The Velocity of Remedial Math ~ fiction by Elizabeth Rosen

Let us assume that Stuart finds himself somewhere roughly ten thousand feet up, eyelids and Abercrombie blazer fluttering in the wind whistling past him as he plunges toward the copper-colored land below, the sting of ice crystals in his nostrils. How he got there is of no importance. (Though it does cross Stuart’s mind that he may have just proved the existence of the wormholes he posits to his advanced physics students and he momentarily regrets not being able to say “Bite me” to his belittling Department Chair.) But, no, it is of no matter how he arrived in this mid-space, only that he is there now, the cool kiss of the occasional cloud on his pudgy cheek as he passes through, knowing—but not yet feeling at this point in the fall—that the ground is fast approaching. (He wishes vaguely for a calculator to figure out how deep a crater his impact will make, given his weight, his rate of descent, and the relative density of the fertile soil. He wonders if it will hurt.)

Let us assume that the old saw about seeing one’s life flash before you in the face of impending death is not, as Stuart has always assumed, pure hogwash, but turns out to be true, and that the ground he plummets towards is now rearranging itself into a biography of plot points from his forty-some-odd years. Let us assume the orders of operation which he has—and has not—applied to this biography of plot points is now clear to him. (Christ, what an inelegant mess.)

Let us assume that these equations take on the appearance of a grand logarithmic spiral, such as the one Stuart showed his small daughter Lila on a snail’s shell she found among the begonias in the yard of his rented duplex during one of her semi-monthly weekend visits, or in the opposing-but-related Fibonacci spirals of his two ex-wives’ lists of criticisms of him as a husband. (Will Lila miss him to the moon and back, Stuart wonders, sadly. Will his ex-wives recalculate their complaints about him using a different, kinder denominator once he is gone?)

Let us assume further that, from this vantage point, his life spread out before him with the randomness of the toppings on the pizza he orders each time he must return his daughter to her mother, Stuart sees that every hour on the stair-master, every non-fat latte and green tea he’s consumed, every minute he’s spent getting his head right in mindful meditation on the Ten Percent app has not, after all, extended his life in any meaningful way, but has simply given him tangible parameters and limitations by which to measure it. (Well, shit.)

If Stuart assumes that the X of those he loved and the Y of those who loved him were not noticeably affected by relativity—and it is hard for him to tell with his corneas drying out and the ground fast approaching—would their rate of speed away from him vary such that the mass of one would outweigh the other at a certain distance and reveal whether he had been a necessary and sufficient condition for their lives?

Would the removal of those variables convert his fall into flight, his gravity into buoyancy? What is the probability that he might abandon all his equations and return to the point where math and mysticism cross? That he might remember how to raise his arms, offering their surface area to the sun-filled sky, and rise instead?

Elizabeth Rosen’s writing has found homes or is forthcoming in journals such as North American Review, Glimmer Train, Atticus Review, Pithead Chapel, LEON, and numerous others. Originally from the Deep South, she found her football knowledge insufficient to remain and moved north where she now lives in small town Pennsylvania. She misses Gulf oysters and Southern ghost stories, but has learned to love snow and colorful scarves instead. Colorwise, she is an autumn. You can read more of her work at www.thewritelifeliz.com.