Counting

COUNTING
WHEN MICHAEL MICHAEL WAS TWO years old, he could indicate with his two fingers how old he was. He could even say the word quite clearly: "Two." At the age of three, he could count to three. Shortly afterwards, to four, then to five, and later on to six.
By the time he was four years old, he could count quite easily to ten. Over and over again he’d count; then to twenty, thirty, forty.
At the age of five, Michael was able to get all the way to one hundred. He would count to that magical three-digit number (although he knew nothing about digits yet), and then start all over again, with one. His parents helped to show him how to keep going: after reaching one hundred, start again from the beginning, but keep the one hundred intact: one hundred one, one hundred two, and so on. When he got to two hundred, it was the same: drop the one hundred, substitute the two, and begin again. And to three hundred. Michael never actually counted all the way to one hundred--or to two hundred, or three hundred, for that matter--all by himself until he was in kindergarten. But his parents liked to tell the story that he could, and the story stuck for quite some time.
Later, after he had learned about digits--that there was a written symbol for each number, he became fascinated with the physicality of it; no longer were numbers just a concept; now they had shape and form–-an image. He could see them: he loved the simplicity of the one; and the greater simplicity--as well as the greater riddle--of the zero.
Soon Michael began to notice that there were numbers everywhere: on the cereal boxes at breakfast time, on the cartons of milk; and all around the house: the telephone, the radio, the clock and the calendar; the house numbers out on the front of each of the houses on the street, and the corresponding numbers on the curb.
At the grocery store one day, riding in the shopping cart with his older brother pushing, he saw that all the food items too had numbers on them--on the box or the bag or the can or the carton, or above them on the shelf, and in the produce section as well--on all the little signs by the neatly stacked rows of apples and oranges and tomatoes and avocados.
Before too long he made the connection that one could count more than just numbers; things could be counted as well: The people in his family: There was one mom, one dad, one sister, and one brother. Then he learned that he could count in different ways and come to different numbers--different conclusions: five people in one house. Next he would count things in the house: the chairs and tables, doors, windows, walls, the lights, the rooms, the cupboards, dishes, plates and silverware, and books and pages. And outside: the trees and roses and sprinklers, and the branches and leaves, the lawn, the grass; the leaves of grass. It became almost overwhelming! There were so many things to count. And a whole lifetime ahead of him in which to do it.
His parents wrote in his scrap book that his favorite book was the telephone directory.
* * * * * * *
In grade school Michael learned that there was a subject called arithmetic: addition and subtraction. He preferred addition and soon learned some of the short-cuts to attaining higher and bigger numbers: five, ten, fifteen, twenty. . . .
Multiplication was an introduction to a new world–-a world of numbers he had never before even dreamed of: thousands, tens of thousands, hundreds of them, millions and billions. He was impressed by their size–-their length and variety--and by what they represented. The enormity of it all. The power.
* * * * * * *
Michael found all of his junior high and high school classes fascinating, and although he preferred the math classes–-algebra and geometry and trig and calculus–-he soon began to notice how all subjects were related in some way to math–-to the numbers: of course, physics and the other sciences, both physical and life, but also the behavioral and social sciences–-history, economics, sociology, psychology, anthropology–-and the humanities: music, art, dance, drama, and poetry. Everything, Michael believed, originates and returns to mathematics and numbers: life; time: the seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks and months and years, centuries, millennia, ages and epochs. Without numbers, he wrote one day in his graph book, there is nothing.
* * * * * * *
In college Michael had to decide on a major–-and a career. Quite naturally, he found his place in the Mathematics Department; but then, his junior year, he moved into accounting. He still loved the pure math–-the numbers for themselves–-but now he could make the connection between the ideal and the pragmatic. Plus, he could now count and calculate the most important thing in the world: money.
It was no surprise then that he graduated at the top of his class, that he went on to graduate school, received his CPA and MBA, and wound up at the largest, most prestigious accounting firm in the Midwest.
Sometimes he recalled his early fascination with numbers, and he realized that, all things considered, his life was turning out pretty damn good.
* * * * * * *
Michael Michael got married at the perfect time in his life: twenty-eight years old; he had a good job--had had it for two years; he was financially stable and secure; out of debt; making good money as well as a good name for himself. His parents approved of the match, as did his friends; and so did her parents and her friends. Perfection. Her name was Veronica.
On their second wedding anniversary Michael and Veronica announced that they were pregnant, and by the end of the year they had a son. They named him Michael Michael II. Two years and two months and two weeks and two days later, they had another son. Life could not have been better.
Then, to their surprise, when Michael III was four years old, Veronica became pregnant again. Though the new baby was unplanned, the news thrilled them. They began making preparations. But then, midway through the pregnancy, they learned that they were expecting twins. Initially startled, they became even more excited--and made more plans.
In the spring, just minutes after the babies were born, the proud parents looked deep into the faces of each of their daughters; they examined their entire bodies. And as they studied the bodies of their two newest children, they realized very slowly that they looked exactly alike: they were exactly the same. Subsequent tests revealed that the twins were indeed identical.
Later, leaving the hospital, they remarked to each other--and to the hospital staff--that, when they got home, they might have difficulty telling the two apart. How to do this? They all looked for distinguishing features--a birthmark, a different shading or length of hair, complexion, anything. But they could find nothing that would assist them in the task.
One solution they’d already considered was to give the girls two very different names. And this they did--Michelle and Tomiko–-thinking that that might help, if not immediately, at least eventually.
When they brought the twins home, Michael and Veronica made sure that they each kept their original hospital bracelets on. But they also began thinking of other ways to insure that they would not get them confused. They’d considered piercing and tattooing, but dismissed that idea at once; they tried bows in the hair--which, of course, always fell off; and bracelets and anklets --which left marks and irritations. So they decided that they would just have to be extremely careful to always dress them differently.
Of course, bathing became a long and laborious task, for they washed the sisters separately, one after the other, for fear that if they put them in the same tub together, somehow they might get them mixed up and not be able to tell them apart. However, after a number of months of these separate baths--the tediousness of it all, how long it took (Michael and Veronica and the rest of the family were all very busy), they decided to try washing them together--and just being very, very careful about it. Even so, they took precautions: They placed a tiny ring on Tomiko’s finger when they put her in the tub. And this worked quite well--for awhile--until one day, in the bath, the ring disappeared. They searched and searched without success and concluded finally that she must have eaten it. For several days afterwards, Michael and Veronica checked their diapers diligently. But they never found the ring. And, to add to their anxiety, after that, they were always a little uncertain who was who.
To be sure, they took even greater care to not get them mixed up again, but for the rest of their lives, Michael and Veronica shared a doubt: wondering if, when they were talking to Tomiko, they were really, in fact, addressing Michelle.
* * * * * * *
There were no more children, but that did not stop Michael from counting. As his life played itself out, he tabulated the results: his income, his investments, the checking and savings accounts, the trust funds, IRAs, his properties and real estate, the square acreage; his golf score, his handicap.
He counted his grandchildren: nine of them. And he thought, in a moment of uncommon reflection: a good number. A true number. A square root and a square.
Of all the grandchildren, Michael loved, of course, his namesake the best: the youngest son of his own youngest son: Michael Michael III, Jr. II.
From the very beginning he would hold his favorite grandchild on his lap and talk to him, read to him, sing to him, and count to him--eventually, to count with him. Almost as soon as he was learning the names of things, the child was learning the magic of numbers and their accompanying possibilities: one mouth, two eyes, two ears, one head; two hands, five fingers on each of the two hands, five toes on each of the two feet; and the teeth as they appeared: one, two, three, four, and on and on, and beautifully on.
* * * * * * *
Time continued. The years went by; and Michael Michael totaled them up-–along with the months and the weeks and the days–-and with each category, he achieved higher and bigger numbers–-and more and more of them. And as he continued to collect and organize the numbers into their new arrangements and groupings, he found that he could create even larger and grander numbers--and more of them–-even if they were of smaller units: the minutes and the seconds. He programmed his computer so that it would keep an on-going count of all of the aspects of his numerical life.
But now his desire for an even greater number–-the greatest number–-the grand total number-–took hold. Michael Michael realized that by projecting his entire lifetime, he might reach his own final, completed essence. His conclusion. And so he did. He tallied up the years of his parents and his grandparents-–and his great-grandparents, when he could find theirs. He got their total life spans and divided them by the number of ancestors he had, and he calculated the average age at the time of their deaths. And then, adding a few more years because of his own good health, he came to a number: a good number. The final number.
But his drive for immortality could not be contained. When he and Veronica bought their coffins, Michael had installed in his a small clock–-a watch, really–-so that when he was finally laid to rest, something would be there to record the movement of time. The clock he purchased contained both analogue and digital readings-–so that the numbers themselves would be there as well as the second and minute and hour hands ticking away and turning in their endless cycles.
Michael debated with himself whether he should use a self-contained, battery-operated system or just an external energy source–-an electric plug or something going right into the casket. Finally, and perhaps in part because he liked the idea of independence (he didn’t want to have to rely on the outside world anymore), he decided on batteries, even though he knew full well that they too would eventually run down and die, just like the ones in his own current watch on his own living wrist.
To address the battery problem, he decided to buy extra-strength, long-lasting cells. But he continued thinking: to extend the life of the clock, perhaps he could somehow hook up a little device of some sort that would slip the new batteries into place just before the old ones died–-maybe even a whole string of batteries–-six or eight–-or a hundred--in a row-–to actually switch over, one after the other, at the proper moment. In this way, even inside the casket, the hours and days and years-–the decades perhaps–-could still be observed and recorded long after his death.
The clock–-continually counting–-would eventually die, he knew, but that would be so far into the future that he wouldn’t need to worry about that right now.