The math problem leapt off the page and began its spree of terror.
“…the fuck?” cried one eyewitness, speaking on condition of anonymity.
The item was brief, a mere five lines, and as Bret read aloud in the kitchen, his sister Nan smiled, whether from amusement or because she’d managed to spoon peas into her son Chris’s mouth, Bret couldn’t say for certain. His nephew’s protests were lost amid the grind of Nan’s husband Rob drying spring mix in the salad spinner.
“Apropos of nothing,” she said, “have you found a job yet?”
The toddler stared at Bret dull-eyed and swallowed the next spoonful.
“I have a job,” Bret said.
“Right. Remember, Rob? Bret’s a ‘journalist’ now.”
Rob chopped celery and stayed neutral, which was decent of him. Many moons had passed since Bret punched that clock in the Circuit City across town. He was better than that stupid job; he didn’t even think on that job anymore. He’d since cycled through several abortive phases—election canvassing, plasma donation, computer classes, and the like—before volunteering for the fourth estate. This story had caught him on the back foot, though. His engagement on the socials was shit. His posts gained zero traction. Things were dire.
The wire services soon got hold of the story. The math problem gained national infamy. Opinion pieces flourished. MATH PROBLEM STEALING OUR JOBS, headlines read. Something must be done, the impassioned plea went, which was precisely what Bret planned to do. Something.
He met his friend Franklin at 2nd and Blitzmerker and caught the 12 bus out to some derelict strip mall out in the boonies with an orthopedic shoe outlet at one end and a pet shop at the other. Nothing there fit any available description of the math problem.
Franklin plucked a half-smoked Kool from an ashcan and cupped a hand over his mouth to relight it.
“There’s a reward,” he said. “Cash money. That’s the real thing, the money.”
Sure, money—but what of the mystery? The desire for knowledge was a demon that had taken full possession of Bret. The not-knowing was vexatious. He kicked a bottle cap off the curb and dug his hands in his pockets.
“I dunno,” he said. “I just wanna get to the bottom of it, y’know?”
“Sure. And I just I wanna get to the bottom of fifty large.”
A compelling line of thinking, Bret conceded. A complementary, rather than contradictory, perspective. Elsewhere, other perspectives proliferated. The math problem had the zeitgeist in a throttlehold. Columnists nationwide spent yards of text attempting to outline, give shape to, contain the problem. Everyone wanted a piece.
One night, as Bret read aloud at dinner, Nan interrupted.
“That math problem’s about to get on my last fuckin’ nerve,” she said.
“Honey—”
“Don’t ‘honey’ me, Rob, I’m sick of him droning on about this shit.”
“It’s research,” Bret said. “I think I may be onto something.”
This was a bluff. Transparent, at that. He was onto nothing much. Had not been onto anything for a while, in fact. Nan slipped Chris some applesauce, and the boy broke out in a keening police-siren wail.
“Actually? That’s it. I want him out, Rob. Tomorrow morning, gone.”
With a few more swear words she scooped the child up and hauled him to his room. Rob remained standing by the open fridge, staring into its buttery light.
“Beer?”
Bret declined. Within minutes he was on the subway. There were fierce edges to every surface, the seats and poles and windows, haunted expressions on the face of every passenger. They were worried about the math problem whether they knew it or not. Bret journeyed to the chi-chi frou-frou neighborhoods uptown with their manicured shrubberies and wrought iron lampposts, then swung over to the warehouse district all covered with tags and throw-ups in Day-Glo Rust-Oleum. The math problem was nowhere to be found and yet it had followed him everywhere.
Maybe it’s not so bad, he reasoned, sidestepping rivulets of dog urine on the long walk home. Franklin was good people, maybe he’d let Bret crash a while. Maybe he wouldn’t be too put out if Bret showed up with a gym bag and a favor to ask. Just till Nan came around, if she ever did. Wouldn’t Bret do the same for him? He’d like to think so. But who could say, really?
He was so absorbed in these considerations he almost didn’t see the math problem coming straight towards him.
The math problem didn’t look like you’d think it would. No bipedal cascade of green numerals, no shimmering symbol. It looked human, regrettably so. Like a bespectacled shlub in a hoodie and brand-new New Balance sneakers.
“Excuse me,” Bret said.
“Back off,” the math problem said.
“Please, just one question—”
A New Balance caught Bret mid-stride. Direct to the groin. A deft maneuver, there was no denying it as Bret clutched himself and groaned, and the math problem’s footsteps escaped forever down the sidewalk.
Reports came in later that the math problem had assumed the form of a giant that lived in the hills, beating its chest like a gorilla; later still, that it was now a hoary inscrutable deity, standing judgment over all mankind, finding us lacking. Magazine covers, puff pieces aplenty. But Bret knew the truth when he got back to Nan’s and found his nephew who, having woken from a bad dream, had wandered into the darkened living room, alone and in tears. A telltale rhythm of bedpost and spring echoed down the hall with a counterpoint of moans as his sister and brother-in-law fucked in the other room.
“It’s okay,” Bret whispered. “I’m here.”
It struck him as unthinkable that any person alive on this earth could hear those words from his lips and be reassured, but the child grew quiet and raised his arms to embrace him. It was okay, he was here. And if the words weren’t reassuring, they were, at least, true.
NM Whitley is a writer, teacher, musician, and translator whose work appears in venues such as The Dark, Seize the Press, JAKE, The Café Irreal, Propagule, and The Barcelona Review, among others. For more, visit linktr.ee/nmwhitley.
Image: Europeana, unsplash.com
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