The Problem with Numbers

You’d think after being rated as one of the top 1% of the students in the country meant you were smart. And then you’d meet someone like Jared.

He doesn’t have any real problems, or at least he doesn’t think so. In his words, he likes to think of his life as "being in two different states." On one hand, you have his material, corporeal, squishy form. It has hungers, desires, and an overload of sensory information. On the other, you have his mental abilities, able to solve complex arithmetic problems just as accurately as a calculator, most often in half the time. He had a way with numbers the way orchestras had with notes, or artists had with paint. They were his raw materials, and he crafted them into something beautiful.

But today was one of those days where Jared’s lack of common sense got him into trouble. Sure, that bowl of leftover Halloween candy wasn't gonna eat itself, but poor Jared forgot about one thing. Moderation. Despite knowing how much sugar his system was ingesting as well as his stomach capacity, Jared still couldn’t help stuffing himself sick on bite-sized candy bars. Now, his stomach was churning, his thoughts were clouding, and all sorts of symptoms best left unmentioned.

Jared held onto anything with legs for support as he drifted through the hallway. He looked down at his watch. Ten past 11. When did class start? Is it over already? Why are there hands on my digital watch? These questions danced through Jared's mind, the answer just out of reach. Eventually he stumbled into a classroom. He thought it was the wrong one, but the instructor seemed familiar, especially that glaring look. Jared mumbled an excuse for his tardiness and found the nearest empty seat before getting a test paper shoved into his face.

He kept trying to shake the haze out of his head, but all that ended up doing was turn the classroom into the world's largest snow globe. The white brick walls, the dirtied white ceiling tiles, the pale white carpet...all blended into a milky mixture of failure, punctuated by the blank test paper in front of him and a faint throbbing sound. Jared slumped onto the desk, slamming his head against its cold plastic shell.

What class was this, anyways? European literature since 1800? Drafting for industrial engineering? Philosophy as narrated by famous dead people? It didn't matter to poor Jared now, he was too lost in his own body to pick up his old reliable #2 pencil, much less write a one-paragraph summary on...whatever the question was about. And even if he could write, he wouldnt be able to see his work through all the stars floating in front of his eyes.

He shifted uneasily in his factory-excreted chair/desk thingy. The dizzying effects seemed to have burned off, and there was a little more consistency in his thoughts. Maybe I can pull this off after all, he thought. He glanced back down at the test papers, blinked and then squinted again in disbelief. No, it's true! This was the second-to-final exam for advanced trigonometry!

Normally this would be a death sentence to your average unprepared and weakened mind, but not for Jared Peck! He could ace this test even after a lobotomy, a brainwashing, and extensive shock training to instill a fear of numbers. Jared grinned and got a firm grasp on his trusty pencil, scribbling away at complex formulas that would cause mere mortals to explode under the strain. Jared flew through the pages, dispensing forulas and quadratic equations with style and grace. He was working in his element, after all. Even with the fifteen minute head start given to the rest of the class, Jared finished in record time.

The bell rang, and he walked out of class with his head held high. No mere mathematics problem could keep him down. He was now on a higher plane of existence, one above the need for a degree to prove his knowledge. As soon as he walked into the main hall, however, he crashed violently into reality and fell to his knees from the impact.

The downshifting from mathematical to actual life always posed a problem for Jared. With numbers, even the chaos of the system follows a set rate and predictable pattern. With biological creatures you had all those impulses, instincts, and maybe even free will to muck up all his formulas and leave him struggling for the answers.

Then he heard a gurgling sound in his digestive tract, one that he wished he didn't. It was that unforgettable stomach gurgling that preceded every vomiting spree, whether it was crafted from the flu or an all-night binging session. Apparently some part of his body still longed to be uncomfortable, despite Jared’s will. Gathering the remnants of his strength, he charged towards the nearest restroom with all the finesse and skill of an epileptic squid. Flinging himself through the door he slid to a stop inches away from his target. His vision blurred, his throat constricted, and out came the Technicolor yawn.

After expelling a half-digested soup of chocolate and soda pop, he fell to the floor. One mess was contained in the toilet, but the other mess known as Jared could only wish his symptoms were confined. His nostrils burned and his eyes watered. His limbs tingled and his breathing slowed. All he wanted was to get out of that stinky, rotten hole. But there was nothing he could do, all his energy was used up fighting this self-wrought illness. And now, the world around him slowly faded away into black...

"Jesus, man! What did you eat?" demanded the voice overhead. Jared grumbled something about being left alone and kept his eyes closed. He didn't want to know who was shouting at him, he was still trying to forget where he was. Two missed classes, a rancid taste in his mouth, and a pounding headache. Pulling himself to his feet, he didn't care to glance at the mess before flushing it all away. The man who found Jared was busy in the other stall, but neither of the two fellows cared about each other's problems. They had business to attend to, and the quicker they didn't have to see each other again, the better.

Jared limped over to the sink, to wash his hands and spit out any remaining traces of vomit. He stared at his reflection for a few seconds. Too bad today's not Halloween, he thought. His normally brown eyes were beady and bloodshot. His skin was sickeningly gray. His hair stuck out at all sorts of crazy angles. He shook his head and headed out to rejoin society.

"The problem with numbers," he mused as he walked, "is that eventually you run out. Even infinity has its limits. And then, for better or worse, you must rejoin the world. Not every problem has an easy solution, but there’s no fun in an easy solution. You take the good with the bad. Like it or not. But to deny your experience because of its problems is to deny your art because of its imperfections. Me, I’d rather be flawed and unique than...ah crap, I think I need new shoes."