A Little Near

By: Max Quayle

"After years of finding mathematics easy,

I finally reached integral calculus and
came up against a barrier. I realized that
this was as far as I could go, and to this
day I have never successfully gone
beyond it in any but the most superficial
way."
-- Isaac Asimov

It’s all my freshman math teacher’s fault.

As my first college professor, she told me I was
fast, bright and had a mind ‘well suited to
calculation’… Then that guy from the machine
shop showed me his homework and I devised
the clever solution of gleaning theorems from
the answers in his notes by reverse arithmetic.
Heck, it was fun. So I took a couple of math
classes and wowed ‘em all – at least, at the
technical college level. Somewhere along the
line they told me I had “great promise.” I
bought it, and began to seek my combinatorial
niche. In astronomy class we were trying to
solve the gravity question with a really basic
calculator, so to do a cubic root; I inverted the
root value and did division to simplify the
problem, then tricked the arithmetic algorithm
by raising the answer to a decimal exponent…it
worked: The crowd went wild.

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 So, I enrolled in the Bachelors of Science,
Mathematics program at the University, and
reality struck me squarely between the eyes:
Calculus I, first semester; Professor Stick
pummeled me with my own ineptitude. By
week three I questioned my very foundations –
week six found me frozen under the numbing
influence of mental desperation. Somehow, I
scraped by on excuses and gut effort… Next
term, I let the world of Newton slide and
immersed myself in some Gen. Ed. Courses,
allowing myself one elective math course to
wound lick.
Other math’s came and went – Linear
Algebra, Geometry, a brief affair with Stats and
Probability – which lasted about as long as a
shooting star – while the Calculus crept around
on the fringe of my consciousness, waiting to
slay me. The inevitable confrontation came
over a summer course stint, when a great and
mumbling, but remarkably witty Professor
opened my inner mind to the flowing beauty,
the prescient sublimity of the Infinitesimal
quantity – the nothing that is – I was graphing
the ‘saddle’ and the ‘torus’ again. Hours idled
away as I found new and creative ways to avoid
the rigor of number crunching, opting always
for simplification and the linear translation of
tougher problems.
I’ll never forget in Mathematical Problem
Solving when I thought I had genius tapped: I
posited that the “Pythagorean Theorem” could
be expanded to the equilateral triangle by

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dividing the equation in half and manipulating
transformations on 1/2 edge shadows. This was
all well and good; I only needed the area of
each equilateral triangle shadow. You all know
the basic drill: ‘half the base times the height’,
done three times. Well, for the equilateral case
the height is not known, by induction – in fact,
it can only be had from known angles by a
complicated geometric formula – which is
arcane to Pythagoras’s theorem and is the only
way... regardless, no connection was made, and
I drew a far simpler corollary to the original
and stepped off stage with out a bow.
Then came the wall: Number Theory…
wham, there was simply nothing left. Modular
arithmetic was graspable but the whole ‘Real
number proof’ and ‘Well ordering principle’ left
me grasping for something akin to a simple
fraction. The “Chinese Remainder Theorem”
provided me with the same fleeting thrill as
learning how an abacus works, only to remind
me of how I consistently let that knowledge
die of atrophy. I was reaching the edge of the
permuted window…

That is when the dreams began; I would

peruse each new semester schedule like it was a
wine list and I, a connoisseur without a penny
to his name… Real Analysis, Abstract Algebra,
Graph Theory and that penultimate thrill:
Differential Equations. I would scan the
prerequisites and know that my own hobbling
transcript met the criteria. Then, in an

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unscheduled interview with cerebral pride, my
mind would to inform me that I must be able to
do it, after all I’ve got the prerequisites. But I
know folly, failure and my future in math all
sum to the state of nonplussed indemnity. Even
so, History of Mathematics lures and urges with
its scholarly paper and miles of sophisticated
yarns of re-discovery, tempting me to bite off
yet again, more than I can chew.
To be published, that what all this sport of
math is about: Striving to leave one’s name
across the annals of the mental sport of the
proven clever. I knew I was beaten and that the
distance my inherent mathematical prowess had
been able to carry me – sans studying – had
been truncated; I wisely withdrew,
apprehending the precipitous fall of my GPA.
Now I only dream in numbers. I see
everything cascading around me in integers,
squares and elusive primes. I locate Fibonacci
series’ and Euler nine-point circles in the world
at large. I consider the sun a point source and
time warp the earth into the murky black of
deep space to prove two parallel shadows meet.
Laughing at Euclid, I conceive of spherical
triangles whose precocious interior angles sum
well beyond the rigid confine of 180°. I muse
gratuitously about the absurd relationship
between Fahrenheit and Celsius, like they were
ridiculous Norse deities locked in an eternal
battle of ‘Whose right?’ I can’t approach an
intersection without recalculating sums of
probabilities and cursing the civil engineer who

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would have arrived at ‘stoplight Zen’, had he
only increased the difficulty of his calculations
by a single order of magnitude.
Then, there is the grocery store. Did you
know how difficult it is to derive the best
bargain in paper towels now that they have
‘select a size’ sheet perforations? The
calculations swirl before me, each one getting
me closer but sucking the time as I crunch and
guess and don’t pick any. The pressure builds;
women pass by and simply grab a pack of rolls,
I want to warn them: “That one is outrageous,
Stop!” But I am mute, my mind a mime in
silence crunching, stalking – calculating.
After my near panic attack at the grocer’s,
finding the most economical route home
becomes a delicious distraction. Driving
through the geography of the plane, like in
Disney’s Tron®, I spot slightly canted, diagonal
alleys and smoothly avoid lighted intersections.
I casually cut over low-bermed corners on an
arc that makes all the difference in the world.
Oh, did I mention? Brake wear and tear counts
too! So, four-way stops are my genius; I just
roll right through, oblivious to courtesy and
tact. Heaven forbid an unexpected dead end as I
scream the death to city planners and extended
street names – those which stop and start up
again two blocks later; you now the ones I
mean – and even then, I’ll try and pull the u-
turn without stopping, if I can…
In admirable time, I always arrive home;
and try to unwind my mind – but I cannot – I

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observe the height of the flame on my gas
fireplace. I begin experimenting with the gas
valve, two-thirds, three-quarters or five-
sevenths open, I try to find the optimal BTU’s
output with the corresponding least gas burned.
I erect elaborate vents, guiding the air flow
with green and grey ceramic tiles on the heater:
Terrazzoic artwork, purposefully contrived.
Looking down, the pilot light is just giggling
and sputtering, burning as little fuel as possible
without puffing out in a munificent wink. Why
are my knuckles so cold?
The organization of the book shelves is
killing me; should I index size, subject or
author? Perhaps color is best – the calculations
are always spinning. I am reminded if the M. C.
Escher print that shows workmen carrying
sacks of flour eternally around a staircase that
never began and won’t end until time itself
concludes. The books just keep migrating, and
the vinyl, oh, man! The vinyl: Alphabetic or
genre, who could find any thing that way – my
son soberly suggests we deck the walls with
them in any order and go visual…1,000 lp’s
hmmm, that would plaster the living, dining
and kitchen – too retro 70’s for me. I’m a space
saver and an appreciator of the absurd – he
reminds me that I don’t really want a solution; I
just want to find unsolvable trivialities that
boggle and perplex the mind. Perhaps he is
right…
What about the hot to cold water ratio in
the shower? Did you know that with the right

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shower head you can take a shower that costs
less that running the dishwasher? The key is,
oddly; no cold water. What does cold water do
but cool off the water you paid to heat? What is
the point? I just crack the cold, squeak the hot
on a touch further, and bathe to oblivion in my
affordable trickle dip.
Speaking of money, when I need some,
and I’m far away from home, a scintillating
conundrum comes my way. The choice is to
pay up to three bucks to withdraw a twenty
from an ATM, that’s 15% right? Not I, those
blood sucking leeches can snort dust. I pull out
Five-hundred in cash and laugh at the pittance
they’re left with; a ridiculous .06% – they may
as well be paying me. I laugh as I cruise out of
the foreign bank like King Midas, and proceed
to spend 40 times what I meant to. Why not,
my money was almost free!

Finally, my mathematical mind plagues

me to try and reason with that lingual
alchemist; my wife. I do love her, well beyond
the pettiness of words – but oh, can logic enter
into a snarled and irretrievable state in her
presence. I open a pleasant evening chat with
her about the benefits of machine washing
versus sink: I reason that the large bowls and
pots ought to be laid in the bottom of the sink
while the glass and flatware are gently rinsed
on top of them and placed into the waiting
machine. The splashed rinse water fills the

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myriad cookware and with a spot of soap, the
whole lot is squeakily cleansed and we both
agree that density is the key on dishwasher
loading.

I return, a few minutes later to find her

nearly finished rinsing a few stubborn pieces of
flatware over an empty sink with gallons of my
toasted water shining the copper of the waste
pipes, to no gain. I gawk, plead and ask why.
She says simply, “obviously, it makes perfect
sense to you, that is why I agreed. For me, I’m
not sure.” Three articulated hairs spring form
my ever shinier pate and float through the glare
of my vision. Two come to rest on the kitchen
sink – which is abandoned, for me to wipe,
with no thought by the logician – the third spins
along in a graceful half parabolic trajectory,
slipping noiselessly to the floor. As I set all in
order, the patterns and lines of the wall tiles
catch my eye and my mind is immersed in the
infinite possibilities of fractals – and I’m off…