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Description
To save a world with math.
------
"Did you find a job, dear son?" coughed Mrs. Cockroft in the black smoke of her overcooked muffins. "Son?"
"I'm here. And no, not yet." Young Michael Cockroft tossed the muffin rocks into the trash can, where a wide assortment of petrified bread and pies had found refuge.
"Ah, but you're almost out of high school, dear son. With your brains, it should be easy to find an employer."
"That's what you'd think. And since when did you start calling me 'dear son'?"
"Oh, dear son..." Mrs. Cockroft narrowed her eyes, her fake smile turning into a scowl. "Get your lazy geometry butt out of MY kitchen and make yourself useful!"
Before his mother could use her foot, Cockroft slipped out of the room. "That makes more sense," he sighed. He walked down the dark hallway, opened his room's door, and flicked on the switch. After an excessive amount of flashing, the naked bulb connected to the circuit, casting a harsh glow over his room.
His narrow room was exactly the way he left it: an undone bed in the corner, a Buzz Lightyear poster used as a mat, and an open drawer. However, there was an unidentified object sitting on his bed. Briskly, he walked over to find his friend Jim O'brien sorting the contents of his drawer. Do I need to specify them?
"What are you doing here?" yelled Cockroft through gritted teeth. "Get out!"
"You're awfully grouchy today," observed his friend.
"Yes, and I don't want to see your face! Didn't you say you have a hundred point test tomorrow?"
"Naw, it's fine, thanks for worryin'. How 'bout you? Find a job yet?"
Cockroft didn't answer. How could he? O'brien was already in college and working as a park ranger at some kind of squirrel park. And Cockroft was stuck doing Calculus homework.
"Need some advice, Cockroft?" offered O'brien. "I have a hell load to give you."
"No, please go away."
"You know, Cockroft..." O'brien patted his shoulder gruffly. "I found somewhere you can work in happiness. I hate seein' your gloomy face, man."
"If it's the circus again, I'm not listening."
"No, it's actually somewhere you'd like. AAS. Alien Artifact Store. They're employing math students."
"Sounds like a junk shop to me."
"It is. Coming?"
Seeing nothing better to do, Cockroft reluctantly consented, and he went out the front door while O'brien crawled out the window. He biked and O'brien jogged. The late afternoon drowned the town in burning flames of laziness, though the streets were busy and flooding with cars. Several Toyotas skidded onto the sidewalk, threatening to destroy Cockroft's cardiovascular system once and for all. But he survived in the end, and, dazed, he stumbled into a rotting old shack. By rotting, it meant the wood had developed a sickly greenish color, as if regaining its chloroplasts. Darkness was creeping in, however, so Cockroft didn't have the luxury of admiring the natural phenomenon. He followed his friend through the dust-caked glass door, which took a few tries to kick open.
Normally, "cluttered" would be efficient enough to describe a junk shop, but this dingy room needed a meaner word. "Pool of vomit" or "Charybdis' waste" would work nicely. Or maybe "trashville."
Michael Cockroft restrained himself from promptly exiting the shop at the sight of all the ragged clothing, soggy wooden planks, bits of plastic, rusted locks, parts of cars, chipped cups and dinnerware, toothbrushes... they all seemed to have been thrown in a blender, crushed, then dumped into a shack like some salad. Several broken chandeliers hung from the ceiling, but the real light source came from the hundreds of candles stuck on the wall. Even then, the walls didn't catch on fire because of their slimy dampness.
A counter stood at the back of the room. It was actually made from a large, overturned picture frame, balanced on five computers. Behind it sat a blond-haired woman.
"Oh look, we have customers," drawled the woman. "Two young men... I wonder what mischief they're up to."
"Sorry miss," said O-brien. "We're not buying, but my friend here, Mr. Cockroft, is answering to the job offer."
"Oh?" The woman stepped over a heap of barbed wire and stopped in front of Cockroft, her crooked nose nearly touching his. "Looks like a typical boy. Well, we'll start the interview now. Come here."
She pulled forward two chairs with ripped cushions and dropped onto one. A bit stunned, Cockroft took the other.
"Hello, I'm Mrs. Hurford."
"Michael Cockroft." They shook hands, which deposited streaks of oil onto Cockroft's palm.
"Nice to meet you, now why do you want to work here?"
"Er..." He looked to O'brien for help, but he only smiled. Hurford scoffed.
"Don't tell me you don't know what you're signing up for!"
"I-I don't. I'm sorry --"
"Well, Mr. Cockroft, I expect more responsibility out of you now that you're working at AAS."
"Yes, ma'am..."
Hurford sighed. "You're applying to be a cashier. A cashier who's actually good at math, not like that screwed up Burger."
"Who?"
"Oh never mind that. See, we lost our cash register, so we need a cashier who can calculate prices manually or, better, mentally. You need to be able to convert currencies, too. Are you up to it?"
"I think so..."
"All right, save me the time. You're hired."
"But," protested Cockroft, bewildered, "I didn't even fill out a work permit. How can I work --"
Hurford pulled out a wad of papers from her pocket. "You mean these?"
Cockroft snatched them and looked them over. Indeed, it was a work permit with his name on it. All the information was filled out, too: his school, his address, phone number... what was going on? He looked suspiciously at O'brien.
"Okay, I signed you up," admitted his friend. "It wasn't hard, ya know. I just needed to change some information..."
"Will you please stop doing these things without my permission? Last time you signed me up for one of those hundred mile marathons in the mountains --"
"Ah, but you survived --"
"That's not the point! It was by sheer miracle that I survived that fall from the cliff, and it was a miracle I landed on a bear so I didn't get hurt. And it was also miraculous that I got washed down the river so the bear didn't tear me to shreds."
"Good exercise, my friend, good exercise."
Cockroft turned back to Hurford, who was watching him expectantly. "All right, I'll take the job."
"Good. Now..." She strode over to the counter and pulled out a clipboard. "Let's see...hm, Michael Cockroft, new cashier. All right. You'll be working here starting tomorrow, at four pm. Your pay is entirely dependent on how much you sell, mind you. There are no 'fixed wages'."
"Okay, thanks," Cockroft consented, for a tiny bit of wage was better than none at all. With that decided, he wrenched open the door and left for home.
-------
Five. Four. Three. Two. One. Bleeeeeep.
"Finish problems one to ninety-four over the weekends!" hollered Mr. Dequer over the ruckus of banging chairs and shuffling footsteps. The students groaned in acknowledgement, but quickly set to dividing the work among them when they were out of earshot.
"Jorge, you do numbers one through ten."
"I'll do number ninety-four."
"Stupid Tim, do at least five problems. Oh, Cockroft." The group turned as Cockroft passed them. "Wanna help us out?"
"You guys have been copying my papers the whole year."
"Yeah, and this one time won't hurt. Fax me the answers, okay man?"
"Sorry, I have something to do." Without looking at the others, he continued on.
"Dude, what's wrong with him?" Jorge crossed his arms and scowled at Cockroft's retreating back. "He's been like that for the last week."
"Rumor says he's been disappearing lately."
"I have an idea." Jorge grinned. "Everyone, switch to 'stalker' mode."
Meanwhile, Cockroft was rapidly pedaling on his tike, which squealed in complaint at every rotation. He turned a sharp ninety degrees around the drug store and locked his bike to a wire fence two blocks later. At exactly four o'clock, he entered AAS.
Everything was as he had left it yesterday: the chairs were stacked in one corner, the dinnerware was lined neatly on shelves, the broken metal bits and springs were stashed in a decaying wooden chest. He had even re-organized the chandeliers so that people wouldn't crash into one when they came in. The shop was beginning to look presentable, now.
As soon as he took his post behind the counter, the bell clanged and a tall gentleman walked in.
"Good afternoon. Would you happen to have anymore of those...er..."
"Scissors?"
"Oh yes, those knives stuck together. My children were simply delighted when I brought them one. A very clever intention, I declare."
Cockroft pointed to a mug of scissors under the dinnerware. The man, Mr. Hanley, happily bounded over and began rummaging through the merchandise.
Mr. Hanley was one of the regular customers. He always marvelled at every-day household objects and ignored the more advanced computers and TVs. Later, Cockroft discovered Hanley had never owned a can opener before or held a broom in his entire life. That lowered Hanley's eccentric appearance somewhat.
"I'd like to buy these," he said eagerly, holding out a pair of kitchen shears.
"Twenty shillings." He paid and waved good-bye.

5 o'clock: a group of rugged, beer-swigging men stumble in and buy a porcelain pitcher.
6 o'clock: Little waves of dark-skinned people visit and poke around. They carry staffs with small knives at the end, which they politely left by the doorway.
7 o'clock: A plump woman with two men in chains pick out a half-burned encyclopedia.
8 o'clock: Two men in hooded cloaks each buy a barbie doll.
9 - 10: Nobody comes.
11 o'clock: A woman covered in white scales, with gills, looks around, and then leaves.

12 o'clock. The air grew still and the shadows cast by the candle fire froze. Cockroft crept around the picture frame and approached the door. Hesitantly, he pulled it open. Nobody was there. The city was his own, but no light shone from the windows and no cars shrieked.
He stepped outside into the darkness, wondering. He was the only person here. Sure, mosquitos still buzzed, but humans were void from this world. He carefully walked down the street until he came to his house.
Madly reminded of O'brien, he slipped through the window to his room, and then reached under the bed. His fingers felt something cold a slippery. Chills ran through him as he realized it was the sausage he had thrown there last morning. It was always the same. He had left various objects-- forks, towels, rocks arranged in a design-- and they were all there when he searched for them. But no people were around.
Confusion nagged him, but he didn't know what to make of it. Why did these things happen? What was the secret behind AAS? A glimmer of frustration bubbled in him, but he disintigrated it and hurried back to the shop.

Description
To save a world with math.
------
"Did you find a job, dear son?" coughed Mrs. Cockroft in the black smoke of her overcooked muffins. "Son?"
"I'm here. And no, not yet." Young Michael Cockroft tossed the muffin rocks into the trash can, where a wide assortment of petrified bread and pies had found refuge.
"Ah, but you're almost out of high school, dear son. With your brains, it should be easy to find an employer."
"That's what you'd think. And since when did you start calling me 'dear son'?"
"Oh, dear son..." Mrs. Cockroft narrowed her eyes, her fake smile turning into a scowl. "Get your lazy geometry butt out of MY kitchen and make yourself useful!"
Before his mother could use her foot, Cockroft slipped out of the room. "That makes more sense," he sighed. He walked down the dark hallway, opened his room's door, and flicked on the switch. After an excessive amount of flashing, the naked bulb connected to the circuit, casting a harsh glow over his room.
His narrow room was exactly the way he left it: an undone bed in the corner, a Buzz Lightyear poster used as a mat, and an open drawer. However, there was an unidentified object sitting on his bed. Briskly, he walked over to find his friend Jim O'brien sorting the contents of his drawer. Do I need to specify them?
"What are you doing here?" yelled Cockroft through gritted teeth. "Get out!"
"You're awfully grouchy today," observed his friend.
"Yes, and I don't want to see your face! Didn't you say you have a hundred point test tomorrow?"
"Naw, it's fine, thanks for worryin'. How 'bout you? Find a job yet?"
Cockroft didn't answer. How could he? O'brien was already in college and working as a park ranger at some kind of squirrel park. And Cockroft was stuck doing Calculus homework.
"Need some advice, Cockroft?" offered O'brien. "I have a hell load to give you."
"No, please go away."
"You know, Cockroft..." O'brien patted his shoulder gruffly. "I found somewhere you can work in happiness. I hate seein' your gloomy face, man."
"If it's the circus again, I'm not listening."
"No, it's actually somewhere you'd like. AAS. Alien Artifact Store. They're employing math students."
"Sounds like a junk shop to me."
"It is. Coming?"
Seeing nothing better to do, Cockroft reluctantly consented, and he went out the front door while O'brien crawled out the window. He biked and O'brien jogged. The late afternoon drowned the town in burning flames of laziness, though the streets were busy and flooding with cars. Several Toyotas skidded onto the sidewalk, threatening to destroy Cockroft's cardiovascular system once and for all. But he survived in the end, and, dazed, he stumbled into a rotting old shack. By rotting, it meant the wood had developed a sickly greenish color, as if regaining its chloroplasts. Darkness was creeping in, however, so Cockroft didn't have the luxury of admiring the natural phenomenon. He followed his friend through the dust-caked glass door, which took a few tries to kick open.
Normally, "cluttered" would be efficient enough to describe a junk shop, but this dingy room needed a meaner word. "Pool of vomit" or "Charybdis' waste" would work nicely. Or maybe "trashville."
Michael Cockroft restrained himself from promptly exiting the shop at the sight of all the ragged clothing, soggy wooden planks, bits of plastic, rusted locks, parts of cars, chipped cups and dinnerware, toothbrushes... they all seemed to have been thrown in a blender, crushed, then dumped into a shack like some salad. Several broken chandeliers hung from the ceiling, but the real light source came from the hundreds of candles stuck on the wall. Even then, the walls didn't catch on fire because of their slimy dampness.
A counter stood at the back of the room. It was actually made from a large, overturned picture frame, balanced on five computers. Behind it sat a blond-haired woman.
"Oh look, we have customers," drawled the woman. "Two young men... I wonder what mischief they're up to."
"Sorry miss," said O-brien. "We're not buying, but my friend here, Mr. Cockroft, is answering to the job offer."
"Oh?" The woman stepped over a heap of barbed wire and stopped in front of Cockroft, her crooked nose nearly touching his. "Looks like a typical boy. Well, we'll start the interview now. Come here."
She pulled forward two chairs with ripped cushions and dropped onto one. A bit stunned, Cockroft took the other.
"Hello, I'm Mrs. Hurford."
"Michael Cockroft." They shook hands, which deposited streaks of oil onto Cockroft's palm.
"Nice to meet you, now why do you want to work here?"
"Er..." He looked to O'brien for help, but he only smiled. Hurford scoffed.
"Don't tell me you don't know what you're signing up for!"
"I-I don't. I'm sorry --"
"Well, Mr. Cockroft, I expect more responsibility out of you now that you're working at AAS."
"Yes, ma'am..."
Hurford sighed. "You're applying to be a cashier. A cashier who's actually good at math, not like that screwed up Burger."
"Who?"
"Oh never mind that. See, we lost our cash register, so we need a cashier who can calculate prices manually or, better, mentally. You need to be able to convert currencies, too. Are you up to it?"
"I think so..."
"All right, save me the time. You're hired."
"But," protested Cockroft, bewildered, "I didn't even fill out a work permit. How can I work --"
Hurford pulled out a wad of papers from her pocket. "You mean these?"
Cockroft snatched them and looked them over. Indeed, it was a work permit with his name on it. All the information was filled out, too: his school, his address, phone number... what was going on? He looked suspiciously at O'brien.
"Okay, I signed you up," admitted his friend. "It wasn't hard, ya know. I just needed to change some information..."
"Will you please stop doing these things without my permission? Last time you signed me up for one of those hundred mile marathons in the mountains --"
"Ah, but you survived --"
"That's not the point! It was by sheer miracle that I survived that fall from the cliff, and it was a miracle I landed on a bear so I didn't get hurt. And it was also miraculous that I got washed down the river so the bear didn't tear me to shreds."
"Good exercise, my friend, good exercise."
Cockroft turned back to Hurford, who was watching him expectantly. "All right, I'll take the job."
"Good. Now..." She strode over to the counter and pulled out a clipboard. "Let's see...hm, Michael Cockroft, new cashier. All right. You'll be working here starting tomorrow, at four pm. Your pay is entirely dependent on how much you sell, mind you. There are no 'fixed wages'."
"Okay, thanks," Cockroft consented, for a tiny bit of wage was better than none at all. With that decided, he wrenched open the door and left for home.
-------
Five. Four. Three. Two. One. Bleeeeeep.
"Finish problems one to ninety-four over the weekends!" hollered Mr. Dequer over the ruckus of banging chairs and shuffling footsteps. The students groaned in acknowledgement, but quickly set to dividing the work among them when they were out of earshot.
"Jorge, you do numbers one through ten."
"I'll do number ninety-four."
"Stupid Tim, do at least five problems. Oh, Cockroft." The group turned as Cockroft passed them. "Wanna help us out?"
"You guys have been copying my papers the whole year."
"Yeah, and this one time won't hurt. Fax me the answers, okay man?"
"Sorry, I have something to do." Without looking at the others, he continued on.
"Dude, what's wrong with him?" Jorge crossed his arms and scowled at Cockroft's retreating back. "He's been like that for the last week."
"Rumor says he's been disappearing lately."
"I have an idea." Jorge grinned. "Everyone, switch to 'stalker' mode."
Meanwhile, Cockroft was rapidly pedaling on his tike, which squealed in complaint at every rotation. He turned a sharp ninety degrees around the drug store and locked his bike to a wire fence two blocks later. At exactly four o'clock, he entered AAS.
Everything was as he had left it yesterday: the chairs were stacked in one corner, the dinnerware was lined neatly on shelves, the broken metal bits and springs were stashed in a decaying wooden chest. He had even re-organized the chandeliers so that people wouldn't crash into one when they came in. The shop was beginning to look presentable, now.
As soon as he took his post behind the counter, the bell clanged and a tall gentleman walked in.
"Good afternoon. Would you happen to have anymore of those...er..."
"Scissors?"
"Oh yes, those knives stuck together. My children were simply delighted when I brought them one. A very clever intention, I declare."
Cockroft pointed to a mug of scissors under the dinnerware. The man, Mr. Hanley, happily bounded over and began rummaging through the merchandise.
Mr. Hanley was one of the regular customers. He always marvelled at every-day household objects and ignored the more advanced computers and TVs. Later, Cockroft discovered Hanley had never owned a can opener before or held a broom in his entire life. That lowered Hanley's eccentric appearance somewhat.
"I'd like to buy these," he said eagerly, holding out a pair of kitchen shears.
"Twenty shillings." He paid and waved good-bye.

5 o'clock: a group of rugged, beer-swigging men stumble in and buy a porcelain pitcher.
6 o'clock: Little waves of dark-skinned people visit and poke around. They carry staffs with small knives at the end, which they politely left by the doorway.
7 o'clock: A plump woman with two men in chains pick out a half-burned encyclopedia.
8 o'clock: Two men in hooded cloaks each buy a barbie doll.
9 - 10: Nobody comes.
11 o'clock: A woman covered in white scales, with gills, looks around, and then leaves.

12 o'clock. The air grew still and the shadows cast by the candle fire froze. Cockroft crept around the picture frame and approached the door. Hesitantly, he pulled it open. Nobody was there. The city was his own, but no light shone from the windows and no cars shrieked.
He stepped outside into the darkness, wondering. He was the only person here. Sure, mosquitos still buzzed, but humans were void from this world. He carefully walked down the street until he came to his house.
Madly reminded of O'brien, he slipped through the window to his room, and then reached under the bed. His fingers felt something cold a slippery. Chills ran through him as he realized it was the sausage he had thrown there last morning. It was always the same. He had left various objects-- forks, towels, rocks arranged in a design-- and they were all there when he searched for them. But no people were around.
Confusion nagged him, but he didn't know what to make of it. Why did these things happen? What was the secret behind AAS? A glimmer of frustration bubbled in him, but he disintigrated it and hurried back to the shop.