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don't use it? He worked out the vehicle's air flow, fashioned a large plastic bag, wet masks, and, antihistamines, lots and lots of antihistamines. "Antihistamines? The ones that set you into a frozen stupor? You ass hole!" his father screamed, "You college smart-ass ass hole. I dragged you feet first from your high school graduation, purple! Lung busted stop breathing purple! Purple all the way to the emergency room, peeling rubber, simply because the God damned ceremony was held on the school lawn! It's grass! Are you fucking daft? You're not making sense!" in a battering cadence, drumming and pounding his objection. "Dad. I need the money and she needs me for the research. I figured out how I can protect myself from the asthma. I wasn't wearing a mask at the graduation." "God!" Jazz Man, yelled with his hands held to his temples. He spun and pointed, "A MASK! You were supposed to be the smart one," then stormed away with his arms aloft like Moses on the mount. "I already took the money," Marcus confessed. "Oh, Marcus," his mom moaned. She knew that he was just trying to do his share. But this was not the way. Why so much money for so little lawn? Couldn't she get somebody to do it professionally? Kids in her neighborhood? Why pressure somebody over whom she has influence? That's a bad sign. A proper job does not need personal connections. "No, no. Don't you see? It's an excuse to keep me at the lab," Marcus offered, retelling the convoluted logic. "I don't know, honey. It smells. Simple things can ruin your reputation, sweetheart. You know? You don't get two. One dirty mark is all you need. No scrubbing can clean it away later," his mom said half patting his face.