A beautiful mind

I was waiting for my train home tonight at Downtown Crossing when I stumbled upon this little gem scribbled on the wall. At first glance, I mistook it for another piss poor attempt at a graffiti tag, but upon closer inspection it revealed to be some sort of math equation. A code perhaps?

Is it addition? Multiplication? Nah, can't be. Nothing makes sense. 70+70+70=210. Or is that a 90? Yes, that last one is a 90. Ok so what's with the 380? How did they arrive at the 380? I could hear my train rattling into the station, but I wasn't happy because I needed to figure this out and I was afraid I didn't have enough time. I decided to snap a picture and figure out the logic on the train.

I couldn't. And still can't. Please someone, anyone, help me solve this mystery. Why the 380? Why? How? I realize I am probably looking for answers that don't exist, and will end up in my garage scribbling out equations ultimately chasing madness. What was this vandalism-prone mathematician trying to work out? Help me. Please.

I don't have the analytical aptitude to solve this. I am left brained. Or right brained? I don't know. You see, this is evidence in and of itself. A left/right brain person would know the difference.

I wasn't exactly at standout in math. In fact, I scored about one notch above a mentally challenged kangaroo on my SATs. I somehow, much to the chagrin of my parents who spent good money, which they didn't have, on a private education, ended up with an impressive 370 on the math portion of the exam.

On my second attempt. Hey, some people don't test well.

And I think you get 200 points just for showing up. This left me with (carry the two) only 170 points of actual points that I earned on my own. I was never brimming with confidence in classes related to mathematics, but this indelible benchmark wasn't exactly, what the French call, a self-esteem boost. I understood, conceptually, the logical reasoning behind theories, but could not translate that knowledge into execution.

I was essentially this guy:



My teachers, to their credit, always spent extra time with me because they thought I was "this close" to having a breakthrough. Invariably, they would follow the same strategy, and ask me to explain, in plain English, what needed to happen to solve for X. And I could. Like a scientist, I would expound on each step, and they would send me on my way certain that I would succeed.

Ms. Mary Madden, a legendarily kind woman who took a shine to me, spent hours preparing me for a do or die calculus exam. She put me through the paces in multiple one-on-one sessions. After which, she was absolutely, positively convinced I was going to pass.

The day after the exam she handed out the results, face-down of course, and made comments to each student on their performance.

Well done Michael. I am very proud of you. Anthony, great signs of improvement. This is a terrific step forward for you. Joseph, I expected a little more from you, but there is still time for you to catch up.

She eventually made her way over to me. She gave the most genuinely warm smile as she handed back my exam. No words were needed I thought. She was beyond proud of me, and we shared a quiet moment together that nobody else in the classroom could possibly understand. I returned her maternal gesture with my sincerest expression of gratitude.

I anxiously turned the book around waiting to see just how well I did. Unlike most math exams I had taken, I felt really good about this one. I nearly aced it. Being a realist, I didn't expect a 95 or above, but was thinking I would fall somewhere in the low 90s.

Then, my world came crashing down. I saw my favorite athlete's number written in a gentle hand in red felt pen. No more. No less. There wasn't a circle around the number. No percentage sign. Not an underline. Not a comment or a smiley face. Just the number.

33

She asked us to pair up with the student sitting next to us, and go over the exam answer by answer to see where we made our mistakes. She excused herself and walked to the ladies room. I was speechless. My parents were threatening to take me out of school because we couldn't afford the tuition, and frankly, my grades didn't warrant that sort of sacrifice. I was given multiple chances to redeem myself, but I never seized the opportunity. I remained a very mediocre student. Never living up to my full potential as so many report card comments had indicated.

I snapped.



My seat happened to be located on the left side of the classroom directly next to the chalkboard we never used. I wound up as hard as I could and punched the chalkboard with a left hay maker.

FUUUUUUUUUCCCCCCCCCKKKKKKKKKK!!!!!!!!!!!!

The entire classroom froze. Chalk dust, ingrained in walls since the 1950s rained down on my entire row. Ms. Madden's footsteps reverberating out in the hallway came to an abrupt stop.

She appeared in the doorway, and with a loving smile quietly told me to get my belongings and meet her outside. Great. I was totally fucked. Not only did I bomb the exam giving my parents all the reason they needed to pull me out of school, but I was layering on a disciplinary problem as well. I gathered up my books and stuffed them into my bag and met her in the hallway.

I expected her to send me to the office where I would meet my old friend the Dean of Discipline. We were on a first name basis. He was a really good guy, but he was known for being a relentless ball buster. The Jesuits have a twisted sense of humor and like to completely fuck with students heads. They call it JUG which stands for Justice Under God.

Unlike most detentions, JUG was used an opportunity for the Jesuits to impart some sort of wisdom on the rule breakers. Aka bust our balls. It was never as simple as sitting in a room for 45 minutes. Instead, they'd have us write 10 page essays on "what it must be like to be a turkey at Thanksgiving time," "the social and economic implications colored papered clips have on society," and my favorite "Is Booby Orr still the greatest hockey player of all-time?" And if you knew your audience he sure as hell was. Or they'd have us march around the flagpole in single file. By the end of the JUG we probably walked 6 miles albeit in a tight circumference. Sometimes, they'd have us tell jokes, and if the priest laughed, we could go free. They never did, and it wasn't because they were easily offended. Other times, we'd mop floors or pick up trash. That option, however, was short-lived because they caught us dumpster diving and filling our trash bags with already spoken for garbage. Apparently trash, in the trash, was not considered litter.

If you really fucked up they would make you write out the Student Handbook. If you didn't finish the entire 100 page document (nobody did) during the JUG you were allowed to take it home and submit it the following morning. I did this, twice, and learned the hard way that they actually read each page line for line. I snuck in a little editorial in the middle pages which they of course found right away. The priest crumpled up the paper in front of me and told me to write it out again. Then he laughed in my face.

If you really, really fucked up they would call you for Saturday JUG. It was rare, but I also had the pleasure of this unique learning experience.

I spent an entire Saturday in the catacombs of the rectory unlocking a wall of lockers. The priest handed me a giant ring of keys, and told me to make sure all the lockers were opened and left unlocked. There were probably 100, identical and unlabeled, keys on this ring. It was torturous.

Nope. Nope. Nope. Not this one either. Or this one. Not this one either. Nope. Not a match. This isn't the key. Not this one either. Gotta be this one. Nope. OK, this one. Nope. Fucker. Slut. Nope. Nope. OK, this is it. Nope. No. No. No. No. Nope. Wrong. Not this one. Oh this is fucking bullshit. Nope. Fuck. Whore. Nope. No. Nooooo. No. No. Nope. Nope. Nope. CLICK! Yes! OK, I am on a roll. Here we go. No. No. Nope. Nope. Not this one. This is not the correct key. Nope. Fucker. Nope.

After 4 exhaustive hours I managed to unlock all of the lockers and summonsed the priest as I had been instructed.

Finished already? OK, let's have look.

We went back downstairs and he congratulated me on my thoroughness, but wondered why I didn't leave each key in the lock? Seemed to be a wasted step in his opinion. Fucking Jesuits!

So I was back to square one. I repeated the process, but this time left the key in each locker as he directed. A step he deliberately left out of his instructions, the prick. All part of building character I supposed.

The priest came back downstairs and nodded approvingly at the wall of lockers. He told me I had done a terrific job. Next, he wanted me to lock all of the lockers, but this time put the keys back on the ring. No doubt for the next victim to go through this futile exercise.

Seems like a colossal waste of time, doesn't it? Well, this is about as unproductive as acting up in school. Now get out of here, and I don't want to see you back any time soon.

Regardless of what form of punishment was handed out it was never a simple exchange of time. And I am convinced their late night whiskey fueled rants on Joyce in the rectory were only interrupted by ideas on how to fuck with us. I have to hand it to the Jesuits, they were always creative.

Instead of a trip to the Dean, Ms. Madden showed mercy. She put her hand on my shoulder and told me to take the rest of the period off. No books. No study hall. Just walk around campus and cool off. This wasn't the end of the world she insisted. We would meet tomorrow to discuss how I could pass the course. Then she told me that I probably stopped the presses at The Boston Globe, which was across the street, with my F-bomb. Very impressive.

Meanwhile back in the present day, I was rumbling along the red line tracks on the other side of The Globe trying to figure out an equation some halfwit scribbled on public property. It was a self-imposed JUG. Some moron used a Sharpie to figure out his bills, a shopping list, a drug exchange or some other bullshit and I was obsessing over what it meant. His train probably came, and he left the equation where it was, but continued his problem-solving on the wall of the subway car.

70+70+90=230/380

Life is too short to waste time on unproductive matters. I have the Jesuits to thank for that.

Ad maiorem Dei gloriam.

But if someone in the audience can figure out what 380 means I would be grateful. No shit.