27 A Meteorite?

“I’ve got a meteorite to show you,” the old guy said. Probably in his early 80s, with glasses resting on hairy ears on a big head resting on a skinny neck, he’d shown up in front of my office at the university. I’m one of the few geologists in the area, and he wasn’t the first to assume that I know about meteorites. Most were after affirmation that they were about to get rich. Money, not knowledge.

The old guy had a small bag, strong canvas, and from it he lifted a dark brown rock the size of a small cannonball. I took a quick look.

“I figure I can get a couple of hundred thousand dollars for it,” he said.

Just then his cellphone rang, a flip-phone with big number but-tons. He answered it and spoke to what seemed to be a nurse. I overheard him mention sores on his foot as I left him to his privacy. Walking into my office, I looked up some info about identifying meteorites. The old guy wandered in behind me and sat in a chair, uninvited.

“I need to take the weight off my feet,” he said. He once again pulled the rock out of his bag and placed it on my desk with a thump.

I printed out a pamphlet I’d found and gave to him.

“I’m no expert on meteorites, ” I told him. “But I know a bit about rocks, especially the local ones.”

I paused, but the old guy didn’t say anything.

“This isn’t likely to be a meteorite.”

He looked at me but said nothing, then glanced at the pictures in the pamphlet.

“See this layering?” I continued. “It’s common in sedimentary rocks, not meteorites. This is most likely an iron concretion. The iron is deposited by water moving through the ground.”

“This has as lot of iron in it,” he replied. “Feel how heavy it is.”

I wasn’t sure if I was getting through to him, so I just sat and waited to see what he’d say next.

“I’ve got these problems with my feet,” he continued.

I nodded.

“The sores on one won’t heal up. And I have a lot of nerve pain,” he said.

“Diabetes?” I guessed.

“Yeah,” he replied. “And I was born feet first. They hooked straps on both my legs and pulled for hours. Crushed the veins. Now there’s not much blood flow. You can’t even feel a pulse.”

He looked down at his legs, then at a new pair of shoes.

“I came into town today for my new diabetes shoes. The medicine for the nerve pain numbed my feet, and a year ago I broke my toe. It still gives me trouble.”

His shoes looked nice—oversized black tennis shoes with Vel-cro closures poking out below white socks and skinny legs, mostly covered by blue jeans.

“They are going to have to operate and put in shunts,” he continued. “The last work cost me nearly a thousand dollars. And I figure eventually they are going to have to take off my leg, maybe both of them.”

I knew Medicare only covered 80% of most bills. He was looking ahead to needing money. Thus, the meteorite.

“I was in the army for two years. Maybe the V.A. will help out with the artificial legs,” he said. “They’ve got a lot of practice with them.”

I turned toward the computer, found an email address, wrote it down, and handed it to the old guy.

“There are meteorite experts down in Iowa City,” I said. “Start by having a relative take a photo and email it to this address.”

“Some teacher found a sliver of one over in Wisconsin,” he replied. “They gave her a hundred thousand dollars to study it. I figure this one is worth twice that.”

The old guy looked as his watch.

“I eat at 11:30,” he said. “It’s past that. I thought I saw a place for food as I walked in.” His blood sugar was probably dropping.

“The dining hall is right next door,” I replied.

He looked unsure of himself.

“I’ll point you there,” I said.

I got up and walked him out. Some pastries sat on a table in the hallway, left from a morning seminar.

“Just what I need,” he said, as he snagged one and ate it in three bites.

Then we shuffled slowly up the stairs to the front door, where I pointed out the university cafeteria across the alleyway.

“It’s a buffet,” I told him. “All you can eat. Only about seven or eight dollars.”