How to Solve a Rubik’s Cube

Liza Long

That thing will blow your mind the fat man seated next to me said gesturing to the metacube of cubes I pulled out of my bag before takeof — my worry beads a toy to keep my hands busy, to hold my buzzing brain in check on airplanes or in supermarket lines

Why do I still use this cube you gave me and not a new one? Is it the predictable slick turns or the satisfying snick as another layer falls neatly into place?

Or is it the memory of that hour stuck in the San Francisco airport when we missed our light, a typical trip—you meeting clients in expensive restaurants; me walking through the museum of modern art quietly snickering at the thought of Boise-born-Bjork-loving Matthew Barney dressed as General Patton outlining his art aesthetic with a sharpie on the vast expanse of white waved wall— that hour when I solved the mysteries of the universe for the irst time, your hands guiding mine?

Snick. Snick. Snick. The middle layer’s done now solve the H, the satisfying click of double double toil and trouble double back up right now the top is solid yellow. Then mix the whole thing up again to ix it.

Well how about that says the fat man as the last piece slides into its proper place— order from chaos god’s in his heaven etcetera.

(If only all the rest were like this cube governed by simple algorithms that solve the mysteries of loss and grief and pain of love and life, of you and me and we. How about that).