Replication Error
Sometimes the boy felt frustrated at his job. Early in the morning, long before the sun would rise, he put on his boots and followed his father out to the replication site where the helicase had already done his work and the primers lay in wait. In the blanket-like darkness he walked behind his father along the cold dirt on which the nucleotides from the parent strand lay in a line, some still quivering in shock from the sudden and wrenching way the helicase had ripped them apart from their lovers. And the boy’s father would scrutinize through his worn but clean glasses each nucleotide in his hands and gently pull out from his cart the correct corresponding nucleotide and lay it on the ground next to it.
The boy’s father had been doing this for as long as he could remember, and he worked quickly and in silence. The boy followed a few paces behind, squinting through the darkness at each new pair in turn and watching, always watching, for signs of trouble. The nucleotides, passionate though they were, were stupid. They had short memories, and by the time the father laid down a new match and the boy came around to observe, already struggled to remember the face of their recently lost love. Instead, the nucleotides sniffed curiously at the one that lay before them, the new pair drawing closer together in jerky little movements. The boy had a unique gift — he was very adept at spotting true love — and this was his job: to follow behind his father who lay down new partners for the nucleotides, and quickly scan to confirm that the two were indeed a perfect match. It would be difficult to describe just how exactly the boy knew; it was entirely by gut instinct. After all, no two nucleotide loves were the same. Some were immensely passionate, cuddling and nuzzling with one another and doing things that made the boy blush. Others were quieter, less urgent, as if both nucleotides knew their love would grow over the years. Still others shared similar interests and temperaments, and these were usually the most adorable to him.
But sometimes, the boy’s father made mistakes. The occasions were very rare — 1 in 100,000, to be exact — and when the boy spotted an incompatible nucleotide couple, saw that their love was empty and would doom them all, it was his job to run after his father, grab the correct nucleotide from the cart, and replace the wrong one. The boy usually felt bad for the nucleotides when this happened, sometimes apologizing as he sprinted back and forth even though they spoke in squeaks and could not understand him. But he knew the consequences of a wrong pairing, a corrupt love. His father had told him stories of destruction and death, of how neighboring cells failed to replicate accurately and brought upon heavy cytoplasmic rains, floods, more mutations, entire populations of enzymes wiped out because of a single broken-hearted nucleotide. The boy tried not to think of these things while he worked.
The boy and the father always worked two replication sites on a given day: one for each strand of separated nucleotides. After finishing one strand, the two usually had a quick lunch of peanut butter and honey sandwiches before starting the second strand, which was literally more of the same. This afternoon in particular, as he observed his father’s pairings, he reflected on his job. He saw love torn apart and replaced with another love, torn apart and replaced with another love. Torn apart and replaced. And as stupid as these nucleotides were with their short memories, as inhuman as they were, he couldn’t help but despair. Moreover, he knew what true love was — he saw it every day in the hydrogen-bonded embraces of the nucleotides, their bubbly squeaking. He longed to form such a bond with a girl. It was out of the question though. He had a unique gift, and the entire population in the cell depended on him.
Deep in thought that afternoon, the boy failed to notice that his father had put down a shallow, materialistic nucleotide next to a poor but kind-hearted nucleotide. Already the two were bickering in earnest squeaks, but the boy had already passed on to the next pair. The father and boy went home that evening, noting the clear starry sky, unaware that elsewhere in the universe, galaxies were realigning and unknowable changes were occurring.
A few weeks later one night at a townhall dance, the boy met a girl with black hair and haunting brown eyes. The two danced as their hearts grew fonder and when they could bear it no longer to be around so many people, they slipped outside into the dark cool breeze. He stared at her, and she stared back. Being an expert in love, the boy knew in his heart that he had found his perfect pair. In the distance, there was a low rumble in the sky, and it began to pour.