Eliseem

“David let go and started shouting, “The bullets! The bullets! The bullets!”
His head pounded. His ears roared.”
― Michael Grigsby, Segment of One

“David watched Sol finish the can of beans. Sol always ate fast. He overate. Since he was eight.
Sol leaned back in the wooden chair against the wall, under the window. Baby brother. Sol could have been anything he wanted to be. Nothing mathematical, nothing quantitative, of course, but anything else. A beautiful boy, a wonderful brother, they got along well.
Then when Sol turned eight years old, age of a new beginning, their mother obsessed over him, ignoring David.
Obsessed over Sol and his underwear. Over and over, a regeneration, a newness. Changed his clothes constantly, had him on her lap every minute possible. She put him in bed and tucked the covers in every night. She refused to let their father do it, so he always took care of David.
But, of course, David needed no help and Sol always needed Ruth to take care of him.
Sol was still being breast fed even when he finally went to kindergarten. Then Ruth slowly increased regular, solid food. But before bed, Sol had a nightcap, mother’s milk. Their special time. Their unique closeness took a turn from breastfeeding to something else. By the time Sol was in third grade, he was one of the fattest kids in class. Then the brothers became a real team.
Now here he was. David and Sol still together, on a mission given by the Creator. It was perfect.”
― Michael Grigsby, Segment of One

“Dr. Bar David?”
A young man with black eyes and curly hair came toward him. Carrying a digital recorder. He looked familiar.
“Richard Falco, North Richardson High. I took algebra and Calc I from you.”
“Oh, yes, of course. Good to see you.”
“I’m now reporting for Anchor Media. Just started a couple of months ago.”
David started walking away. “Good for you. What a good course of action.”
“Listen, I need to get a couple of quotes anyway. I wonder if—Oh, wait! I’m so sorry. You were at the North Richardson school shooting, five years ago.”
David nodded. And began to panic.
“That’s why you’re here, right?” the stupid student asked. “Protesting gun laws?”
“I really need to be going, now. Good luck with your interviews.” Hyperventilating.
Richard grabbed David’s shoulder. “But Dr. Bar David. Your story, tragic as it is, ends up being the reason for this whole public gun melting, right? A few words from you about—”
David lost it. “Listen! My whole life changed that day. When that meshugener killed my entire family, my wife and my son, in an instant! With a gun he purchased the week before!” David grabbed the kid’s throat. “I do not want to talk about it. Don’t mention me in your article. I will sue you! Leave me alone.”
Richard swallowed and nodded, fast. “Sorry, sorry, I’m so sorry—”
David started shouting, “The bullets! The bullets! The bullets!”
His head pounded. His ears roared.”
― Michael Grigsby, Segment of One

“What else can it predict?”
Now the other jocks encircled her like a bullseye.
“Any event with data,” Holly said and really felt the need to leave. This was a set-up.
Big Bob grinned. “Like when I’ll get a date?”
Holly’s smile slid across her face. “Low probability events are hard to forecast.”
“Huh?”
Josh punched his shoulder. “She means, you are not likely to get a date.”
― Michael Grigsby, Segment of One