25 Hour Watch

 

The house on Corning Street was quite small and looked as though it had not been lived in for some time.

It was not as though this was one of the more prosperous neighborhoods in the city, merely one of those thousands of suburbs in the country where those families who crawled through life earning poverty wages could not help but gravitate towards. All the houses that lined these streets were small but the people who lived in them coexisted in a sort of unspoken yet universal testament to put their best face forward and refuse to allow their properties to fall into disrepair. By no means immaculate, every lawn was never-the-less trimmed, every coat of paint clean. Despite the hardships that all these residents faced in life, they took no small amount of pride in what little they could call their own.

However 1201 Corning Street was truly a blight against this testament. Much smaller than the other residences, its outward appearance caused even the most stout-hearted person to consciously avoid it, not so much out of fear as from sheer disgust.

The beige paint that covered the house was buckled and blistered, peeling off in large patches like a diseased skin revealing the dark wounds of rotted and insect infested wood beneath. Lining the base of the house was a thin string of roofing shingles which had either been ripped free by wind or simply slid off their weak fastenings. The screen door that opened to the front door was shredded and rusting, the whole thing hanging limp to one side on a single, corroded hinge. The small porch which led up to these doors was a minefield of weak boards, certain to collapse at the slightest urging and throw a transgressor below into a dark hole filled with fat rat’s nests. Of the two front facing windows on either side of the porch, one was cracked and splintered, covered by a thick film of dirt and grit. The other was gone altogether and replaced by a single thin sheet of sun-bleached plywood.

Half way up the small and cracked driveway was a badly dented and rusting Volkswagen Beetle, minus three hubcaps and the right door handle, a wide black trail of dried oil snaking from somewhere underneath the vehicle, down the driveway and disappearing into the street.

The patch of lawn out front was a wild thatch of tall browning weeds, the grass having been forced back into the parched dirt long ago due to neglect and the dry California weather. The only tree on the property, resting at the head of the driveway, was now only a thin and brittle skeleton.

In short, the house was in complete shambles, a chagrin of modern architecture, the ultimate symbol of suburban decay. It was a run down shack that would be certain for condemnation if only the city authorities would find the time or inclination to come to this part of town and sign the order for its destruction.

But none of that mattered because in that shanty, a miracle was at work. Inside, a divine act of creation was nearing completion and once finished, 1201 Corning Street would become the focal point for human kind. Here, the people of the world in all their shapes and sizes, beliefs and capacities would flock to pay homage at the center of enlightenment. Kings and queens would leave their palaces, prime ministers from the parliaments, presidents from their capitals in a pilgrimage of awe and respect. Popes and caliphs, senators and dictators, the masters of industry and the possessors of genius; all those who mattered and all those who did not. All of them would come and bend upon a submissive knee to pray here at the house of God.

At the moment, however, this place seemed quite unlike the house of God and anyone under this impression who ventured inside would doubtlessly think, “the Big Man is in desperate need of a maid.” Despite the rank appearance of the exterior of the house, it gave no indication of the horrific condition within. Inside, the air was stale and thick. Piles of empty TV dinner boxes spotted every room, along with moldy food trays and heaps of bare chicken bones which covered the floor, accompanied by empty, tarnished soda cans. But these were not the most unusual, or abundant, clutter in the house. Covering every area of flooring, inches thick in some places, three feet in others, was paper. All kinds of paper. There was plain white typing paper, college ruled, wide ruled, colored construction paper, sheets of cardboard, even pages torn from texts. They flooded every room, hugged every corner and ever niche, crawling in like a white wave from the bedroom to the bathroom, spilling into closets and pantries, lapping into the small kitchen until finally building into a massive crescendo in the largest room of the house, the living room.

And on every piece of paper, from top to bottom, back to front and edge to edge, were calculations. Mathematical calculations so compelling and so complex that the combined might of every great genius that has walked this earth, past and present, could only shrug at their intricate meanings. The numbers and symbols seemed to fold into themselves and exploded into never before imagined numerical devices and precepts. Yet even for the common layman to gaze at them brought a strange sense of serenity to the soul. Interwoven into each equation seemed to be the primal meanings of music, art, literature, politics, philosophy and medicine; the very spark of the human condition. Looking at a page, one could easily forget the hellish conditions in which they lay, open, exposed and ignored.

Lambert Simms was without doubt the single most intelligent essence in the universe. This was no simple boast, only a simple truth. Of the countless worlds in an ever-expanding universe, the repository of unlimited intellect found itself here on a blue and green planet, on the continent of North America in a small poor suburb in southern California, in a body known as Lambert Simms. His mind was conscious from the very moment of conception while still deep inside his mother’s belly. At once, his intellect began to grow at an exponential rate, doubling, redoubling and then doubling in on itself once more, fed not by teachers or textbooks and even experience. His mind was fed by some great outside force, even as his body grew at its nominal rate inside his host mother. By the time he was born, calculus and imaginary numbers were but mere playthings to him. Every language in the world, modern and archaic, were known to him. In his head, music that would have made the great classical masters weep floated and resounded. The mysteries of the universe were being made known to him and still his mind continued to absorb the never-ending stream of knowledge that flooded into it.

Yet all throughout his life, Lambert had never made his astounding abilities known. It would have taken him but five minutes with a knowing physician to describe a cure for disease. Not just cancer or diabetes, AIDS or Alzheimer’s, but all disease. To a historian, he could detail the mysteries of the ancients. So much he could have done and could still do for humanity. Yet he remained mute.

During his infancy, he played the part of the gibbering infant. Throughout his schooling years, he forced himself to perform moderately, not even bothering to attend university. He worked at several menial and unattractive jobs; a janitor, fast food, a gas station attendant, never for more than a year at a stretch. His reasons for all this were simple and direct. He wished to remain anonymous, an average and hidden man.

For now.

For Lambert, ultimately, did not just wish to be known, he wanted to be revered. To have revealed his true talents to the world by simple displays of his massive genius would have turned him into nothing more than a global media freak. His only testament to life would be headlines reading “NEWBORN INFANT KNOWS TRIG AND CALCULUS” or “TWELVE YEAR OLD UNRAVELS MYSTERIES OF THE PYRAMIDS.” He would become a puppet of daytime talk shows watched only by bored housewives, his every move and every aspect of his life would be reported by ever-hounding news people. Instead, he vied for a more profound impact on the world that would elevate his status to that of godhood in an instant. His anonymity would also allow him the time and privacy it would take to complete his life’s work.

From the very instant he was created, there burned deep inside him an underlining and all consuming raison d’être. He knew that it would be his lot in life to decipher the mathematical answer to life. The formula for existence. The single and decisive conclusion to all. It would be through the successful completion of this all-important question that he would smash his way into the heart and soul of the entire human race, not over the span of years but in one definitive and undeniable heartbeat. Where, in a single moment, his revelation would cause all the gods and goddesses of history, real and imagined, to throw their heads back in anguish and in a collective and cosmic scream of divinity, bellow their ultimate demise to be replaced by the one true master. Lambert would become a living God!

At this moment, however, Lambert was not a god and in fact, he was a pitiful sight. His dilapidated body sat alone, hunched over a simple wooden table. His black hair was matted and infested with lice. His unblinking blood-shot eyes rested in a pair of sunken dark holes. Every now and then, parched lips would pull back in a sneer, revealing two rows of uneven, pitted teeth. The filthy tank top he wore hid a disgustingly thin torso, ribs poking out like thin rafters. His arms and legs were like the branches of a sapling, veins bulging from the pale skin wrapped tightly against them. Such was the price this mental marvel paid for discovering the universal answer.

Lambert had been preparing himself for this endeavor all the twenty-five years of his life but, sensing the time had come to actively pursue it, had begun stocking up on his supplies needed to accomplish it only three years prior. He had bought this property, cheaply due to its location, and pre-paid for the expected electric, water and gas bills for the next five years. Despite his intelligence, he was not clairvoyant and could only guess at the duration of his trials but expected five years to be ample time. His next stop was the local office supply store where he cleared their stock of all the paper they had on immediate inventory. Sensing he would require even more paper, he next went to a bookstore and bought several hundred volumes as a back-up supply of writing material.

The paper and books he stacked in neat piles against every wall in the house, leaving only the smallest of spaces in the living room to place his small table. He piled the boxes of pens and pencils, also purchased at the office supply store (several dozen grosses in fact), within easy reach from his chair. He then purchased an industrial sized freezer, also placed in the living room, and with a special order from the grocery store, was stocked fit to burst with a few hundred white portion chicken TV dinners. A small mountain composed of cases of bottled water and soda pop erupted from the center of the kitchen. Then it was a trip to a pawn shop to buy a cheap revolver and a case of bullets.

His sanctuary fully stocked, Lambert made one last trip, driving down the street in his beat up Volkswagen and stopping at a house having a garage sale. There he made what he considered to be his most important purchase; a simple ten-digit plastic desk calculator bought for a single dime. His preparations completed, Lambert went home and, after making a quick adjustment to the cheap calculator, retired early that evening, time enough for one last dream. He rose early the next morning, had a fine breakfast of steak and eggs. After cleaning and placing away the dishes, he had then walked quietly to the table in the living room and sat down. He placed the calculator within easy reach of his right hand, placed the loaded gun further up, spread a clean white sheet of paper to his left, took a pen in his long fingers and began seriously to think.

Since that time two and a half years ago, Lambert’s life was an existence of continuous, perpetual hell as he worked on the answer to life. The process began with Lambert acknowledging the data that entered his brain from that great unknown source and breaking it down into simple numbers, zero through nine. These numbers he would enter into the plain brown calculator with his right hand. These simpler calculations acted as a key to the next step, allowing his mind to shift gears and upgrade these pure numbers into something altogether fantastic and he would scribble down these incredible equations onto paper with his left hand. Each equation led fluidly into another and once the sheet of paper was filled, he would toss the paper to the ground, reach for a fresh one and continue on. Each step in this filtering process was critical.

During this time, there had been no sleep. None. Such was his mind that he had almost perfect control over his own body and he could force it on almost indefinitely. However, the fiery desire of this quest could only sustain his body for so long. It still required sustenance and when he could no longer ignore the pain in his belly or the burning thirst in his throat, he would wrench himself away from the table, throw open the freezer and grab one of the TV dinners or dashed into the kitchen for a soda. Lambert did not even heat the dinners, he had no microwave, and he would simply leave it in the open and when the food had thawed enough to chew he ate quickly and while still working. He did this only sparingly, once every few days, his cells miserly absorbing whatever nutrients were required to keep the body functioning, no more. After the first two weeks, his hands and fingers had developed thick numbing calluses from the incessant writing and tapping on the calculator. After the first month, he had worn away the white printed numbers on the keys. Not long after, blisters and boils began to form along his underside, wounds developed by the constant pressure of his own body in his seated position. Lambert had prepared for this, having also purchased a large quantity of antiseptic cream.

In all, Lambert Simms had never spent more than three minutes at a time away from his work. Any longer might disrupt the steady flow of information that he continuously processed and interpreted. Any longer and he might realize the absolute horror and pain of his situation and simply surrender to it. Only five times in the past six seasons had he been unexpectedly interrupted by prowlers at his front porch. During those times, Lambert had heard heavy and unsteady footsteps at his front door, followed by the jiggling of the door handle, perhaps burglars hoping for an easy score or drug addicts looking for a quite place to forget themselves for a few hours. On those occasions, Lambert had grabbed his revolver, point it into the air and fired off a round, screaming “I’ll kill you all!” The report of the gunshot was always more than enough to deter anybody from entering. And in a neighborhood such as this, the sound of a single gunshot was not enough matter of concern for others to bother the police with.

This is how Lambert, the greatest intellect in the universe, elected to carry on his life for the past quarter of a decade. His mind never tired, never rested, its burning desire forcing the body on and on through unspeakable sufferings. Lambert had no idea when it would all finally come to an end, even concluding that it may never. However, on this, the seventh day of the seventh month of the second year, Lambert’s goal was all but finished.

Lambert had just finished a particularly complicated equation, one that had taken him three months to decipher, when the most incredible and unexpected event during his odyssey occurred. Lambert stopped.

His right hand suddenly froze over the keys of the calculator, his left hand ceased in their endless scribbling. Lambert stared at his hands, eyes wide. For the first time in his existence, his mind was completely blank. And for the first time in more than two years, his body was seized by a true emotion. Terror. With a whimper, Lambert spun in his seat and plunged himself into the heaps of paper on the floor. He grabbed sheet after sheet, scanning each equation written on them, mumbling the whole time, “Must have made a mistake. A mistake somewhere.” For three minutes, he reviewed his work, proof reading them for the slightest miscalculation. As he knew, however, they were all correct. Lambert Simms was incapable of making a mistake, not with the knowledge he possessed.

Finally, he lay back and let the fog of fear lift from his cooling mind, mentally exploring the possibilities. Then it occurred to him.

He was done. His work was finished. His mind had shut down because there was nothing more to consider. His head slowly turned to the small table, holding the precious calculator. He was done. The mathematical answer to the cosmos lay exactly where it should be, in the small ten digit screen on the cheaply made machine. With one push of the equals key, that one button he had never touched, there would appear a number. That number would act as an access code, a key that would unlock The Final Answer in his mind. With one quick and easy gesture, the billions of numbers that he had been adding, subtracting, multiplying and dividing for the past 982 days would be totaled.

Lambert stared at the small calculator for a moment, a smile spreading slowly over his face. Suddenly, his frail body surged with the energy of pure ecstasy. He leapt into the air, flinging his brittle arms around, dancing in a mad circle about the room. He whooped and yelled and laughed and cried. For several minutes he continued in his wild gyrations and bellows of joy, then collapsed to the floor, exhausted. He took another minute to regain his breath, then looked down at the debilitated condition of himself. Disgust rose in his throat but it didn’t matter. Soon he would be worshipped and revered by the whole of humanity. It would be no large matter to build his body back up again.

It suddenly dawned on Lambert that this was the longest break in work that he had ever allowed himself. He was no longer a slave to this dream, his mind no longer crunching impossibly complex calculations, equations and concepts, smashing the elements of existence to their most basic elements. His brain began to cool, no longer being pushed to its limits at that fever-pitched pace it was so accustomed to. He allowed his mind to wander wonderfully, to imagine. He saw himself in a light spring rain in Trafalgar Square in London, allowing the water droplets to cascade down his brow and into his open mouth. Then he was in an open air café in Nice, delicately sipping a cappuccino. Then he shot over to Munich in the middle of a festival with as much freshly brewed beer as he could drink, dancing and cavorting with a dozen young ladies. He then stood atop the world, twenty-nine thousand feet in the air looking down at the world from the summit of Mount Everest. Lambert could almost feel the wet rain on his body, taste the gently bitter cappuccino, hear the pretty fräuleins whispering into his ear, and see the world stretched out before him from the roof of the earth. He would have all of it and more.

He rose up from the floor and slowly walked towards the table, taking his seat. He looked at the calculator and the last ten digits on the screen looked back at him.

“I beat you,” he croaked, his voice raw and cracked. “You almost killed me, you bastard, but… I beat you!” With deliberate movements, Lambert extended a bony finger and prepared to push the equals key, his eyes fixed on the screen, greedily awaiting that final string of numbers that would deliver him into godhead.

A split second before Lambert could depress the button, the small screen suddenly went blank. The long number displayed on it simply disappeared with no muss, no fuss.

Lambert’s eyes bulged in surprise, his mouth went wide. Quickly he pressed the equals key. Nothing happened. He jabbed at it again. Still a blank screen. In manic desperation, he tapped at the key over and over with increasing force. The calculator remained silent.

With a cry of utter anguish, he snatched the contraption up, turned it over and ripped off the battery panel. His battery was in place and in working order. His battery, the battery he had replaced the original one with, the one of his own design and make which would power the calculator for dozens of years. Slowly, he turned the calculator over again and stared fixedly at its face. The screen was dead. With dreaded carefulness, he pushed the “power-on” button. The screen came alive now with a single digit displayed. A zero.

Then he saw it.

And when he saw it, he let the calculator slip from his fingers and fall onto the paper covered floor. Something in his mind cracked and a child’s voice welled up in his brain. “We can still do it!” the voice screamed at him. “We did it once, we can do it again! We can do it again!”
Instead, Lambert Simms allowed his right hand to snake across the table and take hold of the revolver with its last remaining bullet.

For all his intelligence and preparation, for all his mental might, Lambert had never before seen the three words printed plainly on the bottom left corner of the calculator. Now the image of those three words would become the last thing to burn itself into his mind’s eye.

“AUTO SHUT OFF”