The Human Calculator's Insane Computational Abilities

On a chilly day in January, the human calculator came for a visit.

Devin and I were watching the Discovery channel when we heard a light tap at the door. I went and opened it. Herman was standing there. He greeted me with a slight smirk. His face looked gaunt and his big eyes hollow in his large head.

"Hi, Herman," I said.

He grunted and nodded. Then he went over and plopped down on my couch using body language that conveyed a sense of urgency and despair. I noticed his forehead was packed with blood and a magnificent V-shaped vein was glowing in the center of it surrounded by bright orange splotches.

"Hey, Herman," said Devin. "How's everything going?"

"Not too good."

"What's wrong? You look terrible."

Some of the blood drained out of Herman's face. "I just had a fight with my mother."

I turned down the television. "What about?"

He leaned back and placed his hands behind his head. "Well, I woke up about noon today and went downstairs for breakfast. I grabbed a box of cereal and sat down at the kitchen table. My mom strutted over, snatched the box out of my hands, walked away and said: 'Around here, if you want breakfast you have to get up with the rest of us.' So I went over and grabbed the cereal box from her and started pouring it into my bowl, totally nonchalant. Well, she took a friggin' bottle of ketchup, one of those big glass bottles, and slammed it right into my back with all her strength. Hard as she could, with no warning whatsoever. I stood up, spun around and pushed her down onto the floor. I slammed my boot right into her belly three times. Then I turned and sprinted out the back door. As I ran out I heard her yell, 'I'm telling your father about this!' So I came over here. And that's what happened."

"That's terrible," Devin said.

I stared at the television and remembered all the bad things Herman had told me about his home life over the years. Violent outbursts, verbal abuse, drunken screaming all night long. His parents verged on being psychotic. Then I remembered Herman's special gift. And I hypothesized that the trouble in his life could be the reason for his insane computational abilities.

I broke out of my reverie. "Don't worry, Herman. I'm sure your mother will forget about that fight in no time."

I paused, wanting to change the subject.

"Hey, can you still perform those math calculations in your head?"

I watched the V-shaped vein and vile orange splotches return to his face.

"Yeah, I can still do those math calculations," said Herman, his words packed with sarcasm.

"Great," I said. "Calculate this then. What is 135,246,135,246 cubed?"

His eyes turned up toward the ceiling as he listened carefully to each digit I recited, focusing on the simple pattern they contained. Then he whipped his head backward and clenched his jaw tight. The muscles in his cheeks rippled and he started whispering the maniacal computations that his brain was performing. He bent forward, grabbed his forehead and began to hiss the carries and the multiplications and the various tricks of arithmetic he had unconsciously invented years ago. His tongue protruded from his lips and he leapt up from the couch and squeezed his eyes shut, his hands and arms shaking the entire time. Then he got calm and quiet and sat back down on the couch.

"The answer is: 2,473,856,995,423,079,152,003,450,381,866,936." His voice was slow and robotic.

Devin went over to the gun rack on my wall, opened the bottom drawer and took out a calculator. He knew I always kept one there. It was a special calculator with a large display screen that could handle humungous numbers. Devin punched a few buttons and asked Herman to repeat his answer. Then he read off the digits in perfect synchronization with Herman's monotonic stutter. Herman was never wrong.

"That's really impressive," I said.

Herman looked placid, the large vein in his forehead had vanished. We had succeeded in taking his mind off of his fight with his mother.

I looked over at Devin. He was kind of twisting his mouth from side to side, staring down at my green shaggy carpet. I figured he was contriving another difficult computational problem for Herman.

"I've got another one for you," said Devin. "What is 3141592, the first seven digits of Pi, multiplied by 2718282, the first seven digits of e, in octal representation?"

Herman didn't have a choice whether to do the problem or not. His mind automatically leapt onto anything we would throw at him. It was as if he was compelled by some ineffable force to attempt any calculation, no matter how high its level of difficulty.

Herman started computing the numbers faster than the last time. He hummed and his eyes blinked out a chaotic pattern that seemed to correspond with each of his mental calculations. He jumped up and slammed his hands onto his thighs, squeezed them, then started hopping up and down. He folded his arms and whispered the digits and stomped on the floor and chewed on his own long tongue. He threw his arms up as if praising some invisible deity, all the time humming louder and faster. Then he shut his eyes and became very still. We sat motionless, enthralled with the enigmatic individual gesticulating before us.

Herman slowly opened his eyes. "The answer is 174,211,760,042,160."

Devin punched in the calculation and examined the LCD. Correct again. Devin looked at me, nodded and grinned. "He's the smartest freakin person I've ever met."

"Yeah, smart to the n-th power," I said. "Herman, tell us how you do it?"

He meandered over to my refrigerator, opened it and took out a cold beer.

"How the hell should I know? I don't think about it, I just do it. I've always been good with numbers. You guys already know this. Just don't ask me to do another one, okay."

I picked up the remote control and turned up the television. Herman returned from the kitchen and sat down next to me. I noticed he wasn't wearing his usual obnoxious cologne.

I was still pondering Herman's fantastic calculating abilities when my front door suddenly burst open. It was Dexter, Herman's father. He barged in with his face bright red. He was panting like a Tasmanian animal and his entire 6 foot five, 360-pound body was covered in black foundry dirt.

Herman released a high pitched scream upon seeing his father. Then he bolted from my couch and ran toward the bathroom.

"THERE'S THAT LITTLE DEGENERATE SCUMBAG!" Dexter shouted as Herman tried to run past him. Dexter took one long step and slapped his meaty hand on Herman's back, catching him effortlessly. With his other hand, he grabbed Herman's greasy hair and started dragging him across the floor. Herman flailed and whimpered, reached up and tried to grab Dexter's thick legs.

I wanted to help Herman. I really did. But Devin was cowering against the wall in horror and I knew I was no match at all for Dexter by myself. He could have taken six men easily.

"How did you know Herman was here?" I yelled at Dexter.

"I KNOW EVERYTHING, YOU LITTLE PANSY!" Dexter answered back in a deep baritone, still dragging Herman across the room.

I stuck my head out the door and watched Herman kicking and screaming as he was being pulled down the hall. I hoped he would survive his father's beating and that I would soon see him again. I waved goodbye to Herman and thought of yelling a few words of encouragement, but I didn't think he would be able to hear me so I stayed quiet.

-end-

Jason Earls is author of the books Red Zen, Heartless B*stard In Ecstasy, How to Become a Guitar Player from Hell, Cocoon of Terror, If(Sid_Vicious == TRUE && Alan_Turing == TRUE) {ERROR_Cyberpunk(); } and 0.136101521283655... available at Amazon.com and other onlinebook stores. His fiction and mathematical work have been published in Red Scream, Scientia Magna, three of Clifford Pickover's books, Wretched & Violent, Mathworld, Chiaroscuro, Switchblade, Dogmatika, Neometropolis, Prime Curios, the Online Encyclopedia of Integer Sequences, OG's Speculative Fiction, AlienSkin, Escaping Elsewhere, Werewolf, Recreational and Educational Computing, Thirteen, Theatre of Decay, Nocturnal Ooze, Prime Curios, Bust Down the Door and Eat All the Chickens, Swallow's Tail, and other publications. He currently resides in Texas with his wife, Christine.