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| [A] |
For you, a modest man of modest means, that's as close as bliss as it gets.
Your bliss, however, is cut short when a fashionably unshaven, twenty-something man suddenly takes one empty chair and sits next to you, an intense gaze in his eyes: the kind of expression one finds on street preachers Friday nights, corner of George and Park, opposite Town Hall, zealously announcing the Good News of Jesus to uninterested pedestrians.
Before you say a word, your unexpected companion, short-breathed, excitedly starts: "I've proved it! I did! The Pythagorean Theorem is false!"
Startled, you barely suppress an emerging "Whadda!?" And maybe it was a good thing: truth is, you don't know what to say. Again, you try to open your mouth as he grabs the napkin from your plate, but are impatiently shushed by your new friend, anyway. After a quick attempt to smooth its surface, he draws a square with a pencil that came apparently from nowhere.
While the youth, in a trance-like state, is distracted scribbling feverishly, you try to leave. No luck: unexpectedly, he grabs your arm, forcing you to sit back.
After a few seconds, evidently satisfied with his work, the young chap finally looks up from the napkin.
As he shoves it in your direction, stopping an inch from your nose, he quickly says, his voice full of passionate contempt, pointing to half a green pea stuck in the middle of the drawing: "If you add the square of the 4 sides of this triangle, there's no way you can get the square root of the hypothalamus. See? See? See?" he asks, stabbing repeatedly the napkin with his index finger. "Pythagoras, that old fool, was a shabby Hegelian!"
Somewhat recovered from your surprise, for a moment you pretend to study the doodles on the gravy-stained napkin, while desperately trying to figure a way out of the ordeal.
Nothing comes to mind, however; so, you give up trying. You say to your unblinking companion, defiantly staring back at you:
"Mate, I am no mathematician, but I believe the Pythagorean Theorem is about right triangles. That's not a right triangle; that's not even a triangle! That's a square."Unexpectedly, your companion, suddenly frozen, says nothing; you could almost hear the half green pea, which fell from the napkin, hit the table.
Choosing your words ever more carefully, you add hesitantly:
"If memory serves, the theorem states that the square of the hypotenuse…" you say, pausing for emphasis, "…is equal to the sum of the squares of the other two…", again, a pause, "…sides. So, before discussing the theorem, maybe it would be best to understand the basics…"At the middle of that sentence, it dawns on you: the young fellow may be momentarily silent, but he isn't listening. Instead, he is getting livid by the second; livid as in "ka-boom livid".
The moment he slaps the table, you jump to your feet, suddenly free from his grip; the precious napkin falls to the floor, and you leave hurriedly, every head in the pub turning your way in alarm.
As you hastily walk to the nearest bus stop, the last thing you hear is the young man shrieking angrily behind you:
"But, but… You people never listen to your critics. Circular reasoning!!! Listen to me! … Fuck you, Pythagoras! … Metaphysics… The Mahatma Gandhi this, Nietzsche that… Epistemologically correct asshole… Lacan and Roth's Kòjeve's Hegel all agree: E=m*c^2 is a sexed equation… Wet fish… Veblen… Veblen! VEBLEN!!!"
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It may not be the open gates of Heaven Friday night street preachers say Jesus promised, but for you, right now, that bus with its front door open, just waiting there, comes a close second.
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The story, characters and incidents portrayed are fictitious. No identification with actual persons, bloggers, places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred.
Image Credits:
[A] "Poster promoting Bondi Beach circa 1930". Source: Booth, D. "Australian Beach Cultures", Author: Unknown. Image in the public domain. Wikipedia.
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