A Matter of Subtraction
A math professor constructs an equation to negotiate his move out of his house.
My wife told me 4 2/3 weeks ago she wanted me to move out of the house. If I told her it would take me 3 1/2 weeks to pack my things, how much more time would I have left to get them out of the house in order to meet my deadline? (Show your work.)
That’s just a little gallows humor there, something to take a little sting out of the bad news about, you know, the divorce and everything. Maybe humor is what we all really need, rather than endless figuring and equating. Unfortunately, I’m a mathematician and that’s what I do. I create equations that solve problems, like how am I going to find a place large enough to house my text books, papers and viola? Will there be room for the chalkboard?
At first my wife’s decree shocked me, but then one evening while sipping port wine in a lawn chair behind our shed, I decided to think of my pending exit as a mere math problem — specifically, one of subtraction. House minus Burkmont (my name) equals resolution (divorce). (H-D=r(d)) Many of you might think this is a division problem because in a divorce a husband and wife are literally dividing. That would be valid if I were remaining in the same structure as she, like in a mud room or walk-in closet or something.
But in this case, the house is, in essence, squirting a human being out of its interior. A classic subtraction problem. This is why I find myself able to cope with a life-changing event: Subtraction is my “bag,” man! (I’m good at it.)
I am one human being, but that does not mean my worth is merely “1.” What about the objects I’m taking with me, like my Flobie and electric toothbrush? Hmm? What about all the things I’ve done with the house since moving in, like setting the gutters at a 13% grade and counting the spots that the painter missed and deducting it from his fee? What about Boris, our beagle hound? I’ll have partial custody of him, if my new landlord allows pets.
These variables add a complexity to the problem that should not be sneezed at.
My wife evidently thinks the subtraction of me from the household will solve all her problems. To me, that is lay thinking. Simplifying something to make it less terrifying. Ernia has always been like that, refusing to recognize something’s brilliance merely because she refuses to understand it. Like when I showed her a sunset out our kitchen window and she said, “Yeah. The sun’s setting. Great. Can you help me unload the dishwasher?” And then I did it wrong.
Spoiling a wonderful moment for the performance of a household task is so Ernia. The only math she seems to do is while standing on a scale. “Fourteen more pounds off and I can attract a man (after I subtract the one I’ve got).”
But it’s not that easy. There are so many variables. Is she going to let him talk about his job? (If it’s teaching something, especially math, I’d say “no.”) Does she do and say annoying things just to get attention? Does she ridicule men with low libidos?
Using this technique to successfully negotiate a divorce from a raging lunatic is helpful because it takes all the emotion and angst out of the equation. “Just the facts, ma’am,” as detectives say when the person they’re interviewing is an unstable shrew.
Then she gives them the facts and they solve the crime. Except some of those newer shows where they don’t necessarily come to a satisfactory resolution. But the kids seem to like that kind of stuff, even though — or maybe because! — they don’t really like math. It doesn’t allow for their inherent narcissism.
Like that kid I had to give an “F” to because where he was supposed to show his work, he drew a vivid likeness of a hand giving “the finger” to the viewer, who was me. Emote much? I almost wanted to ask him. And what did we learn from that?
And then when I told Ernia about it, she laughed as if she took the kid’s side. She said I should call him and tell him he’s got a “B” instead. But I held firm. Two plus two does not, ever, equal five — unless you’re rounding it off to the nearest multiple of five.
It’s 23 steps back to the back door of the house from my chair behind the shed. If it’s more, that means I’ve had too much port and I should slow down a little. A few nights ago I counted 27, so knew I should try to avoid Ernia and go straight to my bedroom, which was our laundry room. Now it’s only her laundry room because she doesn’t want our clothing to mingle. (I guess I can’t really blame her, my undershirts get pretty sweaty from a day of teaching math.)
I sat on the edge of my cot and picked up the novel I was trying to get through: Lady Chatterly’s Lover. She tapped on the door, opened it and said, “Here.” It was all my six tweed blazers I wear for work. “I need the closet space,” she spat, dropping them on me.
In spite of my disdain for impulsive behavior, I scooped them from my lap and flung them back at her. Surprised, she caught them, but the force flung her back to the plaster wall. Her head cracked as it made contact, then slid down with the rest of her, leaving a streak of hideous bloody red. There she sat for a while — two days, so far.
Ever since, I’m thinking, “How could she be so stupid? Did she not know the weight, not to mention volume, of the stack of blazers she’d just thrust onto me? Yes, she’s petite, but come on. She should have braced herself.”
It seems as though she’s subtracted herself before I had a chance to do so. And now I have to start my equation from scratch. Somewhere, she’s looking down and giving me that little goddamned fucking smirk.
