1.

No manuscript is as impressive as a blackboard smothered in mathematical calculations. This blackboard was a rectangular meter by a meter and a half. Its black surface was covered in scribblings done in white chalk that to an untrained eye appeared to be a foreign language, or one long forgotten. Here and there a familiar numeral emerged amid the entanglement of exotic symbols. A faint white blur of erased previous inscriptions existed beneath the bold white markings, much the way evidence of previous civilizations underlie the present-day world. On the tray at the bottom of the board were several well-used erasers and an array of white chalk nubs.

The small room, a little over two by three meters, contained little else. There were two worn easy chairs, a coffee table, and several folding chairs folded up against a wall. The bare wooden floor sported no rugs, the bare pale walls no paintings or pictures or posters or banners. There was one small window, but it was so securely blindered and heavily curtained that the time of day, or night, was indeterminable. Also, the room was poorly-lit. There was a spotlight clipped to the blackboard illuminating the work. The rest of the dim room was clean, in a sense. There were no food wrappers or drink cans or other detritus about, but then no janitorial effort had been squandered, either. Orderliness is revered by mathematicians; cleanliness, not so much.

About the easy chairs. They both were adorned with stickers. On one were images of cartoon mice, such as Mickey Mouse, Minnie Mouse, Mighty Mouse, Jerry (of Tom and Jerry fame), and Fievel Mousekovitz. On the other easy chair was a quote: ‘George is in the engineering department. He is not the engineering department. He is merely in it.’

In the middle of the coffee table sat a laptop. Affixed to and nearly covering its lid was a sticker of a woman clad in a classical robe of antiquity. Although the laptop itself was nicked and coffee-stained, the glossy brightly-colored sticker appeared new. The laptop was open and music emanated. Electronica tunes blended seamlessly one into another and echoed about the hollow space.

Before the blackboard stood Mickey Haiku. Late twenties, short (a little more than one and a half meters) and skinny, dishwater-color hair of no discernable cut, wearing too-long pants rolled up at the cuffs and cinched tight with a too-long belt, a once white coffee-stained short sleeve button up shirt, and paper-thin double-knotted tennis shoes. As for his face, there was a hint of whiskers upon the lower half of a round pasty glob. Weak eyes squinted behind heavy industrial-strength glasses.

Mickey stood before the blackboard studying the computations. There was a footstool for him to reach the uppermost regions of the board. At the moment he was squatted down examining the bottom.

“Mick.”

Mickey froze. Raised his head and looked around. No one else was present. He unsquatted and paused the electronica on his laptop. Total silence. He backed the track up and replayed it, listening closely. There was nothing in the music that sounded like someone saying his name. He paused the music once again and walked to a closed door and listened. No sounds from the other side. Mickey opened the door. In the small dark room a form could be seen in the invading light bundled up in a short bed. “George?”

“Mmphh?”

“Are you talking in your sleep?”

“If I was I’m not anymore.”

“I thought I heard something.”

“Are you having another nightmare?”

“I could be.”

“Then wake up and leave me alone.”

Mickey backed out, closing the door. He looked around the room. Shrugged. Then restarted the music on his laptop and returned to the chalkboard to squat where he had previously squatted.