The Experimentalist
Extracts from the Journal of Lucien Steinmann
by Christamar Varicella

September 22, 1981
Today is my Birthday. I am age 8. Today for my birthday my mom and dad gave me a chemistry set for a present. I was very excited until I found out the set did not include sulfuric acid. Then I became sad.

"Where is the sulfuric acid?" I asked.

No one knew the answer.

"Perhaps, it has been left out by mistake," I suggested. "We should call the company."

My mom said it was not a mistake and refused to call the company. I thought this was a great injustice. I could have used the acid to remove rust, unclog drains, and destroy ants. My dad said I was lucky to receive anything at all.

Another present I received was this journal. It is nice. Now I can record my experiments.

October 9, 1981
All attempts to manufacture sulfuric acid have failed. After discarding the useless chemistry set I received for my birthday, I have rummaged many times through our kitchen cabinet, and I have made many combinations, but have not achieved anything close to science. I tried mixing milk with orange juice, but these proved not to be the acid and base I thought they were. Later, I mixed all the spices and juices and ketchup together, and then added a dash of Tabasco sauce, but this did not produce so much as a puff of smoke. Not even a bubble. Afterwards, I tried to clean up the mess, but our cat, April, would not go near the stuff.

October 15, 1981
Our cat, April, is very sick. She coughs and gags like she is going to puke. Then, she pukes. My mom and dad think it is because of my latest experiments with household cleaning products. I think I finally made real science when I poured Pine cleaner into a bucket of bleach. The result was heat and smoke. Of course, I took precautions by wearing long rubber boots, and a raincoat, and a surgical mask, and a football helmet, but our cat, April, refused to wear any of these objects, especially the football helmet and surgical mask. It is not my fault our cat, April, refused to take safety precautions, but my parents think it is my fault. They said what I did was very dangerous and that I could have been badly hurt even though I told them I took safety precautions. Now, they have put a lock on the cabinet that holds our household chemicals.

"This is a tremendous setback for science," I said.

My parents said that science would survive.

October 18, 1981
Our cat, April, has come home from the veterinarian. As I suspected, April was not a victim of my experiment, but rather of feline leukemia. As of yet, no positive link has been established between my experiments and feline leukemia. And yet my parents refuse to unlock the cabinet containing chemicals. Where is the logic?

June 04, 1985
Today, Dad yelled at me. This is not an uncommon occurrence, but I feel I did not deserve to receive this particular verbal admonishment. I was only trying to help fix the lawnmower. It has been broken for almost two weeks. The crabgrass is out of control! My good intentions did not prevent Dad's criticisms. Completely ignoring the fact that I improved the state of the engine by adding gasoline, he chose to focus on the negative. He said I was not supposed to remove the engine from its chassis. How was I supposed to know? How also was I supposed to know not to rig the lawn mower engine onto my bicycle, thus transforming it into a motorbike? Dad said I destroyed the lawn mower, but I pointed out that all the parts remain intact, just not connected to one another. Dad then said I am not able to talk my way out of this one. He also said I am too young to ride a motorbike. Also, he showed no concern for whether or not chicks dig motorbikes.

August 17, 1987
Everyone is a sheep. All the kids at school have broken into cliques. Some of the kids who used to wear Izod collared shirts, multi-colored shorts, called "Jams", and Members Only jackets, now wear Polo collared shirts, and Kaki pants. They are called "preps." The other kids who used to wear Izod collared shirts, multi-colored "Jam" shorts, and Members Only jackets, now wear torn pants, and blue jeans jackets. They grow their hair long, and carve the letter "H" into their arms with Exacto knives and call themselves, "hoods." Junior High School is just like that book and movie, "The Outsiders," but with different names and ignoring the fact that most of us fall into neither category. We are called "nerds." I never realized that junior high school contained such a stringent social hierarchy, and now I find myself at the bottom.

September 11, 1987
For an experiment, I have attempted to "leap over" social boundaries and "fit in" with a more popular crowd. First, I had my mother purchase a blue jean jacket. I then proceeded to tear holes in it. Next, I tried to carve an "H" into my arm, but this proved too painful and I quickly aborted the plan after less than one vertical line. An easier solution, I decided, would be to take up smoking.

This morning at the bus stop, I stood near a group of "hoods" and asked one if I could "bum" a smoke. The boy cocked his head to one side and narrowed his eyelids in wry manner, although this may have been caused by smoke in his eyes. In any event, he relinquished the cigarette.

I sat smoking until I began to feel nauseated while a gang of "hoods" looked on. Richard Landis, the one who had loaned me the cigarette said I wasn't doing it right and proceeded to show me the correct way. He took a long drag and then breathed in deeply, like an old man drawing oxygen, holding the smoke in his lungs. "Do it like this," he said in a raspy voice, as the smoke was still locked in his chest cavity. It looked simple enough and I did as I was told. I pulled the smoke into my mouth, and held it there while summoning strength and courage. Then, in one giant breath, I sucked the smoke into my lungs.

I think I must be allergic to smoke or something because my lungs thoroughly rejected the smoke. The coughing was unstoppable. All the hoods laughed at me, and Richard punched me in the stomach for wasting his cigarette. I almost missed the bus.

Shunned by the "hoods," I remained in the shadows until after fourth period when I removed my jean jacket to reveal a Polo shirt, and sat beside a group of "preps" gathered around a lunch table. Immediately, I felt their eyes bearing down on me. Whispers followed and finally one of the troupe's leaders said, "Hey fag! Are you a fag, or something?"

"No," I said. "I mean, I don't think so."

"Then why are you wearing a pink shirt?" he asked.

"I don't know," I said. "My mom said it was on sale."

I don't know what I said, but everyone at the table began to laugh. I thought perhaps I was making inroads until Jerry Donavan, the leader who called me a fag walked over and asked me to stand up. When I obliged, he punched me in the stomach. "That's for being a fag, Fag," he said. Everyone laughed at my misfortune.

When I recovered, I staggered over to another table and paused to gather my wind. When I looked up, to my astonishment, I saw that I was seated at a table entirely populated with "black" kids. What a delightful surprise! Here, I thought, is a group of people who know what it is like to be rejected by society. I had not observed clicks such as "hoods," and "preps," among the "black" kids. I suspected that they had done away with such silly social conventions, preferring to exist amongst one another in a more egalitarian mode. Perhaps, they would take me into the fold. "Hi guys," I said with genuine cheerfulness because the rush of a new hypothesis had carried away fears of a ruptured abdomen. "What are you guys up to?" A long pause followed as every person at the table appeared to be sharing puzzled, yet amused glances, and then all at once, every person at the table, without fail, burst into laughter.

"Hi guys."

"Hi guys."

"Hi guys."

"What are you guys up to?"

They mimicked my words in nasal tones dripping with sarcasm. It was obvious they were laughing at my expense, and my face must have turned redder than any knuckle marks on my stomach ever could. I lowered my face toward the floor, and then made a rapid exit from the lunchroom as mean-spirited guffaws exploded behind me.

Throughout fifth and sixth periods, I remained distracted by my failed experiments, and a black cloud blotted out any rays of knowledge emitting from my teachers. It wasn't until a solitary bus ride home that I realized what my next experiment would be. I didn't need to join a preexisting clique. I could continue to study other social organizations from afar as a researcher might observe animals in the wild, but I would handpick and recruit my own clique. Over time, I hypothesized, our numbers would swell and our group would rival the "preps" and the "hoods." Now, I burned with something other than embarrassment, I burned with ambition.

January 13, 1987
After three months of struggle, I think I have finally converted someone into joining my clique, which I have dubbed, "The Experimentalists." Her name is Olive Smith, and I met her on the bus. She is a bit of an outcast in her own rite. She's somewhat shy, with long, wavy hair, a crooked nose, and an antisocial demeanor. She would just as soon "flip you the bird" as look at you. Fate assigned us a seat together and after examining a bumper sticker prominently displayed on her notebook, I managed to strike up a conversation about heavy metal music, a subject I know almost nothing about, but in which Olive is fluent.

Of course, I had seen the girl around the halls of our school and on the bus, but I had always mistakenly assumed her to be a "hood." She said she had considered joining the "hoods," but ultimately decided against it because, "She hates everyone equally." We talked the entire ride back to our neighborhood, and when I noticed her stop approaching, in my excitement, I blurted out my plan to start a new clique called "The Experimentalists," and would she like to join? A contemplative expression passed over her face, and I heard a sound like a burst of steam just before the door to the school bus opened. "Sure," she answered. "I mean whatever."

January 14, 1987
Olive and I were discussing who else we could recruit to join our clique when Olive pointed out that all the people we were considering were normally considered "nerds" or "geeks" or "weirdoes" and no matter how many we added to our clique, we'd still be considered "nerds" or "geeks" or "weirdoes." Instantly, I knew she was right, and my interest in the experiment waned.

April 20, 1987
Every day, I walk Olive home from school from the bus stop. We have taken to spending afternoons together listening to heavy metal music. My favorite, I think, is the group "Iron Maiden," which I found, to my surprise, is influenced heavily by opera. The group is from England, and the lead singer is also a champion at fencing. Who would have thought?

May 30, 1987
The last day of school. Olive kissed me. Or rather, while we were in her room playing records and video games, she suddenly stopped and asked, "Are you going to kiss me ever, or what?" And I did. And we used tongues.

It wasn't what I expected. While engaged in "French kissing," the sheer wetness involved conjured up an image of two eels frolicking in a moist cave. When I mentioned this to Olive, she said I was weird, and an awkward pause followed. Then, we continued kissing.

July 28, 1987
This has been an eventful summer, and Olive has turned out to be quite the experimentalist. Many soothing assurances were required that my plans were purely in the interest of science before Olive Smith smiled and took off her shirt. She then allowed me to feel her lumps. I must admit, at that time, I was interested in more than science. I continued to feel her lumps until we heard her garage door opening-her parents had arrived home unexpectedly, thus ending the experiment. Hopefully next time we will enjoy a more controlled setting.

July 31, 1987
This morning, I went over to Olive's house, as is my custom. Her big sister was home, but she was talking on the phone and did not seem to notice us. Olive said we should go to the garage, and I said OK. Once we were in the garage, Olive asked me what I wanted to do, and I said, "I don't know, what do you want to do," and she said, "I don't know," and then there was a pause, and then she said, "I'll show you mine if you show me yours," and I said, "show me what?" And she showed me.

I felt a little afraid, and my face felt flushed, and there was tingling everywhere. Olive laughed and pointed at the front of my pants, which had been pushed away from my body. I was embarrassed. I did not want to tell her that I was not sure what to do next, but she asked in a whisper, "Do you want to put it in me?" and I nodded, and she said, "Come over here," and I did.

"First you should rub me," she said, and then she showed me where to rub her. At first, the area was dry, but after some prompting it became sticky, and then more sticky, and then it felt like an underground stream was draining down to that one area, like maybe somewhere inside her a glacier was melting, and all the water trickled down to the mouth of the reservoir. Meanwhile, all the blood in my body flowed southward except for the blood in my penis, which flowed northward. Olive unraveled a sleeping bag and lay down on it, and I lay down on her, and she inserted my penis into her vagina, and then all the seminal fluid exploded out of my penis and into Olive Smith, and she said it was OK because her mother gave her birth control pills on account of an unrelated medical condition of which I forgot to ask for details.

August 15, 1987
I feel it would improve my sexual understanding and development to be able to refer to a detailed sketch or photograph of the female anatomy. I asked Olive if I might photograph or sketch her detailed anatomy, but she refused to pose even for a simple drawing. During our daily experiments I try to sneak glances at the important vicinity, but Olive quickly becomes embarrassed and covers up. She even threatens to call off the experiments altogether. Still, I feel the urge to photograph or draw. My illustrative skills are rudimentary, almost comical. This was the best I could do from memory:

Olive's vagina
(Illustration Redacted)
By Lucien Steinmann

September 01, 1987
Four days ago, I went by Olive's house as usual. Her sister answered the door and said she wasn't home, so I left. The next day, I went by her house and again her sister answered the door and said she wasn't home, and I said, "OK," but this time I asked when she would be home. Her sister said she did not know. I asked did she know where Olive was, and she answered, "I don't know. A friend's house, maybe." I thought this was unusual as Olive has no other friends, but as I walked home I took out the picture of Olive's vagina, and it brought me comfort. Then, yesterday, I called her house, and Olive answered and I talked to her as if everything was normal, but she was very quiet. After a particularly long pause in the conversation, Olive said that we didn't have to see each other all the time. I said I liked seeing her all the time, but she said she did not like seeing me all the time, and then she hung up the phone.

September 8, 1987
I saw Olive Smith at school holding hands in the hall with another boy, a low-level hood named Arthur.

September 18, 1987
These are truly trying times. I have attracted trouble both at home and at school. Yesterday, during gym class, while "dressing out" for class, some boys were comparing sexual experiences. Bert Stillman claimed to have fornicated with Pam Reardon, and instantly the amount of respect he received from the other boys elevated substantially. The other boys shared their experiences, which ranged from "2nd base" to a "home run," though I was unclear as to what these sports metaphors represented. One boy claimed to have a girlfriend in Canada, but no one believed him. Eventually, everyone looked at me, and I admitted to having engaged in intercourse with Olive Smith. A boy called "Smokey" accused me of lying since Olive is known as Arthur Shepherd's girlfriend, but I pointed to the drawing of her vagina as proof. He said, "Let me see that." Hesitantly, I relinquished the illustration. He then turned over the evidence to Coach Phillips, who sent me to the principal's office. Now, I have been suspended from school. My biggest mistake, in retrospect, was signing the drawing, as this removed plausible deniability. My parents were understandably angry, and though I bravely defended my pursuit of knowledge, they said that my "in the name of science" argument had grown stale a long time ago, especially considering my grades, which have fallen into mediocrity. Olive, I assume, is also upset, though I am no longer allowed within a hundred feet of her according to a signed court order that was delivered to our house this afternoon, nor am I allowed to show anyone drawings of her vagina.

I wondered aloud how such an order could be enforced when Olive and I share three classes together, but my parents talked to her parents and then informed me that Olive has withdrawn from school, and has been sent away to stay with relatives at an undisclosed location. I realize now that, not only should I have left the drawing unsigned; I never should have brought the drawing to school. I never should have made the drawing in the first place, as it is so primitive it offers minimal educational value.

Olive was my only friend. Now, I have no friends, and everyone thinks I am a liar and a weirdo. Also, no girls will talk to me because they are afraid I will make drawings of their vaginas.

March 17, 1990
Many years have passed since I began this journal, and yet I still have no idea why people do the things they do. Sometimes I do not even know why I do the things I do. I believe I am at my best when I am in a chemistry or physics lab, and do not have to be around people at all, yet I am still drawn toward my social experiments, though, as of yet, these experiments have yielded little information of value.

Recently, I've begun spending time with a new group of people, collectively known as "stoners," aptly named for their love of smoking marijuana. In my opinion, they represent the least judgmental of all the cliques in my high school. One of their members is named Paul Tarson. He seems to be the leader—he is usually the one to procure the marijuana, though he smokes a smaller amount relative to some of the other members of the group.

An interesting side note on Paul is that he has not one, but two girlfriends, neither of whom knows about the other's relationship with Paul. I stopped by Paul's house for a visit yesterday, and to my surprise saw both young women sitting next to one another on the sofa. Paul stepped outside to talk to me. He couldn't help laughing at his own bravado. "I told each one that the other is my cousin," he snickered. "And they both bought it." I asked him if I could come inside but he said no because he had to run down the street to "get with" a third girl. I expressed astonishment that he would leave the other two girls in a room together where they might discover his duplicity. Paul did not seem concerned.

Another person I have come to know is called Siam Sam, though I do not believe this is his real name. He showed me how to smoke marijuana out of a 2-liter bottle submerged in a waste paper basket. He calls the apparatus a Gravity Bong, though I believe Vacuum Bong would be more apt, since a vacuum is created that sucks the smoke into the bottle (from a metal bowl wedged in a hole in the cap) as it is gradually raised out of the water. Siam Sam said Gravity Bong sounds better.

Other people come in and out of the group, but we spend most of our spare time at Paul or Sam's house. Also, the three of us share another connection-we will all be attending the same public university in the fall, and we have agreed to look for an apartment or house together.

My dreams of attending an Ivy League school died long ago, but I still intend to major in one of the hard sciences, most likely chemistry, biology, astronomy, or physics and I will minor in sociology or psychology.

April 13, 1990
After close observation of gravity bong usage, I came up with an idea to filter some of the harsh chemicals out of the smoke by attaching a stem and short piece of tubing to the underside of the bowl. When the jug is lifted, the vacuum draws the smoke through the tube, and filters it through the water. After a quick trip to the hardware store and a few modifications, the new bong is up and running and judging by everyone's reactions, it is a huge success. The rush of scientific achievement brought back memories of my younger days playing around with household cleaners. That, and due to the fact that this is my first invention, I decided to include the schematics in my journal on the following several pages: [click here]