Living by Numbers [FYM2021] ---Non-Writer

An ordinary day in South Philadelphia, early 1970s, a young boy played with an electric train set and a bunch of Matchbox cars. Under each car, the make, model and year was stamped into the aluminium chassis. The child had a talent for memorising these details for each car. In school, however, it was a different story. He was burdened with bad eyesight, that no one knew about, not even his parents were aware. Instead, what everyone never failed to notice was the child’s speech impairment; a disability that diminished his pronunciation range by a third. This resulted in the boy having little to no friends, forcing him to retreat into his own little mind bubble of peaceful solitude and security in numbers.

The irony was that the boy was terrible with maths, he probably suffered from both dyslexia for words and numbers. His talent, though, was for seeing patterns and making statistical analyses of anything that crossed his path, his favourite being the frequency of letters and vowels in the list of ingredients on cereal boxes. We don’t know what was going on in that mind, he hated arithmetic, but numbers had become a driving force in his life. Naturally, some numbers held more meaning than others; one set in particular being his own date of birth, March 1st 1968. Another was the number 22… everywhere one 2 appeared, its twin would always follow. Twenty-two became a companion, an adviser, a two-faced coin to rely on for making and passing judgement. At this point of our tale, it is safe to say that the boy had issues, but there was a light at the end of the tunnel, albeit, one that led to a different country, different continent. So, we hop, skip and jump to London, England.

Now in London, early 1980s, the child was just beginning to turn onto the adolescence highway; he knew speed was of the essence in order to keep up and stake his claim for the future, a life better than that of his past. At first, it was difficult to get out of 1st gear, but some savvy mechanics put right his 1968 chassis. A dentist excruciatingly sorted out his speech problem… the boy took the two years of pain on the chin even better than his hero, Rocky Balboa. On the eyesight front, a lovely, minty optician sorted out the headlights. This kid was reborn, ready for action. Unfortunately, you can’t turn an ass into a genius overnight. School was woefully painful; only sports provided some gratification. It turned out that the boy was a hell of a runner, thin as a match, but lightening fast… in short bursts, like said match. He was herded into the athletic team, pointed towards a chalk line on the grass track and told to just start running at the “crack” of a gun. One hundred meters came and went in about 11 seconds, rounding out the bend and the second hundred ended the race… 22 and change on the clock. The numbers were again playing peek-a-boo with the kid. After that initiation, school was only about sports; he joined the rugby team, added high jumping, discus throwing and relay racing to his curriculum. Well, the acclamation and fame would soon fade away and be archived, for he would never compete again, at least not on track & field.

School was out for the summer of 1986, but for our short-sighted, number crunching, road-runner, it was schools out for good. You see, he was never the intellectual sort, he never opened a book to entertain or indulge his teachers. He preferred watching BBC documentaries, dismantling and tinkering with anything that moved, and he was a dreamer. This was not the ideal recipe for a scholarly future. So, our misfit jumped overboard and went sailing into early adulthood, tacking and gybing into the scary waters of work. The local supermarket was just the place; a love for food helped in the decision-making; lest we forget about the thousands of cereal boxes he would have been able to read and analyse.

For three years he slogged like a mule, gaining respect and promotions hand over fist. All that energy that made him so fast on track, sculpted him into a veritable workhorse. In his spare time he began to practice a slower-paced type of sport, billiards and snooker became his favourite pastime. He had gone from being a hoppity hare to a tactical turtle. In any case, being employed had finally given our young man some semblance of worth. But, as all good things must come to an end, he outgrew his shell and needed to move on. More jobs came and went, each one always bettering the former. In all that time, it was always numbers that continued to influence his decisions. By choosing the numbers he felt most attracted to, be they phone numbers, addresses or the company names, he ended up being a salesperson in a jewellery store, then an office junior in a private company in Central London and finally, as an archivist for an American Oil Company in London. All this in the arc of a further three years, after which, a major detour loomed on the horizon. This change of direction took the form of a three-hour train journey before arriving at his new destination and job.

It was March 1990 and the train pulled into Manchester’s Piccadilly Station, and this empowered young man, battling against his doubts, was about to take on his biggest challenge yet. What the new job entailed was a complete 90-degree turn to anything he had done previously. Not only that, but it meant working in a language other than English. Suffice to say, he was pooping himself, unable to be convinced of his ability to do the tasks required, and he needed reassurance. Well, guess what came to the rescue… his beloved Numbers! Even before starting the job he had had to sort out some bureaucratic details. For starters, he had to transfer his bank account from London to Manchester; same bank, different branch. As an aside, the bank’s logo featured a black stallion, which turned out to be similar to the beloved Cavallino Rampante of Ferrari, which is our young man’s ultimate passion, from cradle to grave. Back to the bank…well, it turned out to be more difficult than one would think. The transfer meant being given a new account before saying bye-bye to the old one. All went swimmingly until our young man went to sign some papers and be given his bank card, chequebook, etc. Putting pen to paper to submit his autograph to the adoring bank clerk, he stopped, sighed and nodded towards the paperwork, then shaked his head side to side. There was an anomaly that he was sure would delay or force a restart of the whole transfer process. He pointed to the account number and told the bewildered bank clerk, “I’m sorry, but there’s an error in the account number!”. She inspected the number, typed frantically some gibberish on her computer, then called over a colleague, leading to murmured discussions and lots of shoulder shrugging. When she got back to me, she said, “No Sir, no mistake, everything is in order. The account numbers are issued sequentially, and you were the next in line… maybe it’s just coincidence, or you’re a lucky kind of bloke.”

So, what was it that had so upset and spooked our young friend? Well, the 7-digit account number turned out to be: 0103968. Lo and behold, 1st March 1968, it matched up with his date of birth, only the number 1 missing for the year. This was the ultimate sign, his continued quest of living by numbers for answers had finally fulfilled its ultimate promise of guidance. He sighed again, not from despair, but of relief; some universal force holding his hand, in the most troubling time of his life, had Freed His Mind of all his quandaries. Only a few weeks later he was finally able to start his new job, exactly on April 2nd 1990… only a month after turning the magical age of Twenty-Two.

….

Epilogue: As many of you may have guessed, the narrator and our subject are one and the same, and everything recounted is truthfully my life story. Just look to my username for a bit of trivia. My real name is Enzo, but if you recall, I had a speech impairment, so I could only pronounce my own name as Encia. My dearest grandmother parroted me when calling my name, so I wouldn’t feel offended… and the name was then used by my closest family until I could finally enunciate Enzo properly; although, until her dying days, my grandma never stopped calling me Encia. I appended 22 to my username because… well, can’t you guess? By the way, this writing contest’s deadline is March 1st … Living by Numbers, I can’t get away from it!

THE END

OUTSTANDING!
I am so glad you chose to participate and write. You are most definitely a talented writer and have an amazing life story to tell.

a reply to: AccessDenied

Wow! I thank you for the kind compliment, moreover, I'm doubly happy that you enjoyed my autobiographical tale.

a reply to: Encia22

Magnificent! Not only the truth of your story, but in the way you tell it, so conversationally; you are able to be a kindly narrator for your own tale, and I think that is a wonderous thing.

Your sublime turns of phrase make this a delightful read. Hands down my favorite story in this series so far!! Well done !! I am honoured to be a humble writer within the same competition.

ETA: I also share with you a recognition of patterns and a perhaps obsessive relationship with numbers. I find myself counting all manner of things. I used to believe it was a sickness and now I see it is a therapy and meditation. Whatever calms the spirit salves the soul.

a reply to: argentus

I'm lost for words. Your eloquent comment is touching and encouraging. It is I who am humbled to be allowed to share my story with so many prolific writers, such as yourself, argentus.


I'm relieved to read that we share the same passion and pain for patterns and numbers. I feel less alone knowing there are others. I always assumed there would be, but I never met any, at least no one whom would confide to me about their "gift".

a reply to: Encia22


There was a time when I tried to impose a sense of order upon the matrices of life where it didn't exist. My desire to see patterns went too far, toward numerical insanity. In such a world, there is no coincidence, no randomness, and everything becomes a stochasity. I think I've struck a balance that has been achieved by sheer desire and a lot of self-conditioning; it took me a long time to realize that "normal" is a construct and not real or measurable. An average or mean can be measured, but not normal.

a reply to: argentus

I'm with you, argentus! I too, had to tone down my obsession with patterns in numbers. It was taking me into the darker realms of numerology. Nowadays, I just casually look for signs when I have a burning question or a fork-in-road decision to make, but I don't force it.

What really freaked me out, many years ago, was when my brother, a PhD in pure mathematics, told me randomness and chaos don't exist in nature. It made me even more determined to find answers to what I had avoided before, thinking randomness is unpredictable. Luckily for my sanity, I quickly backed out of that dead-end alley. I don't know about the theories my brother tried to explain, after all, I got the short end of the stick, maths-wise. The closest I get to PhD is Past Hope, Decidedly.

Stay safe... and just count to ten (and then stop) when life becomes too much to handle.

a reply to: Encia22

Chaos theory may give you some comfort. It suggests an underlying pattern even within the randomness of unmeasurable phenomena. Fractals -- ever-repeating patterns -- can also be soothing. There are fractal generators which respond to various input that you create. Some old-school generators like what I have used begin with equations. If repeating patterns disturb you, this isn't your thing.

a reply to: argentus

Great site, cheers! I've got some reading to do. I love fractals and repeating patterns; anything visually taxing sparks my creativity, especially as I'm an amateur graphic artist.

Thanks again, argentus.

Just rereading and hope you'll consider writing us another!


Johnny