jasonearls

"Everybody out!" shouted the lumberjack, stomping into the laundromat. He was huge. About 6 feet 9
inches tall and weighed around 350 pounds. His checked flannel shirt was green and black and brand
spanking new. Over his shoulder a large axe was propped, bright red blood dripping from the blade.

A math teacher walked in behind the lumberjack. He wore thick glasses. Had a t-shirt with a big
Rocket Equation on the front. He glanced around the shitty laundromat and cackled.

The lumberjack and the math teacher were on a mission.

To find the Fountain of Youth.

No one knew exactly how they had ended up on a team together. But they both wanted to be young
again. They had that in common. And clues from a secret treasure map they had found near Iceland
led them to Florida and into this laundromat. The math teacher put his hands on his hips and cackled
again. He was always doing that. It got annoying really quick.

"We're not going to find the Fountain of Youth in here," whined the math teacher.

"You never know," boomed the lumberjack. "Maybe it'll pop up. It could be anywhere. And if we don't
find it, there's always a chance we'll stumble upon the Meaning of Life. We're looking for that too,
remember. As an added bonus."

Just as the last word left the lumberjack's heavily bearded face and the last patron stepped out of the
laundromat, a washing machine door in the far southern corner burst open and a thick column of
water erupted; it sprayed up and hit the ceiling, fanned out and started flooding the floor.

The lumberjack jumped back. The math teacher hopped up. They realized immediately what they
were seeing. The real Fountain of Youth. For the first time. They had actually found it. The magic
phrase had been "MEANING OF LIFE" even though neither of them knew it. Nevertheless they were
both exuberant.

"Wow!" screamed the lumberjack. "What did I tell you? There it is, the real fucking Fountain of Youth!"
He pointed to the huge blast of spraying water and grinned.

"Yeeaahhh," whispered the math teacher, ducking down low. He was a little afraid of the water. So he
started factoring a few large numbers. All in his head. The math teacher had obsessive compulsive
disorder and couldn't stop factoring numbers whenever he got nervous. He would test certain
patterns to see if they were prime or not. His mind worked constantly on things like that. Always
whispering digits. If you were around him long enough, his constant factoring got really old. Today he
tested 1728*10n+1729, choosing the number 1729 for a secret reason that is easy to discover if you
ever read a popular book written for laymen on number theory. The authors always list the same fact
about 1729. Here are the integers that flickered out of the math teacher's mouth at lightning speed:

17280001729 = 23 * 751304423

172800001729 = 37 * 4670270317

1728000001729 = 59243 * 29168003

17280000001729 = 17 * 67 * 503 * 30161437

172800000001729 = 37 * 432 * 2525835733

1728000000001729 = 103 * 383 * 43803391721

17280000000001729 = 919 * 735331 * 25570861

172800000000001729 = 37 * 4670270270270317

1728000000000001729 = 53 * 7104973 * 4588866641

17280000000000001729 = 29 * 18859 * 357347 * 88417237

172800000000000001729 = 37 * 54751 * 85300182102067

17280000000000000001729 = 1999 * 148153 * 58347263714407

172800000000000000001729 = 37 * 467 * 364853 * 27409884904867

1728000000000000000001729 = 1289 * 1340574088440651667961

17280000000000000000001729 = 124121 * 10114820159 * 13763861911

172800000000000000000001729 = 37 * 4670270270270270270270317

Primes:

1728*101+1729

1728*104+1729

1728*106+1729

1728*1018+1729

1728*10165+1729

1728*10237+1729

1728*10292+1729

1728*10304+1729

1728*10610+1729

1728*105857+1729

1728*107353+1729

The lumberjack lifted his bloody axe from his shoulder (he'd had to slice off the genitals of quite a few
bastards during their mission so far), then he set it down on the floor, went over and patted the math
teacher on the back; they were really good friends.

"Forget about those numbers for awhile, Sam," said the lumberjack. "Look. There's the Fountain of
Youth right there. The magical thing we've been searching for all this time. Get over there and try it
out, man. You can be the first one. I'll wait right here and watch what happens."

The force of the water shooting from the washing machine seemed to increase upon the word
'happens.' The level on the floor immediately rose. The math teacher smiled. Turned and looked out
toward the street. People were peeking in the windows. Wondering what the fuck was going on. The
math teacher went over to the intense spray. Leaned in and stuck his face against the blast. Water
sprayed hard against his right cheek, cascaded over his forehead and nose, then covered his entire
head. His thick glasses flew off and his body zig-zagged and he strained to keep his head in position
against the force. The lumberjack observed him from the sidelines and his eyes bugged out when he
saw the math teacher's head change from a 46-year old math nerd into the head of a 21-year old
beautiful blonde female who could have modeled for Vogue magazine. The math teacher pulled his
new head out of the spray. His eyelashes were long, his lipstick dark red, his rouge perfect, his face
totally dry. Not a single strand of blonde hair wet. He looked extremely beautiful. Then he started
speaking in a high squeaky effeminate voice.

"My oh my, what happened? The Fountain of Youth must not be adjusted right. The chemical
composition is way off. Look what it did to my head, man."

The lumberjack was worried but also a little turned on by the math teacher's hot and sexy new female
face. But then he got grossed out when he saw the skinny, male, no-curved, math geek body below.
The lumberjack tried to hide his concern about the fountain malfunction; he didn't want the math
teacher sliding into panic mode.

"Stick your head in again," screamed the lumberjack. "Go on, one time is never enough with the real
Fountain of Youth. Don't worry about it, be brave, man. Knock your socks off and stick that head back
in there! It'll probably return to normal. Give it one more shot."

The math teacher smiled shyly and leaned over and stuck his female head back into the Fountain of
Youth. The spray jetted over his forehead and lips and the lumberjack opened his bearded mouth
and watched as the head metamorphosed into a 120-year old man's head. The math teacher leaned
back. His face was wrinkled and puckered, he had pure white scary skin and large brown and yellow
freckles of disease and death. He stared at the lumberjack and spoke in a slight voice that came out
in dry squeals, his vocal chords raw and half-way gone.

"O-oh... C-Christ... w-what... do... w-we... do... nooowww?"

The lumberjack backed up a few steps, got confused, looked around for his bloody axe, picked it up.
"Don't ask me. I guess you should stick your head in one more time. But you may have already gone
too far. It looks like this Fountain of Youth just picks random heads from the people who have used it
before. Jesus, I don't know what to do. I don't get it. I thought it would work more precisely, judging
from how famous the damn thing is. Wait. I know. This must not be the real Fountain of Youth after all.
We've found an imposter. It's really the Fountain of Doom."

The math teacher bent forward again, stuck his elderly wrinkled head back into the robust spray,
which still maintained its exact force throughout this whole mess. The water blasted against his
cheeks and nostrils and even hit part of his neck.

But his head did not change.

It just stayed in the elderly form.

But he held it there. On and on. Never giving up.

The lumberjack noticed the spray was getting weaker. He thought the fountain was getting ready to
vanish and change locations. They would have to look for it - or the real one - all over again. But how
would they know from now on if they had the genuine Fountain of Youth or not? What if the Fountain
of Doom kept appearing in its place? And who would be brave enough to test it? It seemed entirely
too dangerous. But the lumberjack still wanted to be young again and he knew the math teacher did
also and thus they would have to continue their search for the real Fountain of Youth.

"The water's running out!" yelled the lumberjack. "Hold your head there! We're getting ready to lose
it!"

"But my face isn't changing," said the math teacher, his head still immersed. "It still feels really old!"

He sputtered and gasped for breath, his white face still in the water. He had been holding it there way
too long. More than twenty minutes.

Then an explosion erupted.

Blood and brain tissue flew and slapped against the walls of the laundromat.

The lumberjack turned away and tried to duck. But the gore splattered all over his new clothes. He
stood up and looked at the walls and the glass windows and tried to brush away the slimy gray matter
and bits of skull.

"Whew, I guess you only get two shots at the old Fountain of Doom," said the lumberjack. "Well, at
least I know that now. I'll keep that in mind as I continue to search for the real Fountain of Youth for
the rest of my life."

The decapitated body of the math teacher lay on the floor. Blood oozing from its neck. The water
stopped spraying from the washing machine. The lumberjack looked at the big windows at the front of
the laundromat. About fifty people were there pressed against the glass, staring inside. The
lumberjack lifted his axe to his muscular shoulder. Started waving the people back in.

"All right, you can come back in the laundromat now. The show's over. Bring your dirty clothes in and
get them going. I don't think this is the real Fountain of Youth after all. False alarm. And we had to
lose a good man because of it. He was an excellent math teacher and a real savant at factoring large
numbers in his head even though he did have an almost debilitating case of OCD. Let this be a
fucking lesson to you all about the Fountain of Youth. I'm outta here."

And the 6' 9" lumberjack carried his 350 lb. frame out the door. The common citizens flocked back
into the laundromat, slamming into each other with their baskets full of filthy clothes. They put them in
and added detergent and a few people started cleaning up the math teacher's gore off the walls. The
rest of them simply ignored the slime and went about their business. A few citizens hovered over the
math teacher's corpse. Staring at the pools of blood and the missing head and the remnants of brain
matter. Others went to the southern corner of the laundromat where the washing machine had
emitted the Fountain of Doom. One man dabbed at a puddle of water, stuck his finger in his mouth. "It
tastes like hot dirt," he said. Then a woman wondered what would happen if she leaned down and put
her cheek in some of the water. But she was afraid to try it.

Then a faint whispering sound permeated throughout the entire laundromat.

A harrowing noise that descended from the ceiling and walls.

Whispered digits from the deceased math teacher.

The people stared up at the ceiling and glanced around and hugged their own upper bodies. They
felt hot and cold chills roll down their backs and shins.

The noise went away for a minute. Then it returned - the math teacher factoring large numbers and
murmuring the integers. The sounds went away again. Then more whispered numbers. Went away.
Returned. Went away, returned. Went away, returned. Went away returned.

Went Away Returned.

Went Away. Returned. Went AWAY Returned. Everything topsy-turvy and smelling of cinnamon.
WENT AWAY, RETURNED. WENT AWAY RETURNED.

Finally the whispered digits went away for good.

The rest of the day the patrons tried to ignore the disturbing noises and wash their clothes without
getting too much blood and brain tissue on them, and the next evening many people returned to the
laundromat to see if they could hear the weak elderly voice with the dry vocal chords reciting various
numbers. They would come in and wait and eyeball the ceiling and glance at the walls and listen
closely and say "Huuusssshhhh! I think I can hear him," and try to discern whether it was the ghost of
the math teacher or just their macabre imaginations. Occasionally, for a few minutes each evening,
they would truly be able to hear him - on spooky days mostly; or calm days; or sad days; or cloudy
days; but no one ever actually saw the math teacher's ghost.

For the next two hundred years the math teacher haunted that laundromat and no one ever heard
from the lumberjack again. But more and more people flocked in there to wash their clothes since
they loved to be scared, which is why they wasted so much money on those corny, cliche-ridden
horror movies. Sometimes the ghost would even lose his temper over a mental malfunction and get
irate and scream and cuss and his voice would ascend into a disturbing high-pitched wail and the
patrons would listen and tremble and add more fabric softener to their loads. A few people said
hearing the math teacher's fits was even scarier than watching the movie "The Exorcist" for the first
time in 1973, which caused so many people to develop serious psychological problems.

-end-

When I was around eighteen years old I had a streak of bad luck. My mother kicked me out of the house for not
wanting to go to college and not having a job and for not wanting to do anything except play guitar in a rock
band. But I had a best friend by the name of Nick who let me move into his cellar. It was small and musty and
had a tiny cot to sleep on and I kept a few books down there. But after a couple of weeks of sleeping in such a
damp moldy place I noticed white stuff growing on my skin. Crusty white flakes like I was turning into some kind
of lizard. But I just ignored it. At least by staying in the cellar I could come and go as I pleased and get drunk
anytime I wanted to.

My friend, Nick, still lived with his mother. She was about 45 years old and her name was Dianne. She had a
plain face and slightly dark-complected skin and a lot of energy - a really spry type of person. She spoke in a
nicotine-drenched guttural Okie drawl that seemed like a caricature of a female redneck. But it wasn't fake.
That's the way she really talked. About four of her teeth were missing in the front and she had a little pot belly.
She could be very nice to me when she wasn't calling me a pussy for not caring about working on car engines
or installing big speaker systems in trucks like most of the men did that she knew. (Once a guy came to her
house and I listened to him brag in the next room that he could bench press 350 pounds and that he had five
motorcycles and three custom built race cars setting in his garage; then after all his bragging, Dianne needed a
window opened that was stuck, and the bragger couldn't lift it up and they came and asked me to do it; I went to
the window and raised it easily; then later the same guy who told them about his modes of transportation asked
me to take him home (I had a cheap car then); do you see how he contradicted himself twice?) Dianne would
also call me a wimp for checking out books from the library and reading them down in the cellar. Anyway, she
was okay for the most part, the living arrangement wasn't that bad, she didn't charge me too much rent for
sleeping in her cellar, and Nick got me a job roofing houses with him that paid six bucks an hour.

So one day after Nick and I had roofed for twelve hours in the hot sun and got sunburned over 92% of our
bodies, we went home and Dianne made us a cheap spaghetti dinner. Then Nick suggested we all drive out to
the Dairy Chill for ice cream. I didn't like ice cream. I always remembered the story about Jim Morrison making
fun of his band members for wanting to stop for ice cream before a concert, and he ended up going into a
liquor store and buying a bottle of whiskey to swig as the others licked their ice cream cones. But I decided I
would go with them anyway and have a coke.

We pulled into the parking lot of the Dairy Chill. They had a little go-cart setting in front of the building. A sign
above it said you could enter to win the go-cart in a free drawing.

"Goddamn, kids," said Dianne excitedly. "Look at that little go-cart. They're having a free give-away here. I'm
gonna to sign up for that car right now because I know little Timmy would just love to have it."

Little Timmy was one of her grandsons. She loved him more than any other member of her family. She spoiled
him all the time. We parked and Dianne had a smile on her face thinking about winning the go-cart for little
Timmy. The radio was on playing Ratt's Out of the Cellar album. A Dairy Chill employee came out of the
building. He was young. About 16. He strolled up to our car window and asked us what we wanted.

"We'll take one strawberry malt, one chocolate ice cream cone, and one coke," Dianne said. "And I want to sign
up for that little car right there!" She pointed to the go-cart. "It's going to be perfect for my grandson. And I
know I'm going to be the one that wins it too."

She was still smiling.

"I'm sorry, ma'am," said the Dairy Chill employee. "But we're all out of entry forms for the free drawing."

Dianne exploded.

"WELL I'LL BE A MOTHERFUCKER!" she screamed. "WHY DO YOU STILL HAVE THE GODDAMN SIGN UP
THEN! JESUS CHRIST YOU FUCKING DICKHEAD, I WANTED TO WIN THAT LITTLE CAR FOR MY
GRANDSON. IS THIS PLACE RUN BY TOTAL ASSHOLES, OR WHAT!"

"I'm sorry, ma'am. We ran out of forms about an hour ago. But I'll go in and get your order right out to you."

The Dairy Chill employee stayed calm. Dianne's outburst did not seem to phase him in the least. I turned up the
radio a bit more. Ratt's Out of the Cellar album was fucking awesome. The kid went back into the building to get
our order. Nick and I sat there listening to Dianne rant about not being able to sign up for the go-cart. She was
really upset. A few minutes went by. Then we saw the employee come out carrying a silver tray with our order.
He set the tray down on our window. Dianne grabbed her purse, took out some money to pay him. She had a
scowl on her face and didn't give him a tip. He thanked her and turned and started walking off. Dianne handed
us our orders. Then she took a big drink of her malt and started screaming.

"SON-OF-A-BITCH! GET BACK HERE YOU MOTHERFUCKER! YOU SCREWED UP MY FUCKING ORDER!"

The employee walked back to our car. "What's the problem, ma'am?" His voice was low and calm.

"I ORDERED A STRAWBERRY MALT AND THIS IS CHOCOLATE! THAT'S WHAT'S WRONG. JESUS, CAN'T
YOU FUCKHEADS GET ANYTHING RIGHT?"

"Would you like for me to take it back, ma'am?"

"WELL BY-GOD HELL YES I WANT YOU TO TAKE IT BACK! I WANT YOU TO BRING ME WHAT I ORDERED,
YOU LITTLE FUCKER. A STRAWBERRY MALT. DO YOU THINK YOU CAN MANAGE THAT SON?"

"Yes, I can manage it, ma'am."

The employee walked off. I was laughing a little. Nick was rolling his eyes. I guessed that Dianne was still mad
about Dairy Chill being out of order forms. She had the go-cart in mind for her grandson and couldn't let it go.
Nick wasn't laughing. He seemed depressed by the situation. He'd probably been through a million of these
outburst scenarios with his mother. I took a drink of my coke and tried to focus on the music.

A few minutes passed. The kid came back out carrying the tray. A single cup setting in the center. He set the
tray down and handed Dianne her malt. Then he started explaining something as Dianne raised the cup to her
lips: "Ma'am, before you get mad again, you should know that we are all out of strawberry. I just gave you a
vanilla malt because we only have chocolate and vanilla available."

"WHAT. YOU FUCKING DIRTY SON-OF-A-BITCH. WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON AROUND HERE. WHY
DON'T YOU HAVE ANYTHING A PERSON WANTS, YOU MOTHERFUCKER. HERE, I'LL SHOW YOU."

She opened the car door. My eyes got a little wider because I didn't know what she was going to do. The kid
backed slowly away from the car. He was staring at Dianne. She got out and stood with her legs planted far
apart, took the lid off the vanilla malt and flung half of it toward the employee. It splattered across his face and
chest. He lurched backward and began wiping it away.

"THERE, HOW DO YOU LIKE THAT YOU FUCKING BASTARD. THERE'S YOUR GODDAMN VANILLA MALT.
DO YOU LIKE THAT, HUH, DO YOU?"

She walked to the front of the car. She was squealing now and I couldn't make out any of her words. She was
wearing these old black shorts that she'd had on for about two weeks. I took a sip of my coke without taking my
eyes off her. I noticed Nick was looking down and I saw his ice cream cone laying on the floorboard melting
away. Dianne crouched down a little and reached for her crotch. She yanked her shorts over to the side. She
held the half empty cup of vanilla malt down below her vagina. The Dairy Chill employee was still standing in
front of her a few feet away. He was backing up, his eyes locked in on her, obviously afraid she was going to
attack him at any moment. I looked at the cup in front of her crotch and saw a thick stream of yellow urine
shooting into the cup. I couldn't believe it. I looked around the parking lot. There were about fifteen cars there
and the people in them had to have been watching. I looked back at her, she was still pissing in the cup.

"Jesus," I said. "Look what she's doing, Nick."

But he still had his head down. Not watching at all.

Dianne stood in front of the car cussing at a lower volume now, her shorts still pulled to the side, pissing and
filling up the half-full cup of vanilla malt.

The employee was shielding his eyes from the spectacle. Backing toward the Dairy Chill entrance. She pissed
on until I saw the liquid spill over the side. Finally she stopped urinating and let go of her shorts. They snapped
back into place and she held up the Piss Malt.

"I GUESS THIS IS WHAT YOU DAIRY CHILL FUCKS WANT ME TO DRINK INSTEAD OF MY REAL ORDER,
HUH?" she screamed.

Then she lifted the malt to her lips and started guzzling it down.

I watched her tilt the cup all the way back.

She drank on and drained every drop.

I was grossed out, I dry heaved a few times.

I looked over at Nick. He had his eyes closed. Hunched over in the seat.

Dianne threw the empty cup to the cement and ran over to the glass windows of the Dairy Chill building. She
started pounding on the windows and yelling. She stared inside at the employees and screamed as loud as she
could.

"YOU PUSSIES, YOU GODDAMN PANSY MOTHERFUCKERS, IF YOU HAD ANY BRAINS YOU WOULDN'T BE
WORKING HERE, I SHOULD HAVE KNOWN BETTER, IF YOU WERE SMART YOU WOULD BE WORKING ON
CAR ENGINES, YOU'D HAVE A JOB IN A MECHANIC'S SHOP, YOU DON'T KNOW JACK SHIT AND THAT'S
WHY YOU FRY HAMBURGERS AND MAKE MALTS FOR A LIVING, IF YOU HAD ANY BRAINS AT ALL YOU
WOULD BE UNDER A CAR RIGHT NOW BECAUSE MECHANICS ARE THE SMART ONES IN THIS WORLD,
YOU FUCKING PUSSY SONS-OF-BITCHES."

I heard sirens and saw two police cars pull into the parking lot. Their lights were flashing. The police officers got
out with their guns drawn. Dianne just ignored them and continued pounding on the windows and screaming.
Two other cop cars pulled in. I ducked down in the seat but still tried to see what was happening. Nick stayed
rigid beside me. I watched one of the officer's run up and tackle Dianne. She started fighting him and tried to
resist the arrest. Other officers jumped in and grabbed her arms and legs. They picked her up and carried her
over to a cruiser. They eventually got her in the back seat. Then one of the officers went over to the employee
with vanilla malt splattered all over him. The kid waved his arms around, explaining what had happened. He
never pointed to us sitting in the car and I was grateful. A few more minutes and the officers got in their cars
and drove away with Dianne in the back. Nick finally came to life and scooted over in the seat. He got behind
the wheel and drove out of the parking lot.

"Are you all right, Nick?" I said.

"Yeah, I'm fine."

"Did you see any of what your mother did. Were you watching what happened?"

"No. I don't want to talk about it."

We drove home. We were afraid to call the police station to find out if his mother was there. We stayed by the
phone all night but she never called. I don't know if they took her to jail or to prison or to an insane asylum or
what. But I never saw Dianne again. And neither did Nick, as far as I know. But he didn't seem to care too much.
He knew his mother was mentally disturbed. He had hated her vile nature and ridiculous outbursts for years.

I stayed in Nick's cellar for another six months until I finally saved up enough money from the roofing job to get
my own apartment.

But occasionally I still think about Dianne and her Piss Malt.

I wonder where she is and what she is doing right at this moment.