A few hands shot up. Mr. Kesey nodded towards the hands, as if to signify, �say what you want to say.� Marcus, a scrawny boy with wiry hair and wiry glasses and a large gap between his teeth said, �How can we do that, Mr. Kesey?� �Well,� Mr. Kesey started, paused for dramatic effect, and began again, in his deep movie-star voice, �It�s rather easy if you know how pi works. You just take it out to about fifty digits, make sure the circle is exactly twelve feet in diameter, and multiply twelve by 3.141592653589794626433832795028841971 �Is that right, or are you just saying random digits?� I asked. �Those were the first fifty digits of pi.� �Can you say it slower?� �I could. But I�d rather you find out for yourself. I�m not asking you to commit it to memory or anything. But if you want to figure out the circumference, fifty digits will get you within a proton. In fact, fifty digits could get the circumference of the earth within one proton.� �But my calculator doesn�t hold that many digits,� I replied. At this point, I had forgotten about the rest of the class. �I guess I could get my brother�s computer to do it. What if I wanted to get to the exact number?� �You mean, not even a proton off?� �Right.� Mr. Kesey let out a breathy laugh. �Pi is infinite. No matter how many digits you plugged into your brother�s computer, you�d never be able to finish.� �I�d have to plug in an infinite amount of digits?� �Well,� said Mr. Kesey, in a dry tone. �You would only need to get halfway there.� I sat there, not really getting it. After I had thought about it for a while, I realized he was just playing word games. Getting halfway to infinity would be infinity. �Actually,� he continued, knowing, I think, that he had already lost the attention of everyone aside from Marcus and me. �You would only need to go a fraction of the way. You go a fraction of the way to infinity and you�re there. Poof! Vamoose! Shalalalala! Zing!� When Mr. Kesey began making sounds, he sometimes couldn�t stop himself. �I don�t get it,� said Rachel, a girl whose popularity was only surpassed by the amount of make-up applied to her face. �You will, Rachel,� said Mr. Kesey. �Let it come on its own.� With that, he went back into making strange sounds. Then he invited the whole class to make strange sounds with him. Then, without even saying anything, he made us all make the same strange sound. It was sort of a high pitched �oh� sound. We could barely hear the bell ring over our voices. Eventually, Mr. Kesey silenced us all and said, �I�ll give extra credit to anyone who can come within a proton of the circumference of a twelve foot circle.� Class was dismissed and I had a mission. I rode the bus home, thinking of how strange and eerie math could be, and wondering how vast Mr. Kesey�s knowledge really was. It seemed to stretch for infinity�to infinity. I sat next to my brother Matt, in silence for a while, on that uncomfortable vinyl bench that all bus manufacturers seem commissioned to install. Then I turned to him abruptly and said, �I�m going to use your computer for a while today, is that okay?� �Yeah, sure,� he said. The lines on his forehead wrinkled, looked like roll bars. It was getting harder to look at him. Mom said I should try as hard as I could to stay positive around him at all times. �He�s here now,� she would tell me. �And we must be grateful and make the best of it.� She presented an excellent point, too. I would hate it if the last few years of my short life were punctuated by familial depression and constant break-downs. I suppose I would grow to hate the fake sincerity and positive attitudes, too. But Matt seemed okay with it all. When the doctor told the family that chemotherapy was the most reliable treatment�big, white walls, echoing everything, large, vaulted ceilings, scents unlike any other room in the world�my father cringed, my mother wept silently, I felt this lump in my throat, started breathing harder, but Matt just sat there, stoic. He seemed content with everyone taking things seriously for him; not really paying much mind to what would become a slow deterioration in his cells. He�s even joked about it a few times. Wacky things he wants at his funeral, that sort of thing. He is, after all, only fourteen. But these jokes tend to break our family�s heart. I think that�s why he tells them. It�s a reaction most of the world will never be able to arouse. �What do you need it for?� he asked. We�ve always taken an interest in even the most mundane aspects of each other�s lives. There is a sense of urgency in our relationship, I guess, that most brothers don�t really see any need for. �I want to calculate the circumference of the desks in Mr. Kesey�s class to the nearest proton.� This provoked a mild chuckle from Matt. Having said it out loud, I can see where the humor came from. It was exactly the kind of asinine thing I did with my time. I liked these little things. These little things were important to me. �That�s actually kind of cool. How is my computer going to help?� �Well, I need to use about fifty digits of pi, and my calculator doesn�t have that kind of capacity.� �I see. Well I don�t know if my computer can do that. I mean, it can, in theory. But I don�t know if I can get it to work. We might need to write a program for it. Teach it how to multiply, then plug in the numbers. Barring that, I could get you a really long piece of paper and a pencil.� �Are you kidding? That�d take all night. Plus, with human error, it might not even be correct.� I was looking out the window, still a little afraid to look at Matt�s few scattered hairs. And I didn�t want to appear like I was staring. Staring, curious at my own brother�s erosion. Clouds were forming, moving over the tops of trees. It was a popsicle blue day, with enough crisp blowing wind to gently tug at the few lingering leaves of the deciduous trees. �We might have to spend all night writing the program anyway,� he said. I could tell he had already boarded this train with me. He was prepared to do anything to solve this. �We might as well do both. We need to know how accurate the program is anyway, once we write it. So I�ll work on programming, you work on freehand.� I could tell we were both beginning to get excited about this. This was going to be enormous. �I need to track down the first fifty digits of pi, first, anyway. Would they have that at the library?� �At the library? I don�t know. I don�t know if �pi� is a really popular book topic.� �You�d be surprised. At the very least, most math books have it carried out to a bunch of digits in the back somewhere. Math books like to show off like that.� �Actually,� he said. �Now that you say that, I think my math book might have it.� �If not, I have Mr. Kesey�s number on my course syllabus. I could call him and force him to tell us.� The thought of calling a teacher in the middle of the night and forcing him to recite the first fifty digits of pi amused me. We exited the bus and began our quarter mile walk home. �Do you know what a quarter of infinity is?� I asked Matt, who was holding the straps of his backpack and kicking a rock. �You can�t determine it,� he said. �It�s infinity!� �Well, yeah. I suppose it would be.� �Isn�t that awesome?� �I guess.� Matt was always much smarter than I was, especially at things like math. And grief. He seemed more interested in kicking the rock and holding on to his backpack than in my eerie math facts, though, so I let him be. We walked in that squeaky kind of silence. I looked around for things to say, sometimes making subtle noises to fill the dead air while he, off in his own world, said nothing. My sounds just lingered in the air like the few remaining leaves on the trees. �I suppose,� I said, stabbing the silence like a steak, �that I could times pi by 10, which would be really easy. Thirty one point four something. Just move the decimal. Then times the number by two, which wouldn�t be so bad, really. Six point two-eight or whatever. Then add those two. I could probably do it in ten minutes.� I took a breath and let it out slowly, watching the carbon dioxide float away like smoke, trying to act casual about the whole ordeal. �But, with the program, we could find any circle�s circumference instantly. A manner of mere seconds. You get home and do the freehand. I�ll use that to check the progress on my computer.� He began walking faster, forgetting about the rocks on the ground. I kept pace, which made us both breathe harder, walk faster, until it evolved into a race. We were sprinting, clutching our backpacks like robbers� moneybags. At our doorstep, I nervously searched my backpack, impatiently, for the keys. Matt tried opening the locked door at least four times while I groped furiously. I grabbed hold and tried to remove them, but there were pencils stuck in the keychain holes. I yanked them from my backpack with all my might, the pencils dropped to the floor, and I opened the door. Matt ran upstairs to his room immediately. I went into the kitchen, by the phone, and grabbed a pad of paper. He had already turned on his computer by the time I entered through his door. �Okay, first, let me see your math book,� I said. �It�s in my backpack, over there,� he said, without pointing or giving any sort of indication where �there� could be. I looked around his room. It was disheartening, how childish and pristine his room had been kept. Stuffed animals, Pez dispensers, posters of Michael Jordan ripped out of his Sports Illustrated for Kids magazines. I had this sudden feeling that our parents would keep his room exactly like this, as a shrine to his innocence. My room, meanwhile, had already gone through several stages of adolescence. It had been an homage to overpaid athletes, a station for ships and boats and trains, and a center for video games and pop cans all in the course of a half-decade. Now, it was evolving once again, into a mess of band posters, electronic equipment, CD�s, books, and strange musical instruments. It was eclectic, unorganized, modern, trashed. A virtual model of my mind. I was changing and growing and unsure of my possibilities and ambitions. Matt, like his room, was static, suspended in adolescence, resigned to an unalterable fate. Did he know how unfair these things were? How completely out-of-his favor the balance was tipped? His backpack was resting against his bed, sheeted in a pattern that featured football helmets from around the NFL. Bengals and Bears and Pirates and Vikings. Why, as children, do we admire athletes so deeply? Is it routed within our culture? A genetic trait that appeals to our natural survival instincts? We should be admiring doctors and firemen and teachers. People like Mr. Kesey. He�s a hero. He lets us explore and use our minds and think for ourselves. He lets us dream. And when we succeed, even if it isn�t much of a success, he takes notice. I grabbed the math book, fervently turning to the index. Parallelogram, Pascal�s Theorem, Patterns, Percentile, Permutations, Pi! It looked so lonely, just two letters, as if it was the first syllable of a word left unfinished. Just the beginning. I flipped to the page indexed, and found the first twenty digits of pi. 3.1415926535897932385. Then, a series of dots. �Dammit! Only twenty digits.� �And they could be rounding,� said Matt, without looking away from the computer screen. �What do you mean?� �Well what�s the last number in the series?� �The twentieth?� �Yeah.� �Five.� �See? That could really be a four.� �Why would it be a four?� �Because of rounding.� Matt could tell by my expression that I wasn�t catching on. �Say the twenty-first digit is a nine and the twentieth is a four. Four, nine. The book might round that and call it five, because the book is only interested in providing the first twenty digits for us. Get it?� �Yeah. So it might not be a five at all. It could be a four or a six.� �Well it can�t be a six.� �Why can�t it be six?� �Because four can�t round up to six. Either they rounded up or they didn�t. You don�t ever round down below an integer.� �Okay,� I said, pretending I understood. �Well,� said Matt, �I guess just solve it to twenty digits and we�ll see if it works. That way, if I can write a program that works, this will be a good way to check. And you�ll probably come within a few protons, right?� �That�s true. Tomorrow, I�ll get Mr. Kesey to tell me all fifty digits.� Matt didn�t respond. He just typed maniacally against an orange screen while I wrote out the twenty numbers, multiplied, carried digits, sighed a lot, and got frustrated. Then, finally, �Okay!� �What?� �Thirty Seven Point Eight Nine Nine One One One Eight Four Three Zero Seven Seven Five One Eight Eight Six Two Zero.� �That�s the first twenty?� �Yep.� �Sweet. That only took like five minutes.� �You�re right. Why did we think this would be so hard?� �I�m not sure. It seemed hard in theory.� �We almost didn�t want to do it.� �Yeah. But it was sort of easy. Sort of, almost, fun?� �We just need to do fifty. I can do it during class tomorrow.� �Zach?� Matt said my name nervously, with a worried look. �Yeah?� �Is it okay if we still write the computer program?� Matt was biting his bottom lip, genuinely worried that this was too easy, not challenging enough. �Yeah, Matt! Sure! Totally.� �Thanks.� He went back to his keyboard, took a deep breath, and eased his way back to a maniacal typing. He needed something to do. Something to accomplish. The next day, I showed Mr. Kesey what I had done, and he seemed pretty impressed. He was sitting at his desk reading some really big book by some guy with a really foreign name. I mean, really foreign. Way too many consonants, not enough vowels. That type of name. He stuck his bookmark in his book, somewhat surprised that I was there, long before class, with a scrap of math scribbles. �This is beautiful. The ones are carried perfectly. But, I have to admit, you�re much more than a proton off.� He had this way of making the trivial seem important just by his tone. �That�s because it�s only the first twenty digits. It was all we came across.� �Who�s we?� Mr. Kesey seemed concerned, like I was cheating. �Oh, my brother and I.� �Oh.� He fell silent. Sometimes not even teachers know how to handle these types of situations. Finally, he broke the silence. �How is your brother?� �He�s great.� This was the type of optimistic lie I had been conditioned to spew. My brother was not great. My brother was fucking dying. And we were both preoccupied with math. Because when someone is dying, sometimes you have to be preoccupied with something, anything in order to ease the pain. �Well,� said Mr. Kesey, �I�m not going to pretend like I know what you or he is going through. But things will be okay. Maybe not now. Now, they probably seem weird and as far from okay as can be. But, eventually, things will be okay. You ready for the last thirty digits?� Mr. Kesey had this way of not being cheesy or overly sentimental about these types of things. All my teachers try to talk to me about Matt and it always sounds contrived, nervous, ridiculous, from a place of duty rather than from the heart. Like it�s an obligation. Part of the job. Something to make them sleep. They don�t realize that it�s not anything they can make better with some words of wisdom. It�s something so far beyond their realm. Why bother? Why bother talking to me at all? �Let me get a pad of paper.� I wrestled through my backpack and pulled out some outdated permission slip. One of the ones where your teacher gives you twelve copies in case you lose eleven. �See, the first thing is, this five? It�s actually a four,� he said. Matt was right, despite my not really knowing what, exactly, he was right about. �And the next number is six. Then, two-six-four-three-three-eight-three-two-seven-nine-five-oh-two-eight-eight-four-one-nine-seven-one-six-nine-three-nine-nine-three-seven-five-one-oh-five-eight-two-oh.� �Don�t you mean �zero?�� I asked. I had caught him at his own game. He had a boisterous hatred for people calling zeroes �oh�s.� And here he was, outside of class hours, calling them oh�s. It was like a double life. He was a closet �oh� caller. �Yes. I mean zero.� �Oh is a letter,� I said. �Oh is a letter,� he repeated. I kept quiet during class, choosing to let my mind become engrossed, try to find meaning in the day�s math lesson. He was talking about sines and cosines and curves and asymptotes. He talked about how they could curve and go up and down and wave in an infinite number of brilliant patterns and layers. But he said that every repeating graph, be it some long, involved pattern or X=Sine(Y), could be made to look like a straight line, given the right circumstances. He put some function on the overhead machine, and it looked like a bunch of waves in a random pattern. Like a Richter scale or something. Then he panned out, and on either side of those waves were two straight lines, stretching to infinity. One resigned to a negative infinity, and one positive, both propelled along the X-Axis. �See this?� He said. �It�s like our lives. There are some ups and downs, some strange waves, maybe even some beautiful patterns and connections. But after our life ends, all we become is all we were. We never amount to anything more than a line stretching from infinity to infinity. I don�t care who you are. Kings, peasants, prophets, businessmen, day traders, housewives, politicians, fire fighters�everyone in this world. Life cannot make an exception. It does not know how. So now we just have to ride these waves and make the best of it. Or not. It doesn�t really matter, because we�ll all either move up or become brought down to the X-Axis. No one is exempt.� Matt and I were both quiet, pensive on the bus ride. Sometimes Matt got that way. Never really sad or angry. Just thoughtful, contemplative, stoic. Other times, he was loud, obnoxious, a ball of nervous energy, waiting, hoping relentlessly to tell a joke, relay a story, make a connection. His energy, be it kinetic or potential, was always, always contagious. I sat motionless, thinking about graphs. And about not talking. Our silence began to become uncomfortable the more I thought about it. Should I say something? I wonder what he�s thinking? Is he contemplating life, like I am? Maybe he�s just at a loss for words. Maybe he�s thinking about school. Maybe there�s no reason for him to not be talking. He shifted on the bench a little, crossed his legs, put his hand to his mouth, then turned to face the window. Birds were either attacking one another or making love. It�s so hard to tell with birds. They don�t have the personality reserves of humans�some humans. Humans generally care about things like compatibility. Birds, closer, perhaps, with their own biology, view other birds as either vessels for or hindrances to the perpetuation of their genes. Their graph waves are less defined, smoother, high tide. They don�t have brothers who get leukemia and lose all their feathers in the chemotherapy process. They�re just fucking birds. I began to hate the birds. I began to hate everyone, everything. I wanted to exist in my world of calculus and Matt and Mr. Kesey. No one else. I wanted to just stand on the X-Axis and wait for everyone to come to me. I was restless. Matt was restless. We had been working on the program for three hours. Actually, he had been working on the program while I stared at my work, having been taken out to fifty decimal places, in my own strange and loopy handwriting. I already had the number, but I couldn�t even understand the things he was typing into that computer. He was concentrating, figuring something out, then, finally, �Okay. Give me the digits.� �Which digits?� �For the equation.� �Twelve times three point one four one five nine two six�� �Not so fast!� I slowed my pace a little, waited for him to catch up, then reverted to rattling the numbers. �Thanks.� He went back to his maniacal typing, not talking, concentrating. His room was quickly rising in temperature. I began feeling stuffy and uncomfortable. �I�m going to go outside for a little bit, okay?� I said, as if speaking to my boss. �Sure.� I walked down the creaking steps, noticing the temperature change downstairs. Heat, I�ve been told, rises. Out the door, into the cold, the air was sort of choppy. Not that smooth kind that feels so good. This air was rough, a little rowdy, a little belligerent. I looked out at the silhouetted trees, then up to Matt�s window. I didn�t really see much aside from the blue glow from his computer and the outlines of his bookshelves. But I knew he was working and striving and failing. And he wasn�t thinking about the cells that were generating and eating his body. He was completely immersed in triviality, distracted from his own horrible personal tragedy. And in a way�in many ways�it was all he could ask for. And I guess Mr. Kesey was right. Even a circle could become a straight line, if given the proper perspective. Everything we have, everything we are, will eventually come crashing down to the X-Axis, to be met with the rubble and debris of history, the broken dreams of everyone, forgotten, trudged upon, shattered. And we all cling to this tree like leaves, not knowing it is deciduous and we will eventually blow away, replaced every spring by something newer, worthier, better. But that, too, will fade, become a line, crash down into the X-Axis. And we will pick ourselves up. And continue at least a fraction of the way into infinity. |