It was only eight hours into his shift. It was only twelve-thousand entries into his excel spreadsheet. It was only twenty-nine years, seven-days and four and a half hours into his life; however, he felt as if it were an eternity. Why wasn't the exponential fit working?
The log-transform of his independent variable should have resulted in a linear dependency on the dependent variable, but it didn't. He had tried, over and over, to achieve this result to no avail.
He knew the old idiom, "the definition of insanity is doing the same thing again, expecting a different result". He recognized his weakness for formulaic solutions to his problems.
He opened his copy of Numerical Recipes and leaned toward his monitor. His scalp bumped the shelf. A book fell, nearly hitting the bison.
Rutherford, feeling the tremulous position he was in, glowered.
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She approached his cubical again. Absent were the rhythmic sounds of his numberpad. Missing was the strange sound of his arhythmic breathing; however, emanations of his presence could be felt. Cold spinal sensations brusqued her core being. What could he possibly be doing?
Her arms stiffened and her hands clasped the parcel she was to deliver. The envelope was eggshell-white, letter-sized, with a pre-printed return address on the back, and quite well-produced; strangely the envelope indicated it originated from the Ugandan embassy. The front was addressed in puce crayon:
To Rutherford C/O Bernard K. Rosenschmidt
She puzzled over his middle initial. For what name does the letter K stand?
She puzzled over why her legs weren't actually motivating her forward.
The problem resolved itself shortly, in its own way, as the room spun down, faster and faster. A slowly spreading ring of blackness rose from the center of her vision, engulfing everything. The vague sensation of acceleration from falling persisted until she again opened her eyes..
Her arms stiffened and her hands clasped the parcel she was to deliver. The envelope was eggshell-white, letter-sized, with a pre-printed return address on the back, and quite well-produced; strangely the envelope indicated it originated from the Ugandan embassy. The front was addressed in puce crayon:
To Rutherford C/O Bernard K. Rosenschmidt
She puzzled over his middle initial. For what name does the letter K stand?
She puzzled over why her legs weren't actually motivating her forward.
The problem resolved itself shortly, in its own way, as the room spun down, faster and faster. A slowly spreading ring of blackness rose from the center of her vision, engulfing everything. The vague sensation of acceleration from falling persisted until she again opened her eyes..
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A rhythmic breathing pattern echoed in her subconscious. Well, it wasn't really rhythmic; rather, it seemed to be a strange series of short gasps followed by long pauses. Gasp, gasp, gasp, pause, gasp, pause, gasp gasp gasp gasp, pause, gasp, pause, gasp, gasp, gasp, gasp, gasp, pause..
Wait a minute. Someone is breathing Pi!
Her eyes opened. Bernard was intensely peering down at her from his wheeled chair. Rutherford stared with equal intensity from his spot on the desk. She'd never noticed his breathing pattern before; however, she'd never interacted with him before, either.
They made eye contact.
The chair spun around and the rhythmic clicking of the numberpad keys resumed. From her supine body position she noticed a plastic recorder, they type of instrument on which children often begin to learn musical notes, sitting under his desk in a box. A loose puce bow was tied around the mouthpiece.
She immediately remembered the letter from the Ugandan embassy. Puce. Pi. What was the K in his name? Nothing made sense anymore. Nothing ever made sense about him, about that strange man in the cubicle. The only sense she could find lay in the swirling blackness quickly overcoming her vision, again.
black, again.
Wait a minute. Someone is breathing Pi!
Her eyes opened. Bernard was intensely peering down at her from his wheeled chair. Rutherford stared with equal intensity from his spot on the desk. She'd never noticed his breathing pattern before; however, she'd never interacted with him before, either.
They made eye contact.
The chair spun around and the rhythmic clicking of the numberpad keys resumed. From her supine body position she noticed a plastic recorder, they type of instrument on which children often begin to learn musical notes, sitting under his desk in a box. A loose puce bow was tied around the mouthpiece.
She immediately remembered the letter from the Ugandan embassy. Puce. Pi. What was the K in his name? Nothing made sense anymore. Nothing ever made sense about him, about that strange man in the cubicle. The only sense she could find lay in the swirling blackness quickly overcoming her vision, again.
black, again.
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