lolscourge
11-20-2012, 06:23 PM
The Mathematician
It was mid-day, and Thomas and I had been sat in his study for the last hour or so, discussing family, friends, and, most recently, his work.
“It's... it's boring,” he had said, bent over his table and scribbling equations. It hadn't been what I'd expected to hear. “Yes, a bore is how I'd describe it.” He paused his scribbling and furrowed his brow. “I mean, of course, you can say it's beautiful; and that it's dazzling; and that it's absolutely awesome.” He sat back, itching at his comb-over. He looked to me. “And, of course, it is all that - there's really nothing quite like it. But, despite all that, I still think it a incomprehensible bore. There's nothing, for me, about mathematics. Nothing at all. Nothing which can pump adrenalin; which can set the pulse racing; nothing that could drive one to do.” He dipped his quill and began to scratch his sums again.
“But Thomas! You've lived your life by it!” I cried at him. “How can you possibly say it doesn't drive you?!”. Thomas looked up to me from his paper-littered wooden desk, frowning behind is half-moon glasses. He sat with a hunch, a mark of his labour, and I was sat opposite him, with better posture, frowning back. He was a twiggy little man, well dressed, in blue blazer, white collar and black trouser, with scuffed leather shoes. My attire wasn't too dissimilar, although my blazer was tweed and my shoes were newer – and shined.
He began to laugh at me.
“The numbers don't drive me! The money does! My dear Brendan, the only apparent thrill of my mathematical endeavour is the handing in of my papers and the inevitable return of sterling. This is my work, and it pays well. I would never do this for leisure, and any man who does is as batty as my dear mother-in-l..”
“Thomas!” I exclaimed, and the old man cracked another smile. He pulled open a desk drawer and took out his prized cigar box, the one gifted to him by his late wife.
“Will you partake?” he asked, knowing I didn't smoke.
“I don't smoke, Thomas.”
“It's the sentiment.”
“I don't appreciate it.” Thomas chuckled, lighting his cigar on a candle.
“There's this remarkable invention about you know. 'The bulb', they call it.” I remarked. His study was lit up by nothing more than candle-light and a fireplace. It was a cosy room, with bookshelves towering around us, decorated with fanciful furniture. There was a small window, but it faced north, and didn't allow for much natural lighting.
Thomas was puffing smoke rings, unruffled by my quirk at his technophobia.
“You know I don't care for them. Electricity, pah, it's nothing but a fad I tell you - and dangerous one at that. Once I've cracked these sums it'll be a thing of the past, I dare say.” he claimed. I rubbed my temples in response. This wasn't the first time he'd said this, and I really was not up to another discussion on how Benjamin Franklin was 'as dumb as the moss on forest wood'.
“Do you have any bra-”
“Of course I have brandy, and you know jolly well where to find it. Help yourself.” He was leaning back in his armchair, eyes closed, trying to relax. Standing up from my own chair, I turned away from Thomas and headed towards the corner of his study, where he had stored every imaginable type and brand of liquor. Shelves of whisky, brandy, larger, cider, wine and vodka towered from his floor to the ceiling; it was an immense collection.
“Will you partake?” I asked, looking over to him.
“I'd rather not. I can't and must figure this basta-”
“Thomas.”
“- equation. I do forget myself; swearing isn't custom in your company.” He took a large drag on his cigar and lurched as he started coughing roughly into his fist.
“Are you OK?” I asked, without any real concern. I was still trying to figure whether I wanted the premium German or the platinum English. “I'm telling you, those cigars will be the death of you.”
“Poppycock. I'm eighty Brendan, my death is-”
“Hush yourself. I don't like to talk about death, never mind the death of a friend.” I had decided on the premium German and I was pouring my drink. “Besides, what's so special about this equation you can't crack?”
“Nothing you need to worry about, my dear boy. This negative is a nuisance though.”
“Oh?”
“Nothing. Some complex numbers here and there will sort it.”
“Righto. How's Henry?”
I left Thomas to his work later that day. I found it somewhat depressing, how he was nearly always cooped up in his study, and how rarely he left his home. He had never been one for socialising, despite his incredible wit. The last time I had seen him outside of his property was at his most recent birthday's celebration in the local pub house, six months ago - and at that he had fought with his eldest son, Henry. It had been a silly tussle, over Thomas' will. You see, it had been rumoured that Thomas had left his estate to me. Of course, when Henry had heard of the rumour he had been utterly furious with the idea, and had stormed into his father's gathering, boldly speaking his opinion of 'that bastardised, pompous, egotistic son of a right-old-*****', myself. He ridiculed the idea of leaving me a single penny.
Thomas was - as one would be - livid. He took huge offence to the way Henry had involved himself in the matter, and so cut Henry off from his estate entirely. I re-iterate – it had been a silly tussle. Silly, because the rumours of Thomas leaving me anything were entirely unfounded and, in reality, rather ridiculous. The only thing Thomas' had ever considered leaving me was his brandy collection, he'd joked.
Henry was, and still is, a respectable prospect. In his mid-to-late-forties, well mannered, generally well kept, he worked as a lawyer for the courts of London, and was a shoe-shining away from being made a court Judge. He was married, with two darling children. Thomas had often mentioned how proud he was to me, always going on about him, and I could tell he missed him dearly. Their feud was still going on, but Thomas was adamant that until Henry apologised to me that the situation would remain the same, despite my pleas with him to forget myself and make up with his son.
I had considered dropping in to see Henry on my way home from Thomas', to clear the air with him, but I decided against it. My dearest wife was waiting for me, and I'd much rather a loving hug than a bitter handshake. I was simply too tired to deal with the affair, and so I strode home.
My home presided not too far from Thomas', and it was a matter of minutes before I was greeted at my door by Tulip, the family dog. Jumping herself ragged as I strode into the entrance hall, I cried to my wife that I was home before tending to her.
“Down!” I commanded. “Down!” Tulip stopped jumping and looked at me blankly, playing dumb. I frowned at her. Had I held a treat she would've gladdy thrown herself into a hand-stand. “Tulip! I say girl, get down!”. Of course, Tulip was having none of it. She continued to stare at me, waiting for me to reveal a snack. For a Labrador, she was remarkably clever.
I crouched down to her level, stroking her dark brown coat. I had bought her for my wife not too short a time ago, but, as my wife was so busy with house chores, I was often left to tend to her activities; such as walking, feeding, and - most frustratingly - tricks.
It wasn't that she couldn't do them. In fact, I was extraordinarily positive she could understand near every word I was saying. She simply refused to adhere to my commands on the premise that I would not reward her for doing them. Instead, she would stand on all fours, head tilted, wearing an expression of false confusion until such a time where a pedigree chew would be drawn from my coat pocket. Then, and only then, would she sit, roll over, play dead and paw.
Sighing, I submitted. Reaching into the hull of my coat, I fumbled around my keys and hanky to pull out a fist-sized paper bag, full of an assortment of doggy treats. Tulip's ears pricked, pupils dilated, and tail wagged as I shook the bag in front of her.
“Well then, it appears I have your attention!” I smiled, and Tulip barked in reply. “Haha! Righto then," I cooed as I pointed towards the floor - "Sit!” - and, without a moments hesitation, Tulip relaxed her hind legs into the sitting position. I praised her, but she only cared for the treats. “Down!” - and her front paws slid forward, until she lay at my feet. “That's a good girl, who's a good girl!” I gurgled praise at her. “One more, then you can have a treat. Fair enough?” I swore I could have heard her huff. “Go on, just one more - for me! Roll over?” I asked, and reluctantly, Tulip swung herself onto her back, allowing her momentum carrying herself back over, onto her stomach. Delighted, I threw a snack at her, which she caught in her mouth. “Come on girl - let's go find the missus.”
It was mid-day, and Thomas and I had been sat in his study for the last hour or so, discussing family, friends, and, most recently, his work.
“It's... it's boring,” he had said, bent over his table and scribbling equations. It hadn't been what I'd expected to hear. “Yes, a bore is how I'd describe it.” He paused his scribbling and furrowed his brow. “I mean, of course, you can say it's beautiful; and that it's dazzling; and that it's absolutely awesome.” He sat back, itching at his comb-over. He looked to me. “And, of course, it is all that - there's really nothing quite like it. But, despite all that, I still think it a incomprehensible bore. There's nothing, for me, about mathematics. Nothing at all. Nothing which can pump adrenalin; which can set the pulse racing; nothing that could drive one to do.” He dipped his quill and began to scratch his sums again.
“But Thomas! You've lived your life by it!” I cried at him. “How can you possibly say it doesn't drive you?!”. Thomas looked up to me from his paper-littered wooden desk, frowning behind is half-moon glasses. He sat with a hunch, a mark of his labour, and I was sat opposite him, with better posture, frowning back. He was a twiggy little man, well dressed, in blue blazer, white collar and black trouser, with scuffed leather shoes. My attire wasn't too dissimilar, although my blazer was tweed and my shoes were newer – and shined.
He began to laugh at me.
“The numbers don't drive me! The money does! My dear Brendan, the only apparent thrill of my mathematical endeavour is the handing in of my papers and the inevitable return of sterling. This is my work, and it pays well. I would never do this for leisure, and any man who does is as batty as my dear mother-in-l..”
“Thomas!” I exclaimed, and the old man cracked another smile. He pulled open a desk drawer and took out his prized cigar box, the one gifted to him by his late wife.
“Will you partake?” he asked, knowing I didn't smoke.
“I don't smoke, Thomas.”
“It's the sentiment.”
“I don't appreciate it.” Thomas chuckled, lighting his cigar on a candle.
“There's this remarkable invention about you know. 'The bulb', they call it.” I remarked. His study was lit up by nothing more than candle-light and a fireplace. It was a cosy room, with bookshelves towering around us, decorated with fanciful furniture. There was a small window, but it faced north, and didn't allow for much natural lighting.
Thomas was puffing smoke rings, unruffled by my quirk at his technophobia.
“You know I don't care for them. Electricity, pah, it's nothing but a fad I tell you - and dangerous one at that. Once I've cracked these sums it'll be a thing of the past, I dare say.” he claimed. I rubbed my temples in response. This wasn't the first time he'd said this, and I really was not up to another discussion on how Benjamin Franklin was 'as dumb as the moss on forest wood'.
“Do you have any bra-”
“Of course I have brandy, and you know jolly well where to find it. Help yourself.” He was leaning back in his armchair, eyes closed, trying to relax. Standing up from my own chair, I turned away from Thomas and headed towards the corner of his study, where he had stored every imaginable type and brand of liquor. Shelves of whisky, brandy, larger, cider, wine and vodka towered from his floor to the ceiling; it was an immense collection.
“Will you partake?” I asked, looking over to him.
“I'd rather not. I can't and must figure this basta-”
“Thomas.”
“- equation. I do forget myself; swearing isn't custom in your company.” He took a large drag on his cigar and lurched as he started coughing roughly into his fist.
“Are you OK?” I asked, without any real concern. I was still trying to figure whether I wanted the premium German or the platinum English. “I'm telling you, those cigars will be the death of you.”
“Poppycock. I'm eighty Brendan, my death is-”
“Hush yourself. I don't like to talk about death, never mind the death of a friend.” I had decided on the premium German and I was pouring my drink. “Besides, what's so special about this equation you can't crack?”
“Nothing you need to worry about, my dear boy. This negative is a nuisance though.”
“Oh?”
“Nothing. Some complex numbers here and there will sort it.”
“Righto. How's Henry?”
I left Thomas to his work later that day. I found it somewhat depressing, how he was nearly always cooped up in his study, and how rarely he left his home. He had never been one for socialising, despite his incredible wit. The last time I had seen him outside of his property was at his most recent birthday's celebration in the local pub house, six months ago - and at that he had fought with his eldest son, Henry. It had been a silly tussle, over Thomas' will. You see, it had been rumoured that Thomas had left his estate to me. Of course, when Henry had heard of the rumour he had been utterly furious with the idea, and had stormed into his father's gathering, boldly speaking his opinion of 'that bastardised, pompous, egotistic son of a right-old-*****', myself. He ridiculed the idea of leaving me a single penny.
Thomas was - as one would be - livid. He took huge offence to the way Henry had involved himself in the matter, and so cut Henry off from his estate entirely. I re-iterate – it had been a silly tussle. Silly, because the rumours of Thomas leaving me anything were entirely unfounded and, in reality, rather ridiculous. The only thing Thomas' had ever considered leaving me was his brandy collection, he'd joked.
Henry was, and still is, a respectable prospect. In his mid-to-late-forties, well mannered, generally well kept, he worked as a lawyer for the courts of London, and was a shoe-shining away from being made a court Judge. He was married, with two darling children. Thomas had often mentioned how proud he was to me, always going on about him, and I could tell he missed him dearly. Their feud was still going on, but Thomas was adamant that until Henry apologised to me that the situation would remain the same, despite my pleas with him to forget myself and make up with his son.
I had considered dropping in to see Henry on my way home from Thomas', to clear the air with him, but I decided against it. My dearest wife was waiting for me, and I'd much rather a loving hug than a bitter handshake. I was simply too tired to deal with the affair, and so I strode home.
My home presided not too far from Thomas', and it was a matter of minutes before I was greeted at my door by Tulip, the family dog. Jumping herself ragged as I strode into the entrance hall, I cried to my wife that I was home before tending to her.
“Down!” I commanded. “Down!” Tulip stopped jumping and looked at me blankly, playing dumb. I frowned at her. Had I held a treat she would've gladdy thrown herself into a hand-stand. “Tulip! I say girl, get down!”. Of course, Tulip was having none of it. She continued to stare at me, waiting for me to reveal a snack. For a Labrador, she was remarkably clever.
I crouched down to her level, stroking her dark brown coat. I had bought her for my wife not too short a time ago, but, as my wife was so busy with house chores, I was often left to tend to her activities; such as walking, feeding, and - most frustratingly - tricks.
It wasn't that she couldn't do them. In fact, I was extraordinarily positive she could understand near every word I was saying. She simply refused to adhere to my commands on the premise that I would not reward her for doing them. Instead, she would stand on all fours, head tilted, wearing an expression of false confusion until such a time where a pedigree chew would be drawn from my coat pocket. Then, and only then, would she sit, roll over, play dead and paw.
Sighing, I submitted. Reaching into the hull of my coat, I fumbled around my keys and hanky to pull out a fist-sized paper bag, full of an assortment of doggy treats. Tulip's ears pricked, pupils dilated, and tail wagged as I shook the bag in front of her.
“Well then, it appears I have your attention!” I smiled, and Tulip barked in reply. “Haha! Righto then," I cooed as I pointed towards the floor - "Sit!” - and, without a moments hesitation, Tulip relaxed her hind legs into the sitting position. I praised her, but she only cared for the treats. “Down!” - and her front paws slid forward, until she lay at my feet. “That's a good girl, who's a good girl!” I gurgled praise at her. “One more, then you can have a treat. Fair enough?” I swore I could have heard her huff. “Go on, just one more - for me! Roll over?” I asked, and reluctantly, Tulip swung herself onto her back, allowing her momentum carrying herself back over, onto her stomach. Delighted, I threw a snack at her, which she caught in her mouth. “Come on girl - let's go find the missus.”