Chapter 21 A. Unfinished.

Stoney’s mention of Ginny reminded me I needed to call her, and I did as soon as I got back to my room. She picked up after the second ring.

“Hello, this is Ginny. May I help you?”

“Hey, Ginny. This is Henry Baida. How are you?”

“Henry!” she crowed. “My favorite pool hustling car thief! How in the world are you?”

“Doing okay. How about you?”

“Doing well. Here’s our plan,” she said. “Tomorrow, you’re going to meet me at my dorm at 6:00, then we’re going to walk over to Elliston Place and have dinner at the Soda Shop, then we’re going to walk over to Annie’s down the street, and you’re gong to show me how to play pool.” I laughed.

“Okay. Sounds like a plan,” I said.

“I’m in Gillette Hall,” she said.

“I don’t really know my way around here,” I said, “And I really know even less about Peabody. How am I going to find Gillette Hall?”

“Cross 21st Avenue at that light where I saw you on the sidewalk. Walk on into campus and ask anyone you bump into where Gillette is,” she said. “See you at six.”

“How do I dress?” I asked.

“Like you always do,” she said. “Goodbye.” Okay, I know what she meant, but do I always do anything?

“The next night I showed up at Gillette Hall clad in a white Oxford cloth button-down shirt, khakis, and Weejuns, a few minutes before 6:00. I can’t remember what color socks I was wearing, but I was wearing some. Ginny was sitting on the steps in front of the dorm and saw me from maybe seventy yards away. She jumped up, waved, and kind of ran over towards me. Not quite a run, but faster than walking. She gave me a hug and said “Henry!” before falling in step next to me and turning me to walk back towards 21st. She was wearing a white cotton blouse, jeans, and dark blue flats with fabric bows built around a shiny brass buckle.

“You dressed up!” she said.

“I did?” I asked.

“Yes. Thank you! Okay,” she said, taking my arm. “Have you ever been to the Soda Shop on Elliston Place?”

“No,” I answered.

“Have you ever played pool at Annie’s” she asked. I thought.

“Is there a Skee-ball table up front?”

“Yes!” she answered.

“Yeah, I have,” I said.

“What do you think?” she asked, as we walked.

“Odd mix. Mostly college kids. There are some semi-tough hombres who play there, from time to time,” I said.

“Meaning?” she asked.

“Well, the kids are there to be kids, and the pros are there to hustle the kids,” I said.

“So?” she asked.

“Can be painful , or atl east expensive, for the kids, but, I guess it’s safe enough. It’s usually just college kids blowing off steam, but…”

“Any problem for you?” she asked.

“No. I’m…” I tried to think how to put this.

“What?”

“Well, we might bump into some serious players who are there to fleece college kids and maybe later pick off each other,” I said.

“So?”

“They’re not all nice people.”

“You go there?” she asked.

“I’ve been there,” I said.

“Did you ever get hurt?”

“No. Not at all. I guess it’s safe as long as everybody’s sober. So maybe we should plan on clearing out before, say, 10:00,” I said.

“Far out,” she said. We were passing McTyeire. She led the way as we cut across my campus. She seemed to know her way around. “So,” she said, “finish the Boy Scout campout hotwire story.”

“Wow. Okay. Where’d it stop?”

“A woman was walking off in a black and white silk dress and a bunch of Boy Scouts were watching her leave,” she said.

“Okay. Well she was really pretty, and we were all watching her kind of…”

“Wistfully,” Ginny suggested.

“Maybe so. Teenaged boys have a way of looking at attractive, grown women that’s difficult to describe. They’re drawn to the beauty, but they’re not exactly sure why, exactly.”

“What’s her take on this, do you think?” Ginny asked.

“She’s older and more experienced than we were and understands us much, much better than we understand her,” I said.

“So what happened next?”

“She walked off,” I said. “We all watched her go. After a few minutes of silent staring it occurs to me that my dad once told me what a solenoid is and showed me how the engine would crank if you laid a screwdriver across its terminals. That was on a 1964 Plymouth Fury he had when we lived in Atlanta. So I pop the hood on the car in the ditch. It’s a standard 1968 Plymouth Valiant and it has the same solenoid relay as my dad’s Fury. If you connect the solenoid with the coil you don’t need a key.”

“Your father taught you how to steal cars?” she asked.

“All teenaged boys in Georgia knew this in 1974” I said. “Fathers played a different, more practical role than today. Keevin asked me what I was doing and I told him I could start the car…”

“Keevin?” she asked.

“Sorry, Kevin. Kevin Magid. Our senior patrol leader.”

“Then why Keevin?” she asked.

“Some of the guys in our scout troop were in his high school. He had this math teacher who got his name wrong, and called him Keevin Magoid. They all called him that. A nickname deal. It stuck. Boys are funny about nicknames.”

“’Kay,” she said. “Then what happened?”

“Snow White had some wire in his pocket and I used it to make contact between the coil and the starter solenoid, then jumped across the solenoid relay with my pocket knife, and it cranked. It didn’t catch, but only because it didn’t have enough gas, so Keevin jumped behind the wheel and gave me the thumbs up. I shorted the relay again, it cranked, Keevin pumped the gas pedal, and the engine started right up. I laid off the solenoid, and the engine purred. As much as a 1968 Plymouth Valiant can, anyway. Keevin shifted into reverse, backed out of the ditch, waved to us, and took off down the road after the woman in the black and white dress,” I said.

“Did you ask say anything to him?” she asked.

“I said ‘Write if you find work.’” She looked confused. “My Dad used to say that to me.”

“Wow,” Ginny said. “What happened?”

“Not much,” I said. “That was the Saturday of a weekend campout. Most of us were thirteen or fourteen, except for Kevin, who may have been fifteen. After he drove off we went back to police the campground and do our best to make breakfast, always a dodgy task with boys and campfires and no adults. It seems odd that no grownups were around, now that I think about it. So we cleaned up the campsite and ruined some breakfast food, and then just before lunch, Keevin showed back up, on foot, still in his Scout uniform,”

“What did he say?” Ginny asked.

“Not much. He laid down on his couch in the big tent. He folded his hands behind his head and said “Miranda is a beautiful name,” and kind of stared at the ceiling without saying anything.”

“What did you do?” Ginny asked.

“I watched him stare at the ceiling for a few minutes, then went and made myself a baloney and cheese sandwich,” I said.

“So you have no idea what happened between Kevin and the woman in the lack and white polka dot dress? she asked.

“No.”

“You never asked?” she asked.

“No. Boys are naturally braggarts,” I said. “If there had been anything he wanted to tell us, he’d’ve said it.”

“And you never followed up?” Ginny asked.

“Nah. That was one of the last times I saw him. We moved back to Eglin right after that,” I answered. “I lost track of Boy Scouts, but there was a bowling alley over in Pace, not far From Niceville—“ she had a puzzled expression. “Those are towns near Pensacola in the Florida panhandle,” I said. I was wandering off point. “Anyway, Keevin didn’t say anything and I didn’t ask.”

“Weird,” she said. “We’re here,” she said, in front of the Elliston Place Soda Shop.

“Cool,” I said.

We had to wait a few minutes for a table, but not long. It was a blue plate special kind of place with a big chrome Wurlitzer jukebox in the corner and mini-jukes in every booth where you could pick a tune without getting up. They didn’t serve beer and the waitresses all wore white. After somebody showed us to our table, ice water and silverware showed up almost immediately, and we were expected to look at the menu without prompting. We did, without much talk. Nothing on the menu cost much over three bucks.

“I’ll have fried chicken, mashed potatoes, turnip greens, biscuits, and tea,” said Ginny, when the time came. Our waitress was maybe 45, had deep black ringlets, a habit of scratching her scalp with her pencil point, and a name tag showing “Miranda.” She nodded at Ginny and looked at me.

“Chicken-fried steak, turnip greens, cole slaw, un-sweet tea, and a corn muffin,” I said. She nodded, slapped her green order pad into her apron pocket, and marched off.

“So you’ve never been here before?” Ginny asked.

“No. I usually eat on campus,” I said. “My kind of place, though. Thanks for introducing us.”

“It’s right down the street from Annie’s, and I like the food here.”

“Like I said, I have some misgivings about taking a respectable young woman into Annie’s”

“Why is it okay for you to go but not me?” she asked, almost, but not quite, teasing.

“Yeah, well. I’ve been to lots of places like that over the years. You might meet some impolite people there. I have. But if somebody’s rude to me, it’s not the first time, and it’s not the worst thing in the world, you know?”

“So how many pool halls have you been in?” she asked.

“Oh, God. I don’t know. A lot. But Annie’s isn’t a pool hall. It’s a bar with a few pool tables. The last time I was there a couple of the players were just a little … rough.”

“Then what were you doing there?” she asked.

“Making money.” Our food came. Good-sized portions and steaming hot. When Ginny took a bite out of her chicken I could hear the crisp in a muted crunch. Everything I had was good, but the best thing was the corn muffin. Just perfect. Ginny asked questions about pool and nine-ball and playing for money. Dinner for the two of us was right at eight bucks. I paid up and we walked down to Annie’s.

It hadn’t improved much since I was there last. One story, wall to your left, Skee ball to your right, a bar all the way back on the left. Pool tables on your right behind the Skee ball. Grimy floor, dirt accumulating in the corners. It smelled like stale beer, but not as bad as if it were carpeted. I stopped to look at the first table.

“Ah, shit.” I said.

“What?” Ginny asked.

“I know some of these people,” I said, with a sigh. There, at the first table, Jimmy Milton from my dorm floor was awkwardly lining up a shot. I couldn’t tell what game he was playing, but he was playing against Donnie, or was it Hank? whom I’d played back at Hixson Lanes. Melissa, the red-head everyone at Hixson Lanes called Rosie, was sitting on a stool against the wall. Next to her a lone wolf in a Texas burnt orange tee shirt, wearing custom cowboy boots and holding a glittering custom cue stick, was watching Milton’s fumbling with a pro’s eye. Texas had one of those great big wallets secured to his belt by a silver chain. Like bikers wear.

“Milton,” I called out, interrupting his shot. He looked up with a glare, then recognized me and came over to shake my hand, smiling.

“Ah, shit,” said Donnie.

“Hi … Hank? Donnie?” I said.

“Donnie,” he said.

“What’s up?” said the guy in the Longhorns tee shirt.

“Old friend,” said Donnie.

“What are you playing?” I asked Milton.

“Nine ball,” he said, shaking my hand. “I’m doing really good.” Melissa finally recognized me, smiled and waved.

“How far are you ahead?”

“Maybe thirty bucks,” he said.

“Milt, I don’t want to burst your bubble, but what’s gonna happen is that Donnie here is going to let you win two or three more and then he’s going to bet you double or nothing on the entire wad, and you’re going to take it if you’ve got that much cash because he’s been looking so frustrated at his inability to make a shot, but as soon as you double, he’s going stop making mistakes and you’re gonna realize that Donnie is one of the best pool players in the Volunteer State. I don’t know Texas, but he’s a wolf in wolf’s clothing, and once Donnie takes all your money, Texas will step up to play Donnie with a swagger, but then he’ll lose once or twice to Donnie before Donnie clocks out. Once Donnie’s gone all the college boys will think they have a shot at Texas, and the routine will start all over again..” There was a pause. Milton looked confused, but decided offensive was better than defensive. I’d given him too much too fast.

“Why do you expect me to believe that interpretation of events?” asked Milton. “Maybe I was winning because tonight’s my night.”

“Donnie and I have met.”

“Why you gotta go fucking with it?” Donnie asked. “It’s just a calm little hustle. Now I’m out thirty bucks.”

“Ten bucks a game?” I asked.

“Sure,” said Milt and Donnie both. I handed Milt ten bucks.

“I want to buy your game, Milt.” I dropped two twenties on the table. “Melissa, hold that, please. It’s for what Donnie has in so far and the next game.” She hopped off of her stool, scooped up the money, and slid it into her bra.

A short, stout waitress interrupted to ask us if we wanted anything. Ginny ordered a Lite beer and I passed. Milton was still confused, but found his beer and took a swig..

“Just out of curiosity, what if I don’t want to sell the game?” Milton asked.

“I don’t mean to be rude, bud, but you were getting fleeced,” I said, in a quieter voice. “Donnie and Texas are both pros. I paid you what you put up for the first game, so you’re square, and I’ve paid Donnie what he’s given you so far. Assuming I win, I can pay you the additional thirty you were up. We both end up ahead.”

“If you win,” said Milt.”

“Yes.”

“If he’s such a shark, why do you think you’re going to win?”

“I’ve played him before.”

Milt pulled a dark brown Sherman out of a pack, frowned slightly, then lit it from a book of matches he retrieved from inside the cigarette pack.

“You act like you think you’re doing me a favor,” he said.

“I guess I think I am, but mainly I like playing Donnie. If you want to go on and see how this plays out, be my guest, but I promise you that if you keep playing the only way you’re going home with any money is if Donnie can’t figure out how much you’ve got.’

“What makes you so sure I’m not as good as him?” Milton asked.

“You were holding the ass end of your stick with a closed fist. The tip was waving around like a snake-charmer’s flute. Donnie’s slick like Vaseline. Before you play a Donnie let’s go to a pool hall. I’ll show you a few things. Practice some. Watch some Donnies play some Texans. Practice some more. Then play Donnie.” Of course, he would have to practice a lot to be ready to play Donnie, but I didn’t say so. Milt smoked and gazed off into middle distance for a few seconds, then shrugged and handed me his cue. He looked around for a seat, and noticed the vacant stools on either side of Melissa. His expression changed and he made a beeline for the seat next to her. I could tell from his expression that a seat next to Melissa was a reward in itself.

I looked at the cue Milton had handed me. 28 ounce. I rolled it between my palms. Almost straight.

Ginny, Miller Lite in hand, moved closer to the table from her position near the to the door and gave me an inquiring look. She was close enough for me to talk to her without talking to anyone else.

“I know everybody at this table except for the guy in cowboy boots, and I think he’s trouble,” I said. She nodded knowinglythen looked around again, noticing Melissa for the first time.

“Aren’t you Melissa from my Art History class?” Ginny said.

“Ginny?” Melissa answered. Ginny ran over. They smiled excitedly and hugged briefly, then Ginny took a seat next to Melissa against the wall. So that Melissa had Milton on one side and Ginny on the other.

“Are you picking up or do you want to re-rack?” Donnie asked.

“I want to re-rack, because I haven’t touched a cue in three or four months, but I guess I bought the game in progress. We’re playing nine ball?”

“Yep,” said Donnie. He was playing with a sleek-looking two-piece cue lacquered clear over some dark, heavy wood. It had an inlay high on the barrel, a little figure of some kind, and a fine inlaid perfect checkerboard girdling the barrel low towards the heel, right at the point where his thumb and index finger would hold the big end in an appropriately loose hinge. It looked expensive.

“My shot, then,” I said. Since Milton had been about to make a shot when I interrupted, it was my turn. Milton took a drag off his Sherman, pointedly blowing the smoke away from Melissa. I chalked the cue and looked at the table. We were up to the five ball. The five, six and seven were going to be easy shots, but I couldn’t see the eight or nine.

I rifled off the five with enough stop English to leave the cue ball dead in its tracks. Or so I thought, but I was out of practice. I sank it, but the cue ball rolled a few inches past the point of impact.

“Fuck,” I said, under my breath. I lined up the six and shot it in. Again, the cue ended up a few inches away from where I wanted it. Not far, and the seven was still doable, but I didn’t have the precision I wanted. The seven had become a finesse shot rather than a sure thing, but I sank it, gently.

“Damn,” said Milton. “You’re good.”

“You shoulda seen him in Hixson,” said Donnie, without looking up.

I studied the table. I could get the eight on a two-rail bank shot that would tap it in and leave me lined up to put in the nine any one of a number of places, but my touch wasn’t there. The other shot was to touch it slightly and lay it up somewhere Donnie couldn’t possibly put it in and hope for a better table next shot. Safer.

But fuck that.

Even though I was only three shots into the game, I was having a crisis of confidence. Eight months earlier, the two-rail bank shot on the eight would have been a sure thing. I was finding myself tempted to dumb down my game because I was a little rusty. So fuck it, I went for the two rail shot.

I sank the eight, but only barely. There were “Oooo”s around the table, but it wasn’t as pretty as it could have been. Donnie could see I wasn’t myself, even if nobody else could. I didn’t look at Texas.

The nine was no trouble. I rolled it in and won the game.

“Fuck me runnin’,” said Milton, dropping his cigarette butt to the floor. “You can play this game.” Ginny looked happy and made as if to applaud, then glanced at Melissa, who was watching Donnie carefully and with concern. Ginny quickly stifled her celebratory impulse.

“Again?” asked Donnie.

“Sure. Stakes?” I answered.

“You bought your friend’s stake, so where are we at?” he asked.

“There’s forty on the table, thirty of which I owe Milton, if I win,” I said.

“You sure?” Milton asked. I turned to him.

“Milt, you were thirty bucks up when I cut in so I owe you thirty either way. You get your stake out of whoever buys the game.” He looked back blankly. “You were thirty bucks up. Don’t let me take that away from you by buying the game for ten bucks.” Blank stare. I thought about how to rephrase this for a few seconds. “Don’t gamble in pool halls any more,” I said.

“Okay,” he said, still confused, and torn between Melissa’s proximity and wanting to know what was going on.

“So quadruple that?” said Donnie.

“What’s that mean?” Milton asked.

“Donnie wants to play double-double or nothing on this game,” I answered.

“So how much?” he asked.

“$160.00,” I answered.

“On one fucking game?” Milton asked, incredulous.

“Sure.”

“I’ll be dipped in shit,” Milton said.

I pulled $120.00 out of my wallet and dropped it on the table. I looked up at Donnie and he laid out $160.000. I looked up at Melissa, who hopped off of her stool, stepped forward, and smoothly scooped the cash off of the table, placing it next to the earlier stake. She returned to her stool and looked at Donnie and me, still intently.

“Who’s Texas?” I asked Donnie, loudly enough that Texas could hear.

“Just a friend. He’s almost as good as you used to be,” Donnie answered. I looked again at Donnie’s cue. There was a little goblin of some sort, finely detailed and cleanly inlaid into the barrel, sleekly lacquered over.

“Do I need to worry?”

“Not as long as you’re playing me. I don’t know what happens if you take his money. I’m not sure I’ve ever done it,” Donnie said. “I’ve beat him, but you know how it is. He may have been losing to me to set me up for some other day. Hard to say. He plays it pretty close to the vest.” I nodded, then cocked an eye at Texas. He waved silently without much expression and watched the table. Donnie racked for nine ball.

A lot of life is confidence, and just as much is lack of confidence. You can’t always win if you have it, but you can almost never win if you don’t. Not in pool, anyway. Ginny was looking at me with concern, or maybe horror. $320 was a lot of money in 1974. I chalked my cue and sighted for the break. I tried to concentrate. I couldn’t feel it. I popped the break, but it didn’t go as well as I’d liked. The balls scattered well, but nothing went in. Damn. Donnie was looking at the table. He lined up a shot.

“Be good to me Max,” he said.

“What?” I asked. He didn’t answer, and snapped off the two. He sighted the three.

“All right Max, let’s do it again,” he said.

“Who the fuck are you talking to?” I asked.

“My cue stick. Can you shut the fuck up?” he answered. He got the five off the three but that left him with no shot on the three, so he was screwed.

“You have my sympathies,” I said.

“As I recall you know the foul rules,” he said. Under the rules, if he did not make contact with the three, I could take any ball in hand, meaning I could drop one into a pocket, which, one way or another, was going to clear me for a shot on the three.

“Nice stick,” I said, referring to his cue.

“Yeah,” he said. “I won it off a grad student who thought he could beat me and didn’t have $500. He said I got a hell of a deal. Plays great.”

“And what’s that inlaid there, a goblin?” I asked.

“A demon,” he said. He held it up for me to see. There was a little demon, with a slightly bestial face and horns and a tail, made of mother of pearl, very neatly detailed. “Prior owner said the demon’s name was Maxwell,” said Donnie, “ so I call him Max. Luck deal.”

“Cool. Looks good. Your shot.” He took a game try at an impossible shot and hit the seven first. That was a foul, so I got to take one in hand. If I moved the six I had a perfect shot on the three, so I dropped the six into the near pocket as Donnie’s penalty, then knocked in the four. Again, though, the cue ball didn’t end up exactly where I would have liked. Damn. Another tough shot. I lined up, feeling a little shaky, but thinking with a little luck I could sink the four. I was ready to take the shot even though it didn’t feel right because shooting was what I did.

But I stopped. I stood up straight, cue at my side, heel down. I closed my eyes and thought about that night when Donnie and I had played in Hixson. I’d beat him three times in a row. Three out of three. I thought about that. After a few seconds I decided I was still that pool player. It changed me. School was gone. I knew no Greek. My only physics was what I knew from pool tables. It was a good feeling.

When I opened my eyes, I looked around and noticed Donnie and I had drawn a few onlookers.

“Don’t be an asshole,” said Donnie, spinning Max between his palms like a top. “Play pool.”

“Sorry,” I said.

I got the four and the eight, smack, smack, and then the other four were arranged around the table in a shooter’s buffet.

“Fuck,” said Donnie. The bar started getting quieter. He was close enough for me to talk without anyone else hearing.

“I thought Melissa was with the big guy,” I said.

“She left him after your fight,” Donnie answered. He shrugged. “I always liked her. I had her address. I wrote her a few letters. She came up and visited my freshman year, then applied to Peabody. She’s a freshman there now. Seems to be a good student, and loves Art. Good kid..”

“I think my friend Milton has his eye on her,” I said. Donnie looked their way.

“She doesn’t look captivated, and she lives with me,” he said.

“Too bad, Milt,” I said. You’re in school, too?” I asked.

“Sure. I’ve seen you in the C-Room a couple times, but we’re not really pals, so I never said hi. I’m in Engineering, and Melissa and I live off campus. You and I aren’t going to be bumping into each other much on campus.” I nodded, then looked back at the table. It really was lined up beautifully.

“Okay,” I said, after I thought through a game plan. The four and the seven went in together. The six was tricky, but rolled in. I could have smacked the nine in hard, but just barely tapped it in. There was a collective exhalation when I got it. I looked up and Ginny’s eyes were pretty wide.

“Again?” I asked Donnie. He shook his head.

“For a beer, sure. For $160, no,” he said. “You bounced back from your sabbatical pretty fast.”

“I will,” said Texas.

“You’ll do what?” I asked.

“I’ll take that wager,” he said.

“Double, or double-double?” I asked.

“Double,” Texas said.

“Donnie, he wants to buy your bet,” I said.

“Done.”

“$160 new money, Texas, plus $160 to cover,” I said. Texas put three hundreds and a twenty on the table. Melissa promptly hopped up, gave Donnie $160, and moved the $320 to her repository.

“Who is this guy?” Texas asked Donnie.

“Meet Henry Baida, high priest of the Church of Straight Lines,” Donnie answered.

“How good is he?” asked Texas.

“Crazy good,” said Donnie.

“Meaning?”

“When I played him in Hixson he was the best I’d ever seen. But crazy. Tonight, for the first three shots, a little unsteady on his pins. Rusty. I thought I had him. Then he did that samurai composure deal and he was the best again.”

“Crazy how?” asked Texas.

“It’s a universal conspiracy or something,” said Donnie. “He has this idea that things don’t always happen like they should. Maybe the laws of physics don’t always apply. Engineering has holes in it. Or something. And he thinks it affects his pool game. Things happen that shouldn’t happen. Shit like that. Nutty.”

“Okay,” said Texas. “Your break,” he said to me. Ginny got up from her stool and got close enough to me to do a loud whisper.

“$320 is a lot of money,” she said.

“$640 is more,” I said.

“Is there any chance you’re doing this to impress … somebody?” she asked.

“No, no,” I answered. “What time is it?” I’d never replaced the watch I lost at Hixson Lanes.

“Just before eight,” she said.

“We’re doing fine,” I said. “Texas thinks he’s good. I’m not sure what’s gonna happen, but we’ll be outta here by ten.” She went back to her stool next to Melissa. They did this happy excited giggle thing when she sat. Milton looked on with rapt attention, and neither of them seemed to know he was there.

Texas had racked for nine ball. I broke. It wasn’t a great break but the eight rolled in. I sank the two and the three, but the only shot on the four was a paper-thin slice into the side pocket, and it just grazed the rail and settled right in front of the right side pocket. Texas shot it in like a staple gun, then got the five and the six with no trouble. That left the seven and the nine. He eased in the seven, and rifled in the nine. He looked up at me with the expression of a man who’s thinking “I just won $640.”

“Again?” I asked. He had to think.

“Sure.” I took out my wallet and put six hundreds and two twenties on the table. He looked at the money and licked his lips. Melissa swooped down and collected it. The bar was quiet enough now that you could hear glasses clink, and our crowd of spectators was growing. I looked up to see what Ginny thought. She had a look of horrified concern in her eyes, back ramrod straight, staring at the table.

It was Texas’ break. He didn’t do well. The balls didn’t scatter very much, nothing went in. But oh, what a lovely table for me. It wasn’t even work. The balls sank themselves. I ran the table. It was fun.

I looked up at Texas. “Again?” I asked.

“Let’s do something different,” he said.

“Like what?” I asked.

“A real bet,” he said. “Real money.”

“I haven’t been paid on the last one,” I said.

“All right.” He looked up at Melissa. “Pay up,” he said. She jumped up and handed me $1,280, but some of that was mine.” I handed thirty back to her.

“She looked at the $30, unsure what I wanted her to do with it.

“It’s Milton’s,” I said.

“Who?” she asked.

“Milton, The guy sitting next to you,” I said. She looked around. “No, back over there, where you and Ginny are sitting. Milton’s sitting on the stool on the other side of you from Ginny.” She turned around to look.

“The guy with the fuzzy hair?” she asked.

“Yes. I owe him that because of the way I bought the first game.”

She smiled sweetly and held the bills in front of her the way a flower girl holds a flower, then turned and bounced back to her stool, handing Milton his money in the process. He was still confused.

I looked around and noticed that Donnie still hadn’t sat down.

“How much you got?” Texas asked me.

“Enough,” I said.

“Look. Let’s you and me play him in cutthroat,” Texas said to Donnie.

“I hate cutthroat,” said Donnie.

“Everybody hates cutthroat,” Texas answered, talking directly to Donnie. “And I can see he’s good. But he ain’t better than both of us. And we gang up on him, we split his money.”

“N-O spells ‘no.’ I am not giving Henry any more money.”

“I’ll stake you. I been watching you. You never make mistakes. Crazy people always make mistakes.”

“Not this one,” said Donnie. “How much do you want to play for anyway?”

“Five grand,” he said.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” said Donnie. “Like I have that on me.”

“Like I said, I’ll stake you. I’ll give you a grand of it if we beat him. If you beat me, two grand.”

Cutthroat’s an odd game. It’s the only pool hall game you can play with three players. There are three groups of colored balls: one to five, six to ten, and eleven to fifteen. As with eight ball, you choose which group is yours when you sink a ball. Unlike eight ball, in which you try to k sink your own balls, stripes or solids, in cutthroat the object is to knock in the other players’ balls. In cutthroat, the player with balls left on the table at the end of the game wins, and you keep playing until only one player has any balls left on the table.

“You’re telling me you have $10,000 in cash on you?” I asked Texas. He thought for a second. You could see the wheels turning. The bar was getting quieter and quieter.

“No, but I have a check,” he said.

“No checks,” I said.

“It’s okay. I promise. I have an account at the bank and everything,” he said. “And I won’t stop payment or anything.”

“No checks.” He thought a few seconds and then looked up at me.

“How would you cover a $5,000 bet?” he asked. I took out my wallet and counted out fifty hundreds and snapped them onto the table.

“Holy mother-fucking shower of shit,” said Milton, not loudly, but easily audible. There was no sound whatsoever in the bar. You could hear noises from the kitchen of the restaurant next door, and traffic on Elliston Place.

Texas looked at the stack of bills and licked his lips. I had him. He had enough cash to cover my bet, and was letting greed make the decision for him. He wasn’t thinking any more. He pulled that great big wallet out of his hip pocket and hefted it in his hand before unzipping it, looking at my stack of fifties. He knew how much was in there. He counted out a hundred bills and dropped them on the table. There were some audible reactions from spectators as he counted, and then laid them on the table.

He’d convinced himself of something for which there was no logical basis—that he and Donnie together were better than me, as though their talent were somehow cumulative. How good they were, together or separate, had nothing to do with how good I was. As long as I was better than either of them, I stood a good chance of winning, regardless of their cumulative chances. If three people are trying to outrun two hingry tigers, the cumulative speed of the two slower runners doesn’t do them much good.

Of course, I’d never played Texas, but he wasn’t thinking straight, so I figured I was probably okay.

Milton lit another cigarette. Melissa and Ginny looked horrified.

“Lag for break, right?” I asked.

“Yeah, sure,” said Texas. Donnie nodded.

“So if Melissa would do the honors…” said Texas. Melissa got up as if to pick up the stack of bills. It was clearly not going to fit in her brassiere.

“No,” I said. “Sorry, Melissa. Donnie, do you know the owner here?” It’s not that I didn’t trust her, I did, I just thought $15,000 might attract the wrong kind of attention to her.

“Sure,” Donnie said. “My Uncle Roy.”

“Does he have a safe?”

“Yeah. Good idea. Angie, can you get Mr. King for me? Get Biggie, too.” He was talking to the waitress. She nodded.

“Biggie?” I asked.

“He’s the cooler here. A little out of shape, but he was a green beret in Viet Nam and used to be one of Elvis’ bodyguards.” A few silent minutes later a sharp, thin, tall man in a blue oxford cloth shirt and khakis came in, followed by an enormous sumo wrestler-sized man dressed all in stylish black. They saw the stack of bills on the table simultaneously..

“Now Donald, you know I promised your mother I would discourage you from gambling,” he said, in a mountain accent.

“I’m not really gambling, here,” he said. “These two idiots are playing and I may get a part of it.”

“All right,” said Uncle Roy, jovially.

“My girlfriend here’s been holding the stakes,” said Donnie,” but I think Biggie might be a better candidate on this game.”

“How much?” asked Uncle Roy.

“Fifteen,” Donnie said.

“Far out,” said Biggie. He scooped up the cash and stuffed it into the front pocket of his black jeans.

“Shall I lag?” I asked. The other two nodded. This was a good sign. Either of them was good enough to run the table straight through given the chance, so it was important to win the lag. I have a good lag stroke, and the fact that the others were willing to let me go first meant they weren’t playing or thinking aggressively. The fact that so much money was at stake had them scared.

I went all in. I tapped it solidly, it bounced cleanly off the head rail and sped towards the near rail. A good lag shot always looks like it’s going to hit the near rail, and several people gasped, but it stopped a half inch short. Hard to beat. I put the heel of my cue on the side rail to mark the spot. I looked up at Ginny. She still had her hand over her mouth, where it had popped when she’d gasped.

“Shit,” said Texas.

“Jesus H. Christ,” said Milton, through his smoke.

“I told you,” said Donnie. He lined up for a lag shot. “Come on, Max” he said. He tapped well, bounced off the head rail cleanly and coasted to a stop about an inch and a half from the near rail. A good lag, but mine was better so Donnie didn’t bother to mark it. Donnie lit a Winston 100 from a Bic and laid it on the rail. Uncle Roy frowned at this; whether he disapproved of smoking or was worried about his table getting a cigarette burn was unclear. After a few seconds, Donnie picked it up and blew a smoke ring at the table. It bounced off of the felt but dissipated immediately. Two drunk soldiers walked by outside, and you could tell they were talking about girls in Saigon.

Texas bent over to take his lag shot and I got a good look at his cue stick. It was the most beautiful cue I’d ever seen. It had an elaborate vine and flower inlay pattern on both halves, and something in French inlaid up the axis of the heel end, in a flowing script. The detail was amazing. He paused and stood up, overthinking his shot. Either you make your lag or you don’t.

“What does it say?” I asked, looking at his stick.

He answered in what sounded to me like perfect French.

“To doubt is uncomfortable, but to be certain is absurd,” I translated.

“Right,” he answered. “My mother used to say that. She was French. Said it was Voltaire.” I nodded.

“Your shot,” I said. He lined up again, got a determined look on his face, and took his lag shot. He went all in. It was the right choice, but it didn’t work out for him. Maybe if he’d gone first he wouldn’t have had to press and could have put the pressure on me to beat his best. But now he had to do better than his best. You could hear the ball bounce off the head rail—it hopped a little, a sign he’d hit it a little too hard—then you could hear it roll back to the near rail, hear it rolling slower and slower and slower, then the barely audible bump against the near rail, Everyone exhaled at the same time.

My break. People were taking sides. It was mainly college kids, and I think the girls were mainly rooting for Texas. He was better looking and in better shape than Donnie or me.

Donnie racked. I couldn’t remember if there was a way you were supposed to rack for cutthroat, but Donnie racked them like I would do for eight ball, with the one at the nose and the eight in the middle. Donnie stood back, retrieved his cigarette from the rail and watched. All of the smokers seemed to take a drag in unison.

“You’re up,” said Texas.

“Yeah,” I said. I put the cue ball slightly above and to the left of the head spot. It just works out well for me. You play with fewer balls in nine ball, which I was used to, and what happens in a break, if you hammer it all fifteen balls, is inherently chaotic. I’ve played against guys who can chip balls off one at a time without scattering the racked set, but I’ve never lost to one. They might take a gam off of me, but I always come out ahead. Opening up the break lets the game start, and until you do you’re not winning, you’re just avoiding losing.

I hit that break really hard, and was richly rewarded. The six, nine and eleven all rolled in.

“Fuck me in the ass with a red hot poker,” said Milton. Texas looked worried.

“Do I need to call my shots?” I asked.

“You can if you wanna show off,” said Donnie, “but I don’t need it.” Texas waved me off and shook his head. I looked at the table. It wasn’t bad. “I guess you’re taking low,” said Donnie.

“I don’t have to call yet, so I won’t,” I said. Donnie was alluding to the fact that the one, two, three, four and five were all still on the table, but two were missing from the middle six-to-ten group and one was missing from the high ten-to-fifteen group. The object was to have balls from your group left on the table at the end of the game.

It was tricky, but I did it. The seven and ten were close to the waist pockets, so getting them is was a cinch. The twelve and fifteen were in opposite corners, so firm contact was required, but no risk as long as you made the shot, and I took them both. The eight was guarded by the two at the right top corner, and the thirteen and fourteen were in the middle of the table.

“What do you think?” I asked Donnie.

“I think I’m fucked,” he answered. It would have been rude to have asked for shot advice, but it would have been interesting to know how he would have played it. Texas was looking at the table in placid irritation.

The one ball was in the way of sinking the thirteen in the top left pocket, and the three might be in the way of putting it in the left side pocket, but if I sank the thirteen in the left side, I was perfect on the fourteen in the right side pocket, so I went with that. The thirteen just barely rolled, easy, gentle, like petting a kitten. That was the last of the high balls, so one of either Donnie or Texas was out of the game. Since Texas lost the game, it made sense for it to be him, but it was their decision.

“Holy gold plated donkey shit,” said Milton. It was quiet. The loudest sound was a college boy in a pink shirt lighting a Kool. You could hear the crinkle of the cellophane as he handled the pack, the spark wheel of his Bic, and then a faint jingle of change when he dropped the lighter back in his pocket.

“I have to call now, right?” I asked. Texas nodded. Since all of the high balls were gone, I had to say whether I was claiming high or middle as mine. Since the one through the five were still on the table, and only the eight was left of the middle, the choice was pretty obvious, but still I looked. “Yeah, I’m taking low,” I said, after a minute. Donnie and Texas nodded balefully.

“So this is what he does? Takes the cue out of your hand?” asked Texas.

“Not like this,” said Donnie. “He’s good, but not this good. There’s a lot of luck here, too. Or are you seeing your … anomalies here, Henry?”

“I don’t like to talk much when I’m shooting,” I said.

“Humor me. You’re about to take the possibility of earning a thousand dollars away from me. Do you feel lucky tonight?” he lit another cigarette.

“No. But I don’t believe in luck.”

“What do you believe in?” Donnie asked.

“I think there’s a lot of randomness in pool, and with enough practice you sort through the randomness, recognize what to do, and make the next shot less random,” I said. I really didn’t like talking while playing. If I believed in luck, I’d have been worried that this would jinx me.

“None of your rule violations, here? No crumbling at the edges?”

“So you with one ball on the table are mocking me, who has five?” I asked.

“Mocking, no. But tell Carl what you told me back in Hixson.”

“Carl?” I asked.

“Texas,” Donnie said, nodding towards Texas.

“I didn’t tell you anything. I asked if you’d noticed, playing pool, that sometimes, for no reason, outcomes diverge from expectations. Now can you leave me the fuck alone long enough to let me sink the eight?”

“Sorry,” Donnie said. I would bet he was worried that Texas had taken his claim that I was crazy too seriously and might be mad at him accordingly, but that wasn’t what had pulled Texas in. What set the hook on Texas was greed, and the strange notion that two good players are better than one good player. Chance isn’t like that. Two on one doesn’t change the odds. The number of players doesn’t change their skill. If two tigers are pursuing three runners, none of the runners can outrun the tigers, but the fastest runner will always survive.

The cue was far enough up that I could sneak past the two and tap it in, but I also had a shot knocking in the eight off of the two, but there was a risk the two might fall in, too. I would still win, but it was perfect the other way, so I plopped the two in.

I won.

Oddly, there wasn’t as much of a reaction from the crowd as you might expect. The kids were mostly nine ball and eight ball players, and a lot of them didn’t understand cutthroat, and so didn’t understand that I’d won. Melissa did, as did Uncle Roy and Biggie, and maybe a few of the frat guys. Donnie and Texas looked at each other and shrugged, and started taking apart their cues. I handed my cue back to Milton.

“Your table, Milt,” I said.

“Biggie, put the proceeds in the office safe, and lock it,” said Uncle Roy.

“What about—“ Biggie said, then stopped. “Yes sir,” he said, instead, and disappeared.

“So that’s it,?” Milton asked. “You fucking won?”

“I did,” I said. I wanted to say “good game” or something to Texas and Donnie, but thought it would come through as strained or condescending. “Au revoir,” I said to Texas. He nodded as he slid the halves of his beautiful cue into a leather cue bag. Donnie had put the halves of his cue into a hard aluminum case that he slung over his shoulder, then gave Melissa a hug. Milton was wanting to be excited and bounded over. I put up a palm to kind of “shush” him. I didn’t mean to be rude but “this guy just went ten large and didn’t get to make a shot,” I said. “We need to show some respect.” Milton nodded and looked at Texas, headed for the front door. “But this is fucking fantastic!” he whispered, hoarsely. “You’ll get laid tonight for sure!”

As Texas left, the crowd began to break up.

“Mr. ..” said Uncle Roy, looking at me.”

“Baida,” said Donnie. “Uncle Roy, Henry Baida. Henry, Uncle Roy.”

“Mr. Baida, would you care to step into my office?” asked Roy.

“Sure,” I said. “Donnie, would you come, too? Milton would you buy Ginny and Melissa a drink, please? And one for yourself, too. We won’t be long,” I said. I was reaching for my wallet to give Milton some cash for the drinks, but Roy put his hand on my arm.

“The drinks are on the house,” he said, not to me but to the waitress.

“Thank you, sir.” I said. “I need to buy one for Donnie, though.”

“Donald?” Uncle Roy asked.

“Scotch. Neat,” he said. I gave the waitress a twenty.

“Glenfiddich?” she asked. Donnie nodded.

“This way, boys,” said Uncle Roy. I looked around. No one looked threatening.

“Milt, stay here until I get back. It’ll just be a few minutes. Don’t get up from the table. Just sit here with them. Are you okay with this, Ginny?” She nodded. I looked at Melissa. She smiled.

“Henry, how long has it been since you were here?” Melissa asked.

“A few years,” I answered.

“I bought this place in 197,” said Uncle Roy. “My third neighborhood tavern. About fifteen months ago there was a stabbing here, and I decided Annie’s needed more of my attention. I hired Biggie and started coming here daily. Shall we?” he asked, gesturing a path to his office. It was a small office, but it held Uncle Roy, Biggie, Donnie and me as long as we were standing. Before we started talking, the waitress showed up with a brimming glass of scotch on a small tray and extended it to Donnie. There was five dollars of change on the tray and he waved her to take it. He took a small sip of his drink.

“Biggie has placed your winnings in my safe and I will be glad to hold this in my safe until tomorrow morning,” said Uncle Roy, to me. We open tomorrow at eleven. Would you like to pick it up soon afterwards.?’

“Not really. Sorry, I don’t mean to impose on your hospitality, but Donnie, do you by any chance pass by here on your way to school?” I asked.

“Not exactly, but it’s not far out of my way.”

“How much did I cost you tonight?” I asked. He thought.

“Well, by busting up my game with your bearded buddy, maybe three hundred, if he actually had it. But you covered that and then won it back.”

“I’ll give you half of what you would have won if I’d lost the cutthroat game if you’ll mule the money for me.”

“A grand?” he asked.

“No, five hundred.” He thought and sipped his scotch.

“Tomorrow?” he asked.

“No, Friday,” I said.

“Why?” he asked. Biggie and Uncle Roy looked at me with interest.

“If Texas is going to try to steal his money back, he’s going to be looking for me to come and get it. He won’t be looking for you. And even if he’s looking to jump me, he won’t wait around three days.” Donnie shrugged.

“Okay by me,” he said. “Roy?” Roy looked square at me.

“So you trust us?” he asked.

“Yes, sir, I do,” I answered.

“Then I want to trust you as well,” he said. “I will hold your money for the next three days, but I never want to have a pool game of that nature in my restaurant ever again,” he said. “It was quite exciting for the boys and girls, but word will get out that big money can be had here and a different group of people will show up. I make money by selling dollar beers to boys and girls. I make no money off of pool, and I do not wish to lose my investment in this bar. Understood?”

“Yes, sir. You have my word. Last time I played here Stumpy still ran it, and it was a different crowd. I meant no disrespect.”

“None taken. Biggie, put the stakes in the safe and lock it.”

“Already done it,” said Biggie.

“Mr. King, may I offer you something as a token of my thanks?” I asked.

“No, but thank you,” he said.

“Biggie, take a Franklin for yourself.” He laughed.

“I’ll take a Grant.” he said. “I don’t want Mr. King to think you’re spoiling me, and besides, it weren’t any kind of work.”

“That’s cool,” I said. He peeled off a fifty and put the rest in a small metal drawer in the top right corner of the safe, shut the door with a solid and satisfying metallic “clunk,” then shot the bolt and spun the dial.

Two years tuition. Lordy.

Chapter 20: A Chance Encounter with Stoney; the Author Wants You to Realize Here That You Don’t Have To Understand Equations to Get the Joke.

A few days later I was on my way to Physics when I bumped into Stoney. Odd. I’d never bumped into him before, except in class. He was wearing bell-bottomed Levi’s, his Durango boots, a puffy-sleeved shirt that looked like it might have been intended for one of the pirates of Penzance, and his sunglasses.

“Whoah,” he said. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“I’m surprised to see you, too. For some reason I thought you weren’t an early riser.”

“Yea, well, actually, I’m not. For me this is more of a late night than an early morning. What are you up so early for?”

“Stoney, it’s 10:00.” I said.

“Yes?”

“Not the crack of dawn,” I said. He thought for a few seconds.

“So I take it you’re functional at this time of day with some frequency?” he asked.

“On my way to Physics. Happens three times a week.”

“Far out. Have fun. Physics. Man,” he said. He shook his head, but seemed happy for me.

“You want to come?”

“To a class?” he asked, dumbfounded.

“Sure. Physics. You might find it interesting. Plus, you’d almost certainly meet Rob and Toni.” He thought for a few seconds, as though confused.

“And this would interest me in some way?” he asked.

“They’re both completely insane, but smart. She’s gorgeous,” I said.

“Man, I don’t go to classes even when I’m registered for them. Suggesting I might go to one I’m not signed up for seems pretty fucked up.”

“Are you sober?” I asked. He thought about his answer before speaking.

“’Sober’ would be inaccurate. In any sense of the word. But ‘sober’ generally refers to one’s interaction specifically with alcohol, and alcohol is not the largest sector of my current weltanschauung, although it is well-represented.”

“How can you be fucked up at 10:00 a.m.?” I asked.

“Um, like I said, this is more of a late night than an early morning.”

“Did you take Physics at Lawrenceville?”

“Sure. It was a little silly,” said Stoney.

“How so?”

“All these extremely precise calculations that don’t relate to much reality.”

“How so?” I asked.

“Math doesn’t describe reality. Reality is, like, reality. Physics is a bunch of guys standing around looking at cannon balls dropping from towers for a couple of hundred years, and eventually one of them invents a clock, then another one figures out how to put some numbers on a page that predict when it’s going to hit the ground. Later somebody calls it acceleration and gets famous for figuring things about it. Then a hundred years later some other guy comes along and figures out a way to do the calculation that’s a little more accurate and he gets famous for that. It’s fucked up.” He paused and fumbled to find a cigarette, eventually found a soft pack of Marlboros somewhere in his boot, extracted one, and lit it with a disposable lighter. He looked up at me after taking the kid of puff a person who doesn’t smoke all the time takes.

“What were you saying?” he asked.

“You were explaining how Physics is messed up because people keep coming up with more precise formulæ.”

“Oh, fuck yes. And every now and then somebody comes along and has a completely different way of looking at the problem of “what is acceleration?” and you Physics guys all look at things differently. And then everybody in all the schools has to teach the new deal and everybody coalesces around Einstein. Or Bohr. Or Copernicus. Or who the fuck cares. You should read Kuhn. What?” I was looking at him and waiting for him to finish, and he was reacting to my expression.

“Nothing. I just get this a lot,” I said.

“What?”

“Math people telling me that physics is imprecise.”

“It fucking is imprecise. Has to be,” he said.

“And nothing like this happens in Math?” I asked.

“Oh, fuck no. Nobody ever came along and proved that 2+2=5. Nobody ever will. Nobody ever, since time began, came along and showed all the other mathematicians that the times tables were wrong, or that addition isn’t associative. Math just isn’t like that. Once something is so, it’s so for all time. Math just is.”

“I gotta go. Want to come to class with me?” I asked.

“What’s class about?”

“Kinematics. Dynamics. Mechanics.” He thought a few seconds and took another non-smoker’s puff.

“I wanna give you shit for talking like a Physics guy, but I took high school Physics so I know what that all means”

“So?”

“I say we blow it off and smoke some pot instead,” he said.

“Don’t smoke,” I said.

“Oh, right.” He thought for a few seconds. “Okay I’m game. Lead on, MacDuff, ” he said.

“Cool,” I said. “Your presence is going to surprise Toni and Rob.” I turned and headed for the Science and Math Center, and Stoney came along with me.

“Who are they?”

“They’re crazy people who sit on either side of me.”

“If it’s assigned seating, where are you going to put me?” he asked.

“No, it’s not assigned seating,” I said.

“So why do Rob and Toni always sit next to you?”

“They’re fucked up.”

“Like, stoned?” he asked.

“No. Like utterly insane,” I answered.

“I’m not completely stoned,” he said. “I should be able to deal. She’s the good-looking one, right?”

“Yes, but wacko like you don’t often encounter.”

“I’m not sure a person who doesn’t do drugs is qualified to make a statement like that,” he said. We were still walking, more slowly than I usually would, towards the lecture hall where Physics met.

“Okay,” I said.

“Like, once, when I was on acid, I was sure a red dragon with yellow dorsal plates and ivory teeth was licking the inside of my nose.”

“Yuck,” I said..

“It actually felt pretty good,” said Stoney, reflectively. “She, or maybe he, for that matter, what do I know about dragons? had a very soft and narrow tongue. Warm. It moved around in ... interesting ways.”

“Odd,” I said. There was a brief reverie in which Stoney seemed at a loss for words. “Did you reciprocate?” I asked.

“How do you mean?” he asked.

“Did you lick the red dragon’s nose?”

“Are you fucking nuts? Have you ever seen a dragon’s nose?” he asked.

“Um, no,” I answered, patiently, pretty sure that Stoney hadn’t seen one, either.

“Their noses are just like pigs’. Runny and dirty and noisy. No way I’m licking a dragon’s nose. That’s just gross.”

We had reached the amphitheater at the Science and Math Center. We were slightly, but not very, early as we moved into the amphitheater. I took a seat in the middle of the hall, and Stony sat to my right.

“So why does Physics have to be taught in such a big room? A kind of a … steep room,” Stoney asked.

“It doesn’t, but this is a course all physics majors have to take, so it’s a big class, and this is a big classroom.”

“The physics guys and gals are actually pretty cute, now that I look at them,” he said.

Right as he said that, Rob showed up on my left and Toni showed up on Stoney’s right.

“Excuse me, you’re in my seat,” Toni said to Stoney. Stoney, still in his sunglasses, looked up, confused.

“Excuse me?” he asked.

“You’re in my seat,” she said. I stood.

“Oh, right,” said Stoney. “You’re the one Henry told me about.”

“Look, Stoney, she’s eccentric. This will go a little smoother if you sit on my left instead of my right.”

“What did he tell you about me?” Toni asked, a little more intensely than comfort allowed.

“Well,” Stoney said, noncommittally, glancing at me.

“Feel free to be honest,” I said.

“He said you were gorgeous but … a little … eccentric.”

“Henry?” she asked.

“I said you were beautiful and brilliant but crazy,” I said. “Stoney, move to this seat,” I said, gesturing with my left hand. It will be a little easier to deal with Rob.”

“Is this more of your sexist patronizing bullshit?” she asked me, but addressing the world in general.

“Yes,” I answered. “Stoney, sit over here.” Stoney stood and moved past me to sit in the seat to my left. Toni sat down with too much ado. Students around us were watching and laughing. Toni and Rob and I were dependable entertainment, and Stoney was a new addition to the act.

As Stoney passed me to move to the other seat, he paused for a second. “Her nipples got hard while she was yelling at us,” he whispered. “That’s so cool.”

“I heard that,” she said. Stoney shrugged.

“Hi,” said Rob, sticking out his hand towards Stoney. “I’m Rob.” He’d been standing there watching us, silently and patiently Rob-like, while we dealt with his girlfriend.

Stoney said “Yo. Rob. I’m Stoney,” and stuck out his hand. Rob looked at it, confused, then grasped it for a second.

“Is there a problem?” Rob asked, still standing.

“No. Rob. This is my friend Thomas Jackson. He, like me, is a math major.”

“You were a Physics major last time we talked,” said Rob.

“I’m a double major. Thomas—” I started.

“You can call me Stoney,” he said.

“Thanks,” said Rob and shook his hand again.

“Thomas—” I started.

“Stoney,” both Rob and Stoney corrected me, in unison.

“Stoney’s a friend of mine from the Math Department, so I invited him to class just to see what Physics is like. So I know you like being close to Toni, but if this once you could sit one seat further to the left, we could keep Stoney up to date on what’s going on. Rob looked at Stoney carefully.

“Did you take high school physics?” Rob asked.

“Sure,” he answered.

“What’s Newton’s second law?”

“Acceleration is proportional to force and inversely proportional to mass,” Stoney answered.

“Okay,” said Rob, although he didn’t sit down. He was still looking for a reason not to go along with the new seating scheme, Stoney shrugged and sat down between us.

“Henry gets very good grades bit he didn’t know the answer to that question last class, so far as I could tell,” said Rob, still standing. “Prof. Dannhausen doesn’t generally state first principles,” Rob said, erroneously.

“That is a good way of expressing the last set of problems,” I said, to Rob. I had understood Newton’s second law perfectly well but absolutely nothing will get me to engage in an argument with Rob.

“I’m just glad you didn’t ask me about the second law of thermodynamics ,” Stoney said. “That fucker’s fucked.”

“What?” said Rob and Toni, simultaneously.

“Yeah, it just is,” he answered.

“Why?” they demanded, simultaneously. Stoney was put off by their keen attention.

“Okay, well, it’s true that if a high energy system comes in contact with a low energy system, energy will flow from the higher to the other. To the lower.” Stoney looked up. He now had the attention of the students in the next row back. “Take a hot marble and a cold marble, put ‘em together, pretty soon they’re the same temperature,” he said. Everyone nodded.

“But look at what happens in the universe. A star explodes and creates new elements. Gases cool and form solar systems and shit A planet cools, life emerges and crap, then evolves into fuckers like us. In thermodynamics, you physics fuckers act like each step cooler is a step towards annihilation, because we’re just a little bit closer to absolute zero. But each step was more highly ordered. Stars. Elements. Life. Not much order a second after the Big Bang. Just a bunch of hot quarks and shit. Now we have sex and basketball and mushrooms. Far more organized.” Everyone listening applauded. Stoney stood and curtseyed as though wearing a short skirt.

“Hi, everybody,” I said. “This is my friend Thomas Jackson. He’s auditing this class today. He’s smart.”

“Call me Stoney. And I’m not as much smart as I am totally stoned,” he said. At this point the door right of the lectern swung open suddenly and Professor Dannhausen strode in with a flourish.

“Rob, look. Just for today, can you sit just one seat over? I know you like being closer to Toni, but I promise you she’ll still love you if you let Stoney sit next to me today.”

“I never said I loved Rob,” said Toni, from my right.

“I promise you she won’t have sex with you any less if you just sit down,” I said. Rob sat down in the seat next to Stoney without comment. And I sat between Stoney and Toni.

“Don’t get pissed at him about this, Toni. This is my deal, and he’s doing me a favor.” We had, by this point, attracted Dr. Dannhausen’s attention.

“Mr. Baida, is class ready to begin?” Dr. Dannhausen asked me. He didn’t overstress anything. He wasn’t an asshole, he was just accustomed to starting his class on time.

“Yes, sir. Sorry about the delay.”

“And you have a new and colorfully attired student next to you?” said Dannhausen.

“Yes. This is my friend Thomas Jackson.”

“Yo. Call me Stoney, prof,” he said. Dannhausen cocked an eyebrow at me.

“He’s a Math major. It seems to me like there’s a lot of overlap between the two disciplines, and I thought he might be interested. He promises not to cause trouble,” I said.

“Absolutely. I’m a laid back, cool kind of mathematician,” said Stoney. He still hadn’t taken off his sunglasses.

“Okay. Welcome, Mr. Jackson. So, Mr. Baida, how about you explain to me and to Mr. Jackson what Newton’s third law is.”

“Fuck. I totally know this,” said Stoney.

“Hush, Stoney,” I said, He put his hand to his mouth in embarrassment. “For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction,” I said.

“Right. Give me an example.”

“When I push on a brick, the brick pushes back.”

“Right. So let’s do a problem. Assume I have two canoes on a river, one with two occupants with a combined mass of 150 kilograms, and the other with three occupants with a combined mass of 250 kilos. The occupants push away from each other with a combined force of 43 newtons.”

“Weaklings,” said Stoney,” under his breath.

“How do we find the acceleration of the two canoes?” Prof. Dannhausen asked me. He didn’t usually focus on one student like this. He usually stated off by describing a principle, then explaining the basic concepts of the calculations, and then gave us a few calculations. He was zooming straight through to the end. In his defense, though, Newton’s third law is pretty basic. There wasn’t any way to build dramatic tension about it.

“Well, according to the text, the acceleration is described as Σ Fx = max for ax.”

“According to the text?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” I said.

“Do you not believe the text?”

“Yes. Sort of. I’m not sure. The text never comes out and says these formulas are approximations, but it never comes out and says somebody’s sat down and tested them a thousand times and they were 100% accurate, either. I’m just not sure the formula is more than a description of what we see.” Stoney was smiling broadly, but all of the sudden I was back in Mr. Finch’s Sunday school class and I was challenging orthodoxy and realized I was about to get verbally slapped. The other kids were pulling back from me, and I braced for it. There was a dramatic pause.

“Interesting, and possibly right,” said Prof. Dannhausen. “But let’s not get sidetracked. We’re talking about Newton’s second law and five people in two canoes. Let’s work through the problem.” No slap. Weird.

We talked through the problem. If you’re curious the second canoe is (and we’re solving the second one first because it has the greater mass):

ax = Σ F2x = 46 N = 0.18 m/s2
m2 250 kg

and the first canoe is

ax = Σ F1x = -46 N = -0.31 m/s2
m1 150 kg

and the reason this problem exemplifies Newton’s third law is that the force, 46 newtons, is applied to the formulæ for both canoes—positive 46 newtons in the top equations (look for 46N in the numerator) and negative 46 newtons in the bottom. It took a while to work through it. So you’ll notice that the same force applied to the lighter canoe caused it to accelerate more than the heavier canoe, because the heavier canoe is going in one direction at 0.18 meters per second, and the lighter one is going in the other direction at not quite twice as fast, or 0.31 meters per second. It took most of the class to go through the calculations, for acceleration, rate, and distance, and to discuss the implications of each step, but at the end, the canoes were 0.35 meters apart.

“So is this a realistic calculation?” he asked the class.

“Oh, fuck,” said Stoney.

“No,” said Toni, to my right, loudly.

“Yes, Ms Sayers?”

“The solution ignored friction.”

“Exactly,” said prof Dannhausen.

“Lord fuck a duck,” said Stoney, in what he might have thought was a quiet voice. Prof. Dannhausen cocked an eyebrow at him.

“You think something else was left out of the solution, Mr. Jackson?” Prof. Dannhausen asked him.

“Well, yeah,” said Stoney. “You said the canoes were in a river. So there’s going to be current, and there’s no way two different canoes of different masses would react the same to it. And canoes are really unstable, and they wouldn’t react to being pushed like that. They wouldn’t move in a straight line. This whole point mass concentration thing is a fiction. Kind of. I mean, I know I’m a guest and all, and I’ve enjoyed watching you and my gay friend Henry solve the canoe deal, but it doesn’t really describe what would happen, does it?” Prof. Dannhausen put down his chalk and made a face that communicated “I wasn’t expecting this, but okay.” Another pause while he thought.

“Our visitor is largely correct. If you understood, please raise your hand.” Rob, Stoney, I, and Toni raised our hands, as did about a quarter of the class.

“First,” Prof. said, “Most of the problems you will encounter this year, as all of the problems you encountered in high school, assume that all of the masses involved are concentrated into points. Newtonian mechanics almost always makes this assumption, from the simplest vectors to planetary mechanics. Newton knew this assumption was inaccurate, and seems to have figured out more accurate calculations as to planetary motion, but refused to have them published because the Church was unhappy with his forst set of calculations, which agreed with Galileo and Copernicus. The point mass concentration idea is a sort of convention. The mass in a canoe containing two live bodies is most certainly not concentrated into a point. The center of gravity would be difficult to calculate, people move, changing things, if they spin, the centrifugal and centripetal forces would change. The canoe would react to the current. All of this would be …”

“Turbulent,” said Toni.

“Chaotic,” said Stoney.

“Both good descriptors. What I’m teaching you here is the basics of Newtonian dynamics and mechanics. Stripped to its bare bones. So the way Mr. Baida and I worked through the canoe problem was not realistic, and if you choose to study this area in greater depth you will learn that mechanics is far more complicated than we are teaching here. But you need to understand these basics before we can develop the complexities. Forgive me if our problems are oversimplifications, but they are necessary simplifications.” He paused and looked at the floor. “I also want to address something Mr. Baida said earlier. I believe that the equations and formulas you’re learning are accurate to a very precise degree. But no one can tell you that they’re true, because the fact that they describe the universe very accurately does not mean that there can’t be a different formula out there that describes things more accurately. It’s happened many times in physics that we thought we knew what we were looking at, then someone came along and showed us we were wrong. But, I’m not teaching you anything I know to be untrue.” He looked at his watch. “I think that’s all for today,” he said. “Mr. Jackson, come back any time.”

“Yeah, thanks,” he waved, and we all started standing up. “And none of you guys are stoned for this shit?” asked Stoney, to anyone in earshot.

“You’re gay?” Rob asked me.

“No.”

“Oh, he is, totally,” said Stoney. “This Peabody girl named Ginny was all over him and he didn’t even notice.”

“Stoney, give it a rest.”

“Henry, is this true?” asked Toni, a little aggressively.

“No, Toni, it’s not true.”

“Some people just can’t accept themselves for who they are,” Stoney said, as we walked out.

Chapter 20: A Chance Encounter with Stoney; Note that You Get the Joke Even if You Don't Do Math

A few days later I was on my way to Physics when I bumped into Stoney. Odd. I’d never bumped into him before, except in class. He was wearing bell-bottomed Levi’s, his Durango boots, a puffy-sleeved shirt that looked like it might have been intended for one of the pirates in The Pirates of Penzance, and his sunglasses.

“Whoah,” he said. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“I’m surprised to see you, too. For some reason I thought you weren’t an early riser.”

“Yea, well, actually, I’m not. For me this is more of a late night than an early morning. What are you up so early for?”

“Stoney, it’s 10:00.” I said.

“Yes?”

“Not the crack of dawn,” I said. He thought for a few seconds.

“So I take it you’re functional at this time of day with some frequency?” he asked.

“On my way to Physics. Happens three times a week.”

“Far out. Have fun, Physics. Man,” he said. He seemed happy for me.

“You want to come?”

“To a class?” he asked, dumbfounded.

“Sure. Physics. You might find it interesting. Plus, you’d almost certainly meet Rob and Toni.” He thought for a few seconds, as though confused.

“And this would interest me in some way?” he asked.

“They’re both completely insane, but smart. She’s gorgeous,” I said.

“Man, I don’t go to classes even when I’m registered for them. Suggesting I might go to one I’m not signed up for seems pretty fucked up.”

“Are you sober?” I asked. He thought about his answer before answering.

“’Sober’ would be inaccurate. In any sense of the word. But ‘sober’ generally refers to one’s interaction specifically with alcohol, and alcohol is not the largest component of my current weltanschauung.”

“How can you be fucked up at 10:00 a.m.?” I asked.

“Um, like I said, this is more of a late night than an early morning.”

“Did you take Physics at Lawrenceville?”

“Sure. It was a little silly,” said Stoney.

“How so?”

“All these extremely precise calculations that don’t relate to much reality.”

“How so?” I asked.

“Math doesn’t describe reality. Reality is, like reality. You get a bunch of guys standing around looking at cannon balls dropping from towers for a couple of hundred years, and eventually one of them invents a clock, then another one figures out how to put some numbers on a page that predict when it’s going to hit the ground. Later somebody calls it acceleration and gets famous for figuring out things about it. Then a hundred years later some other guy comes along and figures out a way to do the calculation that’s a little more accurate and he gets famous for that. It’s fucked up.” He paused and fumbled to find a cigarette, eventually found a soft pack of Marlboros somewhere in his boot, extracted one, and lit it with a disposable lighter. He looked up at me after taking the kid of puff a person who doesn’t smoke all the time takes.

“What were you saying?” he asked.

“You were explaining how Physics is messed up because people keep coming up with more precise formulae.”

“Oh, fuck yes. And every now and then somebody comes along and has a completely different way of looking at the problem of “what is acceleration?” and you guys all look at things differently. And then everybody in all the schools has to teach the new deal and everybody coalesces around Einstein. Or Bohr. Or who the fuck cares. You should read Kuhn. What?” I was looking at him and waiting for him to finish, and he was reacting to my expression.

“Nothing. I just get this a lot,” I said.

“What?”

“Math people telling me that physics is imprecise.”

“It fucking is imprecise. Has to be,” he said.

“And nothing like this happens in Math?” I asked.

“Oh, fuck no. Nobody ever came along and proved that 2+2=5. Nobody ever will. Nobody ever, since time began, came along and showed all the other mathematicians that the times tables were wrong, or that addition isn’t associative. Math just isn’t like that. Once something is so, it’s so for all time. Math just is.”

“I gotta go. Wanna come to class with me?” I asked.

“What’s class about?”

“Kinematics. Dynamics. Mechanics.” He thought a few seconds.

“I want to give you shit for talking like a physics guy, but I took high school physics so I know what all that means”

“So?”

“I say we blow it off and smoke some pot instead,” he said.

“Don’t smoke,” I said.

“Oh, right.” He thought for a few seconds. “Okay I’m game,” he said.

“Cool,” I said. “Your presence is going to surprise Toni and Rob.”

“Who are they?”

“They’re crazy people who sit on either side of me.”

“If it’s assigned seating, where are you going to put me?” he asked.

“No, it’s not assigned seating,” I said.

“So why do Rob and Toni always sit next to you?”

“They’re fucked up.”

“Like, stoned?” he asked.

“No. Like utterly insane,” I answered.

“I’m not completely stoned,” he said. “I should be able to deal. She’s the good-looking one, right?”

“Yes, but wacko like you don’t often encounter.”

“I’m not sure a person who doesn’t do drugs is qualified to make a statement like that,” he said. We were walking, more slowly than I usually do, towards the circular lecture hall where Physics met.

“Okay,” I answered.

“Like, once, when I was on acid, I was sure a red dragon with yellow dorsal plates and ivory teeth was licking the inside of my nose.”

“Ick,” I said, quoting Mary.

“It actually felt pretty good,” said Stoney, reflectively. “She, or maybe he, for that matter, what do I know about dragons? had a very soft and narrow tongue. Warm. It moved around in ... interesting ways.”

“Okay.” There was a brief reverie in which Stoney seemed at a loss for words. “Did you reciprocate?” I asked. He’d seemed pretty into it.

“How so?” he asked.

“Did you lick the red dragon’s nose?”

“Are you fucking nuts? Have you ever seen a dragon’s nose?” he asked.

“Um, no,” I answered, patiently, pretty sure that Stoney hadn’t seen one, either.

“Their noses are just like pigs’. Runny and dirty and noisy. No way I’m licking a dragon’s nose. That’s just gross.”

We had reached the amphitheater at the Science and Math Center. We were slightly, but not very, early. I took a seat in the middle of the hall, and Stony sat next to me.

“So why does Physics have to be taught in such a big room? A kind of a steep room.”

“It doesn’t, but this is a course all physics majors have to take, so it’s a big class, and this is a big classroom.”

“The physics guys and gals are actually pretty cute, now that I look at them,” he said, sitting down.

Right as he sat, Rob showed up on my left and Toni showed up on Stoney’s right.

“Excuse me, you’re in my seat,” Toni said to Stoney. Stoney, still in his sunglasses, looked up, confused.

“Excuse me?” he asked.

“You’re in my seat,” she said.

“Oh, right,” said Stoney. “You’re the one Henry told me about.”

“Look, Stoney, she’s eccentric. It will all go a lot easier if you sit on my left instead of my right.”

“What did he tell you about me?” Toni asked, a little more intensely than comfort allowed.

“Well,” Stoney said, noncommittally, looking at me.

“Feel free to be honest,” I said.

“He said you were gorgeous but … a little … eccentric.”

“Henry?” she asked.

“I said you were beautiful and brilliant but crazy,” I said. “Stoney, move to this seat,” I said, gesturing with my left hand. “It will be a little easier to deal with Rob.”

“Is this more of your sexist patronizing bullshit?” she asked.

“Yes,” I answered. “Stoney, sit over here.” Stoney stood and moved past me. Toni immediately sat down with too much ado. Students around us were unabashedly watching and laughing. Toni and Rob and I were dependable entertainment, and Stoney was a new addition to the act.

As Stoney passed me to sit on the other side, he paused for a second. “Her nipples got hard while she was yelling at us,” he whispered. “That’s so cool.”

“I heard that,” she said. Stoney shrugged.

“Hi,” said Rob, sticking out his hand towards Stoney. “I’m Rob.” He’d been standing there watching us, silently and patiently Rob-like, while we dealt with his girlfriend.

Stoney said “Yo. Rob. I’m Stoney,” and stuck out his hand. Rob looked at it, confused, then grasped it for a second.

“Is there a problem?” Rob asked, still standing.

“No. Rob. This is my friend Thomas Jackson. He, like me, is a math major.”

“You were a Physics major last time we talked,” said Rob.

“I’m a double major. Thomas—” I started.

“You can call me Stoney,” he said.

“Thanks,” said Rob and shook his hand again.

“Thomas--” I started.

“Stoney,” both Rob and Stoney corrected me, in unison.

“Stoney is a friend of mine from the Math department, so I invited him to class just to see what college Physics is like. So I know you like being close to Toni, but if this once you could sit one seat further to the left, we could keep Stoney up to date on what’s going on. Rob looked at him carefully.

“Did you take high school physics?” Rob asked.

“Sure,” he answered.

“What’s Newton’s second law?”

“Acceleration is proportional to force and inversely proportional to mass,” Stoney answered.

“Okay,” said Rob, although he didn’t sit down. He was still looking for a reason not to go along with the new seating scheme, Stoney shrugged and sat down between us.

“Henry gets very good grades bit he didn’t know the answer to that question last class, so far as I could tell,” said Rob, still standing. “Prof. Dannhausen doesn’t generally state first principles,” Rob said.

“That is a much simpler way of expressing the last set of problems,” I said, to Rob. I had, of course, been aware of Newton's laws last class, but there's no way I was getting in an argument with Rob, regardless of the topic.

“I’m just glad you didn’t ask me about the second law of thermodynamics ,” Stoney said. “That fucker’s fucked.”

“What?” said Rob and Toni, simultaneously.

“Yeah, it just is,” he answered.

“Why?” they demanded, simultaneously. Stoney was put off by their keen attention.

“Okay, well, it’s true that if a high energy system comes in contact with a low energy system, energy will flow from the higher to the other. To the lower.” Stoney looked up. He now had the attention of the students in the next row back. “Take a hot marble and a cold marble, put ‘em together, pretty soon they’re the same temperature,” he said. Everyone nodded.

“But look at what happens in the universe. A star explodes and creates new elements. Gases cool and form solar systems and shit A planet cools, life emerges and crap, then evolves into fuckers like us. In thermodynamics, you physics fuckers act like each step cooler is a step towards annihilation, because we’re just a little bit closer to absolute zero. But each step was more highly ordered. Stars. Elements. Life. Not much order a second after the big bang. Just a bunch of hot quarks and shit. Now we have sex and basketball and mushrooms. Far more organized.” Everyone listening applauded. Stoney stood and curtseyed as though wearing a short skirt.

“Hi, everybody,” I said. “This is my friend Thomas Jackson. He’s auditing this class today. He’s smart.”

“I’m not as much smart as I am totally stoned,” said Stoney. At this point the door right of the lectern swung open suddenly and Professor Dannhausen strode in with a flourish.

“Rob, look. Just for today, can you sit just one seat over? I know you like being closer to Toni, but I promise you she’ll still love you if you let Stoney sit next to me today.”

“I never said I loved Rob,” said Toni, from my right.

“I promise you she won’t have sex with you any less if you just sit down,” I said. Rob sat down in the seat next to Stoney without comment.

“Don’t get pissed at him about this, Toni. This is my deal, and he’s doing me a favor.” We had, by this point, attracted Dr. Dannhausen’s attention.

“Mr. Baida, is class ready to begin?” Dr. Dannhausen asked me. He didn’t overstress anything. He wasn’t an asshole, he was just accustomed to starting his class on time.

“Yes, sir. Sorry about the delay.”

“And you have a new and colorfully attired student next to you?” said Dannhausen.

“Yes. This is my friend Thomas Jackson.”

“Yo. Call me Stoney, prof,” he said. Dannhausen cocked an eyebrow at me.

“He’s a Math major. It seems to me like there’s a lot of overlap between the two disciplines, and I thought he might be interested. He promises not to cause trouble,” I said.

“Absolutely. I’m a laid back, cool kind of mathematician,” said Stoney. He still hadn’t taken off his sunglasses.

“Okay. Welcome, Mr. Jackson. So, Mr. Baida, how about you explain to me and to your friend Mr. Jackson what Newton’s third law is.”

“Fuck. I totally know this,” said Stoney.

“Hush, Stoney,” I said, He put his hand to his mouth in embarrassment. “For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction,” I said.

“Right. Give me an example.”

“When I push on a brick, the brick pushes back.”

“Right. So let’s do a problem. Assume I have two canoes on a river, one with two occupants with a combined mass of 150 kilograms, and the other with three occupants with a combined mass of 250 kilos. The occupants push away from each other with a combined force of 43 newtons.”

“Weaklings,” said Stoney,” under his breath.

“How do we find the acceleration of the two canoes?” Prof. Dannhausen asked me. He didn’t usually focus on one student like this. He usually stated off by describing a principle, then explaining the basic concepts of the calculations, and then gave us a few calculations. He was zooming straight through to the end. In his defense, Newton’s third law is pretty basic.

“Well, according to the text, the acceleration is described as Σ Fx = max for ax.”

“According to the text?”

“Yes, sir,” I said.

“Do you not believe the text?” he asked.

“I’m not sure. The text never comes out and says these formulas are approximations, but it never comes out and says somebody’s sat down and tested them a thousand times and they were 100% accurate, either. I’m just not sure the math is more than a description of what we see.” All of the sudden I was back in Mr. Finch’s Sunday school class and I was challenging orthodoxy and realized I was about to get slapped. The other kids were pulling back from me, and I braced for it.

“Interesting, and possibly right,” said Prof. Dannhausen. “But let’s not get sidetracked. We’re talking about Newton’s second law and five people in two canoes. Let’s work through the problem.” No slap. Weird.

We talked through the problem. If you’re curious the second canoe is (and we’re solving the second one first because it has the greater mass):

ax = Σ F2x = 46 N = 0.18 m/s2
m2 250 kg

and the first canoe is

ax = Σ F1x = -46 N = -0.31 m/s2
m1 150 kg

and the only reason this problem exemplifies Newton’s third law is that the force, 46 Newtons, is applied to the formulae for both canoes—positive 46 newtons in the top equations (look for 46N in the numerator) and negative 46 newtons in the bottom. It took us a while to work through it. So you’ll notice that the same force applied to the lighter canoe caused it to accelerate more than the heavier canoe, because the heavier canoe is going in one direction at 0.18 meters per second, and the lighter one is going in the other direction at not quite twice as fast, or 0.31 meters per second. It took most of the class to work through all of the calculations and answer questions from the class, but at the end, the canoes were 0.35 meters apart.

“So is this a realistic calculation?” he asked the class.

“Oh, fuck, no,” said Stoney.

“No,” said Toni, to my right, loudly.

“Yes, Ms Sayers?”

“The solution ignored friction.”

“Exactly,” said prof Dannhausen.

“Lord fuck a duck,” said Stoney, in what he might have thought was a quiet voice. Prof. Dannhausen cocked an eyebrow at him.

“You think something else was left out of the solution, Mr. Jackson,” Prof. Dannhausen asked him.

“Well, yeah,” said Stoney. “You said the canoes were in a river. So there’s going to be current, and there’s no way two different canoes of different masses would react the same to it. And canoes are really unstable, and they wouldn’t react to being pushed like that. They'd spin around or something. But it would be really hard to get them to move in a straight line, so you'd have no way to calculate how far apart they'd be. This whole point mass concentration thing is a fiction. Kind of. I mean, I know I’m a guest and all, and I’ve enjoyed watching Henry and you solve the canoe deal, but it doesn’t really describe what would happen, does it?” Prof. Dannhausen put down his chalk and made a face that communicated “I wasn’t expecting this, but okay.” He thought for a minute before answering.

“Our visitor is largely correct. If you understood, please raise your hand.” Rob, Stoney, I, and Toni raised our hands, as did about a quarter of the class.

“First,” the professor said, “Most of the problems you will encounter this year assume that all of the masses involved are concentrated into points. This is assuredly not so for a canoe with two or three people in it. The center of gravity would be difficult to calculate, people move, changing things, if they spin, the centrifugal and centripetal forces would change. All of this would be …”

“Turbulent,” said Toni.

“Chaotic,” said Stoney.

“Both good descriptors. What I’m teaching you here is the basics of Newtonian dynamics and mechanics. Stripped to its bare bones. So the way Mr. Baida and I worked through the canoe problem was not realistic, and as you study more you will learn that mechanics is far more complicated than we are teaching here. But you need to understand the basics before we can develop the complexities. Forgive me if our problems are oversimplifications.” He paused and looked at the floor. “I also want to address something Mr. Baida said earlier. I believe that the equations and formulas you’re learning are accurate to a very precise degree. But no one can tell you that they’re true, because the fact that they describe reality accurately still leaves room for the notion that there may be another, different formula out there that describes things more accurately that we haven't yet discovered. It’s happened many times in physics that we thought we knew what we were looking at, then somebody came along and showed us we were wrong. But I’m not teaching you anything I know to be untrue.” He looked at his watch. “I think that’s all for today,” he said. “Mr. Jackson, come back any time.”

“Yeah, thanks,” he waved, and we all started standing up. “And none of you guys get stoned for this shit?” asked Stoney, to anyone in earshot.

Chapter 19: A Number of Stumbling Blocks That Would Have Been Less So Had I Read Kuhn

After dinner I called Mrs. Wertheimer. Ginny had said I needed to call her, and she was right.

This was the first time I’d considered the idea that our relationship might have changed. When I met her, she’d been my teacher. Then, I’d bumped into her and she’d been nice enough to be my banker. At the time, I was an itinerant gambler and she’d facilitated my sinful and peripatetic ways. Now, I was a student again, I had identified her as my emergency contact, and I wasn’t entirely sure certain what the rules of our relationship were.

But even getting in touch with her wasn’t as easy as I anticipated. I dialed her number, using one plus dialing, and an operator came on the line.

“May I help you?” the operator asked.

“I’m just trying to call a friend in Chattanooga,” I said.

“I need your S.T.A.N. number,” the operator said.

“My what?”

“Your S.T.A.N. number,” she said.

“What’s that?”

“A Student Telephone Account Number,” she said.

“Don’t think I have one.”

“You’re a college student, right?” she asked.

“Yes,”

“Calling from (615) 555-1972?”

“Yes.”

“Before the semester began, your parents were sent a packet of information that allowed them to associate your long distance charges with another phone number as long as that phone number was a listed Bell System number,” she said, explaining the obvious.

“I don’t have any parents,” I said. An exaggeration, certainly, but I was tired of talking about it.

“Let’s see,” she said. “I show (615) 555-1972 as being assigned to Henry Baida.”

“That’s me.”

“And according to our records your mother is Margaret Wertheimer of Chattanooga, Tennessee,” she said.

“Interesting.”

“She’s not your mother?” she asked.

“No, not at all.”

“Well then who is she?” the operator asked, exasperated.

“Now, why is it you assume I’ll know who she is just because you don’t?” I asked. I was just curious.

“Sir, she’s associated with your phone number.”

“And your company’s … associations are never wrong?” I asked.

“They are reliable. Who is she?”

“Can I ask your name?” I asked.

“Nora. Operator 340F90D,” she said. “Who is Margaret Wertheimer?”

“She was my high school geometry teacher,” I said.

“And will she be willing to have your long distance charges associated with her phone number?”

“Meaning you’re going to bill her for my long distance charges?” I asked.

“Yes, of course.”

“Well, I guess she and I can work it out,” I said.

“Thank you. Connecting your call,” she said.

“Wait. What?”

“Connecting your call, sir,” she said, tired of me.

“You don’t need to confirm with her first that I’m going to be charging long distance calls to her number? I mean, I could have picked anybody.”

“I just don’t understand why you’re being so difficult,” said Nora, and I heard the phone start ringing, indicating that the call had gone through. I wondered if Nora planned to listen in. After a few rings, Mrs. W picked up.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Mrs. Wertheimer, this is Henry.”

Hello, Henry!” her voice brightened. “How in the world are you? How’s college?”

“Interesting. I’m learning stuff.”

“Like what? Tell me.”

“Physics, Greek, History, English.”

“And?”

“Physics is really cool. It’s easy, but I just haven’t thought about the universe that way before. All these precise mathematical formulas for working out the physical world,” I said. There was a slight pause.

“Precise?” she asked. I paused.

“Well, they’re teaching that the problems have exact answers.”

“What kind of problems?” she asked.

“Vectors, instantaneous acceleration, that kind of thing. Straight line stuff.” I could hear the scrape of her Zippo against the flint in the lighter and her first big drag.

“Look, Henry, I know it’s all fun. I remember my first physics class. But remember, none of the math is perfect. Newton came close, and people since have improved things. But when we think math, we’re people. When the universe acts itself out, it’s reality. You can’t describe the moment of a pendulum accurately with an equation any easier than you can do it with a sentence. You can say in a sentence that it swings back and forth. Equations aren’t much better, in some ways. They’re good, they’re just not perfect.” I paused to think about this.

“You’re saying the equations in my physics book don’t accurately describe pendulums?”

“Yeah. Sure. They’re approximations of reality. An equation explains the movement of a pendulum in the same way a paragraph does. But oscillators like pendulums are notoriously difficult to describe with precision.”

“I thought physics, the equations we’re studying, had been proven to accurately describe the physical universe.”

“Not really. All we can say is that they seem to accurately describe reality. But there’s no proof, the way there is in geometry. I can prove to you that opposite angles are equal. You can prove that the sum or product of any two even numbers will also be even. There’s nothing like that that in Physics. All you can do is say it seems to be accurate—what we predict by our equations seems to be pretty close to what happens when we measure it. No way to prove it.” I thought about that for a few seconds.

“Well, but if the equations always lead to accurate conclusions, surely that counts as proof.”

“Oh, good Lord no. Accuracy of prediction is meaningless in all ways,” she said. I could hear her pull on her cigarette.”

“That can’t be right,” I said.

“Henry, you can derive extraordinarily accurate predictions of the times and locations of solar and lunar eclipses if you assume that the Sun revolves around the earth. One reason the Ptolemaic system was so widely believed was the fact that it was extremely accurate in predicting events. Eclipses, transits, retrogrades—Ptolemy could predict them all. Of course his physical model, his explanation for why it was that the objects in the sky behaved as they did, didn’t match what we’ve learned since.”

“How did he explain retrograde motions of planets?” I asked.

“Planets had epicycles. Each one had a large orbit, more or less like what planetary orbits are like, only they were orbiting around the Earth. As was the Sun. But planets had a secondary sort of orbit, what was called an epicycle. The planets were kind of doing this curlicue in addition to their orbital motion.”

“Hard to imagine.”

“Think of the path of the Moon around the Earth, orbiting around as the Earth orbits the Sun.”

“Okay,” I said.

“Now imagine that exact path, the path the moon is taking, only the Earth isn’t there at the center of its orbit.”

“But the Moon wouldn’t trace that pattern if the Earth’s gravity didn’t anchor it.”

“Nobody knew anything about gravity back then. They thought that the planets and stars were attached to or moving in spheres,” she said.

“Scientists really believed in that kind of stuff? That wasn’t just popular mythology?

“Henry the only definition I’ve ever heard of ‘mythology’ that makes any sense to me is ‘mythology is other people’s religion.’ Yes, it was popular mythology, but Ptolemy lived in the second century, and educated people and astrologers believed in it too.”

“You mean astronomers?” I asked.

“Not really. There was no distinction in the second century. Ptolemy’s most famous book was about astrology. The fact that he could predict eclipses so accurately made his astrological forecasts especially prized.”

“This is weird,” I said.

“Why?” she seemed surprised that I was having a hard time with this.

“That a terracentric model could yield predictions similar to a heliocentric model. I would have thought, given orbital mechanics, which I admit I don’t understand at all, would have led the Ptolemaic idea to yield results that diverge from reality.”

There was a pause. I could tell from the sound of her exhaling that she was taking the last drag off of a cigarette and stubbing it out in an ashtray.

“Don’t start sounding too much like your professors, Henry,” she said.

“Yes ma’am.”

“Have you ever read an article by a college professor?”

“No, ma’am.”

“You knew every word you ever needed to use, except for words like ‘vector’ and ‘acceleration,’ the day Coach Pfieffer handed you your City High diploma,” she said.

“Yes ma’am.”

“So what were you saying?” she asked.

“I guess it seems odd that imagining that the Earth was the center of the Universe allowed Ptolemy to predict things so well.”

“It goes back way further than that. People before Ptolemy thought the Earth was flat and gods were driving chariots through the sky and that sort of thing. They could all still predict eclipses. Aristotle may have thought the world was round, I can’t remember, but he introduced the idea of the spheres in the heavens, and Ptolemy was considered reliable because his idea fit so neatly along with Aristotle’s, although astronomers of the day thought Ptolemy was a sort of amplification of Aristotle. Ptolemy made Aristotle more complex, but explained things that Aristotle didn’t. Planets moving in retrograde didn’t make sense with Aristotle’s spheres. But what I was going to say is that flat-earth people centuries before Christ were predicting celestial events like eclipses and planetary motion. All it takes to make predictions is persistence. Eventually you notice periodicity. Just because your predictions are accurate doesn’t men you understand what’s going on. Archimedes knew what time the sun was coming up.”

“Gack.”

“What, Henry?”

“Well, I’ve been operating on the supposition that what I was learning from teachers was objectively true. But it sounds like in Physics, anyway, what I’m learning is an approximation that has yet to be disproved. Did I understand?”

“Yes. That’s why I taught Math and not science.”

“And no matter how much I can trust the predictions of my calculations, what I’m taught may have foundations built on sand. Ptolemy looks good because he pretty much agrees with Aristotle, but then Copernicus comes along and blows them both out of the water.” There was a pause.

“Close. But when Copernicus came along nobody believed him, for almost a century,” she said.

“Why?”

“Because the old system worked so well. It predicted everything to fine detail. It explained their world view. It agreed with Christianity and Islam. All the pieces fit. When Copernicus published De revolutionibus orbium coelestium the academic and astronomical/astrological world pretty much ignored it.”

“He was an astrologer, too?”

“I don’t really know. That’s not clear. There’s no evidence he studied it. But he was a doctor, so most scholars think—“

“Copernicus was a doctor?”

“Yeah, sure. And a lawyer, too. And a priest. He spent a lot of time in college. Of course there wasn’t as much medicine as there is now. Or law, for that matter. But doctors were all expected to understand astrology.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake.”

“Henry, this was the Fifteenth Century. Four hundred years ago. Four hundred years from now, everything we think is going to look just as silly.”

“Couldn’t possibly,” I said.

“Will certainly,” she answered.

“Gack.”

“Is it so terrible? Things change over time. Our understanding of the universe evolves, but will never be perfect.”

“No,” I answered. “Not terrible, but I just hadn’t thought about science this way, before. And this may give me some insight into something that sent me to college in the first place.”

“I thought you decided to go to college because you were loaded in Taccoa.”

“Yeah, but what had been worrying me is this variation in the way the universe works. I perceive it as a breakdown in the rules.”

“You’re not loaded now, are you?”

“No, no. You should know me better than that. What gets me is that you do the same thing a thousand times in exactly the same way, and three of them yield different results.”

“Okay,” she said, taking a drag.

“I have this working theory that the rules of the universe have imperfections, but those imperfections don’t lead to intolerably divergent results, so most people ignore the exceptions, the three out of a thousand. Odd to think that the rules of the universe have flaws, but odder still that most people don’t notice. When something weird happens, witnesses chalk it up to human factors and variables that are impossible to control. People expect strangeness and unpredictability, so shake it off when they see it.”

“And that’s not how you see the cosmos?” she asked. “Imperfect rules with unperceived flaws?” I thought for a few seconds.

“To me it’s always seemed as though the rules of the universe were an enormous checkerboard, stretching off into infinity in all directions. It’s regular, all perfect squares, and the sides of the squares are less than a millimeter per side. That’s the Universe as it should be. A plane of tiny squares stretching off in all directions.”

“Okay.” I could hear not only another cigarette being lit but the clink of a bottle on the rim of a glass.

“Mrs. W, are you having a drink?”

“Yes, of course,” she said. “B and B. I’m not a savage. Go on with your checkerboard.”

“Okay. If you mark off a grid, several hundred squares, and then just start blackening them, checkerboard style, working outward from three or four randomly selected squares, most of the time, they’ll all link up into an orderly checkerboard. They’ll all agree and your checkerboard will stretch out to infinity. Sometimes, though, one of them will be out of sync with the others, and you’ll get this odd pattern of darkened squares.”

“How do you know this?”

“My math class is really boring. I doodle a lot.”

“Go on,” she said.

“So what happens is that the squares that were out of sync with the rest of the grid get sealed off. There’s a little pattern of out of sync squares surrounded by like a dark circle, a sort of city wall, like cities had in the days before cannons. But the pattern prevails. There’s a checkerboard isolated within a checkerboard. Sometimes you get these fault line-like things, but the overall checkerboard pattern always wins out.”

“Okay.”

“Can you imagine my two-dimensional checkerboard?”

“I think so.”

“Okay now think of the irregularities and the checkerboard patterns as in three dimensions.” She took a drag of her cigarette.

“Okay, I got it. The irregularities are encysted.”

“Exactly. So that three-D checkerboard is a representation of life in the same way you taught me to draw a three-dimensional graph on a two-dimensional piece of paper. Inaccurate, missing a dimension, but revealing.”

“Interesting,” she said. “Metaphysical, and therefore dubious, but interesting. So you think something’s going wrong with the universe, the rules don’t always work perfectly, but that these errors either seal themselves off or are sealed off by the fact that the rest of the universe is working according to the rules. It’s all on grid?”

“You got it,” I said. It felt good to be understood.

“It’s interesting to think about, but you’re talking about a way of organizing the universe that nobody’s going to see any evidence for.”

“True enough.”

“Then tell me something else,” she said. “Made any friends?”

“Some. There are a few guys on my floor, in my dorm, that seem like good guys. I’m a little older than the other freshmen, but some of them seem okay. And I ran into Ginny earlier today, and she reminded me to call you.”

“I was wondering if you’d run into her. Peabody’s right across the street.”

“Why’d you recommend Peabody for her and not for me?”

“Most of her family went there. Her mother went there. We came from farm people in Warren County, Tennessee. They went to get a good rural education when college was still relatively cheap.”

“What’s a rural education?” I asked.

“Peabody used to have the world’s most productive dairy heard. They taught people how to be the best farmers in the U.S. Ginny’s grandparents went there and learned that.”

“Odd. Mainly what she talked about to me was sports.”

“She loves tennis. But that dairy herd deal runs deep in her family. Until Gunner,” she said.

“Gunner?” I asked.

“Her father. A lawyer. Can’t make up my mind about him.” I was about to ask about Gunner, but she turned conversation back to me. “So what kinds of friends?”

“On my dorm floor? Well, there’s Milton, from California, and Joel Bernstein from White Plains, New York. Brian Wilmot from Cherry Hill, New Jersey. Our R.A. is a psychology grad student from someplace in Louisiana I can’t pronounce.”

“A good mix?” she asked.

“Yes, ma’am. There are lots more Southerners than people from elsewhere, but there are people here from all over. Mostly white, upper middle class. Some I would call rich. Michael Scott is black, and José Sanchez is Cuban. They say there’s a guy on our floor somewhere who’s a Viet Nam vet, but I haven’t met him.”

“How are your courses?”

“Greek is wonderful. Physics is interesting, but they’re going really, really slowly. Math is boring. History could be interesting, but the prof is letting his politics affect his analysis.”

“That’s stupid,” she said.

“He would say that history has always had, seen or unseen, known or unknown, a bias towards capitalism, and the fact that he admits to the influence of Marxism on his thinking and presentation merely makes him a more honest purveyor of American History than has traditionally been the case.”

“One of those.”

“Very much one of those. I think professors should be like journalists, and strain against their personal views, rather than giving in to them. At least professionally.”

“And judges,” she said, lighting another Benson & Hedges.

“Hmmm,” I mused.

“You don’t think judges should strain against personal prejudice?” she asked.

“No, ma’am, I do. It’s just in my experience, they don’t.”

“Ed Morgan did paste you one, that’s for sure,” she said. “But, really, Henry, calling yourself Leon Trotsky. Why in the world?”

“Oh, it happened in a P.G. Wodehouse story, and so it was the first thing that popped into my head.”

“You meeting any girls?”

“Well, there’s Toni from Physics. Beautiful but barking mad. In an exceedingly strange relationship with Rob. Both physics majors. Then there’s Mary Roberts from Greek. She’s very serious about her religion, seems to be Tri-Delt material , and seems taken with Brian.”

“From Cherry Hill?”

“Yes,” I said, surprised she remembered.

“Does he have money?”

“Seems to.”

“A lot of money?” she asked.

“Maybe. There’s a family sportswear business. She likes his uniform, too, I gather.”

“What kind?”

“N.R.O.T.C.”

“Well, sailors do have the best uniforms. What’s wrong with math?” she asked.

“It’s just very basic.”

“What are you studying?”

“Today it was horizontal transformations.” I could hear her whistling out her cigarette smoke in disapproval.

“Who’s your professor?” she asked.

“Anton Ladd,” I answered.

“I know him,” she said. “Kind of a pain in the ass. Like maybe he’s really constipated. Very stuck on protocol. But he’s smart. Does good work.”

“How do you know him?”

“He was at some of the early conferences on turbulence theory. He was in the audience once when I delivered a paper on derivatives of binary sequences, then I was in the audience when he presented some number theory deal. Complimenting sets of n-tuples of integers, or something like that.”

“Mrs. W., you’re full of surprises. I had no idea you’d been presenting papers at mathematical conferences,” I said. I could almost hear her shrug.

“Everybody needs a hobby,” she said.

“Ladd kind of seemed to know who you were and almost wanted to doubt you’d been my teacher. Interesting to hear how he knows you. But speaking of number theory, there’s this guy in my math class. I almost never see him because he refuses to come to class except for tests.”

“Where’s he from?’

“I’m not sure. He went to school in someplace called Lawrenceville, New Jersey, but it was a boarding school, I think, so I’m not sure where he’s from. Had a really good math program in high school and can’t stand our professor. Calls himself Stoney on account of his name, he says.”

“How’s he doing?”

“Only one test so far. He and I had the only 100s. The prof is plainly irritated by this. Not by me. I come to class and all. But he really hates Stoney.”

“Congratulations on the 100, Henry.”

“This is stuff you had me doing junior year, but thanks. Anyway, so Stoney wants to start a math club.”

“To do what?”

“He knows these other two guys who are interested in math and he wants to start a group to take on something more challenging.” I could hear her smoking and thinking about this.

“What would you do?” My turn to shrug.

“Something hard,” I said.

“Like what?”

“The only thing he mentioned was to see if we could deduce Kepler’s laws from Tycho’s observations.”

“Oh, gack, no. Henry, don’t join.”

“Why?” Unlike her to discourage an interest in Math.

“They were both crazy as coots,” she said. “Tycho was this nobleman with a common-law wife and he had all these extremely precise measurements of planetary positions because he was rich and could spend huge amounts of money on assistants and astronomical instruments. But he had no math whatsoever. He was a nobleman. Practical skills were beneath him.”

“So?”

“Tycho’s theory was that the sun and the moon and the stars revolved around the earth, and that the five planets— ”

“Five?”

“Mercury, Venus, Mars, Jupiter, and Saturn were it, back then. Uranus and Neptune weren’t discovered until there were really good telescopes, and Tycho didn’t have a telescope. Pluto was deduced from wobbles in the orbits of other planets, and Earth wasn’t regarded as a planet back then”

“Why is Pluto a planet? It’s not like the others,” I said.

“It’s out there. You leave Pluto alone.”

“Okay, Then if Earth wasn’t a planet, what was it?”

“The center of the universe.”

“They hadn’t read Copernicus?” I asked.

“Sure, they read it, but nobody believed him. Copernicus disagreed with what they’d been taught, and what they’d been taught explained everything pretty well. Plus, Tycho was really, really egotistical. He wanted his theory to be the one that explained the universe. He thought the Earth was the center of the universe, that the sun revolved around the Earth, and all the other planets revolved around the sun.”

“That’s insane.”

“No it’s not. If the universe were constructed like that, it would look exactly like it does now, for all intents and purposes. Think it through, later on. Imagine the Earth is stationary, and everything else is the way Tycho thought. It’s more complicated to imagine, but it would look exactly the same. It may actually be that way—there’s no way to know. But, anyway, Tycho had all these amazingly precise observations, but he had no math. No way to analyze all that data. So he brings Kepler from Austria to Prague, thinks of him as a hireling, and won’t share his data with him. Not really. He shows him some of his Mars stuff, because he’s convinced they support his inane Earth-Sun deal. Then Tycho dies, and his heirs are worse even than Tycho was. It’s all a mess.”

“But didn’t Kepler deduce the laws of planetary motion from Tycho’s observations?” I asked.

“Sort of.”

“Sort of?”

“’Deduce’ isn’t the right word. ‘Stumbled onto’ is better. Once Kepler at long last got access to Tycho’s log books—Tycho’s dead now, remember—he made some really clever deductions. But the only reason he did was that he made a huge calculation error in the orbit of Mars. Because of that he went on and recalculated Mars’ orbital path a number of times, and eventually realized that it wasn’t circular. But if he hadn’t made a huge error in the first calculation, he wouldn’t have kept calculating. All of Kepler’s laws came from that mistake, so it’s a good mistake.”

“So why do you think we should avoid Kepler and Tycho as a project?” I asked.

“They were all nuts,” she said. “Kepler thought his mother was a witch. Tycho complained that the King of Denmark didn’t value his services enough, and complained that the emperor or whatever he was in Prague wasn’t providing him a grand enough castle. They both cast horoscopes and believed in them.”

“Crazy people sometimes have great ideas,” I said.

“More likely they don’t,” she answered. “Most crazy people have crazy ideas. But the reason for avoiding a club that wants to deduce Kepler from Tycho is that it would be extraordinarily boring. You wouldn’t recognize any of Kepler’s calculations as Math.”

“What were they?” I asked.

“Arithmetic,” she answered. “Liebnitz and Newton and the calculus you like so much came in the next century. Kepler just sat in his little apartment in Prague and re-did the calculations over and over and over until they came out right.”

“πr2 all the way?” I asked.

“Yes. Each guess took thousands of calculations. All multiplication and addition. No functions at all. A complete pain in the … neck. You don’t want to spend time on that kind of thing. Months and months of rote calculation.”

“Okay. So , assuming there’s a club, what should we do instead, then?”

“Maybe something with Maxwell.”

“Okay,” I said, hesitantly.

“You don’t like John Clerk Maxwell?” she asked.

“Wasn’t he a physicist?” I asked.

“Yes, of course.”

“Well, the rest of these guys are math guys. I may be the only physics guy.”

“Then maybe the Lorentz transformations,” she said.

“What’s that?”

“Hendrick Lorentz described a set of functions (math functions that cannot be priduced in blogspot here, if you want a copy, send me a note)

where

(a short but complex equation should be here; can't insert either objects or pictures as text),” she said. “As best I can recall.” I thought that through for a moment.

“Leaving y-prime and z-prime alone for now, that would move around a lot,” I said, after a few seconds.

“No kidding.”

“I’m having a hard time imagining the graph. It must fold back on itself a lot.”

“It moves. It changes from 45 degrees off the x axis to 45 degrees off the y axis and then back again.”

“Cool. Is it good for anything?”

“Lorentz came up with it as a way to explain the propagation of light through the luminous æther.”

“The what?”

“The luminous æther. Going back to Aristotle, everybody assumed there was something that filled space, in a way. You’ve heard of fire, air, water, and earth. Aristotle said there was a fifth element that gave definition to space. In the nineteenth century there were a lot of discoveries that indicated that light was a wave of some sort, so a lot of physicists decided there must be some sort of medium the waves were passing through.”

“Why does there have to be a medium?” I asked.

“Now you’re thinking like Maxwell,” she said.

“Why?”

“Never mind. Up until Heisenberg and Bohr and those guys, we always thought about Physics in terms of physical realities. That’s why it’s a called Physics.”

“Oddly enough, a beautiful but crazy girl said that to me recently,” I said.

“Oh, yeah? Are you interested in her?”

“No, no. To me the crazy comes through much more loudly than the beautiful,” I answered. “So why does there have to be a medium?”

“Well, they thought the closest analogy to the way light moves was the way sound moves through the air, and they though that was because of regular compressions moving through the air. The compressions graph out to be a wave, even though they’re something else. If light was a wave, there had to be something for it to be compressing. A wave seems to need something to be moving through. So they referred back to Aristotle and called the stuff æther.”

“All interesting. Fascinating, in fact,” I said. “You are ever the teacher. So why are Lorentz’ calculations important? I’m thinking people probably don’t still believe in the æther.”

“No, but people did into the Twenties. Albert saw the Lorentz transformations as an accurate description of a misunderstood process and deduced Special Relativity from them.”

“Albert Einstein?”

“Yes,” she said. I could her exhale smoke.”

“I’ll suggest it to the guys but I’m the only physics student in the proposed club. There seems to be this odd hostility between mathematics and physics.”

“Well, that comes and goes. Look, Henry, I’m sorry, but I need to get off the phone. Are you set for money?”

“Oh, sure.”

“Are you coming home for Thanksgiving?”

“Geez. I hadn’t thought about it. I don’t know where my parents or my sister are.”

“No, Henry, I meant are you coming to home Chattanooga? Do you want to have Thanksgiving with us?”

“Well, sure, thanks. I don’t have a car, though.”

“So?”

“I guess I can take a cab from the Green Ghetto to your house. And I can take the bus from Nashville to Chattanooga.”

“Henry, for Heaven’s sake. Don’t make it complicated. You can stay with me. Call Ginny and you two come down together. I’m sorry. I really have to run.”