Albert left early for the lunch meeting on Sunday, eager and even slightly nervous about seeing his friend.  He’d had abundant energy the day before, so he’d gone for a walk, done some chores around his place, and gotten a head-start on his laundry, since he wasn’t going to be hanging around during the day on Sunday.  He had even gone to a small local restaurant for his dinner, by himself.

Ordinarily, he would have been a bit self-conscious, thinking it was pathetic for a fifty-year-old man (plus a few years) to be eating out alone on a Saturday night.  That night, though, he’d felt fine about it.  The evening air was pleasant, so he had walked to the restaurant, and he felt more than satisfied with the available options.  He enjoyed a glass of wine with his dinner, feeling only very slightly affected by it, and when walking back to his house afterward, he thought that, just maybe, his waitress had been flirting with him.

He didn’t feel like a man in his early fifties.  He wasn’t even sure if he felt as old as his forties.

His nerves were nevertheless surprisingly tight the next day as he pulled into the plaza Walter had mentioned.  He had his work bag with him, an over-the-shoulder, soft leather case that had seen better days, and within it, wrapped in a few plastic shopping bags, was the bottle of V-42.  He’d used it again that morning, somewhat more sparingly than the previous few days, but as far as he could tell, the lather was just as thick, the smell just as good.  And though he might have been fooling himself, when he looked in the mirror that morning as he shaved and got dressed, he thought he looked better than he had the day before.

He parked his car in a central area, not even bothering to try to get too close to the restaurant, since he wasn’t averse to walking.  The place was surprisingly big.  It was an actual stand-alone building; Albert had been expecting it to be in the main strip-mall part of the complex.  He strolled up to the front, pleased to see that it wasn’t too crowded, and he walked in.

The hostess asked him if he was eating alone; she looked embarrassed about the question.  Before replying, Albert scanned the room, looking for Walter.  He reminded himself that it had been quite some time since he’d last seen his friend, so he broadened his expected potential candidate faces.  However, there was no sign of anyone who looked much like him.

It was a bit early, Albert knew.  So, he told the hostess he was meeting a friend, and that he would wait.  She smiled and gave him a menu to look at in the meantime, then walked away.  Albert didn’t look at the menu, instead turning to look toward the doorway, hoping to see when Walter arrived.

It didn’t take long.  As Albert watched, a mid-range, blue BMW pulled into a just-vacated spot not far from the front of the restaurant.  The door opened, and out stepped Walter, who was apparently doing well enough to have upscaled at least his car.

He didn’t look all that well, though, and Albert suspected that quite a few drinks had been involved in his “meeting some people from work” the night before.  He also seemed to have gained weight since the last time Albert had seen him, and it didn’t suit his face very well.  He appeared not to have shaved that day, and even from a distance, Albert saw the hallmark salt-and-pepper look in his friend’s whiskers, quite noticeable given Walter’s dark hair.

As Walter trudged toward the door, not looking at all like someone eagerly anticipating a nice meal, Albert stood from the seat near the front of the restaurant which he had taken during his brief wait.  Walter swung open the door and stepped in, looking around the place, obviously expecting to see Albert.  At first, he scanned right past his friend, looking out into the restaurant, apparently assuming that Albert must already have taken a table.  Then, he did an almost comical double-take, and his gaze came back to rest on Albert, who was only a few yards away.

Walter stood in place for a moment, his eyes widening and his mouth dropping open slightly.  Then, giving his head a slight shake, he said, “Albert?”  The tentativeness of the word made it clear that he was far from sure he was correct in his identification.

“Yep,” Albert replied.  “It’s me.  Hi, Walter.”

Walter stared for a moment more, then stepped forward, holding out his hand for a shake, which Albert gave.  Walter’s palms were slightly sweaty, and his grip was not too firm, but that was nothing new.  Albert was in more of a traditional business, so he was schooled in the mores of firm, assertive greetings, which probably were not that necessary for a scientist working in biotech.

Letting go of the handshake, Walter blinked dramatically, then said, “Wow.  Albert, you look…I almost didn’t recognize you.  You look like you’ve gotten, like, ten years younger.”

With a nervous little laugh, Albert responded, “Well, I feel even better than that.  That’s…that’s mainly what I wanted to meet you about.”

Walter looked confused, but he had always been quick, so he seemed to process Albert’s point, gave a tiny, almost ironic head shake, and he said, “I guess that’s why you wanted to meet in person, huh?”

“Part of it,” Albert admitted, impressed by how speedily Walter came to the conclusion.

At that moment, the hostess, seeing that the friend Albert had mentioned was now here, approached them and asked if they would like a table.  Of course, they said they would, and she led them to a small booth near the right wall of the restaurant.

They exchanged minor pleasantries while waiting for their server to bring them water and the required fresh chips and salsa.  Albert hadn’t even looked at his menu, but Walter seemed to know what he wanted already, ordering a chimichanga meal and a margarita.

Albert raised his eyebrows slightly at the order, but Walter just said, “Hair of the dog,” and shrugged.  Albert chuckled, then quickly made up his mind to get a chimichanga also, since he didn’t much care one way or the other what he ate.  He decided not to have anything alcoholic to drink, however, opting instead for what was listed as a “Mexican Coca-Cola”, which apparently meant it was sweetened with cane sugar rather than high-fructose corn syrup.  He wasn’t sure whether it would taste any different to him, but it seemed interesting to find out.

Once the server walked away, Walter took a chip and ate it, then asked, “So…what did you want to talk to me about, about this…I don’t know, what, are you, like, selling a membership in some fitness club or asking about side-effects of plastic surgery, or what?”

Albert had some minor difficulty following Walter’s point, but he said, “No, nothing like that.  No pyramid schemes or potential malpractice suits or anything like that.”

Walter smirked, evidently not having been serious in his suggestions.  Then he asked, “So, then, what’s been going on?  I mean…really, seriously, you look better than you have in I don’t know how long.  I figure it has to be something that’s going on, and if it’s not testosterone replacement and HGH, I’m not sure what it’s got to be, because just working out doesn’t usually make your…well, pardon me for saying, but it doesn’t make your hair grow back.  Did you get a hair transplant or something?”

“No,” Albert replied, realizing only in that moment just how much his locks must have thinned from everyone else’s point of view.  “No surgery.  And no…hormone treatments or whatever.”

Walter shook his head, clearly unconvinced.  “Really?” he said.  “Then what have you been doing?  Because if you can market it, you’ll be rich.”

Albert chuckled, though he felt a bit uncomfortable with the thought.  “Yeah, well, what I’ve been doing…” he said, reaching into his bag and pulling out his bundle in grocery sacks, “…is this.”  He pulled the bags off and placed the bottle of HoG V-42 on the table.

Walter didn’t reach out for the bottle, but instead put another chip—this time with a bit of salsa—in his mouth.  After chewing a bit, he mumbled, “That’s it?”

Nodding, feeling oddly insecure and borderline embarrassed, Albert replied, “Yep.  That’s it.”

Walter raised an eyebrow, then asked, “Are you sure this isn’t a pyramid scheme?  You’re not gonna try to get me to sell this shit to other people or to join Avon or something, are you?”

Perhaps partly because he felt rather nervous, Albert found this remark particularly funny, especially since he didn’t think he’d even heard of Avon since he was a little kid.  He laughed louder and a bit longer than the question really merited before taking a drink of the water he had at the table.  Then he said, “No, I’m not hoping to get you to sell this stuff.  Hell, I wish I could find someone to sell more of it to me.  That’s one of the things I wonder about .”

Walter was clearly puzzled, but he said nothing.  So, taking his friend’s silence as his cue, Albert told him the story of how he had come to buy the shampoo by accident because his car was in the shop and he’d forgotten to pick any up at the store during the day.  He told him how at first he’d liked it just because of the scent and color and lather, but also that he found it invigorating.  Then, he described his quest to locate more of it, first online and then in person, but that he had found neither sign nor rumor of it.

And, above all, he told Walter how he had swiftly noticed that not just his hair but his skin and his eyes, and even his general health, were improving, that he felt and—according to everyone else, including Walter—looked better than he had in years.

Through the very condensed version of this tale, Walter eyed Albert seriously, but his expression was skeptical, a fact for which Albert could hardly blame him.  The food had not yet arrived, but just as Albert finished his brief rundown, the server brought their drinks—Albert’s Coke came in an old-fashioned, glass Coca-Cola bottle, a fact that was pleasantly nostalgic for him—and asked if they needed a refresher on their chips.

Neither of them needed more of these, so the server left them alone again, and Walter took a sip of his margarita, grimacing a bit as he did, and then said, “That sounds like the biggest pile of bullshit I think I’ve ever heard.”

If it were a stranger who had said this to him, Albert thought he would have been at least mildly angry.  He and Walter had known each other for decades, though, and when in college they had treated each other and their other friends to verbal assaults that would have made this last sentence seem like Victorian courtliness.  So, instead of being perturbed, Albert just chuckled and responded, “Don’t I know it.  But it’s true, anyway.  I’d swear on anything you asked me to swear on.”

Walter gave a tiny dismissive gesture and then looked at the bottle of shampoo Albert had revealed and placed on the table.  He tilted his head and then asked, “May I?” indicating that he wished to have a closer look at the V-42.

Albert half-wanted to say “No.”  He felt almost nervous about having anyone else touch the stuff, as though Walter might steal it, or that his hands would somehow break some spell.  That was absurd, though, and it was to get Walter’s insight that he had arranged their meeting, so he said, “Sure, go ahead.”  He thought he heard his voice tremble.

Walter reached out and picked up the bottle, looking closely first at the front and then at the back.  Albert pointed out to him the lack of any trademark symbols or any of what he assumed would be required information for such a product.  Walter made no comment about these points, but he did say, “That’s a weird brand name, Hog.  I mean, the way the o is little and the other two letters are big, it seems like some kind of Acronym, but there’s no periods and no place that the acronym is expanded or anything.”

“I know,” Albert said with a nod.  “It seems almost like a label someone worked up on Adobe or something and printed out themselves, like a joke.  But it’s…the shampoo isn’t a joke.”

Walter raised an eyebrow.  Then, alarming Albert slightly, Walter popped open the top of the bottle and brought it to his nose.  After he took a slight sniff, his face lost some of its skepticism, and the corners of his mouth turned downwards in an expression of appreciation that had always reminded Albert of Robert DeNiro.  Looking back at Albert again, Walter said, “That does smell pretty nice, doesn’t it?”

“It does,” Albert said.  “Not too flowery, so I don’t think it’s like a women’s shampoo or anything…though I’ve looked through those, too.  But it’s really refreshing.”

“Yeah, it is,” Walter agreed.  “And I’m not exactly in a good mood for strong smells right now.  But this is good.  I can see why you like it.”

“Right?” Albert said.  “It wouldn’t be hard to market.  Which made me wonder…do you know if shampoo companies or people like that ever do little…test marketing things, where they put unmarked samples of stuff out to sort of…see how people like it, before giving it a real name and selling it?”

Walter’s brow furrowed, and he looked almost scornful.  “Not that I’ve ever heard of.  Anyway, it wouldn’t make sense.  There’d be no way for them to get any feedback.  I mean, there’s not even a phone number or a website to contact or a QR code to scan on this for people to give feedback.  It’d be just a waste.  You can’t get data without some way for people to give it to you.”

Albert couldn’t deny that Walter had a point.

Walter closed the lid and put the bottle down, looking at the front label while he took a second sip of his margarita.  Something seemed to catch his notice and he chuckled, saying, “Hey, maybe this stuff is the answer to life, the universe, and everything.”

Albert blinked stupidly, taking a sip of his Coke, too distracted to notice if it tasted any different from ordinary Coke.  “What do you mean?” he asked after swallowing.

Walter shook his head, still smiling.  “Nothing,” he said.  “I just…you remember, from The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, how the number 42 was the answer to life, the universe, and everything, but no one knew the question?”

Now Albert recognized the reference.  He had never been as big a sci-fi or comedy nerd as Walter, but he was well familiar with The Hitchhiker’s Guide.

“Wow,” he said, chuckling a bit.  “I haven’t thought of that book in years.  I just figured ‘V-42’ was short for ‘version 42’.”

“Well, that’s probably the real answer,” Water admitted.  “But if it was some kind of weird joke, that would have been a good name for someone to pick for it.”

Albert supposed that was true, but the more he had thought of it, the less a joke had made sense to him.  A prank shampoo should have negative effects, not positive ones.

Just then, their server brought their identical meals out, much faster than Albert had expected.  He put the shampoo back into its bags and placed it on his seat, between his carry bag and his body.  The conversation and speculation between them was interrupted as the two started to dig into their chimichangas with sides of refried beans and Spanish rice.  The meal was better than Albert had expected from a restaurant of which he had never heard.  During the early part of their dining, they didn’t speak more about Albert’s shampoo.

However, as they both drew near the end of their repast, Walter commented, “Wow, I guess I really needed that.  My hangover is completely gone.”  He had hardly touched his margarita after the first few sips, evidently preferring his water.  He now gave a smirk and said, “Although maybe it wasn’t the food.  Maybe sniffing the shampoo cured my headache.”

Albert didn’t honestly think this was impossible, but he decided not to say so.  Instead, he just laughed and said, “Who knows?” as if merely going along with his friend’s joke.

Walter chuckled again, probably grateful that his comment was appreciated—or maybe he was just happy no longer to have a headache.  In any case, he finally asked, “So, what exactly do you want me to do about this shampoo?  I mean, there are branches of my company that make cosmetics and stuff, but I’m not in any of those branches.”

“No, I know,” Albert said.  “I was just…I was wondering if there was any way for you to…I don’t know, look into journals or whatever to see if anyone has invented a new shampoo that…that can do surprising things.”

Walter regarded Albert with a raised eyebrow.  He probably was worried about his friend’s mental health, and that was probably not a crazy worry.  With some hesitancy, he said, “Albert…there’s no way this is anything but shampoo.  And shampoo’s just…detergents with coloring and smells and sometimes conditioners and stuff added in.  It’s not what’s made you get healthier.”

“Then what could it be?” Albert asked, not really expecting a better answer.

“I don’t know,” Walter admitted, “maybe it’s just…more exercise.  Or you said you gave up smoking, that’s good for you.  Or maybe it’s just that you’re not married to…what’s-her-name anymore.”  Walter had never gotten along well with Albert’s ex-wife, and he had always tended to express his dislike passive-aggressively such as by pretending not to remember her name.

Albert appreciated Walter’s circumspection in at least not using profanity when speaking of his former spouse, but he knew that his divorce was not an explanation for his improved well-being.  “Are you kidding?” he asked.  “I feel like I’ve aged twice as fast since I got divorced.  And I know quitting smoking has been good for me, but it doesn’t do this.”  He gestured at himself with his currently empty fork.  “And besides, I quit smoking a few months ago, but it’s only this last week that I’ve started looking and feeling better.”

Walter raised his eyebrow even higher.  “That’s ridiculous,” he said.  “Nothing could change that much in a week.  That’s probably just when you started noticing.  You’ve always been a little clueless about yourself and how you look.”

“It’s not just me,” Albert countered.  “The people at work have made comments on how much better I look just this last week.  I’ve had people ask if I went to a spa, or for some kind of makeover, and even if I’ve had Botox or something.”

Walter continued to regard him with deep skepticism, but at least there was no scorn in his gaze for the moment.  “Albert,” he said, “you know that doesn’t make any sense.  A shampoo can’t remake your health at all, let alone in a week.  I mean…maybe you just…had some kind of chronic, low-grade infection or something that’s been going on for years, like some walking pneumonia or whatever, and now that you quit smoking, your body finally just finished fighting it off, and now your general health is getting better overall.”

“Can that happen?” Albert asked, honestly curious.

“I don’t know,” Walter replied, sounding mildly exasperated.  “I’m not a doctor.  But it sounds more plausible than what you’re suggesting.”

Albert paused, chewing what was nearly the last bite of his meal.  Walter’s suggestion made at least some sense.  But he didn’t think he’d been sick, even with a “walking pneumonia”.  For one thing, he thought his own doctor would have noticed.  He got semi-regular checkups, which included blood work and occasional X-rays—he had been a smoker, after all.  Surely a chronic illness would have shown itself somehow.  And he hadn’t felt sick.  He had just experienced a slowly and steadily deteriorating normal that had been consistent with typical aging in a middle-aged man who didn’t take very good care of himself.

Walter could apparently see that Albert wasn’t convinced by his proposed explanation, and he said, “Look, I’m not saying that’s what it is.  Maybe you had some minor vitamin deficiency or something, and some food that you eat has recently started being supplemented with B12 or something, and you didn’t know it.”

It was Albert’s turn to be mildly sarcastic as he said, “What, do you think maybe there’s a vitamin V-42 that’s recently been discovered?”

Walter chuckled, evidently at least appreciating Albert’s slightly biting comment in its best possible light.  “Maybe,” he said.  “But I doubt it.”  He paused for a moment before saying, “Look, I can go on Google Scholar and look around a little if you want.  You could do it yourself, but I’m not sure you’d be able to tell if you found anything interesting.”

“What’s Google Scholar?” Albert asked.

“Scholar dot Google dot com,” Walter replied.  “It’s a search engine that searches scholarly literature instead of just the general web.  So, if you want to find things that are a step above blogs and social media and stuff, it’s a good place to start.”

“Oh,” Albert said.  “Huh.  I’ve never heard of it.”

Walter shrugged before going on, “I’m not sure what I’ll search for exactly, but if I try a lot of related words, I’ll probably get something if there’s anything out there to be got.  I guess I could also look on preprint servers…bioarXiv, medarXiv, maybe some others, to see if anyone’s got anything that hasn’t been peer reviewed yet…”

Walter trailed off and looked mildly troubled, so Albert asked, “What’s the matter?”

With a slight grimace, Walter replied, “Well, look, on the very unlikely chance that some company out there has come up with some miracle shampoo formula that literally takes years off your life, they’re not going to publish their research in the usual journals or anything.  They’re going to keep it secret…like military-level secret, at least until they get a patent.”

Albert recognized that this was an excellent point, and he had skirted around the idea himself.  “So, maybe this bottle being where it was is because some…whistle-blower, or just some guy who got passed over for a promotion, decided to steal some of the stuff and put it out into the world as…revenge or something.”

Walter sighed and said, “That’s not a very good revenge plot, and it really doesn’t work as a whistle-blower thing, since you’ve gotten great results.  Unless it’s going to start by making you feel better but then…I don’t know, trigger some cellular restart that makes your stem cells overgrow and turn into tumors or something.  Then the news might catch on and investigate.”

Albert’s eyes widened in surprised alarm.  “Do you think that’s possible?” he asked.  “Can that happen?”

“No,” Walter said firmly, plainly a bit exasperated.  “I was deliberately saying ridiculous things.  I’m starting to worry about how gullible you’re being, with this.”

Albert sighed, trying to calm down from his recently triggered fear.  “Look,” he said, “I know I’m not qualified to even tell if what I think makes sense.  That’s why I called you.”

Walter smiled wryly and said, “Well, I appreciate your confidence, at least.”

After another moment, Albert lowered his voice and asked, “Do you think you’d be able to…to test it?  To see what’s in it?”

Walter seemed surprised by this request, a fact which puzzled Albert, who thought the notion was obvious.  After blinking a few times and sitting back in his seat, he asked, “Are you seriously asking me to take your shampoo bottle to the lab and…well, like your said, test it?”

“No!” Albert said, surprised by his own vehemence.  He toned himself down and then repeated, “No.  I don’t want to give you the bottle.  I want to keep using it.  I figured I’d just give you a sample or something.  Because if this is the only bottle, I want to keep using it as long as I can, but I hope there’s a way to figure out how to make more.”

“A sample,” Walter repeated.  “You want me to take a sample.  Can I assume you brought a test tube, or something like that, for me to carry the sample in?”

Albert was taken aback.  He hadn’t even considered that.

At that moment, their server came to ask if they were done and if they wanted dessert or coffee or to take any leftovers home.  Neither of them wanted any of these options, so the server began picking up their plates and putting them on a tray.

Rather abruptly, and to Albert’s surprise, Walter asked, “Hey, do you guys have any of those little plastic cup things that people use to put sauce or ketchup or stuff like that in when they get takeout?”

The server seemed a bit caught off guard but, after a moment’s thought, answered in the affirmative.

“Great,” Walter said.  “ Could I have a couple of those?”

Though obviously puzzled, the server shrugged and said it wouldn’t be a problem.  Soon the table was cleared away, and when the server came to pick up Albert’s credit card for payment—he insisted on paying, since he was the one asking Walter for help—the requisite white plastic bowl/cups were delivered.

“What are you doing with those?” Albert asked while his card was being run.

With a playful smile, Walter replied, “I’m going to use them to bring a sample with me.  Why don’t you get the shampoo out again?”

It took another brief moment for Albert to realize what Walter meant, but when he saw his friend place one of the little cups on the table with a lid next to it, Albert realized what Walter had in mind.  “Oh!  Good idea,” he said, and he removed the V-42 from its bags again.  As he popped the top open, looking at the little sauce cup, he felt hesitant, not wanting to lose any more of the shampoo if he could help it.  “How much do you need?” he asked.

Walter seemed to understand his reluctance, and he chuckled as he replied, “Not very much.  I certainly don’t need the whole cup full.  It’s not like I’m planning on dunking fries in it.”

Albert tried to find that funny, but he found the idea strangely disquieting.  He held the shampoo over the cup and very gingerly squeezed until a thin stream of the bright amber liquid began to pour into the plastic container.  To Albert, it looked like some platonic ideal of honey, and he remembered that, according to myth, honey was created by the bees as a gift for the wedding of Zeus and Hera.

If the bees had been able to offer them V-42 shampoo, Albert whimsically thought, they probably wouldn’t have bothered with honey.  This led him to an imaginary scene of swarms of bees throughout the world going from flower to flower and bringing back nectar not to turn into honey but into V-42 shampoo.  He imagined the myriad hexagons in countless combs in farmers’ fields dripping with the stuff, all over the world.

“That’s good,” Walter said, interrupting Albert’s strange reverie.  “I won’t need a lot.  I’ll dilute it for most of the tests I’ll do, anyway.”

Albert looked at the cup and was pleased to see that, despite his mind having wandered, he’d filled it less than a quarter of the way.

Walter put the cap back on the sample, and the server came back with Albert’s receipt for him to sign.  Soon the two left the restaurant, Walter carrying his little sample cup with appropriate care.  Albert thanked Walter profusely, making Walter appear slightly uncomfortable.

Walter assured Albert that it was not that big a deal, and he promised to get back to him as any information became available, or if it became clear that there was no information to be had.  He didn’t expect any test results to be available before Tuesday, but he would keep Albert posted if it looked like it would take much longer, and he told Albert he could text him to check in but not to be impatient.  Then, rather playfully, he added that Albert should be cautious about what he wrote in his texts.  After all, they wouldn’t want anyone to steal their data.

Albert knew Walter was joking, but he thought it was a good precaution.  Until he knew more about the source of the shampoo, he thought it was better if fewer people knew of it.  He thanked Walter again, this time giving him their equivalent of a manly hug, before heading to his car to go home.