Here’s one from the “Now Ain’t
That Some Shit?” files.
I was working as a substitute
teacher at a high school in Austin and, as per usual, my job on this particular
day was to provide glorified crowd control. Making matters worse was this was
one of those no-account elective courses open to any student, regardless of
their class, academic interest, or ability to function as part of a group,
meaning the room was populated by unmotivated and incurious students from every
grade.
Except for this one boy. Oh, he
was unremarkable at first – clearly an underclassman, probably a freshman,
hoping against hope that today would be the day he would not be faced with a lethal dose of public embarrassment at the
hands of, well, anyone.
And, gosh darn it, that dream
almost came true. Sure, it’s a shitty world for everyone, but it’s a nonstop
shit-filled torture ride for a misfit like this. And, sadly, today would end no
differently, despite its fleeting glimpse of life outside the nerd bubble.
I first noticed “Calculator Boy”
when I observed him performing a complex multiplication function in his head –
a three-digit number times a four-digit number – to the amazement of the kid in
front of him, who checked his work with a calculator and found it was correct.
He did it again. And again.
Each time Calculator Boy was posed with another problem, he would gaze up and to the left – probably
accessing his neo cortex or some such shit – then he’d tilt his head a bit and
after just a few seconds, he’d rattle off a list of digits (“8, 2, 6, 9, 1, 8, 5”).
Then, he’d reverse the digits in his head and give his answer as a single
number word:
“Five million, eight hundred nineteen thousand, six hundred and twenty-eight.”
“Correct!”
It was the damnedest thing I’d
ever seen.
Others began to to take notice and, with each calculation, the
crowd grew larger. And larger. Soon, the entire class was crowded around this
kid, who continued to rattle off one correct cogitation after another,
seemingly immune to the pressure. A celebratory mood swept over the crowd, the
barriers of status and race and age falling left and right. Freshmen high-fived
seniors. Emos and cheerleaders oohed and
aahed as one. Jocks appeared briefly aware of math. It was a transcendent
moment.
Calculator Boy took on all
challengers, a thin smile painted onto his still-kinda-embarrassingly-sweaty
face. It was his time. This was his moment.
The next problem was called out
and he began his now-familiar routine.
“2, 5, 7, 3, 0, 1, 3, 4.”
Scattered gasps were heard around
the room. Looking somewhat rattled, Calculator Boy gave his final answer:
“Forty-three million, one
hundred-three thousand, seven hundred and fifty-two.”
“Wrong. It’s Forty-three
million, one hundred-four thousand,
seven hundred and fifty-two.”
After some 20 correct
calculations, he’d missed one answer by one digit.
I was still amazed.
I was alone.
The group scattered in a blink.
There was not an “Aww!” or a “That was really cool!” or even a “You suck.” The
gallery of 25 kids was simply done.
The show was over. Like it had never happened.
For the second time in 10
minutes, I’d just seen the damnedest thing I’d ever seen.
I looked over at Calculator Boy.
He was crushed. Barely holding back tears. It’s entirely possible he’d had both
a lifetime high and a lifetime low in the space of that same 10 minutes. He
clearly had a gift – one that I can only hope has since made him a wealthy man –
but on this day, when he was still an awkward, sweaty, 14-year-old, he was made
to feel his gift only had value if he was flawless in his use of it.
That’s a terrible weight to
live under. And what makes it worse is that only a gifted person would ever be
subjected to it.
Now ain’t that some shit?
©2014 Lee B. Weaver
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