But I’m more than the version I was at the Sweetwater. Or maybe it’s that I’m less. Less confident. Less spontaneous. Less fun.
And it’s just a matter of time before CJ figures that out.
Inside the building, I stomp my feet and give Betsy, the part-time receptionist who I’ve somehow already offended, a nod good morning, then turn right and head for my office.
There are parts of being a wildlife biologist that I love, and parts I don’t. Being in the field, observing and documenting, assessing the natural world, feeling like I’m a part of it is for sure where I feel most comfortable. Being stuck in an office isn’t my favorite, but I don’t mind organizing data into pretty spreadsheets and graphs or writing reports. Especially when they lead to the results that benefit our wild animals and ecosystems.
It’s people I struggle with. People like Betsy, who think that because I’m a girl, I’m automatically interested in office gossip. People like senior biologist Keith Carmine, who hasn’t left me alone all week. It started on my first morning when he came to my tiny office at the end of the hall to “say hello” then stayed for two hours. I’ve met him once or twice because he’s worked with Dad for years, but we’ve never had a lengthy conversation. Not that our interactions could be counted as conversations. He talks, and I listen. Or I try to. He sits on the edge of my desk that I rearranged so it faces the window—even though it’s only a view of the highway—and talks too loud. Telling me all the things he’s accomplished in his eighteen years like he alone made them happen when I know that’s not true. On my second day, he felt the need to walk me through the permitting system I’m now in charge of when I already know how it works because of my first internship, something he’d know if he bothered toread my résumé. Then yesterday he insisted we go out for a test drive to make sure “a little gal like you feels comfortable driving such a powerful vehicle.”
Firstly, nothing about me islittle. I’m five foot eight and after months of winter fieldwork I could probably leg press a moose. And I’ve been drivingpowerful vehiclessince learning on Dad’s big Ford when I was fifteen.
If I was a dude, no way would Keith be acting like this.
I’ve stopped eating lunch in the breakroom because he’s always there and I’m the only staff who doesn’t seem charmed by his stories. He gave me a ribbing about it yesterday, but underneath his teasing I got the sense he’d taken it personally. Not a great way to kick off a relationship with a superior I’m going to need to work with for, well…probably a long time.
I’m gathering my things for the afternoon meeting we’re having to discuss our winter emergency feeding program when Keith stops by.
“Need you to monitor the duty line until we’re back,” he says, chewing on a toothpick.
I stiffen in my chair. “What about the meeting?”
He uses his tongue to move the toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other. “You can catch the next one.”
My mouth opens, but my protest gets swallowed by what he says next. “Just cuz you’re Rowdy’s kid doesn’t mean you get special treatment around here.”
I blink in confusion. Special treatment? “I’ve done extensive research on this.”
He scoffs. “You’ve been on the job for one week, and you think you know what’s best?”
“We need to stop using hay for the elk and deer. Pellets are a closer match to their natural diet.”
“Tell that to the hay farmers who rely on us to sustain them through the winter.”
“So instead of doing what’s best for the wildlife, we support farms that have destroyed over half of our wetland habitats?” The steady buzzing in my chest is a warning to take a breath and back down. Continuing to push this will not help me fit in here. But if I don’t stand up for what’s right, who will?
He grins. “This is a win-win. The elk get fed, and the farmers can feed their families.”
“What about CWD?”
“Why do you think we’ve added more emergency feeding areas?”
Chronic Wasting Disease spreads more rapidly where animals come into contact with each other. And if the prions get into the soil, they stay there, making that feeding area toxic forever.
“That won’t work.” I inhale through my nose, my eyes fixed on his. My end goal is to eliminate the winter emergency feeding program altogether in favor of rigorous habitat rehabilitation for reasons I outlined in an academic paper I wrote during my master’s program, but even the boldest version of me knows I can’t say that out loud. At least not yet.
Keith takes a step closer, that patronizing flicker of amusement gone from his expression. “You think you’re the first tadpole to wriggle through these doors with big ideas that have zero sensibility when it comes to creating real solutions?” He grunts, looking me up and down, then sets a cell phone housed in a battered black case next to me on my desk. “Man the phone. If you can manage to not screw that up, maybe I’ll let you help me with an ecology survey next week.”
I think this is a warning, but I’m so flustered and bottled up after a week of his bullshit that I can’t be sure. “All right.” I say it mostly so he’ll leave.
He narrows his eyes, like he’s expecting more. When he doesn’t get it, he breaks away and slips into the hallway.
Instead of stewing, I pull up the construction permit application program I took over this week. Because my position has been openfor a few months, there’s a backlog, and I’m not even halfway caught up.
There’s a nugget of truth to what Keith said. I’m brand new here. And while I may have data-supported reasons driving my big goals, I can’t make them work without getting to know my field areas and their communities first. Education is a powerful tool, one I plan to flex, but Keith’s right. I can’t go barging in and tell people what they’ve been doing for twenty years is wrong.
He didn’t have to be such a dick about it though.
By missing the meeting, I’ll also miss a chance to see CJ since I’m pretty sure he’ll be there too. It’s the reason I took extra time getting ready today, just in case, then second guessed my outfit choice during my drive here.