The Numbers Guy

by Lloyd B. Abrams

He was rarely able to calm his mind. He practiced breathing exercises, but failed miserably at meditation. He always wondered how people could sit in a waiting room, at the doctor’s office, or on the train, staring into space, seemingly doing nothing. He always wanted to know what they were thinking, or how they “did it,” but he never had the guts to ask.

When he was at a concert – even though their daughter might be soloing – he would start counting the overhead lights, the number of singers in the choir, the number of seats in the auditorium, the number of seconds elapsed since the concert began, and then extrapolate the number of minutes remaining.

If he came upon a four- or five-digit number – perhaps part of an address or a phone number – he would start to figure out in his head if the number was prime – that is, if the number was evenly divisible by only 1 and itself. Thirty-one was a prime number, but 30 was a composite because it was divisible by 2, 3, and 5. When he lay awake at night, or was watching the insufferable Judge Judy with his wife, or waiting on the platform for a train, he’d often think of a word to convert to a number by giving each letter its numerical position in the alphabet. An A would become 1, B, 2, C, 3 and so on up to Z, whose position as number 26 in the alphabet would truncate to a 6. EXIT, the most common word in an auditorium, became 5-4-9-0. But 5490 took only seconds to calculate, because it was obviously divisible by 10 and 9. Its prime factors were 2, 3, 3, 5 and 61.

Early on, he realized if he divided a large number by successive primes (2, then 3, 5, 7, 11, 13, 17, 19 and so on) up to the square root of the number, and if the number wasn’t evenly divisible by any of those primes, then the number itself was prime. He had come upon the algorithm on his own, although he later learned that the sieve method had already been discovered by the Greek mathematician Eratosthenes around 240 BCE. Finding a large prime always gave him a momentary thrill.

So he went through life, as life went by him, mentally playing with his numbers. On car trips, the odometer, which spawned a new number every minute or so, generated more joy within him than the infuriating and debilitating mostly-one-sided conversations with his wife, who deemed it her mission in life to keep him occupied with a constant flow of chatter about her observations, her concerns and her abrasive opinions.

When he slid a blues or jazz CD into the player she instantly reached over to lower the volume so the mostly inaudible music could not drown out her soliloquy. Then, he’d have to listen to her. He often thought of screaming “Would ya just gimme a break and shut the fuck up already!” He’d then turn his head away and repeat it silently to himself so he could almost taste the words rushing through his lips. But he knew that if he had said that aloud, it would bring on hours filled with wrath and recriminations, with “you always”s and “you never”s … and on and on.

If he become aware of his anger brewing before it reached the boiling point, he might have the opportunity to say something mild and soothing like his therapist suggested, such as “You know, I’d like some quiet right now” or “This is hard to concentrate on” or “Can we talk about this a bit later, please?” But it was maddening when she’d say, “That sounds just like your therapist talking.” While he’d be desperately trying to keep things copacetic, she’d be off and running … unless it was time for her well-honed pout and her belligerent silent treatment.

Fuck.

FUCK … hmm … I should know this one by heart, he thought … 6-1-3-1. He worked quickly through the first twelve primes up to 37. Then, when he got to 73 without finding any smaller primes that divided evenly, he realized that FUCK was, indeed, prime, because the next prime factor, 79, when squared, equaled 6241, and 6241 was greater than 6131. FUCK is prime, he chuckled to himself. Unfortunately, his laugh must have been audible.

“What were you laughing about?”

“Oh, nothing. I just thought of something funny.” Oh shit, here it comes.

“Couldn’t you share it with me?”

“No. It was nothing.” Oh, please don’t start in. He began feeling the all-too -familiar burning in his gut.

“C’mon. What was it? Please. I’d like to know.”

“Just give it a rest, huh?”

“You’re always doing this,” she said, and she let out her exasperated and well-practiced sigh.

As if you’re not, he thought to himself, but of course didn’t say, as he squirmed in his seat, eyes on the road.

And so, that short chapter of their interaction had ended. For her, it was frustrating silence, but for him, a blessing, even though she’d might eventually start an argument – “You know you were so close to that car?” or “Why don’t you turn on the wipers?” or “Where’s the fire, what’s your hurry?” – just so they could “communicate.” He raised the volume on the CD player, not enough to annoy her and risk more confrontation, but enough to fill the toxic void left by the verbal silence.

And they would sit in hostile disharmony for the next several hours until they had to stop for gas and use the bathrooms.

Large blue signs promised a service area two miles ahead. He mentally prepared himself for her usual complaints about the lack of cleanliness in the women’s bathroom. For crying out loud … it’s a goddamn toilet on the turnpike! What did you expect? He pulled their Honda van next to the curb and let her out before joining one of the lines of cars queued up for the gas pumps. The New Jersey gasoline prices were lower than New York’s, even on the turnpike. So he waited while the five cars in front of him were serviced. When it was his turn, he turned off the ignition, leaned down to unlatch the fuel door, and then stepped out to stretch his legs and to make small talk with the attendant, who was the only one allowed to pump gasoline.

While he was taciturn with his wife, he enjoyed talking to strangers. There was no conflict, no opposition, no undercurrents, no pathetic shared history. And maybe he made a point of having conversations with others just because it pissed off his wife.

After he signed the credit card receipt and slipped his wallet back into his pocket, he said to the attendant, “Y’all have a nice day.” Then he parked and locked the van and walked into the main service area building where his wife stood waiting.

“What took you so long?” As if she didn’t know.

“There was a line of cars. You know how slow they always are.”

“You were probably chewing the guy’s ear off. That’s what it must’ve been.” Here we go again.

“Lemme go take a piss already, will ya?” At least she couldn’t nag him in there.

And he took his time. Even though he only needed to urinate, he checked several stalls, and picked one that didn’t have a pissed-on seat or a bowl that hadn’t been flushed or toilet paper littering the floor.

He closed and locked the door, lowered his pants and sat down. With a sigh of relief, he let out a stream. It was too bad he hadn’t brought anything to read, aside from checking his email. As he sat, he listened to the multi-accented chattering of the boys and men who came in to do what they had to and then hurried to leave. This would be one of the few times during their trip down to College Park that he could call his own. Despite sitting in a bathroom, he savored these moments.

But he couldn’t take too long, of course. After all, she was waiting for him. Maybe he would find her in the souvenir shop, and when he’d come up to her, she’d hold up some piece of crap and say “Look how charming this is” and he’d have to answer “Yeah, it’s really nice … why’n’t ya go and buy it … you want some money?” so as not to insult her, and she’d think for a moment and say “Nah … we really don’t need it … the house is too cluttered as it is” which continually bothered her and thus irritated him, and she’d put it back, and once again they’d played out their deceitful roles in their well-rehearsed scene. There was no standing ovation, but there were many more encores to come.

This time she was standing outside the men’s room, waiting impatiently and looking like a bitter, wizened witch worrying about a lost child. And something inside him snapped. It felt like a rabbit punch. It caught his breath.

He reached into his pocket, handed her the car keys and said, “Why don’t you sit down and have a cup of coffee and one of those Cinnabon thingies, whatever they’re called.”

He knew she’d refuse, which she always did because she was always watching what she ate – in front of him, anyway – which meant going out to eat in a restaurant was always a miserable exercise in forced togetherness. Before she could respond, he said, “Listen … this place is so stuffy. I’ve gotta get some fresh air… some freshe luft, you know. When you’re done, I’ll meet you in the car. It’s parked right next to the Travel Mart.

And he walked off and out the side door without waiting for her reaction.

For the first time in hours he took a deep breath. And then another.

He could feel his angst ebbing away. His headache started to ease as he slowed his breathing. He felt sweat on his forehead and wiped his brow with his sleeve. She would surely have made a comment or given him one of those looks if she’d seen him do that.

When he was still smoking a pack or so of Marlboros a day, this would’ve been the perfect time to light up and let the nicotine work its magic. And now, years later, and just thinking about it, he could still feel the warm smoke whooshing in between his parched lips. He yearned for a cigarette. Even a menthol.

He noticed one of those budget, so-called “Chinatown” buses, with “Miami” as its destination, idling in a parking slot between two eighteen-wheelers. The engine revved several times; it appeared as though it was about to leave. And again there was that internal snap.

He considered for a moment – feeling for his wallet just to make sure – and decided. He walked over to the bus.

He tapped on the door. It hissed open. “How’re ya doin?” he asked the driver. Then, “Uh … how much would it cost to Miami?”

The driver looked him up and down, then said, “I’m not supposed to do this, but … a hundred bucks. Cash only.”

He pulled out his wallet, counted out six twenties, and said, “The extra one’s for you” and stepped aboard.

“No luggage, sir? No bags?”

“Nope. Just me … and thanks.”

He walked down the aisle and found a vacant seat in the rear of the bus, near the bathroom. He remembered how it was in his college years, but right then he didn’t give a damn that it might get unpleasantly aromatic in the hours to come.

When the bus started to move, he settled back into his seat beside the window and took one very long breath, and let it out slowly. And then another.

After the bus merged onto the through lanes, he began staring out the window as the countryside began speeding by.

And he kept staring for many minutes and many miles at that multicolored landscape along the turnpike, a vibrant, verdant panorama that, mercifully, was devoid of numbers.

– This story, originally written in 2003, was resurrected from my “Works in Progress” folder

Sess 2 / July 14, 2003 .. Rev 21 / May 18, 2020

Up to the beginning of the story

May 18, 2020 … Copyright © 2020, Lloyd B. Abrams