as featured in Desert Exposure Magazine
My five-year-old granddaughter came up with a math theorem, and it’s elegant in its simplicity:
10 = 10.
I was playfully showing her math equations on my phone’s calculator, mainly showing her ridiculously long numbers and adding them together, when she took the calculator from my hand and taught me an important lesson: Everything equals itself.
It’s an obvious concept, but not one that I’ve ever seen or heard expressed before. It was an original idea, and I’m a sucker for original ideas.
The brilliance of the smile on her face showed just how proud she was of her equation.
On the other hand, my elderly father has lost all concept of numbers, particularly the value of money.
When I take him to the doctor, the receptionist will say, “Your co-pay is...”
“Pay it,” he’ll tell me.
They must not teach math in schools these days.
Or, if they do, it must be a kind of bad math.
Two plus two equals four if you’re a racing enthusiast, and five if you’re not.
I'm being unfair, I know. Teaching is a two-way street. There's the teaching part, and there's the learning part. You could have Einstein as your teacher, but if you refuse to learn, then you might as well have him choose your hairstyle.
Myself, I was great at math. Until I got to seventh grade, that is. The teacher was an older gentleman. By older, I mean his birth certificate was a rock. His name was Mr. McKee, but we called him Mr. Magoo, and learned pretty quickly you could get straight Fs on all your assignments and still get a C on your report card. My parents were satisfied with a C. Not happy, but satisfied.
I got so far behind it was all I could do to pass my high school math requirements. Funny, but now I read books about math for fun. Innumeracy by John Allen Paulos got me started. How Not To Be Wrong by Jordan Ellenberg and Things To Make And Do In The Fourth Dimension by Matt Parker are two of my favorites*. I wrote a column on that last book in the June 2016 edition of Desert Exposure, back when this column was called Random Acts Of Nonsense. Have my math skills improved any since then? Not really. But neither has anyone else’s.
I was at a restaurant the other day. Once a week I buy my father enchiladas for dinner. The total was $9.73. I handed the cashier a ten. As she put the bill in the cash drawer, I handed her 73 cents. She looked unsure for a second, put the coins in the drawer, and then handed me back 27 cents. I didn't take it.
"It’s a dollar," I told her.
"What?" she said.
"I should get a dollar back."
"The total was $9.73," she told me.
"Yes," I told her back, "but I gave you a 10-dollar bill and then 73 cents in change."
She tried to remember. She looked at the register for help. It didn't give her any, so I stepped in.
"I gave you a 10-dollar bill and then 73 cents in change," I explained, "so I should get a dollar back."
She wasn't convinced.
"I first gave you a ten," I re-explained, "and then handed you 73 cents, so my change is a dollar."
The problem was, she let the cash register do the math for her. The total was $9.73. When I handed over the ten, that's what she entered into the machine. Even though I handed over an additional 73 cents, the magic box told her she owed me 27 cents.
She finally handed me a dollar, but I think she was just tired of arguing. Did I think she was trying to cheat me? Over 73 cents? Not really. She just depended on the cash register for too long.
She was surprised when I gave her a 5-dollar tip, especially on a to-go order, but times have been hard. The waitresses here are sweet and the food is good. It's the least I could do.
From there, I drove to a fast food joint. I lost the sleeve to a gift card I had and wanted to get another. I'm funny that way. There was no dine-in eating, so I had to wait behind several cars before I could make it to the drive-through speaker.
"Rack-dack-ork?" the speaker said.
"Excuse me?" I answered.
"May I help you?" the speaker repeated, this time in English.
"Yes," I said. "Your dine-in is closed and I need to get a sleeve for a gift card I have."
"Yes," the speaker said, "our dine-in is closed. May I help you?"
"I lost the sleeve to a gift card and wanted to get another."
"A sleeve?"
"Yes."
"What's a sleeve?"
"It's the envelope gift cards come in."
"Oh, you don't need an envelope," she told me. "All you need is the gift card. It has a little magnetic strip on the back that we scan."
Oh.
Now I'M the stupid one.
"I bought this card as a gift," I explained to her, "and lost the sleeve it came in. I’d like to get another one."
"Another one?"
"Yes. So I can write who it's for and the amount."
"We don't have envelopes for the gift cards."
"You don't?"
"No, sir."
"That's funny because, when I bought the card, they gave me one with it."
"They did?" the speaker said, caught in a lie. "I don't know what to tell you, sir. We don't have envelopes for our gift cards."
"Thanks for your trouble," I told the speaker.
I've learned in life it's easier to be polite.
There's a better chance you'll make the offending speaker feel bad.
So I drove away. Kind of irritated, but what could I do?
I needed gas.
There's a convenience store I go to that has the best prices. I can understand why the price of gasoline fluctuates on a daily basis, but I don't know why it fluctuates from gas station to gas station.
I pulled up to the pumps. Got out of my car. Pulled the debit card out of my wallet the way a magician pulls a rabbit out of his hat. Swiped it through the slot. It didn't work. "See cashier," the screen told me.
I got into my car and drove away,
If I wanted to see the cashier I wouldn’t have used my debit card.
***************
*Check out “The Universe In Your Hand” by Christophe Galfard.
@JimDuchene
No comments:
Post a Comment