August 24, 2009

  • All Roads Lead To. . . .

    It was Tuesday, August 18, and there was no rosewater left except for very strong rosewater, and Jefferson preferred dilute rosewater. There was a convenience store maybe 1.5 to 2 miles from home, so around 22:40, Professor set out to find that store. The protagonist had been there three times prior, twice by walking, and she knew where to find it. She had spent the evening preparing files, and was eager for a diversion.

    It was a grim night. Her first trip had been (at 4:00 in the morning) on a very clear night, and even then, she had been unsettled by her limited vision. The second time, she had been a passenger as Professor drove. The third time, she had walked with the Marquise du Chatelet one bright, sunny midafternoon. This night, the sky was murky with fog and haze and smoke, so that the protagonist could hardly see the path she was looking for, hidden among the grasses. The air was hung with the resentment and grief of the aftermath of hell. The path was across the field, she knew, so they crossed the field. It was a large field; in the distance, the sprinklers were spitting bitterly at the world.

    (Exact wording lost:)
    Professor: He's taking a bus back to Atlantis.
    Protagonist: I thought he was flying back?
    Professor: It was cheaper to take the bus back, and it's something he wanted to experience at least once in his life, taking a long trip by bus. What happens if the sprinklers go on right under us?
    Protagonist: Then, I'll be very sorry, and I'll make it up to you somehow. How long does it take to get from here to Atlantis by bus?
    Professor: No more than two days.
    Protagonist: So he might still be on the bus now WHOA, AHHH!

    A sprinkler had just reared its ugly head from under the grass in front of them, not five feet away. Its spiteful little eye narrowed, and a jet of venom shot directly at them. Professor hopped away to the right, the protagonist jumped left, and the stream passed harmlessly between the two. They broke into laughter. Even with her work unfinished, it was nice to be off-campus. She hadn't been happy for days; she couldn't remember being carefree since the Friday night preceding.

    The road wound atop a huge hill, and the city lay at the bottom, a glittering bowl of sparkling golden lights. Professor had done quite a bit of walking around the area, but he'd never walked to the city. He said he'd like to walk downtown sometime. Then, the headlights of an oncoming car.

    Protagonist: Do you want to play speed bump?
    Professor (skeptical): How do you play speed bump?
    Protagonist: You lay in the middle of the road, like a speed bump.
    Professor (grimacing): You hate me so badly?

    They arrived at the store a few minutes too late. The store refused to sell rosewater later than 23:00, for fear that doing so would damn souls to hell. It was all very strange. But they did know of a store on Ohm's Law Street. The protagonist thought that was the end of it, but Professor suggested that they make an attempt at this other store. So they continued on away from home.

    Going straight ahead did not lead to Ohm's Law Street. It lead, instead, to Boyle's Law Drive. The name of the street/drive meant nothing to the protagonist beyond the fact that they were lost. Just then, she got an incoming phone call. She was supposed to be at a meeting at 23:20, and it was now 23:25, or something. It wasn't that she'd forgotten either, she'd been irresponsible enough to set out despite her obligations. It had been such a long week that come Tuesday night, she simply didn't give a flying fluff. She had said, shortly after they'd set out, that they wouldn't make it back in time for meeting. Professor had assured her that she could blame it on him. She could tell the others, Professor is a bad influence, and he drinks too much. She had protested, and he had modified it to what he believed was a nicer version. This “nicer version” was simply replaced the “drinking too much” with more harping on being a bad influence; it really wasn't much nicer, and besides, the protagonist didn't need anyone to take her trouble for her. She couldn't remember the way back; Professor said that meant the trip had turned into an adventure. He didn't believe in returning the same way that one came.

    They came to a fork. The protagonist remembered a happy day long ago, back when all the days had been busy but happy. She had witnessed a small group of philosophe students each holding out a pseudo-random integral number of fingers, and taking the sum (mod 8). Each remainder was preassigned a direction, and whichever direction the sum totaled, that was the way they went. So on the count of three, with 0=left and 1=right, she held out three fingers and Professor held out one. They went left and walked a ways.

    They came to a corner, and there, on the sidewalk, in a little puddle of light, lay the spray-painted outline of a Mario mushroom next to a spray-painted spiky sea-urchin-looking thing. It was really very much like a boundary line, that corner, for every step after would be a steep descent downhill. There, on that hilltop, if it were an online RPG, it would have been a respawn point. The spray-paint ellipsoid that made the largest spot on the mushroom's cap was just the right size for the protagonist to place her hand, palm-down, inside its borders. She withdrew her hand and stared at it. It was a little too small for Professor's hand, and he remarked that he'd have to be content to have his fingertips black. They couldn't understand how it had come to be there. It was too late, and they were too aggrieved, for it to make sense anymore.

    So they went down that enormous hill, and halfway down, the protagonist saw once again that sea of glittering gold, only this time, the orbs were much nearer. . . .

    Protagonist: Hey, is that downtown?
    Professor (chuckling): Be careful what you wish for.
    Protagonist (incredulous): . . . it's Ohm's Law Street!

    Sure enough, there was Ohm's Law Street, and not only that, but the rosewater store stood right at the corner, less than a block away. And they had gotten here by randomized directions! It was all very strange.

    So they went in and got rosewater and prepared to lug it back. The protagonist was skeptical about carrying so much liquid uphill all the way back, but Professor was treating it like an adventure and challenge. So she took one of the cases and prepared to haul it back. Professor told her to take the other one, which contained aluminum cans (as opposed to bottles), and was consequently a little lighter. Professor went back inside for a bottle opener, and then they set out on the long trek back. They were about three miles from home.

    Professor had once told the protagonist that in a two-dimensional plane, if one begins at the origin and travels randomly, one will return to the origin infinitely many times. By extension, one will visit every point infinitely many times.

    (Exact wording lost:)
    Protagonist: I've wanted to blog something to commemorate everything, but I don't know where to begin. There's so much that I can't possibly put everything up for public view, but if I say any less, I feel like I'm cheapening it.
    Professor: . . . if nothing else, you could put up the refrain to “Do You Hear the People Sing.”
    Protagonist: Thanks, I'll do that.

    They were now struggling up that hill. By the top, the protagonist was exhausted and too stubborn to admit that she was exhausted. What she said instead was. . . .

    Protagonist: How averse are you to hitch-hiking back?
    Professor: It would be interesting. Maybe Anaximander is hitch-hiking back to Atlantis.

    For a moment, the protagonist didn't take Professor seriously, but during that second, a thought crept into the back of her mind. That sounded very much like something Anaximander would do. A startled protagonist froze in her footsteps. A few steps ahead, Professor turned to look back at her, laughed, and reassured her that he meant it only in jest.

    Another phone call (exact wording lost):
    Ramanujan: Where are the files?
    Protagonist: I'm way off campus and lost; I'll finish them as soon as I get back.
    Ramanujan: Do you need help getting back?
    Protagonist: It's ok, I can get back. You'll have the files when you wake up tomorrow morning.
    Ramanujan: Please. You've been saying you'll have them for days. We're staying up waiting for them.
    Protagonist: I'm about an hour off campus. Why don't you go ahead and go to sleep, and they'll be there when you wake up.

    They say that one should treat his future self as though it were his present self, especially in terms of work and procrastination. The protagonist had done a particularly poor job of it the preceding week.

    Professor remarked that he was hungry. The protagonist suggested that he could get food when they passed by the convenience store again on the way back, but Professor thought he'd rather make pancakes. But we stopped by the convenience store anyways. There was a fluffy cat there.

    Professor cannot pet cats; he maintained impressive self-control. For at least a quarter of an hour, he sat in the street with the fluffy cat circling him, and he never once pet her. She was a very cute little whitish cat with brown tips, and she stepped silently except for the jingle of a bell she wore around her neck. But the protagonist never stopped petting the cat, who began purring, thoroughly examined Professor and the protagonist and the two cases of rosewater, and settled into the protagonist's lap. Then a larger aggressive graey cat came by and sniffed everything with a damp nose, and the protagonist pet this cat also. The first cat backed away, her green eyes glowing. Suddenly, both cats stood up and trotted away. The tinkering of cat bells faded away, and Professor guessed that he and the protagonist were no longer entertaining for them. And so, they returned home.

    The ending is very dull. They returned home, put the rosewater away, and got back to work. So much was said, and much of it cannot possibly be put down for the world to see. So this next passage, which shall be hidden from public view, will contain the most significant parts of what must remain hidden, as much as she can remember.