Cream

CREAM by Dave Dumanis © 2010 Dave Dumanis. All rights reserved. “Everybody wants to go to heaven, but nobody wants to die.” - Peter Tosh “Spent all my time in a vanity factory; wondering when they're gonna come and take it all back.” - Elvis Costello I am about to get fired. How do I know this? Because of the way Winona looks at me in the hall. And Winona, being CEO, doesn't look at anyone. Unless they're about to get fired. How do I know this? Because I've been with Bon Soir for four years and three hundred days. And five years is everyone's limit. Everyone but Winona. In five years, everyone's toast. How do I know this? Because I haven't yet come up with a new product, a great product, a Product That Will Change the Face of Cosmetics as We Know Them. Even though that's what I got hired to do. How do I know this? Because it's my turn. Let me explain something about personal care products. And I do this at the risk of making you feel like a complete idiot before you even know my name. A mark. A patsy. A schmuck. Personal care products are made out of oil and water. It's called an emulsion. You know how salad dressing separates, but if you shake it really hard, it turns into a nice creamy mix that coats your lettuce and baby arugula just so? That's an emulsion. Now. You can take oil and water, and add all the vitamins, minerals, seaweed, gold flakes, and Hawaiian coqui frog extract you want to, but it's still just oil and water. Yet put that oil and water in a sophisticated, tasteful container, with a groovy and vaguely sexual name slapped on it, and you can sell that oil and water for tens, hundreds, occasionally even thousands of dollars. And the truth is, it's not that different from salad dressing. You could probably put it on spinach and eat it, most times, and it wouldn't even give you a stomach ache. This is what I do for a living. I mix oil and water. I don't want to minimize the industry too much. I don't want to badmouth. There are discoveries, true scientific breakthroughs. And after all, everyone wants to look younger. Don't they? I busted out of grad school at age 25. I was hired by Bon Soir on the spot—they yanked me out almost before I could finish my thesis. Now, after five years of pulling variations on a theme—making rich cremes richer, milque masques milkier, refreshing scents refreshing-er—my time's up, and I'm barely 30. I don't feel old. But by the standards of my industry, I am ancient. I once caught a glimpse of Winona reapplying her makeup. In her office, when she thought I wasn't looking. She examined her perfectly moisturized and foundationed and mascara'd face in a special mirror mounted to her desk. Everything was model-perfect, glowing, radiant, real enough to fool anyone brave or ridiculous enough to get caught in her wake. And then, when she turned her head, a giant smear of lipstick by the left side of her mouth. Mortified, she caught herself and wiped it off. But that instant, when her entire face looked like it could have popped right out of a magazine, but with that kidlike, crayony smear right in her blind spot—that moment has stayed with me for a long, long time. Winona started life as a beautiful scientist. Winona will end life as a recluse. In between, Winona will become very, very rich. And it's my job to help. I don't like my job. ### Here are some of the ingredients I deal with every day: Oil: Olive oil. Safflower oil. Sunflower oil. Evening primrose oil. Avocado seed oil. Peanut oil. Mineral oil. Water: Purified water. Distilled water. Spring water. Mountain water. Mountain spring water. Lake water, stream water, rainwater, waterfall water. Acqua (H20). Maaaagic water. Fragrance: Vanilla. Chocolate. Strawberry. Rose, lily, violet. Cinnamon, ginger, clove. Bastard fragrances created in a lab, with no analog in nature. Snobbish fragrances, aggressive fragrances, slutty fragrances, mean fragrances. Vicious, meek, and creepy fragrances. Emulsifiers. Something to help hold the oil and water together—to keep creams creamy and lotions silky-smooth, instead of separating into their component parts. When you're making a salad dressing, the emulsifier can be mustard or, classically for Caesar salads, a raw egg. (It can also be your arm when you shake up the bottle, but that won't last.) The natural oils in the mustard or egg bind to the oil, and the water-loving parts bind to the vinegar, and you've got yourself a dressing. In my business, emulsifiers can include: Soy lecithin. Mono- and diglycerides. Esters. Sterols. And yes, the occasional egg. An old saying has it that oil and water don't mix. My job is to force them. I don't like my job. ### My assistant is Terry. He's 25, chalky, reedy-voiced, dresses like his mom picks his clothes. He recently finished grad school. We tolerate each other. The woman I wish were my assistant is Muffin Rodriguez. I do not know whether Muffin is her given name. She's also working her way through grad school, on the other side of the lab. She collects troll dolls and has placed them strategically around her station. She is beautiful. We tolerate each other. I usually get into the lab on the late side, since I don't much care whether I get there or not. When I get there, Terry is usually mild, pleasant, and unassuming. Today he was none of those things. Today he was loud, obnoxious, and annoying. “Guess what, Bunch?” he said gleefully. “Guess what, guess what, guess what?” “You discovered a new way to mix oil and water.” “Wrong. We're getting a new assignment today.” “Do tell.” “I'd even go so far as to say both our jobs are riding on it.” That got my attention. As much as I don't like my job (I may have mentioned this before), I can't afford to quit. A decent condo overlooking Millenium Park, an inability to cook and clean for myself, and an addiction to the latest audiophile and videophile gear add up to my being shackled to Bon Soir at the wrist and ankle. Which means I'm also shackled to Terry. “What are we doing?” To wake up, I took a giant gulp of energy drink, coffee being considered an inefficient caffeine delivery system among hipper scientists. “Anti-aging formula.” I yawned. “You gotta give me something here, Terence. Everything we do is an anti-aging formula.” “No, I mean really. Anti-aging formula... as in, you smear it on your face and you don't get any older. Possibly you get younger.” “Well, I've got to hand it to Winona, she thinks big. Seriously, what's the assignment? I'm in no particular mood for fucking around.” Terry faced me with those dead eyes he gets when you impugn his scientific credibility. “That's the assignment. Reverse the aging process.” “And if we don't?” “If we crack it, we're heroes.” “And if we don't?” “Then we 're not.” Now, I am not messing with you when I say I have solved some fairly difficult research problems in my time. But this was a little akin to that old story where the girl is forced to turn straw into gold, and the only thing that can help her is a magic elf. Unfortunately, I looked around the lab and saw only Terry. If he had any magical elfin abilities, I didn't want to know about them. “Let's see what we can do,” I said. ###