Christoff was new to Chicago, having been born in Oxford; he had never left his county before. His home overflowed with affection, emotional and material. Thankfully, he absorbed that love with grace, always a soft smile tugging his lips, a halo of soft gold hair, and cloudy blue eyes that settled like a blanket on whoever they beheld. There was only so much naivety one could take before they must fling themselves out into the world.
His mother had known he would be like his father, studying at Cambridge and then returning to his home a professor. His father saw clearly, Christoff had always been interested in what made people tick and where that vital spark seemed to come from. His heavily annotated copies of The Red Book and On the Origin of Species slowly revealed the tree of life.
At university he met Jeremy and discovered biochemistry, the substance of life’s composition. Together they burned candles to stubs as their fingers traced passages in the dark hours. At night they whispered their plans far beyond the gaze of the Radcliffe Camera. In daylight Jeremy was courted by a Professor at Oxford whose daughter was quite lovely. Jeremy’s acceptance shuttered Christoff’s imagined life.
Christoff had never found much interest in the anatomical points in the conception of life, he was more interested in the root that had led to his leaves. What tinder, what spark, what shape would it be? His mind was a vessel that filled with these notions, a life beyond what he could be in his home with so many watchful eyes. Upon finding the works of Dr. Urey he wrote an impassioned letter asking for the chance to study the origin of life.
So, only a day after receiving his invitation he mailed out his acceptance. Upon arriving home he began to pack his life into his bags, sorting what of his to keep and leave behind. As he lifted his floorboards he paused, then carefully wrapped those materials in a shroud so they would not be found accidentally. Thus he began his true research.
At exactly 7:34 AM every morning Cliff would leave his home in an outfit near identical to the day before. Layers in the winter, less in the summer. His mind turning over something from the stack of glass puzzles left on his desk by scientists. His dark mane of hair framed a stern looking face belied by the sparkle in his eyes.
At exactly 8:01 AM Cliff would enter his shop and equip himself. Sometimes it would be a pencil and paper; others an apron and gloves. The pencil had been needed more often as of late, researchers were demanding. The absurdity would draw a smile across his face, he would pin it down eventually.
Cliff had never found a problem that he could not solve by bashing his head against it long enough. He wished to learn how to make glass so he observed the glassblowers until they put him to work. His consistency became a metronome for the shop. Under the amateur’s hands menial tasks would shine, a chance to grasp what he had only stolen glances of. When he graduated high school he was recommended for apprenticeship at Argonne National Laboratory. There he greedily absorbed every scrap of knowledge to climb the tree of creation.
His mentor, Patrick, showed him how to make what was possible and rebut what was not. His fingers would manipulate Cliff’s, showing the exact pressure and texture needed for every maneuver. Patrick taught Cliff and then left every evening to return to his wife. Alone Cliff would recreate the motions himself, the practice hollow but effective. Still Cliff learned, and when Patrick could no longer handle the shop he was given singular domain.
Everything appeared exactly as it should be for a respectable bachelor. Except for Saturdays at 7:18 PM, when Cliff would go for a 33 minute walk to a secluded glade. There he fiddled with that part of himself that would not settle into the life he had.
The first time they met it was an argument. Christoff had deduced an exacting method to form vortices, so exacting were the requirements that Cliff penned his rejection in minutes. Christoff then wrote to ask if Cliff had any more skilled glassblowers to assist him. Cliff sent a terse reply calling Christoff a “limp-wristed fool”. Christoff came downstairs to resolve the matter and was rendered frozen by a furious slate glare, “You’re the one who could not tell his ass from a hole in the ground”. Christoff was only able to mutely nod. Cliff’s hand fell hard on Christoff’s shoulder, “Right, time to learn where your ass is then.”
Cliff then provided a two hour lesson on the impossibility of his requirements. Cliff’s tone gradually softened into the rhythms of instruction as he firmly guided Christoff through his world.
After Cliff had made the third glass lattice, Christoff realized Cliff was showing off. Christoff found himself wanting to feed into Cliff’s ego, praising Cliff’s skill. Admiring Cliff’s skillful hands. Cliff’s steely gaze that pierced all they surveyed.
Christoff noticed an asymmetry and asked, “Why is your beard so oddly shaped?” Cliff responded, in spite of himself, “All work must have a flaw for God, in our work we must carry the flaw, so we burn with every piece”, a lesson drilled into him by Patrick. A smile split Cliff’s face like the morning sun as he continued, “so my beard matches the exact shape required to make all your mad requests and I don’t wish to be clean-shaven!”
Christoff burst into laughter, falling from his stool, tears streaming down his face. Cliff was confused, a nervous echo of cruel joy, but as Christoff looked up he saw the softness in his grey-blue gaze. Still on the ground Christoff pledged “I will endeavor to care for your beard and do my best with the time you have given me”.
So, Cliff’s heart stuttered. So, he blustered for longer than he’d spoken in the previous month. So, he groused that he could do it and that he was better than any Christoff could find. So, he made sure Christoff would come back.
And Christoff did, each request more frivolous than the last. Strangely Cliff grew annoyed at the irregular timing of Christoff’s visits, even telling him “to come on time”. That earned another laugh to Cliff’s chagrin, he still did not know how to make Christoff laugh on command. Then one evening, same as the others, Christoff invited him to dinner so they could keep talking.
They dined, and Christoff’s soft voice colored the air between them. Christoff wanted Cliff to help him birth something entirely new, an extension to the origin of life experiment that held promise to make truly living things. The requirements involved byzantine architectures, exotic coatings, and exacting volumes. Cliff pushed back until he found himself shouting, wincing in realization he modulated his mood. A bad habit. One that had only gotten worse since he had begun making radiation-proof glass. Christoff thankfully only smiled and put out his hand in a gesture of peace, Cliff took it on instinct.
A glance from a diner saw Cliff recoil. A thread remained between them. Their discussion grew passionate once more, but furtive. Their passion followed them home. Passed from kitchen to bedroom to walks at 7:18 PM on Saturday. They were careful, but everyone began to rely on Christoff to get their requests met. Then in an infinite moment, they were annealed.
The design was gorgeous, a demanding incubus that sat on Cliff’s mind. The lacing of the tubing alone was a rhapsody of engineering. It was just another attempt for Christoff, but Cliff felt the difference. So, with tender care he did his work. He withdrew silica geometries hidden from all eyes and under gentle heat performed his patient alchemy of form. The assemblies could not be rushed. Cliff etched the sharply curved buret with lines as fine as those around Christoff’s eyes, the knitted glass dendrites recalled the play of sunlight in his hair.
Cliff held a stolen golden lock in his trembling fingers, he felt the signs in his tendons and the bloody spots in his handkerchief. He wouldn’t be able to hold this much longer. He knew this was his last chance to make something that would go beyond what little time was between them.
As he neared the end, he cut his beard. He wove gold and black together to fume the glass. Patrick’s words repeated in his thoughts. He lit the hair, watching smoke cascade against gravity to lick the glass.
That night Cliff returned to remove the monument from the cage of the kiln. He carefully arranged the stands, his mind the shape of his sheets. The apparatus settled perfectly into his form, the clamps tightening under Cliff’s careful ministrations. Cliff’s fingers lightly traced the glass, steely eyes roving for defects. The light cascaded through without deviation; he was perfect. Only then did the prayers fall from his lips; for this all to have been worth it, for them to bear the fruits of their labors together proudly. For Christoff’s eyes to always attend his every new scar and singe. For Christoff’s voice to admonish Cliff as deft fingers cleaned and dressed their wounds.
Cliff left a watery defect on the surface of his offering, taking exactly 27 minutes to evaporate. Whereupon Cliff walked through his door and found a space now filled. Cliff’s nightly ritual was thus a holy labor of shucking layers. Donning one final sheet Cliff carefully surrounded Christoff, arms sliding into place as smoothly as a brushed glass stopcock.
A soft noise carrying the sense of Christoff’s dreams unlocked a bolt in Cliff’s chest, breath whooshing out in a loud sigh. Cliff had long ago learned when to accept what peace he could find, for tangled in Christoff’s fingers he did not tremble. So it was there Cliff fell with leaded breath, awaiting his endless moment in the shape he had always sought.
The morning light roused Christoff alone. Cliff had worked late and Christoff had a plan to show his appreciation. He untangled his limbs from Cliff and tiptoed into the kitchen, rushing to the lab with a piece of Christoff he had stolen from a shaving accident.
Pushing open the double-doors Christoff beheld the apparatus that had only existed inside his mind. He had expected the curves, the divots, the intricacies. He had not expected the artistry. Christoff’s fingers traced smoky-grey markings, their irregularity contrasting against analytical perfection.
A glance at the clock, 7:34 AM, 27 minutes. He imagined Cliff locking the door, checking it twice. The anticipation of their culmination altering only Cliff’s heartrate. Such a patient man, he would know Christoff could not wait.
With practiced movements Christoff prepared the process. Halfway through he found himself recalling Cliff’s words. Producing a vial with a drop of crimson, Christoff pricked his finger and made two one. A piece of themselves to bend the world. A whispered prayer that he would get the funding so they could work here forever. 7:56 AM, Christoff sealed the apparatus and found the bottle of champagne under his desk. He struggled to get it ready, used to Cliff’s stronger fingers.
He had come to Chicago for this, and now he was on the precipice of creating life with one who gave him shape. The clock struck 8:01 AM, Christoff pressed the switch, and popped the champagne to doors that remained firmly shut.
“The Cliff-Stoff experiment runs uninterrupted in its original construction, a requirement for exhibition by the Smythe estate. The subject of the famous paper “Abiogenesis from Chemicals in Glass” by Cliff Smith and Christoff Smythe. Attributed posthumously to Mr. Smith, a scientific glassblower Mr. Smythe collaborated with, who died the morning the experiment began. Even through death they discovered the method for sparking life.” — Exhibit note from The Field Museum