Uncivilized
Page 41
Reaching out, I touch Zach lightly on his elbow. “I’ll stop in to see you in a little bit, okay?”
He nods and follows Sam up the staircase.
“Let’s go into the library,” Randall says, and I follow him into a room off the foyer that takes my breath away. Three stories tall, the library is stacked floor to ceiling with shelves of books in the same dark mahogany wood. Each floor has a balcony that lines each wall, and a massive spiral staircase winds upward to allow you to climb up the stacks of books. The furniture is leather, deeply cushioned, and a deep blue color. A large fireplace takes up one wall, but it’s empty, given that we are in the middle of summer in the south. An ornately carved, wooden desk that is curved into almost a horseshoe design is at one end of the room, with a single laptop sitting on top of it.
The room reeks of elegance, but it’s also cozy, as I would expect a library to be. It totally fits the man, and I remember back to the first time I met Randall Cannon in his office in downtown Atlanta.
“Dr. Reed… Mr. Cannon will see you now,” I heard from the receptionist and looked up to see her smiling at me.
I stood from the plush leather chair I was sitting in and followed her down a wide hallway decorated with sumptuous carpeting, fabric-covered walls, and artwork that looked like it would belong in The Met.
Hastily wiping my hands against the wool fabric of my slacks, I took a deep breath.
This meeting was huge.
It could change the course of my career, and I was willing to do whatever it took to make this deal go through.
Opening a large, wooden door, the receptionist pushed it open and motioned me in. I briefly took in the dark green carpeting with a woven, gold border around the edges where dark hardwood flooring peeked out. A huge and ornately carved wooden desk sat in the middle of the room with a large, burgundy leather chair studded with brass buttons. The skyline of Atlanta, Georgia rose up on the other side of the window with clear, blue skies and fluffy clouds all around.
“Doctor Reed.” I heard a gruff voice, and I turned to see a short man with snowy-white hair approaching me. He was dressed in an expensively tailored black suit with a pale blue tie that I bet cost more than my entire outfit.
He held his hand out to me, and I shook it. “Randall Cannon,” he said while we clasp hands. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“The pleasure is all mine, Mr. Cannon,” I told him sincerely. And it was… truly all mine, because when this man contacted me three weeks ago, it was to offer me the chance of a lifetime.
“Please… call me Randall. And come… come… sit down.”
Still grasping my hand, he escorted me to a low, black leather couch and motioned for me to sit. He took his own seat in a chair opposite of me, with a mahogany coffee table separating us. There was a full tea service laid out.
“Would you like some tea? Coffee? Water?” he asked.
“No, thank you.” I was far too nervous.
He bent forward in his chair, and I watched as he poured himself a cup of tea with swift efficiency. As he was adding a cube of sugar, he said, “I’ve been eager to meet you and discuss this project I have.”
I’d been eager too. Those last three weeks while I was finishing up teaching a class at Northwestern University had been brutal. While I loved the academic environment and was thrilled to have an associate professor teaching post, I felt like my brain had been stagnating. I wanted to learn something new… I wanted to be involved in something that was cutting edge.
So, when Randall Cannon contacted me about an anthropological project he thought I might be interested in, I was more than eager to hear what he had to say. Of course, it could be nothing I was interested in, but it was definitely worth the plane trip here—at his expense, of course.
Randall Cannon was famously wealthy. At sixty-five, despite the snowy-white hair he sported, still had the look and feel of someone in his forties. His eyes were lively and quizzical, his skin very smooth. I read up on him before I came, and I knew he made his money building one of the largest department stores in the nation, Cannon’s. It was now located in practically every mall in America.
He had never been married, but I found plenty of photos of him online with various young beauties on his arm. It seemed he only dated women about half his age, which hey… more power to him.
“I’m very eager to hear more about your project too,” I told him. I watched as he sat back in his chair and balanced the teacup with both hands.
“I did a lot of researching before I contacted you,” he said. “Your expertise in indigenous tribes of the Amazon is exactly what I’m looking for.”
“There are many anthropologists with that expertise,” I told him humbly.
“Yes, but very few of them focus their research on the cultural evolution as they make contact with the modern world. Most just seem to want to study how they exist and survive—not how they are forced to develop in unusual circumstances.”
Yeah… that wasn’t really accurate. As the Amazon got perpetually raped of its trees, and more and more tribes were forced to acclimate to the modern world, there were slews of researchers watching this marvel unfold. Many of the Indians took jobs with the loggers, earning a wage that did them no real good when they returned to their homes in the jungle.
But where I was different was in following and studying Indians that had left their existence behind and moved solely into the modern world. My Ph.D. thesis was a study of five indigenous Indians from Amazonia who moved to major metropolitan cities and learned how to enter the workforce. I followed them for one year, documenting everything from how they learned a new language to how they learned to eat with a fork. Three of my subjects ended up returning to their tribes, unable to cope with the civilized world. Two had acclimated well, with one just finishing his undergraduate degree in Rio.
He nods and follows Sam up the staircase.
“Let’s go into the library,” Randall says, and I follow him into a room off the foyer that takes my breath away. Three stories tall, the library is stacked floor to ceiling with shelves of books in the same dark mahogany wood. Each floor has a balcony that lines each wall, and a massive spiral staircase winds upward to allow you to climb up the stacks of books. The furniture is leather, deeply cushioned, and a deep blue color. A large fireplace takes up one wall, but it’s empty, given that we are in the middle of summer in the south. An ornately carved, wooden desk that is curved into almost a horseshoe design is at one end of the room, with a single laptop sitting on top of it.
The room reeks of elegance, but it’s also cozy, as I would expect a library to be. It totally fits the man, and I remember back to the first time I met Randall Cannon in his office in downtown Atlanta.
“Dr. Reed… Mr. Cannon will see you now,” I heard from the receptionist and looked up to see her smiling at me.
I stood from the plush leather chair I was sitting in and followed her down a wide hallway decorated with sumptuous carpeting, fabric-covered walls, and artwork that looked like it would belong in The Met.
Hastily wiping my hands against the wool fabric of my slacks, I took a deep breath.
This meeting was huge.
It could change the course of my career, and I was willing to do whatever it took to make this deal go through.
Opening a large, wooden door, the receptionist pushed it open and motioned me in. I briefly took in the dark green carpeting with a woven, gold border around the edges where dark hardwood flooring peeked out. A huge and ornately carved wooden desk sat in the middle of the room with a large, burgundy leather chair studded with brass buttons. The skyline of Atlanta, Georgia rose up on the other side of the window with clear, blue skies and fluffy clouds all around.
“Doctor Reed.” I heard a gruff voice, and I turned to see a short man with snowy-white hair approaching me. He was dressed in an expensively tailored black suit with a pale blue tie that I bet cost more than my entire outfit.
He held his hand out to me, and I shook it. “Randall Cannon,” he said while we clasp hands. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“The pleasure is all mine, Mr. Cannon,” I told him sincerely. And it was… truly all mine, because when this man contacted me three weeks ago, it was to offer me the chance of a lifetime.
“Please… call me Randall. And come… come… sit down.”
Still grasping my hand, he escorted me to a low, black leather couch and motioned for me to sit. He took his own seat in a chair opposite of me, with a mahogany coffee table separating us. There was a full tea service laid out.
“Would you like some tea? Coffee? Water?” he asked.
“No, thank you.” I was far too nervous.
He bent forward in his chair, and I watched as he poured himself a cup of tea with swift efficiency. As he was adding a cube of sugar, he said, “I’ve been eager to meet you and discuss this project I have.”
I’d been eager too. Those last three weeks while I was finishing up teaching a class at Northwestern University had been brutal. While I loved the academic environment and was thrilled to have an associate professor teaching post, I felt like my brain had been stagnating. I wanted to learn something new… I wanted to be involved in something that was cutting edge.
So, when Randall Cannon contacted me about an anthropological project he thought I might be interested in, I was more than eager to hear what he had to say. Of course, it could be nothing I was interested in, but it was definitely worth the plane trip here—at his expense, of course.
Randall Cannon was famously wealthy. At sixty-five, despite the snowy-white hair he sported, still had the look and feel of someone in his forties. His eyes were lively and quizzical, his skin very smooth. I read up on him before I came, and I knew he made his money building one of the largest department stores in the nation, Cannon’s. It was now located in practically every mall in America.
He had never been married, but I found plenty of photos of him online with various young beauties on his arm. It seemed he only dated women about half his age, which hey… more power to him.
“I’m very eager to hear more about your project too,” I told him. I watched as he sat back in his chair and balanced the teacup with both hands.
“I did a lot of researching before I contacted you,” he said. “Your expertise in indigenous tribes of the Amazon is exactly what I’m looking for.”
“There are many anthropologists with that expertise,” I told him humbly.
“Yes, but very few of them focus their research on the cultural evolution as they make contact with the modern world. Most just seem to want to study how they exist and survive—not how they are forced to develop in unusual circumstances.”
Yeah… that wasn’t really accurate. As the Amazon got perpetually raped of its trees, and more and more tribes were forced to acclimate to the modern world, there were slews of researchers watching this marvel unfold. Many of the Indians took jobs with the loggers, earning a wage that did them no real good when they returned to their homes in the jungle.
But where I was different was in following and studying Indians that had left their existence behind and moved solely into the modern world. My Ph.D. thesis was a study of five indigenous Indians from Amazonia who moved to major metropolitan cities and learned how to enter the workforce. I followed them for one year, documenting everything from how they learned a new language to how they learned to eat with a fork. Three of my subjects ended up returning to their tribes, unable to cope with the civilized world. Two had acclimated well, with one just finishing his undergraduate degree in Rio.
