“This is anthropology, Gabe. We’re scientists. We study every subculture and counterculture”
When Gabe emerges from a crowded train into New York City, blinking in the sunlight, it’s a jarring explosion of light and smell and noise after the subdued, liminal space that is shivah. Cars drive by, honking painfully loudly, and each inhalation brings a foul mixture of car exhaust and street food. As an anthropologist, Gabe could have found the people around him fascinating, but he inclines toward the quiet cultures divorced from the hustle and bustle of city life.
One of his old colleagues works in Midtown, managing a small magazine and lecturing in CUNY colleges in his free time. Gabe finds his office easily, squinting up at names until he hits the right buzzer.
“Gabe! Come on in,” Connor says, shaking his hand. “I was just telling Anita about you. One of the most dedicated anthropologists I’ve ever wandered the Gobi Desert with,” he says to a narrow-faced blonde woman sitting at a desk near the front of the room. There are four desks laid out across the office, though only three are occupied. Connor grabs the last chair and pulls it out from behind the desk, gesturing for Gabe to take it. “Any chance we can talk you into joining the magazine?”
Gabe shakes his head. “I’m just passing through. I’ve been working with the Aweti near the Xingu. I only came back here to bury my father.”
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