While studying the art of pharmaceuticals, Mr. Blatche, Blatche, Andray, or just Dre would dream about finding a cure for cancer, creating a vaccination for AIDS, or making Alzheimer's with a single pill, and for Dre, Andray, Blatche, Mr. Blatche these dreams did not seem farfetched--after all, could the abbreviation of doctor also pass for the abbreviation of a dream: D R.
Dr. Andray Blatche was going to fix the world through careful measurements, chemical reactions, and child proof lids. It was destiny. It was fact. It was a course of action.
Dr. Blatche sat staring at the calendar on his Blackberry, the days looking like blocks on the periodic table. He wanted to find some vaca time, a day off, a chance to breathe. He looked at the fake plant in the corner of his office, with its always glossy and green leaves, even in winter. He wondered why he chose to place it next to the window, in the path of real sunlight, when the last thing this plant needed was something real. He could commiserate with the illusion that this plant lived, pretending to be real, even faking photosynthesis. A knock came at the door and Dr. Blatche looked up from his Blackberry and in came a rather big nosed white man with a fluff of brown hair that curled up around his neck.
"Dre, we're going to need those new prototypes soon."
"Yeah, sure thing. I got this, Mr. Saunders."
"Good, cause you're the genius that makes the erections happen. You're the man who gives the gift that keeps on giving."
"If you say so, Mr. Saunders."
Mr. Saunders raised two fists in the air and gave a crude pelvic thrust with his tongue hanging out his mouth and left the room. Dr. Blatche returned to his Blackberry. He needed to find some vaca time. He needed to visit his grandma, sick with cancer. He needed to remember the realness of dreams.
Langston deserves all the credit for the photo. He also came up with the idea that Blatche, as a scientist, should be making Viagra.
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