The Infinity Argument

In the whole history of human discourse, I don’t think there has ever been a more decisive stalemate breaker than the word “Infinity.” I still remember the first time I was detoured by this powerful tactic. Lucas Murphy and I were no doubt arguing over some matter of great cosmic importance. I was probably trying to convince him that grass can turn your spit green. After about twenty rounds of “oh-no-it-CAN’T–oh-yes-it-CAN–oh-no-it-CAN’T–oh-yes-it-CAN,” my nemesis anted up and floored me. “Oh no it can’t, Infinity!”

“Oh yes it— what? That’s not even a word!” I shot back. “Oh-yes-it-IS–oh-no-it-ISN’T.” Then some meddling second-grader had to put in his two cents. “Infinity means forever.” I felt like the wind had been knocked out of me. How could I argue with Lucas after that? When your reading and writing vocabulary consists of, “See Spot run,” Infinity is a hardcore word. Obviously, Lucas was the smarter man. I conceded defeat with dignity, shouting, “Yeah, well you’re a ca-ca face!” I ran away, with Lucas close behind, yelling, “I know you are but what am I!”

Infinity changed the dynamics of every schoolyard dispute. As five-year-olds, we were content to shout, “Yeah huh! No sah! Yeah huh! No sah!” until the bell rang. Because whoever gave up first was obviously the one who was wrong. Infinity forced us out of our comfortable little paradigm. Unable to sidestep this particular landmine, we were left tongue-tied time and again. The best any of us could counter with was another round of “No sah!” The more aggressive kids simply used the F-word, but everybody recognized this as a sign of weakness. A six-year-old’s only hope was to make sure he said, “Infinity,” first. It was no longer our ace in the hole. It was our primary attack.

It took several months before some kid figured out a way to break through the Infinity conundrum. I don’t remember who it was, but the kid was ahead of his time—probably learning long division already. He had somehow discovered that Infinity is actually a mathematical concept in which numbers increase indefinitely, such that no value, no matter how great, can be considered the highest. Basically, if you think twenty-gazillion is big, just add one to it. So when faced with the now notorious Infinity assault—probably at the hands of Lucas Murphy himself—this brilliant strategist countered with, “Infinity plus one!”

Whether he was aware of the fact that he was employing this concept in direct contrast to its very connotation, I just don’t know. But, whoa. It was like watching Superman exposed to kryptonite as the impenetrable Infinity argument was finally breached. Lucas, his trump card now trumped, stood there stammering, knowing we were all looking to him for a comeback. All he could muster was, “You can’t do that. Infinity means forever. You can’t add one to forever.” Even though we all knew he was probably right, it was still a hollow defense. And our new hero had banked on it. “You can SO!” he spat. “You can NOT!” said a desperate Lucas. “Yes you CAN. Infinity!” With nothing to fall back on, Lucas was forced to abandon the conviction he had just seconds ago professed. “You can not…! Two-infinity!”

As the two sparred back and forth, raising the stakes until they were into the infinity-infinity-infinity-infinity-infinity to the infinity power range, all who were looking on knew that no argument would ever be resolved the same way again. From here on out, we knew that we were going to have to actually validate our arguments with facts and data, and that no amount of yeah huh-ing or Infinity-ing were going to make a lick of difference in the ongoing drama of “I’m right and you’re wrong.”