Spider Game
Page 9
“I had to figure out the percentage of people eating peanuts,” Trap said absently, scribbling more equations, but pausing long enough to point out to Wyatt the letter E that apparently represented the percent of people eating peanuts. Beside the letter E he had written two standard deviations runs from 65.0% to 83.6% with a mean of 74.3%.
“The letter F represents the frequency per minute of peanut eating,” Trap explained, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to want to know how many peanut husks were on the floor of the bar.
Wyatt rudely spun the paper around to stare at it. Trap had written two standard deviations runs from .5 to 3 peanuts per minute with a mean standard of 1.75 peanuts per minute.
“You’re really doin’ it? Calculatin’ how many husks are on the floor?” He gave a hoot of laughter and threw a peanut into the air to capture it in his open mouth. “Did you add that into your equations? My amazin’ ability to catch anythin’ I’m eatin’ in my mouth? That’s gonna wreck your minute-eating ratio.”
Malichai Fortunes drifted over, followed by his brother Mordichai, drawn by Wyatt’s laugher. They stood behind Trap’s chair and peered down at the notepaper. Draden Freeman took a position to Trap’s right.
“What’s he doing now, Wyatt?” Malichai asked.
“Looks like he’s figuring out how many shells are on the floor of the bar,” Mordichai announced, reaching over Trap’s shoulder to grab a fistful of peanuts.
“He’s got himself some cryptic notes, N for the number of people in the bar on a weekday.” He leaned closer to read the scribbled equation. “Two standard deviations (95% of all possibilities) runs from 15 to 20 people, with a mean of 17.5 people. You counting us as the mean people, Trap. That just plain hurts my feelings.”
“He thinks most people eat .5 to 3 peanuts per minute,” Wyatt pointed out. “Since I’ve got to toss them in the air and catch ’em before I eat them, I think I might take longer. What if I miss? What about you? You think you can eat faster than 3 peanuts per minute?”
“Go to hell,” Trap snarled. “Seriously. You all are worthless.” He pulled his paper closer to the edge of the table and wrapped his arm around it as if he could shelter his beloved calculations from them.
“Can he really do that, Wyatt,” Mordichai asked, “or is he full of shit?” He looked at the peanut husks covering the floor.
“You could if you estimated the total number of peanut husks on the entire bar floor each weekday, each weekend day and each week by estimatin’ peanut-eatin’ rates, lengths of bar, that sort of thing,” Wyatt said.
“Why would you want to?” Malichai demanded. “That’s insane. How would you even know the square footage available without measuring?”
Wyatt laughed. “Trap’s always been able to look at anything and tell you the square footage within minutes. We used to make bets back when we were at the university together with other students. We always won.”
Trap made a sound of sheer annoyance. “Did you even go to school, Malichai?” Trap was very aware that Whitney wouldn’t look at any candidate for the GhostWalker program unless they had above average intelligence, let alone allow them in. One of the things he was most grateful for was that in spite of the fact that he held himself aloof a lot of the time, they shared their humor with him and he could occasionally find that he could actually joke back.
“Not if I could help it,” Malichai admitted. “Ezekiel beat the crap out of me when I didn’t go, but it was worth it. Well, except in tenth grade. I didn’t miss a single day of tenth grade. Miss Conrad taught that year and she was hot. She wore tight sweaters, clingy skirts and sweet fuck-me heels. I still dream about those heels wrapped around me.” He nudged Trap. “If you got your head out of your ass and stopped doing shit like this, you might find yourself with some sweet fuck-me heels wrapped around you.”
“Isn’t that what we’re doin’ here?” Wyatt demanded, as he dropped back into a chair. “He’s all hot and bothered thinking about the woman that got away from him. Trap’s a ladies’ man. Never knew him to miss out on a score, but she just up and scuttled away without even lookin’ back.”
“She looked,” Trap objected, glaring at Wyatt.
“She’s not lookin’ now,” Wyatt pointed out, and the men erupted into laughter.
Trap turned his attention to his notes. “Mb is the maximum number of peanuts per person sitting at the bar.” He added onto his note. Two standard deviations runs from 90 peanuts to 130 peanuts with a mean of 110 peanuts.
Wyatt tipped his chair back. “I could take off my shoe, dump shells into my shoe and count them. We could calculate the size of my shoe…”
Trap hooked the toe of his boot around Wyatt’s chair and dumped him on the floor without looking up. “You’re an ass,” he muttered. “Mr is the maximum number of peanuts per person sitting at a table.” He added to his notes. Two standard deviations runs from 40 peanuts to 75 peanuts with a mean of 58 peanuts.
Draden frowned. “You’re assuming for your model all random variables have normal distributions.”
Trap nodded as Wyatt, laughing, got off the floor and righted his chair. “He confirmed this by plotting the curves based on all days of observation, collecting data points, and seeing the resulting probability curve that did follow the normal bell curve distribution. He does shit like this while we have to sit around drinking beer and waiting for his woman to show up.”
“Have to drink beer?” Trap snorted derisively. “You practically begged to come along.”
“Only to protect the locals from your mean ass,” Wyatt said.
“What were the numbers you used?” Draden asked curiously.
“I figured, based on my observations, that during the weekday anywhere from fifteen to twenty people come to the bar, but that number triples on the weekends. For the model I’m using, a key distinction is whether a person stays for a short versus a long time. I observed repeatedly that the two cases split fairly evenly, meaning one out of every two people stays just for a drink or two and one out every two stays for several drinks and to chat with their friends.”
Laughter burst from the bar. Melodic. Beautiful. The notes filled the air, and Trap tapped his pen on the tabletop repeatedly. He breathed deep as a small, vaporous cloud snaked into the air surrounding the table. Instantly both Draden and Mordichai clapped a hand on Trap’s shoulder. He took a deep breath.
“The letter F represents the frequency per minute of peanut eating,” Trap explained, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to want to know how many peanut husks were on the floor of the bar.
Wyatt rudely spun the paper around to stare at it. Trap had written two standard deviations runs from .5 to 3 peanuts per minute with a mean standard of 1.75 peanuts per minute.
“You’re really doin’ it? Calculatin’ how many husks are on the floor?” He gave a hoot of laughter and threw a peanut into the air to capture it in his open mouth. “Did you add that into your equations? My amazin’ ability to catch anythin’ I’m eatin’ in my mouth? That’s gonna wreck your minute-eating ratio.”
Malichai Fortunes drifted over, followed by his brother Mordichai, drawn by Wyatt’s laugher. They stood behind Trap’s chair and peered down at the notepaper. Draden Freeman took a position to Trap’s right.
“What’s he doing now, Wyatt?” Malichai asked.
“Looks like he’s figuring out how many shells are on the floor of the bar,” Mordichai announced, reaching over Trap’s shoulder to grab a fistful of peanuts.
“He’s got himself some cryptic notes, N for the number of people in the bar on a weekday.” He leaned closer to read the scribbled equation. “Two standard deviations (95% of all possibilities) runs from 15 to 20 people, with a mean of 17.5 people. You counting us as the mean people, Trap. That just plain hurts my feelings.”
“He thinks most people eat .5 to 3 peanuts per minute,” Wyatt pointed out. “Since I’ve got to toss them in the air and catch ’em before I eat them, I think I might take longer. What if I miss? What about you? You think you can eat faster than 3 peanuts per minute?”
“Go to hell,” Trap snarled. “Seriously. You all are worthless.” He pulled his paper closer to the edge of the table and wrapped his arm around it as if he could shelter his beloved calculations from them.
“Can he really do that, Wyatt,” Mordichai asked, “or is he full of shit?” He looked at the peanut husks covering the floor.
“You could if you estimated the total number of peanut husks on the entire bar floor each weekday, each weekend day and each week by estimatin’ peanut-eatin’ rates, lengths of bar, that sort of thing,” Wyatt said.
“Why would you want to?” Malichai demanded. “That’s insane. How would you even know the square footage available without measuring?”
Wyatt laughed. “Trap’s always been able to look at anything and tell you the square footage within minutes. We used to make bets back when we were at the university together with other students. We always won.”
Trap made a sound of sheer annoyance. “Did you even go to school, Malichai?” Trap was very aware that Whitney wouldn’t look at any candidate for the GhostWalker program unless they had above average intelligence, let alone allow them in. One of the things he was most grateful for was that in spite of the fact that he held himself aloof a lot of the time, they shared their humor with him and he could occasionally find that he could actually joke back.
“Not if I could help it,” Malichai admitted. “Ezekiel beat the crap out of me when I didn’t go, but it was worth it. Well, except in tenth grade. I didn’t miss a single day of tenth grade. Miss Conrad taught that year and she was hot. She wore tight sweaters, clingy skirts and sweet fuck-me heels. I still dream about those heels wrapped around me.” He nudged Trap. “If you got your head out of your ass and stopped doing shit like this, you might find yourself with some sweet fuck-me heels wrapped around you.”
“Isn’t that what we’re doin’ here?” Wyatt demanded, as he dropped back into a chair. “He’s all hot and bothered thinking about the woman that got away from him. Trap’s a ladies’ man. Never knew him to miss out on a score, but she just up and scuttled away without even lookin’ back.”
“She looked,” Trap objected, glaring at Wyatt.
“She’s not lookin’ now,” Wyatt pointed out, and the men erupted into laughter.
Trap turned his attention to his notes. “Mb is the maximum number of peanuts per person sitting at the bar.” He added onto his note. Two standard deviations runs from 90 peanuts to 130 peanuts with a mean of 110 peanuts.
Wyatt tipped his chair back. “I could take off my shoe, dump shells into my shoe and count them. We could calculate the size of my shoe…”
Trap hooked the toe of his boot around Wyatt’s chair and dumped him on the floor without looking up. “You’re an ass,” he muttered. “Mr is the maximum number of peanuts per person sitting at a table.” He added to his notes. Two standard deviations runs from 40 peanuts to 75 peanuts with a mean of 58 peanuts.
Draden frowned. “You’re assuming for your model all random variables have normal distributions.”
Trap nodded as Wyatt, laughing, got off the floor and righted his chair. “He confirmed this by plotting the curves based on all days of observation, collecting data points, and seeing the resulting probability curve that did follow the normal bell curve distribution. He does shit like this while we have to sit around drinking beer and waiting for his woman to show up.”
“Have to drink beer?” Trap snorted derisively. “You practically begged to come along.”
“Only to protect the locals from your mean ass,” Wyatt said.
“What were the numbers you used?” Draden asked curiously.
“I figured, based on my observations, that during the weekday anywhere from fifteen to twenty people come to the bar, but that number triples on the weekends. For the model I’m using, a key distinction is whether a person stays for a short versus a long time. I observed repeatedly that the two cases split fairly evenly, meaning one out of every two people stays just for a drink or two and one out every two stays for several drinks and to chat with their friends.”
Laughter burst from the bar. Melodic. Beautiful. The notes filled the air, and Trap tapped his pen on the tabletop repeatedly. He breathed deep as a small, vaporous cloud snaked into the air surrounding the table. Instantly both Draden and Mordichai clapped a hand on Trap’s shoulder. He took a deep breath.
