Despite my very rich inner life, like anyone, I have to come back down to earth to deal with the day-to-day business of survival. I make my living at a place called Planet Futon. Seriously. When I get to work, there are usually a dozen fires to put out right away that snap me out of my reverie and into the here and now. It’s a family business. My dad owns the furniture factory in Illinois that supplies our three stores in the Tacoma area, and I have managed them for him on and off since 2001, spending most of my time at the flagship store. It’s important to have a member of the family in charge, otherwise people might rob you blind. I know because I took a little time off recently, and it wasn’t long before one of the workers was offering customers discounts for using cash, delivering the furniture himself, and then keeping the money. Also, if a piece of furniture is missing a part, the workers tend to poach that part off the brand-new furniture instead of just ordering it, which creates a cascade of problems. The stores support not only my household but also my dad’s. Most of the responsibility of making them profitable falls on my shoulders. As grateful as I am for the job, it puts a tremendous amount of pressure on me, and I don’t handle stress as well as I used to. In the old days, I met it head-on, but now I avoid any and all confrontations. This new personality trait is something my doctors consider a tradeoff, a drawback that comes with my new abilities.
As hard as it is to manage employees and keep the fleet of delivery trucks humming, I enjoy my interactions with our customers. Some salespeople talk to shoppers about the weather or last night’s game to break the ice, and that’s fine. I used to do the same thing. But now I talk to them about geometry and physics. You’d be surprised how positively people respond—even people who didn’t think they cared a whit about either topic. The trick is to make it relevant. It’s as easy as describing the mechanism of the fulcrum that opens a futon; I do that, and we’re off.
I’m forty-three as of this writing. This makes me really happy because 43 is a prime number, divisible by only itself and 1. The number 43 lives at a specific point in a sphere in my mind’s eye, as do all the other primes. I’ve drawn images of this sphere, which is consistent for me whenever I think of primes and the patterns among them. I feel such a reverence for these numbers that I recite them like a mantra when I need good luck or when I need to keep bad luck away. It’s as if the primes are so rare and so special that they’re imbued with an extraordinary power, and they act like sentinels in my mind. When I’m napping on the sofa, my daughter, Megan, sometimes wakes me up because I’m reciting prime numbers in my sleep.
But primes aren’t the only numbers I associate with shapes. Simply dialing a friend’s phone number can send up a plume of images. Numbers appear to me as a series of cubes. They are linear—three cubes across for the number 3, four across for 4—unless the numbers are part of an equation or they’re being plotted on a graph, in which case the cubes move around to reflect what’s happening to the numbers. An equation can result in a huge, prismatic net right before my eyes. The shapes are always consistent with the specific stimulus. Numbers are an obsession, and I’m incapable of turning the fixation off. I can’t climb stairs without counting them, and I can’t eat without counting how many times I’ve chewed each bite. I never chew gum for this reason. With every number I count off, the fresh, simple prime numbers and all the other never-ending numbers spiral into their own shapes.
All these visions—and every shape I encounter out in the world—correlate with fractals, the elemental geometric building blocks found in nature. Snowflakes, lightning bolts, and coastlines are all fractals, meaning their subsections repeat the same patterns as their wholes. Coastlines are particularly intriguing to me because their overall measurements actually change depending on the scale one uses. For me, this underscores how understanding fractals can shed light on comprehending the nature of other things. For example, I have always wanted to know where humans come from. Now, with one quick glance at human anatomy, I see clearly that veins, arteries, and even the strands of DNA are fractals too. The human body seems to reflect the very structure of creation. The structures within the body reflect the never-ending repeating patterns found throughout the universe. The first time I noticed this, it struck me: everything and everyone is a reflection of this repeating structure.
I walk around in a near-constant state of inspiration with a great hunger for knowledge, and I read everything I can about math and physics, often developing my own theories along the way. I was even contacted by a Toronto financial firm that was interested in applying my fractal geometry to the stock market. I haven’t begun working with them yet, but I love the idea that my wild visions could have an application in the real world.
It’s especially important for me to keep drawing my geometry, because that’s how I’m able to share exactly what’s going on in my mind, and I think I’d go crazy if I didn’t have a way to express what I see. By turning my view of the world into drawings, I’ve found a way to explain my universe to other people.
My quest to understand and come to terms with the new me has spanned more than a decade, taking me from years of self-imposed isolation to a high-tech brain-imaging lab halfway across the world, in Helsinki, Finland. Along the way, I’ve met some of the world’s greatest experts on savant syndrome, synesthesia, and brain science. I’ve learned what my mathematical theories and visions have in common with the work of some of the most brilliant mathematicians in history. I’ve been introduced to new ways of thinking about the brain, the mind, and even consciousness, and I’ve discovered why my case may play an instrumental role in the next generation of cutting-edge brain science.
I’ve spent plenty of time pondering the very fabric of the universe and how we fit into it. And I’ve concluded that no matter what you go through in life, in the end, there is a symmetry to it all—an order amid the seeming disorder. And if you could see what I see, you’d know that you’re an essential part of that order.
If I could draw the world as I see it and show every last person how he or she is enmeshed in this fine and intricate and impossibly beautiful structure, perhaps people would stop getting lost in the hurt of things and be elevated by the wonder of it all. In fact, I know they would. I know, because even though I seem like the most optimistic man this side of the Rocky Mountains, I’ve been to hell and back.
Chapter Two
Jason 1.0
THERE WAS ONCE a time when, apart from tallying my bar tab or cashing my paycheck or counting repetitions when I did curls at the gym, I was blissfully unaware of mathematics. In fact, I was more than unaware; I was math-averse. In school, I was like so many other students: the only questions I had for my math teachers were “When am I going to use that?” and “How does this apply to anything in the real world?” I never made it past pre-algebra, much less developed any theories about the geometric underpinnings of the universe.
Back then, nothing I was taught in school seemed relevant. I wasn’t motivated and I got terrible grades. I didn’t have much of an attention span. I liked to party. I was an adrenaline junkie, always in search of the next fix. Eventually I dropped out of college.
Life was meant to be enjoyed, after all, and there was nothing fun about math or science or academic pursuits of any kind—all of which required sitting still. I was out every night of the week after school or after work. Now, that was fun. My main concerns were where I’d be partying that night, which girls I’d be meeting, and what drinks I’d be drinking. When I lived in Alaska, which I did on and off through my teens and early twenties, that meant meeting Justin, John, Rick, and Alicia at Chilkoot Charlie’s (“Where we cheat the other guy and pass the savings on to you!”); Hot Rods, with its lineup of muscle cars on display; or Asia Gardens, for a little (or a lot of) karaoke. When I was in Tacoma, my entourage was Angela, Tina, and Clark, and we’d end up at either Café Arizona or Shogun’s after a game of ultimate Frisbee. I was never alone.
My frequent trips to the gym left my biceps bulging; I wore cuto
ff T-shirts to better display my muscles. My hair was long and heavy with styling products. My favorite outfit to go out in was tight jeans, no shirt, and a leather vest. I wince now when I think of this getup, sort of what a Chippendales dancer would wear. I was just looking for the next good time, sometimes in Alaska and sometimes in Washington State, as I shuttled back and forth between divorced parents.
When I was a teenager I drew up a bucket list—before there were bucket lists—of all the things I wanted to do before I died. When I look back at it now, it actually looks like a list of ways to die. And I worked my way through it. Cliff jumping while skiing? Check, a bunch of times. Bungee jumping? At least thirty times, once in Mexico at a shady place that was later shut down for safety violations. Skydiving? Nineteen times. Scuba diving with sharks? Check, in the Bahamas. I broke my hand twice, broke my leg, broke my collarbone, and broke my heel, all for the sake of feeling the rush.
Even before that, I took up martial arts—at the age of twelve—and I earned a brown belt in karate. I loved being physical as much as I loved the thrill I got from the fear of getting hurt. I was prone to boredom; I couldn’t even sit still for Saturday-morning cartoons. I avoided feeling bored by keeping myself in constant motion. I was adventurous from the start, and my first memory of experiencing the possibility of danger came from a trip our family went on when I was three years old.
We’d stopped at a little roadside restaurant for something to eat. There were picnic tables out back with a view of Campbell Creek, which at that point was swollen to river proportions from the Alaska spring thaw. I spotted a beach ball floating by, and my parents turned away for just a moment. I stepped into the rushing tributary.
I honestly thought I could walk on water. I knew about puddles, which I’d been able to splash through without harm, so I thought I would just step out and grab the ball. It was a complete shock when I sank into the water and was carried away in the rapids. I couldn’t have been more surprised if my foot had gone through asphalt.
My brother was right behind me. With no regard for his own safety, five-year-old John went in after me, and he was also swept away.
I saw my brother by my side in the swirling water as the creek ran into a tunnel under a roadway. Then my head dipped under, and there was darkness. Then daylight—breathe—and the sight of long flights of stairs leading up to waterfront homes. River, darkness. Then daylight—breathe—and a woman standing on one of those stairways with an armload of groceries. River, darkness. Then daylight—breathe—and the sight of all those groceries flying in the air and the woman running toward us. River, darkness. Then daylight—breathe—warm bathwater in the lady’s home, police officers, worried parents, and John at my side.
My mother and father divorced when I was nine years old. Mom moved with my older brother and me to the pit-stop town of Cantwell, Alaska. She worked as a medevac paramedic for oil and logging companies in the Alaska wilderness, and the town of Cantwell was pretty much just a twelve-room motel, a restaurant, and a gas station. Kids weren’t allowed at the motel—not that there were any other kids there—so she rented a small cabin around a bend in the road. We spent our days without running water or electricity. John and I ate our meals together at the restaurant, and we worked in tandem to haul water in a ten-gallon bucket, too heavy for sixty-pound me alone. We played adventurers by gaslight in the cabin and explored the woods, removing surveyors’ wooden posts and crafting swords out of them. I knew what it meant to have very little.
I may have been a heat-seeking missile for risk and adventure throughout childhood and young adulthood, but I found myself strongly drawn to people unlike myself. From the start I had a soft spot for shy, quiet people—never more so than when I met a fellow student I’ll call Mike after I moved to Washington to be with my dad, when I was ten. Mike was extremely introverted, wore thick Coke-bottle-lens glasses, and was as messy as Pig-Pen in the Peanuts comic strip. You just knew he had a story to tell. I was cordial to him even though he was roundly shunned by everyone else, but I didn’t really befriend him until my sophomore year of high school, when I was sixteen.
One afternoon I saw him reaching into the cafeteria trash cans when he thought no one was looking, pulling out orange peels and trying to eat the fruit still stuck to them. I couldn’t help but stare, and then I noticed the duct tape covering the holes in his jeans. Didn’t he have enough money for a patch or a needle and thread? I wondered. Compared to my time in the woods with my mom, I was spoiled with my dad as a teen. My father’s furniture business was flourishing, and we lived a comfortable life—we had a grand total of ten cars in the garage and driveway—and I felt pangs of guilt after noticing Mike’s situation. Seeing him forage for his lunch reminded me of a time in my life when I barely had the basics myself.
Later that afternoon I asked Mike if he’d like to hang out with me and my best friend at the time, Jeff. He looked completely surprised but said yes, and pretty soon the three of us were thick as thieves.
“Stand up straight, Mike,” Jeff would advise him when we were out and about. “Look people in the eye. It’s okay.” Jeff and I were part of the popular crowd so we even managed to fix him up with a couple of girls.
One day I drove Mike home after we’d all been hanging out. As soon as we entered his house, his mother yelled, “Mike, get out on that bus!” I was sure she didn’t mean the derelict yellow school bus I’d noticed in the front yard, but she did. Mike wasn’t allowed in the house. His family gave him scraps from the table like a dog. He was embarrassed that I’d seen his home life, and with his head hung low, he explained to me that it was still better than when his biological father was living there.
At that moment I decided to bring Mike home with me. He reminded me of Oliver Twist, a Dickens character I’d played in a local production of Oliver! only a few years earlier, when I strongly resembled the actor who played the British orphan in the movie. That day, after hearing Mike’s story, my father set up a cot for him in my bedroom, and we washed his clothes and gave him a good meal.
With Mike’s new home all ready, I took him back to his house and encouraged him to not only pick up his few possessions but also give his mother and stepfather a piece of his mind. He walked up to his stepfather and screamed “Fuck you!” right into his face. The man went into another room and returned with a pistol. We ran from the house and took off like a shot in my little Datsun (actually the slowest car in the Padgett fleet back then). From that point on, Mike was the third brother in the Padgett household.
On his birthday, we blindfolded him, covered his ears, put him in the car, and took him on a shopping trip. We bought him shoes and all sorts of clothes and had everything gift-wrapped. We went on a total spree with him, which finally ended when we walked him, still blindfolded and earmuffed, into Chuck E. Cheese’s. We took off the earmuffs and the blindfold, and he stared at the presents set out on the table for a second, then burst into tears. Jeff and I were trying not to cry ourselves when he told us it was the only birthday of his anyone had ever celebrated.
After we graduated from high school, we lost touch; I was uprooted time and again as my parents went through a series of divorces and remarriages.
Many people who have been shuttled around often in life have trouble making friends. That was never the case with me—my many friends ran the gamut from the shy ones like Mike to those who shared my spirit of adventure. Though I developed a lifelong fear of swimming after the near-drowning incident in Campbell Creek, it didn’t stop me from becoming a member of the polar-bear club—a group of people across the nation who are dedicated to braving cold bodies of water—and jumping into the Arctic Ocean years later, when I was working on a northern oil field more than a day’s drive from Anchorage. I loved being a “polar bear,” and I even saw some of the actual white giants a couple of times during my tenure in the oil fields. Sometimes they looked almost approachable, covering their eyes with their paws or rubbing their noses like in a cartoon. I felt equally at home
with people and with nature. I guess you could say I was rugged. I loved the wildness of Alaska and I cultivated a wild streak in myself too.
I remember vividly how the caribou herd on that northern Alaska slope behaved. They reminded me of myself: strong and free and comfortable on the open plain. The large deerlike creatures, thousands of them, were always flicking their ears, whipping their tails, and suddenly bucking or diving into a nearby creek to stave off a swarm of mosquitoes dropping in from above the tundra.
I was twenty years old that first season in the oil fields. I pulled mosquito netting down over my hardhat and taped it to my collar—it looked like a beekeeper’s helmet—to avoid the swarm. I’d purchased the netting because my mother, whose new husband had gotten me the job, had warned me that the mosquitoes up north could bite through even blue jeans. It was a rough job, picking up trash in the oil fields on the outskirts of Barrow, near Prudhoe Bay. I was 857 miles north of my hometown of Anchorage and one of only fifty young people chosen out of thousands of applicants for the summer work. And I was lucky to be earning the eleven hundred dollars a week, but the days were long. I had to pull twelve-hour shifts every day for two weeks, then I got two weeks off. The fact that the sun never set made it only a little bit easier.
Swiney, my boss and the biggest roustabout on my crew, considered me a chip off the old hog. He called me Pork Chop, and the nickname stuck. Everyone had a nickname on the oil fields; the two young women who rounded out our group were Cookie Monster and Demon.
Struck by Genius: How a Brain Injury Made Me a Mathematical Marvel Page 2