Fiction – Niles Reddick

New math

The boy jumped off the yellow school bus as soon as the old driver yanked the folding door’s levers revealing a tattoo on his forearm, a blonde woman with tomato lips in a short white dress with air pushing it up and out, but not quite showing her underwear. Some of the boys near the back had discussed if the woman even wore underwear, wondered if she was his girlfriend when he was in a war none of them knew about, and one of the boys said she wouldn’t look as good today, they all nodded, and other said the woman looked gross because the old man’s arm hairs, a mix of salt and pepper, came through the tattoo of the woman and made her look like a pretty monkey.

When he got inside the house, Sam made a snack of saltines and creamy peanut butter and drank a glass of cold milk. He knew to get his homework done before his mama got home from work and made him supper, maybe spaghetti, his favorite, or a hot dog and baked beans, the runner up.

The boy couldn’t say polynomial, let alone understand it, didn’t understand formulas that included practical signs like the plus, minus, multiplication, or division that he’d learned last year all jammed together with numbers, letters, parentheses, and even brackets. He didn’t think it made sense, and if he was lucky enough to run a cash register like his mama, formulas didn’t matter since the register showed you how much to collect or how much to give back. His mama didn’t understand the math either, said it was busy work no one needed, it wouldn’t help pay the electric bill, and he knew his friends didn’t understand it either. He wondered if his daddy knew math in jail, but figured it was no use to him either. 

About the only number he could think to call was on the fire department magnet on the refrigerator that read “911.” He dialed it with the black push button phone on the wall and stretched the chord to the table in the center of the kitchen.

“911. What is your emergency?”

“I need some help.”

The operator was trained to know voices. Knew he was a young boy. “I can help you. You hurt?”

“No mam.” 

“What’s wrong?”

“I don’t understand this new Math.”

“Excuse me, did you say you are having trouble with Math?” She pushed the microphone away from her mouth and giggled. She’d done this before when a man said he’d shot his friend in the ass with an arrow while they were deer hunting and when some children had put glue on the toilet seat and their grandmother got stuck.

“Yes mam.”

“Honey, are you home alone?”

“Yes mam.”

“Where’s your family?”

“Mama’s at work.”

“Where does your mama work?”

“Kroger.”

“Well, 911 is only for emergencies.”

“I know. My mama said if I ever needed help, I should call.”

“Yeah, but it’s for serious emergencies.”

“If I fail, mama is going to kill me.”

“You just hold on. I’ve got an officer right here who is very smart. I think he might be able to help you.” The officer who was slurping coffee was telling the senior operator about his failed dating life, and whether the operator was trying to clear the line for a real emergency or give the officer something to do to, so she could stop listening to his shallow dating woes, wasn’t known.

The officer helped the boy by phone with the problems and told him a joke he’d read on social media that he didn’t think the boy got because he didn’t’ laugh: “Why is the Math book sad? Because it has so many problems.” He told him he’d come by the house and check on him in a while and did. When the officer pulled into the yard of the little house, an older Chevrolet was parked by the front steps, and the officer went up to the door and knocked. Sam’s mother opened the door, asked him if there was a problem. She figured the officer had come to report another fight her ex had in jail, or tell her he was in the hospital, but to her surprise, the officer was checking on Sam and shared why. Sam appeared behind his mother, she ran her hands through Sam’s hair, she apologized, and she invited the officer to eat spaghetti with them. 

She explained to Sam about 911 and told him not to do call again unless it was a real emergency, that homework was not an emergency. The officer told her it was the best spaghetti he’d ever eaten, and she told him he could come eat with them anytime. Neither of them had calculated those moves, but it seemed old math still worked, and they saw their problems as close to being solved.