, possibly by the three men standing over her. In fact, Kwon and Pavlo were still holding Lisa’s hands, ostensibly restraining her, while I towered over her like a medieval dungeon master.
Oleg’s baby face betrayed his shock. “What’s going on?” he asked in his thick Russian accent.
The real gravity of what was at stake hit hard. I had only recently joined this research group. While I didn’t work for Oleg, he was a trusted member of the team; if word of this little peccadillo got back to my boss, there was a good chance I would be shown the door.
I looked to Pavlo and Kwon for inspiration. They hastily released their grip on Lisa and shot me looks nominating me as the group’s spokesman. In the seconds since Oleg entered, I'd immediately discounted telling the truth. Who would believe it - even if Lisa (who was currently goggling at Oleg along with Kwon and Pavlo) backed my account, it would look as though she was being intimidated into going along with my story. My backup plans were equally pathetic. I thought there was a small chance I could intimidate Oleg into silence. I imagined myself staring daggers at him and saying (in a gravelly voice) Go in peace; the spider’s already caught tonight’s fly. If that didn’t work, I could fake a seizure (having seen one recently, I felt I could pull it off convincingly), then sneak off in the ensuing confusion. I’d lose my job and two years of school, but I could probably re-enter society eventually, after living off the grid for a few years.
The internal debate between idiotic and merely inappropriate courses of action turned out to be helpful. Before I could say anything or get my shake on, another set of footsteps clacked down the hallway. Oleg reacted badly, glancing nervously from us as he made a spastic, abortive move to block whoever was coming from entering.
Before he could reach the door, an unfamiliar woman a good twenty years older than Oleg strolled in as though she owned the place. She was plump, matronly, and took our presence in stride. Regarding the scene aplomb, she quietly said something into Oleg's ear. As she spoke, one of her leathery arms snaked out and encircled Oleg’s forearm.
Oleg seemed equally flustered by her presence as ours. In a low voice, he spoke to the woman in rapid-fire Russian. The madam appeared somewhat hurt as she grudgingly withdrew from Oleg’s arm. “Hey guys,” Oleg said, turning to us and breaking into a shaky, panicked grin. “This… is my… mother. I am… giving her tour… of lab.” He said this in sweaty English, leaving long pauses that just screamed improvisation.
Although my friends and I have rarely spoken of this incident, I’d bet none of us really believed this strange woman was Oleg’s mother. Even if it was, the notion of giving her a lab tour in the middle of the night was inexplicable. Almost as inexplicable as three men restraining a battered woman in a research lab.
At about the same moment, both Oleg and I realized that we simply didn’t give a damn. The fact that Oleg had probably been planning to make love to an aging Muscovite on my desk was far less troubling than explaining myself, as was Oleg's desire to confront an international gang that battered and imprisoned innocent women. All either of us wanted was to go about our business and pretend as though none of this had ever happened.
Without any of the conversation demanded by polite society, Oleg and his “momma” maneuvered past us into the lab, circling wide to avoid stepping on the sea of bloody gauze. As they squeezed past, Oleg and I exchanged the tiniest of nods. The compact was signed: don’t ask questions and keep your mouth shut, and I’ll do the same. Plausible deniability and all that.
“Close one,” I murmured as they left the room.
“You cannot trust Russians,” Pavlo announced. Everyone turned to him, awaiting elaboration, but he merely nodded as though he had delivered God’s word.
Postscript
We kept our word - neither Oleg or I ever reported the encounter; I even waited to write this story until he no longer worked for the same group. On a possibly-related note: years later, I caught Oleg watching specialty porn in the lab.
*When I tell this story, people usually interject with some great idea about how to smooth things over. I tell them to either invent a time machine or shut the fuck up. What do you want me to do – change the narrative to accommodate your idea?