The Natural Order - R.A. Zilber (the little red hen read aloud txt) 📗

Before leaving work on Friday, Rachel zipped a flash drive loaded with the Current Population Survey Data into a small compartment of her purse. On Saturday morning she drove to Brighton Beach to meet an old friend she reconnected with on Facebook. Typical Brooklyn locals paraded the boardwalk; young women walking their fur clad dogs, cocky teenagers loitering around the liquor store, and fat eastern European ladies with their overindulged grandchildren.
A man in his early forties with a dark receding hairline approached with spreading arms saying, “Raych!” Smiling, she placed her hands in the front pockets of her jeans forming a barrier between them, and after a short and akward embrace they proceeded to walking along the boardwalk toward Coney Island.
“So how have you been?” Michael asked.
“Well, hanging in there. You heard Leila died?”
“Yes, I am so sorry--she was so young and all those children. I don’t know how you and Jake manage. I failed with one,” Michael said.
“After Leila died, I adopted her children, and have since come to look upon them as my own. It’s not easy. We do what we have to. So how has life treated you?” Rachel asked.
“Well, I had my moment to shine, but I didn’t make tenure. After ten years at Stern, the academic senate voted me out because I didn’t publish in the appropriate journals. I received offers from lesser schools, but after NYU everything seemed minor-league.”
“Yeah, the bureau has its share of washouts, but they didn’t washout of NYU, if you know what I mean. A diller, a dollar, a tenure washout scholar,” Rachel threw her head back in laughter.
“A diller a dollar, switched to statistics, sucky math scholar,” Michael retorted with a wink. “To be honest, I was relieved to leave the academia. There is no going back, but when I began turning into a windbag with a ‘Hey Day’ from NYU, I licked my wounds, and took a job with an investment bank, eventually making triple the money,” Michael said.
“And your family?” Rachel asked.
“What family? My bed was still warm when the chair of Stern moved in with my wife and son.” “I’m sorry,” she said.
“Don’t be. That’s just how it is sometimes. Love belongs in fairy tales,” he said resuming composure. “A few years ago I met a Swiss banker, originally from Israel and educated in London. After fulfilling his military obligation, he studied economics in London, and before accepting a position with a Swiss bank, worked for the Mossad. Adam formed a wealth management group employing eastern block talent; economists, programmers, and mathematicians, a manage-a-tres made in heaven.” Rachel recoiled at the visual. “He calls them ‘Oracles’ and that’s how he got his nick name—‘King Solomon’. When I mentioned your name --Adam insisted on meeting you, he is a scrupulous businessman.”
“You mean scruple-less businessman,” she said laughing.
It began to rain and Michael flipped the hood of his jacket over his head and said, “Remember when we cut class and hung out at ocean beach in San Francisco--how the waves grew bigger curling into themselves before striking shore?” Pointing toward the hovering seagulls he said, “In contrast to humankind, animals live in nature’s prime real estate. People pay to live in slums surrounded by garbage; their by-product --misery and ugliness.” Rachel shivered as a chill ran down her spine. Michael threw a sideways glance at her and turned up his collar and walked Rachel to her car.
Later that evening, Michael appeared sombre when he picked up Rachel in a rented black BMW. Before ariving at the restaurant, Michael said “Adam insists on having a personal relationship with his clients--it’s his trademark.” Rachel remained silent. “Raych, everything will work out, one way or another it will work out.”
“Of course it will, and let’s hope that it works out one way and not the other,” she replied.
The elevator doors opened into a glass walled lounge overlooking the Manhattan skyline. The maître d’ led them to a table occupied by a large bearded man in his late forties with reddish hair. Michael smiled as Adam stood to greet them. While they chatted, Adam studied Rachel’s face through his crystal goblet.
“Well, let us not waste time,” he smiled revealing small white sharp teeth. “Rachel, ever played 21 questions?” Adam asked in an indistinguishable accent.
“Yes, I know it,” she said.
“Ok, let’s begin then,” he said.
“What distribution has the same mean and variance?”
“Pardon?” Rachel said, startled by Michael’s nudge. “Oh, never mind. The Poisson,” she said.
“Very good. Now, tell me what the central limit theorem says about n large?”
“Well, if n is large, the distribution of X (the thing we are estimating) will approach a Normal distribution, also known as the Gaussian distribution, and the Bell Curve,” she answered smiling. “Good.” he said.
“How likely am I to win a game against you, if you won 15 out of the last 20 games we previously played?”
“You are three times more likely to win.”
“Now... tell me something that you didn’t memorize from a flash card,” he said.
“I thought you would never ask,” she said. “I believe Gauss used the Mispar Kidmi to arrive at his formula for summing all numbers,” she said.
“Gematria? The Mispar Kidmi is a form of a Gematria,” he said, stroking his beard.
“Yes! Each letter is the sum of all the letter position respectively, up to and including itself. Forming a series of sums where A=1, B=3, D=6, E=10 and so on. Notice the pattern of the difference is n plus 1. Now we find an appropriate scaling coefficient, which gives us Gauss’ result; the quantity, n plus 1 times n and the whole thing divided by 2. For all we know, Gauss could have been a Jew,” Rachel grinned.
“I will accept this as a conceivable hypothesis.” Adam said. Rachel exchanged glances with Michael and excused herself.
“I don’t follow you,” Michael said.
“Michael, decent mathematicians who don’t go on to pursue PhD, become actuaries, the rest turn to statistics. Since she is the latter rather than the former, I had to check her level of statistical understanding before starting collaboration.”
When Rachel returned, Adam smiled at Rachel and said, “Now, please tell me about your data.”
“Well, I have access to the Current Population Survey—the mother of all surveys, from which key economic indicators are born. The Bureau collects, processes and delivers the data to the sponsor—the Labour department,” Rachel said.
“Of course. The Labor department construct economic indicators out of the survey,” Adam said,
“The bureau is not a research institution; its primary function is collecting and processing data.
Typically it’s some PhD program washout with a chip on his shoulder, claiming to be doing high level work. I have yet to find someone who published beyond their graduate program. In all fairness to the Bureau, what it lacks in statistical talent, it compensates with geographers,” Rachel said.
Adam scratched his temple with a manicured finger, revealing a brass ring set with four jewels inside a hexagram.
Narrowing his eyes he said in a hoarse whisper, “Rachel, name your price.”
Rachel hesitated before answering, and then said, “Mr. Brahms, unauthorized disclosure of personally identifying information carries a two-hundred fifty thousand dollar penalty and five years in prison. How much is five years of life worth?”
Adam’s eyes brightened and he said, “Please—call me Adam. Monetizing a human life is not rocket science. In fact, given what you are asking me to monetize, I am inclined to use the Marx-Zilberman equation. It’s elegant, yet simple. It was actually developed by a brilliant woman I once knew. She developed the model after reading Marx’s’ Communist Manifesto,” Adam said, smiling sheepishly.
“I recall seeing something published in some obscure economic and risk analysis journals. Oh yes-- and Wikipedia. I won't argue--it’s straightforward and simple. Yes, the more I think about it, the more I see that it is the precisely correct model to use,” Rachel said. Then she reached inside her purse and produced a flash drive and placed it on the table.
“Gentlemen, one year of CPS data for your Oracles to wet their appetites,” Rachel said.
Like a well-trained dog waiting for his treat, Adam’s gaze moved from Rachel to the flash drive and back again.
The waiter brought a 1999 Vintage Dom Perignon Rose and chilled Beluga Caviar on mother of pearl plates. Optimism about the future warped Rachel’s thoughts. Surrounded on all sides by wrong, at that moment, Rachel believed --she was doing right. While Michael was on his cell, Adam moved closer to Rachel and slithered his hand up her back making his way to the nape of her neck, she weaved her neck, forcing his hand to release, and slither away. Clearing his thoughts, Adam said, “I owe much of my success to Hedonic principles. For example, optimism bias; an exaggerated idea about how much control we have over outcomes. Most people are far more optimistic about their own circumstances then someone else’s.”
“In other words,” Rachel said, “Optimism bias--a combination of arrogance and a desire to be an individual rather than a statistic.” Afraid of what Rachel might say, Michael raised his glass and said,
“To a lucrative collaboration!” The clanging of the crystal produced a clear resonating sound.
Surprisingly enough, Rachel was satisfied with the outcome of her trip. It pleased Rachel’s internal sense of order to formulaically establish a price for her services. She sensed omnipresent perfection. Keeping the money a secret gave her time to try to understand its purpose. Rachel loathed thinking of herself as a consumer unit. She liked Plato’s ideas from “The Republic.” Plato described an ideal state and the abandonment of the typical family structure. A matrilineal dynasty came to mind; “the House of Rachel,” she whispered. The dynasty would have to wait, and so will Jake, she thought smiling. Rachel didn’t want to jeopardize Jake’s security clearance, it’s too early for him to quit his day job, she thought.
The following morning, Rachel woke to the smell of coffee that Jake made for her before leaving for work. Each sip increased her feelings of disappointment. An inner voice said, ‘you are a mediocre person--