L.A. Math: Romance, Crime, and Mathematics in the City of Angels

by James D. Stein

  Bill brightened. “It’s worth a shot. Besides, Chicago is the home office. I could always charge the trip off to business.” I wondered if he would charge the roses (or chocolates or Chanel No. 5) off to business as well.

  This was the first time I had ever seen Pete venture into the relationship realm, even if it was someone else’s relationship. It was apparently a successful venture, as he showed me a selfie that Cindy had attached to an e-mail a few days later, showing Bill and Cindy happily walking on the Chicago lakefront. As I was looking at it, a question suddenly popped into my head.

  “Pete, that little calculation you did with averages wasn’t very complicated. How come you didn’t realize that we’d be late for Cindy’s departure? Did you figure it out after we left? You could have stopped us from going.”

  I hadn’t known Pete all that long, but I had learned that nothing ticks him off more than being accused of having failed to figure something out, even when his brain is only working at half-speed due to lack of adequate sleep.

  “That little problem?” he snorted. “I knew what the story was the moment you assumed that the average of twenty miles per hour and forty miles per hour was thirty miles per hour. High school stuff.”

  “Then, if you knew we would be late, why didn’t you stop us?”

  “I had no reason to stop you. Besides, I had problems of my own,” Pete declared. “Bill may be your friend, but Cindy is my cousin. She wanted to know how Bill felt about her, and I had no idea. You weren’t exactly Dear Abby.”

  I looked at him. “You couldn’t tell how Bill felt? It was obvious.”

  “Maybe to you. I didn’t have a clue.”

  “Well, it seemed clear enough to me. I must admit, though, Bill wasn’t about to take any action until he arrived too late to say good-bye.”

  “It reminds me of how I used to handle things when I was a kid and didn’t know how I felt,” Pete recalled. “When I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do, I would flip a coin to help me decide. As soon as the coin landed, I knew which way I was rooting for it to land.”

  I nodded. “I see. As soon as he saw that Cindy had gone, possibly for good, Bill realized that it is better to ask for a date and get turned down than never to have asked at all.”

  “That’s the way it looks to me.”

  “Well, Pete, you’ve made two people happy. Bill and Cindy. At least, so far.” Suddenly a thought struck me. “This situation probably was a first for you, Pete.”

  “Making two people happy?”

  “I wasn’t talking about that. As I see it, if you had announced that we wouldn’t get back in time, Cindy and Bill might never have worked things out. Bill might have continued to babble incoherently, and the way he was going, he would probably never have been able to ask Cindy for a date.”

  Pete thought about it. “Maybe so. So what?”

  “Well, you would have achieved the same results if you hadn’t solved the problem of when we would get back. Once you solved it, there was a risk you might screw everything up by announcing the solution. So it’s probably the first time that you would have made out better by not solving the problem in the first place.”

  He thought this one over. At least, he gave the appearance of thinking this one over. What emerged was, “Not true. Did things work out? Yes. Would they have worked out otherwise? Who knows?” He then did what I always do when I feel that my debating position is shaky. He turned and left.

  CHAPTER 4

  THE WORST FORTY DAYS SINCE THE FLOOD

  I suppose it was only a matter of time. After all, Lisa was in New York, and as someone once said, there are plenty of other fish in the sea. My first attempt to cast a line for the aforementioned other fish came about by accident. I had run out of edibles, and so I decided to go to the supermarket and restock. You can always find an all-night supermarket in L.A. in your neighborhood. You can always find one in New York as well, but the selection is more limited because space is at much more of a premium in New York. Also, despite the falling crime rate in big cities, there’s more chance of running into danger in Manhattan than in Brentwood.

  One of my failings is that I don’t always look where I am going. As a result, when I walked into the only open door at the supermarket, my mind was elsewhere, and I bumped into a young lady who was just emerging. Since I outweighed her by thirty to forty pounds, and since she was carrying groceries and I wasn’t, she suffered substantially more damage in the collision.

  “Why don’t you watch where you’re going?” she snapped.

  In New York, a remark like this is a prelude to a pas de deux in which the other party is obligated to make some remark like, “Watch it yourself, dummy!” In fact, a remark like this was on my tongue. Then I took a second look at the young lady, which made me realize that this might be a good occasion for the soft answer that turneth away wrath. Besides, this wasn’t New York. So I swallowed my pride, apologized, and asked if I could pay for whatever damage I had caused.

  She looked stunned. “Nobody ever offered to do that when I lived in New York!” she exclaimed, looking through her shopping bag to see what damage I had caused.

  Well, even I couldn’t mess up an opening like that—especially since I followed through and replaced the carton of eggs in her shopping bag, one of which was cracked. Further conversation disclosed that her name was Erika Nussbaum, that she had come from New York to Hollywood to become a model, and that she had just gotten off a modeling assignment for a face cream that others may have needed but she certainly didn’t. More to the point, yes, she would appreciate grabbing a bite to eat at the all-night coffee shop next door. One thing led to another, and soon I had my first date in seven years (marriage doesn’t count as a date).

  Let me pause to insert a remark or so about myself. Like most people, I have a pretty reasonable opinion of myself, but I recognize that I have my fair share of failings. As a result, I tend to look tolerantly on the failings of others. Let he who is without sin cast the first stone.

  One of my failings is a liking for tobacco. Actually, I do not feel that this is a failing. In the 1930s and 1940s, smoking was a sign of sophistication. Not only am I living in intolerant times for lovers of tobacco, I am living in an intolerant place. Los Angeles seems bent on ridding itself of smokers with the same messianic zeal used when Salem tried to rid itself of witches. Everybody would be a lot better off if Los Angeles devoted itself instead to getting rid of graffiti.

  Speaking of being a lot better off, I might have been better off if I had met Erika Nussbaum through an Internet dating service because she would have inserted the phrase “n/s” in it, which means that she wanted a nonsmoker. As you will see, this would have saved a lot of grief.

  A paragraph or so back, I was talking about failings. I am sure that Erika, like everyone else on the planet, had her fair share of failings. Failings, yes. Flaws, no. Erika may have hailed from New York, but she looked like a California surfer, with long blonde hair, clear blue eyes, and a perfectly shaped nose. I don’t know why, but I have this thing about perfectly shaped noses.

  It didn’t take long for me to discover that Erika shared the attitude that Los Angeles had about smoking. On our second date (not counting the late night encounter at the coffee shop), we had finished dinner in this nice little Italian restaurant I knew (one of the few remaining that allow you to smoke) and had ordered coffee. The coffee arrived, and I automatically lit up my after-dinner cigarette. Erika’s blue eyes narrowed, and the perfectly shaped nose wrinkled in distaste.

  “Freddy,” she said, in a tone which also indicated distaste (as if additional evidence was needed), “you simply must make an effort to give up smoking. It’s a disgusting habit. It’s not only unhealthy for you; it’s unhealthy for those around you.”

  Trained detective that I am, I had no trouble picking up on the distaste indicated by her tone, reinforced by the narrowing blue eyes and the wrinkling nose. “Erika, it’s not as easy as that. You speak as a nonsmoker. I ask th
at you remember the words of Mark Twain. ‘It is easy,’ he said, ‘to give up smoking. I have done it thousands of times.’” I chuckled slightly, hoping that this light remark would steer the conversation away from troubled waters. No luck.

  The blue eyes narrowed further, and the nose wrinkled even more. “Freddy, I cannot see myself being continually exposed to harmful carcinogens. If you cannot give up smoking immediately, then do it gradually. Cut down on a day-by-day basis.”

  I didn’t like this one bit. On the other hand, I wasn’t going to give up a burgeoning relationship without a fight, even if it was against an ingrained habit.

  “All right,” I relented. “I’ll do it. I smoke two packs a day. That’s forty cigarettes. I’ll cut down one cigarette a day for the next forty days. How does that sound?”

  Erika’s eyes widened slightly. “That’s wonderful, Freddy.” They widened even more, and the nose resumed its original shape. Her voice, too, softened attractively. “Since we’re almost through with dinner, I have a suggestion to make.” Her hand reached out for mine.

  I liked the way things were going. For about eight-tenths of a second.

  Her hand briefly caressed mine and then reached its intended target, my cigarette. Deftly she removed it from my fingers and stubbed it out. “Why don’t you start cutting down right now?”

  The evening did not end quite the way I had hoped. But I had a job to do, and my cell phone calculator seemed the ideal tool with which to do it. I wanted to calculate how many cigarettes I would need to complete the program upon which I had promised Erika I would embark.

  However, there was a problem. Have you ever tried to add up the numbers 1 to 40 on your cell phone? Not only did it threaten to take some time, I made mistakes keying in the numbers. I thought about waiting until tomorrow, but I noticed a light on in the main house. I thought maybe Pete might have a solution.

  “Pete, I could use some help. I’ve got a math problem, and I thought it might be in your ballpark.”

  Pete actually liked math problems. “I’ll take a shot at it,” he replied eagerly.

  “I don’t really need to do anything complicated. I just have to add up the numbers from 1 to 40. Erika talked me into quitting smoking by reducing from my habitual two packs a day, by one cigarette per day. I’m out of cigarettes, so I thought I’d calculate exactly how many I need, and then go out and buy them.”

  Pete’s answer came just nanoseconds after I finished. “Just buy four cartons and one extra pack.”

  I looked at him quizzically. “You’re bluffing. I call. No human being, and very few computers, could add up the numbers from 1 to 40 in that short a time. I don’t want to run short of cigarettes, nor do I want to have any left over.”

  “Who’s bluffing?” The only times I have ever seen Pete get upset are when he thinks you think he’s wrong, and he feels he’s right. “Just for the record, I did not add the numbers from 1 to 40. I computed their sum.”

  “What in heaven’s name is the difference?”

  (Number of cigarettes needed continued on p. 158)

  “Look, Freddy. One and 40 total 41. So do 2 and 39, 3 and 38, and so on. The last such pair is 20 and 21. There are consequently twenty pairs, each totaling 41. By coincidence, each pack of cigarettes contains twenty cigarettes. So you need 41 packs of cigarettes. Since there are ten packs in a carton, you will need four cartons and one extra pack.”

  I digested this. “Right you are. Could I ask you to dispose of my cigars for me? They’re Havanas, and I guess it’s probably best to remove temptation in all its forms.”

  “Sure enough. I’m going to put some pizza in the microwave. Want any?”

  “No, thanks. I just had Italian for dinner.”

  He came back in a moment, happily munching away. “You must be very interested in Erika to contemplate such a drastic change in lifestyle. If you don’t mind my asking, how are things going?”

  “Good question. I never know whether it’s a good sign or a bad one when they want to remodel you.”

  Pete finished the last of his pizza. “I know what you mean. Anyway, I hope things work out.” Before I lost my resolve, I went to the guesthouse and got the cigars. As I handed them to Pete, I felt like I was losing a friend.

  In following this tale to its conclusion, I have decided to divide it into quarters, like a football game. During the first ten-day quarter, I reduced the number of cigarettes I smoked from 40 to 31. I therefore smoked a total of 355 cigarettes during that interval. Forty plus 31 is 71, as is 39 and 32, etc. There are five such pairs, making a total of 355 cigarettes. I may not be quite as good at calculations as Pete, but this particular trick was actually child’s play, as he had pointed out.

  I would have thought that I would have started to experience some measure of withdrawal symptoms, but such was not the case. Possibly this was due to the fact that what I was losing in tobacco I was gaining in time spent with Erika. Of course, this had been my reason for quitting smoking, but it was nice to see immediate dividends. Pete met Erika but did not seem as enchanted with her as I was. I suspected that this was because Erika devoted the majority of that meeting to a discussion of the perils of the pizza and beer Pete was wolfing down. Or maybe he just didn’t appreciate perfectly shaped noses as much as I do.

  Second ten-day period: reduction of cigarettes from 30 down to 21. In this interval, I smoked a total of 255 cigarettes. Since I wasn’t smoking so much, I also had a little additional leisure to notice things. One of the things that I noticed was that 255 was 100 less than 355. It occurred to me that, on the first day of the second period, I was smoking 30 cigarettes, which was 10 less than the 40 cigarettes I had smoked on the first day of the first period. On the second day of the second period, I was smoking 29 cigarettes, which was 10 less than the 39 cigarettes I had smoked on the second day of the first period. And so on. Since I was smoking 10 cigarettes less per day for each of the ten days of this period, it was perfectly natural that I should be smoking 10 times 10, or 100 fewer cigarettes during the second period than I did during the first.

  I was beginning to believe that stuff about tobacco dulling the brain. Mine certainly seemed to be becoming more agile.

  I confess that I was noticing some other things as well. Erika and I were dining one evening when she said, “Freddy, why do you keep looking at your watch?”

  “I’m sorry, angel,” I replied. “It’s not as easy to cut down on smoking as I might have thought, so I have put myself on a schedule. I can smoke my next cigarette in, let’s see, fourteen minutes.”

  “I really am pleased that you are making such a determined effort to see this project through, Freddy. And, I must say, schedules are a very good way to do it.” She paused. “Which reminds me. Perhaps you should adopt a healthier diet as well. Your diet is terrible. Hamburger, for instance, is just loaded with cholesterol. I’ll get the nutritionist at the health club to work up a diet for you.”

  I looked at my watch. Twelve minutes to go. I looked at Erika. Yes, the nose was still everything a nose should be, but I hadn’t really noticed the way her jaw sometimes acquired a hard set when she thought you might be opposed to one of her ideas. Ah, well. I guess, when you are escorting a girl whose face, like Helen of Troy, would launch a thousand ships under optimum conditions, you must be prepared for moments when they would launch only, say, 930. Absent-mindedly, I reached for a cigarette.

  “Freddy!” Practically a screech. “I’m sure you have at least ten minutes to go before your next cigarette.”

  I recovered nicely. “Time just seems to fly when I’m with you, Erika.” I replaced the cigarette and looked at my watch. The second hand just seemed to crawl.

  Third ten-day period: reduction of cigarettes from 20 per day to 11 a day. By now I was noticing some definite side effects. Food, instead of tasting better (as all the quit-smoking experts will tell you), was tasting worse. The first intimation of this came one day during lunch. Pete had talked me into visiting a Mexican res
taurant he had just discovered over on Pico. I ordered nachos, chiles rellenos, and beef enchiladas. The nachos seemed okay, but I could have sworn there was something wrong with the chiles rellenos. They tasted sour. Since bad food can put me out of commission for several days, I decided to get a second opinion. “Pete, would you mind tasting these rellenos?”

  Pete took a couple of bites, chewing reflectively like an inspector for the Guide Michelin considering the merits of tournedos Rossini. “Yeah, I see what you mean. Not hot enough.”

  “It doesn’t taste sour to you?”

  “Just a little flat.” He added a couple of jalapeños, squirted some Tabasco, and then sampled again. “Try it now.”

  I did. It tasted a lot hotter, but still sour. I said as much, recalling that one of Pete’s attributes was a stomach with an interior like a blast furnace.

  “You know, Freddy, nicotine affects the taste buds. I’m sure that’s what happening.” Maybe he was right.

  The other thing that I noticed was that both friends and acquaintances were becoming rather snappish. Even Pete seemed to be developing a short fuse of late.

  I was also becoming less and less enchanted with Erika. It’s funny, but I hadn’t noticed how insistent she was on always having her way. Not only that, but when I even dared to suggest that her plans for creating a new Freddy Carmichael might be a bit extreme, I started hearing comparisons between myself and a paragon of virtue named Stefan. Or something like that. Quite frankly, I was getting heartily sick of it.

  Fourth ten-day period: reduction of cigarettes from 10 to 1. Every day, the first order of business was to calculate the interval between cigarettes. It seemed to be lengthening alarmingly. I called Pete’s attention to it one morning.