Four Days Every 4 Years

THE EQUATION OF LOVE 1986 - The First Equation This time he was ready to solve the problem—to tackle the quantum physics of love head-on. Marcos Núñez had been cramming everything: relativity theory, Einstein-Rosen bridge singularities, Max Planck's papers, Schrödinger's paradox, and the string theory work of Jöel Scherk and John Henry Schwarz, all building on those old Kaluza-Klein foundations. The whole arsenal gave him confidence in tackling the unpredictable: applying mathematics to that messy amalgamation of feelings we call love. July heat poured through the open windows of his beat-up Citroën GS as Marcos navigated the winding country road that snaked through Toledo's mountains. The car—dented, rattling, held together by prayer—was the same age as him: twenty years of hard living, secondhand everything, making do however you could. The engine groaned up every hill, but it had been his ticket to freedom after two years of saving every peseta from construction work. Until summer '86, his life had played out pretty much like any other working-class kid from the neighborhood. School hadn't been his thing—math was the only subject where he absolutely crushed it, though nobody seemed to give a damn about that—and besides, he needed money for what he considered essential priorities: getting his driver's license and buying a used car so he could travel. Hit the Spanish coast, then push on through France and the rest of Europe. Dreams that weren't so different from most kids his age, though he had this nagging feeling his motivations ran deeper, like he was searching for something he couldn't quite name yet. Simple plan at first, until reality body-slammed him into the working world. Shit pay, bosses with wannabe-mobster aspirations, cheats and thieves. Construction sites attracted them like flies to roadkill. Took him just over two years to nail the first part of his goal: fresh driver's license in hand and this automobile scored at a decent price—a Citroën GS with more miles on it than campaign promises from a politician. Late June, he'd taken a small tumble at work, falling off a ladder. For a moment he thought he'd shattered his left leg—pain shot through him like lightning—but after X-rays at the hospital, the orthopedist confirmed the bone was intact, just a sprained ankle. "You're lucky, kid. From that height, you could be in a wheelchair right now," the doctor had said while adjusting the bandage. "Two weeks of rest and you'll be good as new." Between the work comp, the vacation days they owed him, and getting laid off because he'd have to report for Spain's mandatory military service after summer, he figured this was the perfect moment to start his journey. The first thing he discovered made him question everything they'd drilled into his head since childhood: "Anyone can be whatever they want, regardless of where they're born." "You're not what you have, you're what's inside you." A bunch of pretty phrases that turned to mush when reality hit. A poor person can have time or some money, but never both at once. It was as immutable a physical law as gravity. The company, naturally, had refused to pay his comp and severance. Marcos remembered the conversation with his boss perfectly—a fat, bald man who reeked of cheap tobacco and bargain-bin cologne. "Legally, you have to pay me compensation and severance," Marcos had said, planting himself in the man's office—a smoke-filled closet barely big enough for a metal desk and two plastic chairs. "You're right, son," the old fat fuck had replied with a smile that never reached his eyes. "Go ahead and sue me." He laughed, showing yellowed teeth. "Why do you think I'm rich and you're just another poor bastard?"