Grounded: Blowing Past the Professor Who Wanted to Fly

When Silas handed me the divorce papers, he actually reached out and tucked a stray, greasy lock of hair back behind my ear. With his gold-rimmed glasses and academic tweed jacket, he looked every bit the refined university professor. "Stella, I appreciate how hard you’ve worked these past few years to support us," he said, his voice quiet and coated in that gentle condescension he used on freshmen. "But my days are spent in the lab dealing with complex equations and abstract theories. When I come home, I want to discuss literature, philosophy, art. Instead, you just want to talk about which customer stiffed us on a check or how the price of wholesale eggs went up twenty cents." He sighed, shaking his head slightly. "Our souls are no longer in alignment. For both our sakes, we have to let go." With that smooth, compassionate tone, he effectively erased ten years of my life. I walked out of our apartment in a daze and stepped right into the path of a speeding delivery truck. As I felt myself hitting the pavement, my vision blurring, I saw her. The young, artsy English major who did understand his soul. She was holding an umbrella, smiling shyly as she walked toward him. Then, darkness. Chapter 1 I opened my eyes, gasping for air, and blinked against the harsh sunlight. I wasn't on the asphalt. I was standing in the doorway of the greasy spoon diner on North Street that I had just signed the lease for. The calendar on the wall read: May 12, 1992. Silas was standing right in front of me, pinching the bridge of his nose, looking irritated. "Stella, honestly, running a diner isn't dignified," he said. "What if my colleagues from the university university see you? It’s embarrassing." I looked at him—twenty years younger, just starting his tenure track, and already ashamed of the woman who bought his books. The visceral anger from my past life surged up, clean and sharp. I didn't argue. I just ripped the dirty apron off from around my waist and threw it into the mop bucket. "You're embarrassed? Fine," I said coldly. "The courthouse is still open for another hour. Let's go down there and file for divorce right now." Silas froze. He stared at me, completely taken aback. In his mind, I was the high school dropout obsessed with him; there was no way I would ever leave him. He took a deep, controlling breath, repressing his anger and replacing it with that 'pained intellectual' look I knew so well. "Stella, you’re being completely unreasonable again. I’m just trying to have a rational discussion with you, and you immediately jump to ultimatums? Marriage isn't a game. Don't throw words like that around just because you're throwing a tantrum." "Who's throwing a tantrum?" I turned my back on him and walked into the dusty restaurant. "I spent two years working double shifts in a cafeteria, saving every penny to rent this place. Who are you to tell me my hard work is embarrassing?" "Silas, your dignity is your problem, not mine. We’re getting a divorce today. If you don't go, you're a coward." I felt sick just looking at him. I grabbed a rag and started viciously scrubbing the layers of grease off the old industrial stove. Silas stood in the doorway, his face flushing a deep, angry purple. A few pedestrians walking by stopped to stare. He was obsessed with his public image; he couldn't stand being made a scene of in the street. "Fine, Stella. Have it your way." His voice was clipped, cold enough to draw blood. "Don't come crying to me later. You really think you can cut it out here on your own? Good luck." He turned, hopped on his rusty ten-speed bicycle, and rode away without looking back. Early the next morning, I was waiting on the steps of the courthouse when they opened. Silas showed up in his best suit, clutching a leather briefcase as if to remind me of his superior status. He looked surprised that I actually showed up. The clerk handling the paperwork was a middle-aged woman with tired eyes and a massive coffee mug. She looked between the young, academic-looking man and me in my working clothes. "Are you sure about this, sweetie?" she asked me, trying to be helpful. "It’s a tough world out there. Maybe you two just need to talk?" Silas pushed up his glasses, his tone calm and patronizing. "It’s no use, ma'am. We just have different... intellectual wavelengths. We have different life pursuits. I am focused on academic contribution and mental development. She is entirely focused on profit and petty grievances. We are incompatible." I slammed my ID and the marriage certificate on the table, cutting off his self-absorbed monologue. "That's right. He's focused on 'mental development,' yet he takes his whole paycheck to buy rare books in foreign languages, not bringing a single cent home for bills. Our rent, our food, everything was paid for by my double shifts in that cafeteria. I'm done supporting a moocher who complains about my cooking. Just stamp the papers." The clerk’s eyes went wide. Silas’s face turned bright red. "Stella! How dare you speak such nonsense!" He completely lost his academic composure, his voice cracking as he shouted. I didn't even give him a second glance. I just stared at the clerk. She didn't ask another question. She stamped the papers with a satisfying thwack. As I picked up my copy of the divorce decree, I felt the crushing weight of two lifetimes finally shatter and fall off my shoulders. The air outside the courthouse smelled cleaner than it ever had before. "Are you satisfied now?" Silas hissed, walking close behind me. His tone was full of unearned charity. "There are four hundred dollars in the savings account. You can keep it as a settlement. I'm done with you. The university housing apartment is mine, obviously. You need to be moved out by tonight." That four hundred dollars was money I had saved from working myself to the bone. And yet, he spoke as if handing me my own money was an act of grace. I let out a cold laugh. "Don't worry, Silas. I won't take a single thing that belongs to you." I went back to that cramped university apartment. It only took me an hour to pack my few belongings. Silas was sitting on the sofa, flipping through a collection of poetry, pretending to be unbothered by the dissolution of his marriage. Then, there was a knock at the door. A young woman in a flowy sundress with her hair tied in a innocent ponytail stood outside, clutching a Tupperware container. "Professor Vance, I heard you weren't feeling well, so I brought you some homemade chicken noodle soup." It was Claire. She saw me holding my duffel bag and her eyes flickered with guilt for a split second before she plastered on a sweet, innocent smile. "Oh, hi, Stella. I was just... checking on Professor Vance." Silas put down his poetry book and stood up, walking over to take the soup container from her hand. His voice was incredibly gentle when he spoke to her. "Thank you, Claire. This means a lot. Actually, I was hoping to discuss some translation theories with you. Come on in." Soul resonance. I grabbed my bag and shoulder-checked Claire out of the doorway. "Excuse me. Don't block the path." Claire let out a dramatic gasp, stumbling weakly toward Silas. He caught her immediately, glaring at my retreating back. "Stella! You are a complete savage!" I didn't look back as I walked down the stairs. Savage? Fine. In my last life, I was kind and devoted, and it ended with me dead in the street. In this life, I was going to be successful, rich, and happily drowning in money. After leaving the university housing, I moved directly into the back storage room of the diner. It was filthy and cramped, but it was wide enough. I could cook in the front and sleep in the back. I used my four hundred dollars to buy pots, pans, plates, and a few sturdy, second-hand wooden tables and chairs. 1992 was the year the economy was booming, and everyone was encouraged to start small businesses. The diner was located near a massive textile mill and a logistics hub that was currently under construction. The foot traffic was immense. But the only other food options around were expensive, sit-down restaurants with terrible service and bland food. I decided to do fast, cheap comfort food. Big portions, plenty of grease, lots of flavor—the kind of food that stuck to the ribs of men doing hard manual labor all day. The day before the grand opening, I went to the massive wholesale market on the south side of town to get supplies. Wholesale markets in the early 90s were chaotic, grimy places, full of mud, slush, and rotten produce. I needed to find reliable long-term suppliers for meat and spices. At a spice stall, I was locked in a heated debate with the owner over a price difference of fifty cents. "Look, pal," I said, leaning over the counter. "These cinnamon sticks are old. The aroma is practically gone. If I buy in bulk, I’m giving you a dollar-twenty a pound, max. You asking for a dollar-seventy is treating me like an idiot." The owner was a big, hulking guy. Seeing I was a young woman, he had assumed he could just bully me into paying. Now that I called him on the market price, he got defensive and waved his hand to dismiss me. "Get lost. If you don't have the money, don't buy. That’s the price. Take it or leave it." "Actually, I agree with her. That batch isn't worth a dollar-seventy." A deep, commanding voice came from behind me. I turned around. Standing there was a man in a black leather jacket with a very short, military-style buzz cut. He was tall, nearly six-foot-two, with a sharp, piercing gaze. In this grimy, working-class wholesale market, he carried himself with an aura of authority that didn't belong. He casually grabbed a handful of the cinnamon sticks and held them up to his nose. "They sat in humidity and were then redried. There's no flavor left in them." He looked coldly at the stall owner. "Lee, you need to run a honest business. You try to screw people over with garbage like this, and I’ll make sure you're taken off the market's approved vendor list." The owner, Lee, went pale. He instantly morphed into a fawning, sniveling sycophant. "Oh, Mr. Pierce! I didn't see you there! This is a complete misunderstanding, I swear! My employee must have put out the wrong sack." The man ignored him and looked down at me. "You have a sharp eye for quality, ma'am. What kind of spices are you looking for? Go to the stall three rows over on the east side. Mention the name Grant Pierce. They’ll give you the wholesale price." Grant Pierce. The name clicked immediately. In my past life, he was the biggest commercial real estate developer in the city, holding a monopoly on the entire Southside logistics network. Apparently, back in 1992, he was just starting out, running logistics for this wholesale market. I wasn't going to refuse the help. I nodded at him. "Thank you, Mr. Pierce. My name is Stella. I’m opening a diner over on North Street near the factory. I imagine I'll be sourcing a lot of goods from here." He wasn't overly polite, and he didn't look down on me for being a woman in business. He just glanced at the detailed, disorganized list of items in my hand. "North Street is a high-traffic spot. Stella, I wish you luck with your opening." Having secured low-cost, high-quality ingredients, I went back to the diner and spent the entire night simmering a massive pot of my grandmother's secret BBQ sauce base. It was a recipe I had perfected over hundreds of trials in my past life. The smoke and spice aroma was so potent it drifted halfway down the block. The next morning, with a modest crackle of cheap fireworks at the door, "Stella's North Street Diner" officially opened. I set up a glass display counter right at the front and filled it with massive trays of glinting, saucy ribs, pulled pork, and smoked sausage. The aroma immediately drew in the factory workers who were just finishing their night shift. "Hey, boss. How much for a plate?" "Two dollars, brother. Huge helping of pork, sides, and the coffee is free!" I yelled back over the din. I was wearing an old apron, my hair tied back, wielding a massive steel ladle. I was cutting meat, scooping rice, and pouring sauce at lightning speed. By 11:30 AM, the fifty portions I had prepared were completely sold out. In the evening, I offered spicy grilled chicken and steak tips, attracting all the long-haul truck drivers pulling into the logistics hub. By the end of the day, I was exhausted. My back ached, and my arms were sore. But as I sat under the single dim light bulb at the back of the kitchen counting the cash, smoothing out the crumpled single dollars and twenty-dollar bills in the metal tin... I realized I had made a net profit of thirty-five dollars. In 1992, that was nearly half a month’s salary for a factory worker. I carefully folded the money and tucked it into my bra. This was real security. Meanwhile, back at the university, Silas was probably hungry, debating the meaning of a poem with his "soulmate." The diner's business grew faster than I could have imagined. Because I used high-quality ingredients, served massive portions, and kept prices low, I captured the market perfectly. Within a month, I had to hire two women to help with prep and dishwashing. We set up a takeout window at the front for evening orders. I worked from dawn until late at night, barely stopping for a sip of water. But I felt more alive than I ever had before. My complexion was glowing, a stark contrast to the pale, depressed wife I used to be. One evening, right during the prime dinner rush, the diner was packed. I was standing in front of the open kitchen, working the grill, when I heard a voice that made my spine go cold. "This place is utterly disgusting. Look at the grease on the floor. I can't even stand to walk in here." I kept working the grill and looked over my shoulder. Silas and Claire were standing at the door. Claire was wearing a brand new sundress, holding a scented handkerchief to her nose, looking at the crowded, working-class clientele with utter disdain. Silas had bought himself a new suit. It looked expensive. He frowned as he scanned the room, his eyes finally landing on me. Seeing me in my stained apron, covered in sweat and grease, a look of arrogant pity flashed in his eyes. "Stella, look at yourself. Look at what you've become." He walked through the crowded room, dodging a table of burly factory workers drinking beer, and stood right in front of my station. "Is this your revenge against me? Running a dive bar in a rough neighborhood just to embarrass me? How much profit are you even making, fifty cents a plate? Degrading yourself like this... is it worth it?" I finished plating an order of ribs and handed it to my waitress. I wiped the sweat from my brow with my shoulder and wiped my hands on my apron, staring at him with a amused smile. "Why, if it isn't Professor Vance. Didn't they have steamed vegetables and tofu at the faculty dining hall tonight? What are you doing in a 'dive bar'? Experiencing how the other half lives?" Claire walked up and weakly grabbed Silas’s arm. "Stella, don't misunderstand. Professor Vance just got a major grant from the university for his research, so we came out to celebrate." "We were passing by, and Professor Vance felt nostalgic. He wanted to see if you were doing okay." She extended her slender, pale fingers and adjusted the hair behind her ear. "Stella, your hands are completely chapped and covered in cuts. Oh, I feel so terrible for you. Unlike us who work with our minds and pens, manual labor is so incredibly hard on the body. You look exhausted." It was blatant bragging disguised as sympathy. Ten years ago, I would have felt inferior, I would have cried. Now, I just found it funny. "If you're here to celebrate, find a seat," I said, pointing at the diner. I grabbed a pen and pad and slammed them on the nearest table. "Pulled pork sandwich is five dollars, ribs are ten. What can I get you?" At the mention of the prices, Silas’s face went pale. In 1992, five dollars was a lot of money for a sandwich. His salary, after buying his expensive foreign books, was minimal. He used to rely entirely on me to cover our living expenses. Now that I cut him off, where did he find the nerve to come here and order ribs? "Stella, are you insane? Five dollars for a sandwich? You are completely money-grubbing. That is armed robbery," he hissed under his breath. "The prices are listed right there. If you can't afford it, there’s a McDonald’s two blocks over. Their dollar menu is probably more your speed." I didn't hold back. Around us, several tables of customers stopped eating and turned to look. "Look at this guy in the suit," a drunk trucker laughed loudly from a near table. "Comes in here with his girl, orders a sandwich, and then complains he can't pay five bucks? Who is this loser?" The crowd burst into laughter. Silas’s face turned bright red. He could not handle public humiliation. He violently slammed his hand on the table, pointing a finger at my face. The mask of the refined professor was completely gone. "Stella Vance! You have become utterly grotesque!" "My colleague, Professor Davis, is on the city’s health and fire safety board! He oversees this entire district! You think your little greasy spoon is up to code? The sanitation in here is atrocious! Believe me, one phone call tomorrow and I will have your business license revoked, and you’ll be on a bus back to the sticks!" The diner went dead silent. Everyone knew you didn't fight City Hall. Claire immediately started playing the peacemaker. "Stella, just apologize to Silas. He has a kind heart. Just admit you were wrong, and he won't take away your livelihood." They were completely certain that I had no choice but to bow down to them to survive.

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