Cumulative Probability Pt. 01

I.

It was 3 in the morning when I reached my apartment building on the Lower East Side, the cool moist air from the Hudson River soft on my face as I walked the last few blocks. It had been an evening of glittering bars and conversations. The people in the Army medical unit had used the end of my two-year service as a reason to drink, smoke weed, and revel.

I'd been assigned to a reserve Army unit in Manhattan, actually at Fort Hamilton in Brooklyn, and the physicians and nurses were loose and friendly. Carlo, the colonel who ran things, was a good guy: a surgeon first, a professor at NYU second, and a reserve officer maybe fifteenth, or not at all in his mind. He ran things with a light hand. I'd been a junior doctor, straight out of residency at UCLA after medical school at Dartmouth. On a whim I'd sent an email to someone I'd found online at the Pentagon, inquiring about surgical positions. I was not particularly interested in the military and I couldn't explain, even to myself, why I'd done it. But someone from the Army had contacted me in Los Angeles and confirmed I really had a medical license. And a short time later I was at Fort Hamilton.

Carlo had genially tested me out, seen I had skills, and helped me develop new ones. New York City was a good assignment, large and cosmopolitan. We never wore uniforms. One day a week we handled medical issues for Army units in New Jersey. But Carlo worked it so we spent most of our time at Bellevue Hospital, right in the heart of Manhattan, working on the gunshot wounds, car accidents, drug overdoses, and assorted other traumas that denizens of large and cosmopolitan cities inflict on each other.

I was good with languages and that was a real asset given the varied patients flowing though the ER and hospital. The first time I'd assisted with reattaching a severed finger, it belonged to a Brazilian construction worker who'd rolled his car drunk; and I could speak Portuguese and so commiserated with him before the anesthesia kicked in as he expressed his thoughts on why road curves should be better marked. I remember watching as Carlo's precise hands moved with the micro-needle. He explained to me and Lisa, another junior surgeon, how you first connect these blood vessels, then those nerves, then that blood vessel, make sure you stitch like this. The next patient with a digit experiencing separation anxiety I did the reattachment under his supervision. Two years flowed quickly.

We'd started out the evening at a bar in Chelsea, then moved to Drume in the Village, and then to another bar called Mexico City, a dozen of us with some assorted girl and boy friends. I'd gotten pleasantly high, and mildly drunk too, and enjoyed the evening. At Drume, in the hallway near the restrooms, Lisa passed by me then suddenly reached up and threw her arms around my neck, pressing herself up against me. She kissed me deeply and thoroughly, and smiled. "You're a good guy. I wanted to do that. I'll miss you." She stroked my cheek and walked on. At Mexico City, Daniel, the second in command of the unit, had called for attention, then stood up on the table to shouts of approval. He presented me with a gift, a poster of a Pierre-Auguste Cot painting, which he genially hoped would not be wasted on a philistine like me. I stood and replied that despite them all being displeasing to the eye and having poor hygiene, I nevertheless loved them. My head spun pleasantly as I sat down. A beautiful woman across the bar, in a golden dress, looked at me and smiled.

II.

Two years in the Army medical unit, and today had been my last work day. Monday I was heading on a flight back to Los Angeles, where, starting in a month, I had lined up a job at a top hospital. I paused by a tree, looked up at the sky. I felt a tinge of pleasant sadness.

I turned off Houston onto a side street and reached my building, sniffed the light night scent coming from the sidewalk trees. I took the elevator up to my floor, walked down the hall, coded open my door. I leaned the rolled-up poster against the wall of the kitchen, and drank a bottle of water from the fridge. It was deliciously cold, and had that pure, indescribable taste of clean water. I took off my shoes and lay down on top of the covers of the bed and closed my eyes. Tiredness washed through my muscles, my mind perfectly blank.

A voice in my head quietly spoke.

Your I.D. card.

I had learned to listen to the voice. It wasn't my friend. But it nearly always was useful.

"What about my card?" I thought.

Turn it in tomorrow, the voice said.

The thought faded like a scent of jasmine dissipating into an evening. My consciousness turned off like a tap closing and I fell asleep remembering the sweet taste of Lisa's lips but somehow she was wearing a gold dress.

III.

I woke up late the next day, not feeling too bad considering. After a cup of tea and another bottle of water, I dressed and got my military ID. I had to return it at the Federal Building near Wall Street, not at Fort Hamilton, since that's where the Department of Defense office that oversaw the doctors' recruitment program was located.

I was about to head out the door when I stopped. You're not working today.

I went to the kitchen, opened my stash drawer and took out a pre-rolled joint of Blue Dream and a lighter. I went onto the balcony, which had a nice view of the Hudson. It was the reason I'd paid more to take that unit. I smoked the joint, savoring the taste of the smoke.

I liked smoking marijuana when I had unstructured time, or was going to a fun social event. For me, what it did was let me see the object or idea removed from its context or environment. You could metaphorically pick the thing out, without the baggage of its context, and examine just it for itself. See the thing with fresh eyes. Then you could plug it back in, and see anew, or maybe for the first time, how it really connected with its surroundings.

Like with music, when high I could readily follow each instrument or voice and hear just that part, while still hearing how it fit into the whole song. With social interactions you could see what people were really doing, underneath the masking symbolic actions that normally tended to shortcut analysis. Sex with a good partner was fantastic.

And on a different note, I also enjoyed riding my bike on the streets of Manhattan while high. I liked fast city riding and it was good exercise, and marijuana focused you in on the moment. Maybe I'd do it later today. But right now it was after 1 p.m. and I had to return that ID.

IV.

I got off the subway at Civic Center and walked the few blocks to the new Federal Building. Sixty stories tall, it dwarfed the old Javitz building. I badged in through the security checkpoint.

I entered the atrium of the building, and headed toward the elevator banks, but then stopped and went over to the food shop. I ordered a cranberry muffin and another cup of tea then stood near a cluster of couches and potted plants at one side of the atrium. The tea had a good hot bite. Bertie Wooster after a night on the tiles, I thought. I ate the muffin out of the wrapper. I was hungry and it was delicious. I finished the muffin and drank down the tea, throwing the wrapper and cup in the trash.

People, both military and civilian, were continually crossing the large lobby and riding and exiting the elevators. It was a busy place. I watched a group off to one side. There were three of them, standing about five yards away from me. The first was a man, late 50s, on the short side and on the stout side, with silvery hair and intelligent eyes. He was wearing a dark blue suit with chalk striping. A really nice suit. The guy had a first-class tailor, I decided. And he favored a pocket square, which was not my thing but on him it looked appropriate.

Next to him was a woman also in her late 50s, taller than the man and slender, with shoulder length grey hair. She carried herself with perfect posture. Elegant and confident. She was wearing a blue and cream long-sleeved dress, and understated jewelry.

The man and woman were listening to a third person, an army Major it looked like, who was nervous and uncomfortable, and clearly relaying unwelcome news. From my position partially screened by the plants I could see and hear them.

The Major was speaking rapidly.

"So because he's in the hospital he cannot be here. And we don't have anyone else. I'm sorry."

Suit man seemed to take this in stride, and even with a bit of humor. He responded calmly.

"Thank you for conveying that, Major. Let me make sure I understand the facts. Lieutenant Goran, a translator who actually speaks fluent Turkish, and whom we specifically requested a week ago because of that, came down with food poisoning last night. A case of such severity that he is presently hospitalized and presumably will remain so for at least the near future. Is that accurate?"

"Yes, sir. He is in the hospital and reportedly looks very pale."

"Ah, pale. What did he eat, if you know?"

"He said he went to a restaurant called Anglion, but I don't know specifically what he ate."

I knew that place. It had good steaks and an upscale atmosphere. You could drop some money there. The hidden gem was an outstanding bread pudding.

Suit man smiled, pleased.

"Anglion, eh? Good taste. And who was Goran with, Major? I doubt he went there alone."

The Major didn't know. "I believe he was on a date, sir. With a woman he recently met."

Suit man and elegant woman exchanged a look. Elegant woman spoke dryly. Her voice was smooth.

"What a remarkable coincidence."

"Yes," agreed suit man. "The evening before the trade party our translator embarks on a new relationship and, commendably eager to make a good impression, takes his lady friend to a top restaurant where, ill luck, he gets food poisoning."

He turned to the Major.

"Out of curiosity, any idea who his date was or where she is now?"

"I don't know, sir. She dropped him off at the hospital after he became sick at the restaurant, and then left. "

"No matter. Thank you, Major. I appreciate your relaying this to us."

Turning to elegant woman he shrugged slightly.

"It seems fate has deprived us of Lieutenant Goran."

His tone indicated he thought fate had nothing to do with the matter.

Elegant woman reached into her small handbag and pulled out a cigarette. She twirled it in her fingers but made no move to light it.

"Maybe this thing is worth sending someone to after all. I hadn't thought it was before."

The look they now exchanged distinctly lacked humor.

I stiffened a fraction as I felt a tap on my shoulder and heard a woman's voice steely in my ear.

"It's not polite to eavesdrop."

V.

I turned around. I'd been mistaken. The group had a fourth person.

I looked at the woman who had tapped my shoulder. She carried herself with a military bearing but was wearing a tailored civilian black pants suit with jacket, and open neck cream shirt. She was tall, nearly my height. Athletic, like a soccer player. Maybe more like a lacrosse player. I'd rolled enough jiu-jitsu to estimate that she looked plenty capable, and I guessed she probably knew more than some crappy sport jiu-jitsu.

Her dark hair was pulled back in a pony tail. Her ears were rather pointed, I liked them at first sight. Her eyes were a rich brown, expressive, capable of warmth or frost. Great eyes.

She wasn't angry. Yet. But maybe soon I guessed.

I saw impatience flicker in her eyes that I was staring at, and realized I hadn't said anything.

"I was listening in, but I wouldn't call it eavesdropping," I said, my tone friendly. "They're talking in public."

She didn't buy that.

"It's not your conversation. Don't listen in."

The steel edged a little further into her voice and she angled her body slightly at me.

She circled around me so that I was back to facing the three as I turned to follow her. She stopped when she was between me and them. Her hand waved dismissively. The conversation was over and I should leave.

A normal person would have left. But I liked looking at her. I liked her ears and how her brown eyes flickered and showed what she was thinking. So I stayed.

That's how it was with me. I was halfway smart, and halfway successful. I'd made it through a good medical school, and I knew I had legitimate skill for medicine if I focused on it. But I only halfway focused on it, because at all times half my mind--at least--was focused on women. It seemed hard-wired. Walking through a crowd, riding the subway, I would feel my mind half-consciously scanning every woman I saw, so it seemed, and spending some fraction of time thinking about them. I was always polite, being rude or offending anyone would have horrified me. But I would notice how women looked, what they wore, how they carried themselves, the tone of their voices if they were speaking. She's got a nice voice, almost like Miley Cyrus. I sometimes would think, even if only for a split second, what it would be like to interact with them, to talk with them, to have sex with them, to discover their personalities.

I just accepted that was how my mind worked. I knew I couldn't fundamentally change it, only how or whether I expressed it -- and that was a significant insight. At least I had a halfway decent sense of humor.

I wasn't sure whether other men were similar to me. My best guess was that it probably ran a bell curve, and I felt that I might be at the far end of the curve. I sometimes wondered if it was a mental illness but it didn't feel like a defect. I occasionally wondered how successful I might be if I could somehow free up that bandwidth in my mind. But at bottom I didn't want to free it up. It was just how I was, and I accepted that.

That was one of two things about me.

So of course I wanted to talk more with this woman. In my head that was the clear course of action.

"I know that place," I volunteered.

She gazed at me poker faced.

"Anglion. It's got good steaks. But the hidden gem is the bread pudding." I smiled at her, a real smile, looking directly in her eyes. "It's not on the menu, you have to ask for it."

The barest hint of a smile crossed her mouth and her eyes warmed a few degrees.

"It's not a good first date place, though," I continued. "Too upscale to be confortable with someone you don't know. I prefer something more low-key. Like a bike ride or a museum. Or even a cup of coffee. You know, a relaxed atmosphere where you can find out about the person."

She looked at me thoughtfully, evaluating.

"Look," she said, "They're working." Her tone was frank now. "It's important, and they need to not be listened in on or disturbed. You need to move along."

"Turkish. I can speak it." I said it almost unconsciously.

The steel snapped back into her gaze, no covering it up now, as she pinned her eyes on me. If she wasn't angry now, she was close.

"You listen in too well. What is your name?"

"Erik. Erik Thorlund." I thought about extending my hand, but decided that would a bad idea at the moment.

"Are you military? What type of work do you do? Are you a translator?"

"No, I'm not a translator. I'm a doctor, a surgeon. I was Army, I just finished my two year enlistment yesterday, so I guess I'm a civilian. I'm here turning in my ID," I added.

"You're not a translator but you know Turkish? What, a few words? You're not Turkish."

Her posture indicated that I'd better reply with scrupulous accuracy.

"No, I really speak it. Fluently."

"Hand me your ID." She said it authoritatively.

I handed her my ID card. She scrutinized it, then looked at me.

"What unit were you in, who was your commander?"

"Colonel Carlo Davidian, he --" She cut me off.

"If I call him is he going to know you?"

I smiled. "I was with Carlo last night and he was drinking Scotch, so he might be bleary. But yeah, he should still remember me today."

She reached out and grabbed my arm above the elbow. She was quick. I felt the pressure of her hand on my tricep, firm but not painful.

"Come with me."

VI.

She steered me to suit man and elegant woman, who were talking intently to each other. The Major had oozed away, probably glad to go. The two looked up.

"Yes Ani?" elegant woman asked.

Ani -- apparently the woman's name -- nodded at me, grip still on my arm. She minced no words.

"He says he speaks Turkish. He was eavesdropping on you so he drew my attention. He's a doctor, says he just finished a two-year enlistment under a Colonel Davidian. His ID says he's Major Erik Thorlund."

"Not eavesdropping, listening in," I corrected. "You were talking in a public place."

I shrugged at the man and woman.

"It was a bit tactless of me," I conceded.

They looked at me for a beat. Suit man held out his hand to Ani who handed him my ID. Wordlessly he looked at them. Elegant woman faced me.

"Do you speak Turkish?"

"Yes."

She reached in her purse and pulled out a phone. She scrolled through some screens.

"Forgive me for being rude, Dr. Thorlund, but we are short on time. Please humor me and tell me what this says."

She touched the screen and a video began playing with a voice speaking Turkish. I listened for a few seconds.

"It's a lecture on statistics, on probability," I said. "He's saying imagine you have an empty jar and then you place in it 50 red marbles and 50 white marbles, identical in every way -- size, shape, feel, weight -- except for color, and you mix them thoroughly. If you reach in and pull a marble from the jar, what are the odds that it will be red? The odds are 50 in 100, or 1/2."

I listened more.

"But say you do pull a red marble first; what are the odds of pulling out a second red marble? It depends on what you do with the first red marble. If you replace it in the jar and remix, then the odds on a second attempt remain at 50 in 100. In that sense probability is not cumulative. But if you set the first marble aside and make a second attempt using only the marbles remaining in the jar, then the odds of picking a red marble go down to 49 in 99 and the odds of a white marble are 50 in 99, so slightly higher. Thus, in estimating the likelihood of certain chains of events occurring, probability must be calculated cumulatively because the happening of a first event may reduce or increase the odds of subsequent events happening and--"

Elegant woman shut off the communicator. She raised an eyebrow.

"Well, you certainly do appear to speak Turkish."

"Another remarkable coincidence," suit man spoke. He sounded amused. "We lose our selected translator to food poisoning only to, fortuitously, have a random stranger appear, who happens to speak Turkish, and volunteers to help us."

"Not quite," I interjected. "I know Turkish but I said nothing about helping you. I don't know you, much less what you need help with."

Suit man had his phone out and was dialing. Someone answered. Suit man spoke.

"This is Max. I need to reach a Colonel Carlo Davidian, a doctor who is assigned to," he looked inquiringly at me.

"Army Surgical Medical Unit 827, attached to the Third Infantry Division, based in Fort Hamilton. If you need his home number I have it." I gave the number.

Max nodded, relayed that to whoever he was talking to, and asked if it checked out. Apparently it did.

Max hit the speaker button, and we could hear the phone ringing. On the eighth ring Carlo picked it up.

"Yeah?"

Carlo's voice sounded scruffy. A sleepy woman's voice in the background said, "Come back to bed, baby." I would have come back to bed if I'd heard that voice.