The Brain

 
 
On the 22nd of October in the town of New Haven there was an
incident at a large bread factory. Inside the factory, as one might
guess, there were workers, who made the bread, but truthfully most of
the credit went to the factory. Inside it appeared as anyone might
expect a bread factory to appear. The workers dressed in white, and were
perpetually covered in flour and bits of dough. If you walked in the
front door of the factory, and stood for a moment observing it as a
whole, you would probably get the feeling that this was a place where
bread was being made. Small white puffs of smoke rose above the heads of
its workers every few moments for some reason or another, then fell back
down, settling in the hair or on the shoulders of the diligent bread
makers. 
One such breadman was a chap named Ed Oscar. Ed Oscar had worked
in the factory for over 15 years, never missing a day of work, not once
even arriving late to work. Ed’s job was an important one, as he was to
inspect the loaves of bread upon leaving the oven. He inspected the
loaves for a variety of criteria such as crustiness, fluffiness, color,
and a whole lot of other specifications that are outlined at length in
the loaf inspecting manual given him on his first day on the job,
fifteen years prior. If a loaf did not pass inspection it was thrown
away. The old policy was for the rejected loaves to be given to the poor
and hungry of New Haven, but this ended when new management took over
the factory, to cut costs. 
All the loaves were looking up to company standards that morning,
until at about 9:27 when Ed Oscar noticed a particularly puny loaf of
bread that did not appear even remotely worthy. He called for the loaf
to be brought to him, and seeing quite plainly that it was to be
rejected and thrown out, he watched to see if anyone was looking, and
seeing they were not, attempted to tear himself off a piece of it, for
he was quite hungry on that morning, having opted for only coffee,
leaving the eggs and toast for his wife and two daughters.  To his
disgust this pitiful loaf was covered in a sort of slime, and was
springy and flesh like to the touch. He looked closer. This was no loaf
of bread. No, this was most certainly a brain. Possibly a human brain?
But how could a human brain get into a bread factory? It certainly was
smaller than he had imagined brains to be. It dawned on him. This was
the brain of the new owner of the bread factory. The dullard known as
Duckett! Only his brain could be of a size so utterly under developed
and, why, he must get rid of this thing! He stuffed the brain into a
nearby sack, and made for an exit. On the way out he told his friend to
cover for him, and that he would have an amazing story to tell him as
his payment. As he stole out of the factory in search of a place to rid
himself of the brain, the morning sky was particularly dazzling, and the
narrator was distracted and admired the morning sky for too many
moments, and lost all track of Ed Oscar. 
 
Timothy Duckett awoke on the 22nd of October, altogether
brainless. How this happened is any ones guess. He had been recovering
from a rather severe head cold, and it was rumored that during a
particularly violent sneeze his brain saw it’s opportunity, and made a
mad dash. Since it is scientific fact that every sneeze in history has
been performed with eyes firmly shut, he did not witness the desertion.
Strange as this was, it was all the more odd for the fact that Timothy
Duckett was completely unaffected by the loss of his mind, and what’s
more, oblivious to its departure. Don’t ask me how this is even
possible. I don’t know. Unexplainable things happen all the time, and
that’s a fact (no matter what the scientists would have you believe).
Timothy sat up and stretched, yawning self-importantly, then lying back
down, promptly fell back asleep.
     Several hours later he again awoke to a terrible buzzing coming
from the front door. He knew it was his doorbell, but it had never
sounded quite so shrill to him, puzzling. The buzzing echoed inside
Timothy Duckett’s empty head as if off the walls of a cave. Moaning in
thoughtless self-pity, he began to shove his blankets aside. This took
no small amount of time, and he fought with his bedding for several
minutes. For a moment it was unclear who would claim the day, but in the
end Timothy did triumph. 
     Once upright, he staggered haphazardly down the hallway, mumbling
something or other. The walls of the hallway were lined with pictures of
himself, only the seminal moments; graduations, newspaper clippings, and
first dates. 
He opened his front door to find his good friend Charles Taylor
waiting patiently. His glasses sat on his nose, as always, most
comfortably.  He was a small man, soft spoken, the sort of bookish
fellow who, if he ever took off his glasses was practically
unrecognizable. When removed, the frames left indentations on the bridge
of his nose, dark lines running down into the corners of his eyes. 
     Timothy Duckett bellowed. “Charles, goodness Charles, I knew it
would be you! How is it that you always come buzzing my door at the
worst possible moments! Why, I was just in the middle of some very
serious undertakings! Very serious indeed! Yes, I got up quite early so
that I could get straight to the matter, but here you are, bound and
determined to impede my progress, and to break the momentum which up
until a moment ago had been rolling, like a great wheel through a vast
and treeless countryside!!”
     Charles blushed, and apologized sincerely. Timothy suggested
Charles might make up for his untimely arrival by cooking some eggs and
bacon while he resumed the work, which up until that moment, he had been
so strenuously attending to.  
     Shortly after, the two friends sat down together to fried eggs,
Canadian bacon, buttered toast, and black coffee. Timothy Duckett (as
always) was the first to finish.
     “I tell you Charles, this city is chock full of fools! Morons
everywhere of the highest order! They understand nothing of the
intellectual arts! And the women of this town! POSH! I’ll likely die a
bachelor, and to think I used to dine with all manners of lady-kind! The
most delicate of beauty to me was trifles!”
     Charles took a big drink of his coffee and saw that it was just the
thing to help him get up the nerve to make a quick and insightful
interjection.
     “Well, you know what they say about money Tim. Ever since you came
into all that money from your mother’s side of the family, it seems to
me-“
     “That’s it! Spoken well and true my dear colleague! Intimidated by
my fortune! Oh the fate of the modern capitalist! I cannot help my
reputation for progressive thinking! My ways are foreign to them! No
common ground whatsoever on which to find beneficial communion!” And
with that said Timothy Duckett sat back in his chair and giggled. 
     “Something funny?” Charles asked, not used to hearing the sound of
laughter when in the company of Timothy Duckett.
     “It’s that breeze, blowing in from the window there. It’s tickling
the backs of my eyeballs!!” And so saying he began to giggle again.
     “I beg your pardon?”
     “My eyes, and my head are feeling most ticklish! I must not be
well, for I am also given to light headedness this morning. And OOOOH
that breeze is tickling me on the backside of my eyeballs most
adamantly! I do wish it would stop!”
     “Sir how can the breeze tickle your eyeballs on their backside?”
     “How should I know? I’m not an eye doctor Charles, I don’t deal
with eyes for a profession nor do I have any inclination to start for it
does not interest me in the slightest to undertake the study of the
eyes, not even as a hobby!” 
     “I wasn’t suggesting you were. I was only remarking as to the
peculiar problem of the back end of an eyeball, tickling. I’ve never
heard of such a thing!”
     Timothy Duckett got up and lurched in the direction of the open
window, and by shutting it end the strange torment. Meanwhile it is
necessary to take a closer look at Timothy Duckett, so we may try to get
at what kind of person he really is, and so doing get a clue into why
such a peculiar problem came about in the first place.
     Timothy Duckett is a rather bulbous shaped man, with rosy cheeks,
and a mustache that curls out quite impressively, but is currently
matted to the sides of his pink cheeks from being pressed against goose
feather pillows all morning. He wakes up at noon every day. He used to
get up earlier, but that was back when his lack of wealth compelled him
to work for a living. He sold hot dogs. Everything changed when he
inherited over 50 millions dollars from his mothers brothers Lester,
whom he met only once, when he was ten years old. They talked for a
short time, and since great idiots usually make the best impressions in
the shortest amounts of time, Timothy succeeded in thoroughly impressing
his Uncle Lester, who also happened to be an idiot. When he received
word of his inheritance he immediately went out and bought a brand new
car, a convertible, and a small dog to ride in the passenger seat and
stick its head out the passenger window. He named the dog Timothy Jr.
Only the car made it home, as Timothy discovered almost immediately that
he was, in fact, not a dog person. He reads thick books in short amounts
of time. He eats meat almost exclusively. He tells long and embarrassing
jokes to which he laughs uproariously, usually alone. He is in love with
the wife of Charles Taylor but not because of anything in particular
about her, but because she is the only woman he is ever in the presence
of on a somewhat regular basis, much to his dismay.  
     Shutting the open window contemptuously he returned to the dining
room and sat down again in a sulky posture. Charles was just finishing
up the dishes. 
     “Eyeballs back to normal sir?”
     Yes, quite.”
     “And what is on the agenda for you today?”
     The question caught Timothy Duckett off-guard. He was quite
unacquainted with having any sort of agenda for any of his days. He
tried to think. He leaned back in his chair placing one hand under his
chin while the other tapped the side of his head, as if to get the
wheels turning. The wheels did not turn, and when his finger tapped his
head it made a low sound, a hollow sound, like that of an empty barrel,
or an empty jar, or an empty head. “BONNGGG” declared his empty head. It
was positively resounding. Charles was startled, quite understandably.  
“I think maybe you should see a Doctor.”
 
     Timothy Duckett arrived at the office of Milton Jockel M.D. around
3 o’clock, and insisted to be seen not only immediately, but also, in
fact at once. The receptionist stared up at him perplexed, as he paced
back and forth obsessively tapping the side of his head. Bonnggg…
BONNNGGGGG!! Went his round head. It was not an altogether unpleasant
sound, just very odd, due to its source. After a short period of time a
nurse appeared to usher Timothy into an examining room, much to the
relief of everyone within ear-shot.
     Dr Jockel entered the room with his nose imbedded in his clipboard.
“Now what seems to be the problem errr.. Mr. Duckett is it?” he asked,
not looking up.
     “Well you see doctor, I don’t quite know what to make of it. Other
than a feeling of light headedness, and a good bit of tickling behind
the eyes, I feel quite fine, normal even, but you see the reason I came
is, well, hear for yourself.” And with that Timothy resumed bonging on
the side of his head. 
Dr. Jockel looked up. “I see. Well that is a bit odd. The noise is
what you are referring to, am I correct?”
     “Yes the noise that’s it! If you think it sounds odd only imagine
what it sounds like to me! Why it’s echoing between my eardrums! It’s
starting to cause me head pains! Surely you have encountered something
similar before. I’m sure it isn’t an altogether uncommon symptom, but
only, it is not common to me, and…”
     “No, no I do not recall ever having heard a man’s head making a
noise of that nature. Let’s have a look then.  Stick out your tongue.”
     And so the Doctor began to give Timothy an examination, testing his
heart rate, his reflexes, and then his pupil dilation. Finally, he took
his physicians flashlight and pointed the beam into Timothy’s right ear,
and after having given a quick look-see, promptly fainted.
     When he awoke roughly ten seconds later he peered again into
Timothy’s ear canal, and grew quite excited, making a noise that sounded
like the chirping of a field mouse.    
“Well isn’t that the darndest, and whatwhatwhat to make of it?
Indeed most strange, most strange I’m sure!!”
     Timothy, feeling increasingly exposed, cried out, “What? What is
it! Speak now man! Out with it!!”
     The doctor took a step back and picking up his clipboard began his
formal diagnosis. 
     “The problem my good man, is quite simply (and take no offense at
my directness), you sir have lost your mind!”
     “I know that doctor, I am going positively mad with worry!”
     “No, no, you quite misunderstand me. Mr. Duckett, you are
brainless!”
     “How dare you!! You call yourself a doctor, I’m filing for
malpractice!”
     “Sir you have it all wrong. You’re empty headed. There is nothing
between your ears. You’re mind is no longer with us. You sir, have no
brain!”
     Timothy Duckett did not know what to make of the doctor’s words. He
was in denial to be sure, but who wouldn’t be? Finally after a long
silence he managed to whisper.
     “So, what you’re saying is, my brain is.. GONE?”
     “Now you’ve got it!” cried the doctor. “Gone with the wind! Nothing
but the inside of your skull! Your brain has left the premises. Your
head is vacant. There is nothing between your ears but air! Flown the
coop if you will! Abandoned ship you might say! But oh, there is no
time! I must call all of my colleagues so they can come and study you!
Many tests to be done! This is the find I’ve been waiting for! Why, I’ll
write my book on you! The Man Without a Brain! The title yes! I’ll be
famous!”  
     “But.. But I feel fine! Without my brain I should be a drooling
mess! I should not be able to speak or comprehend anything at all!”
     The doctor paused, this being a point he had not arrived at yet in
all of his fervor. “That does seem a bit odd, I must admit.” And he
tapped his head in thought, making the normal sound a head makes upon
being tapped, causing Timothy Duckett to feel quite envious. Finally he
spoke. “Well, the only possible conclusion I can come to is that you
must never have been in the practice of using your brain in the first
place. Yes, that must be it! You notice no difference because there is
no difference, for your brain has been inactive for as long as you have
lived. Most incredible! Just wait until Dr. Heffel hears of this, he is
going to die of jealousy! My greatest discovery yet!”
     Timothy could bear it no longer. He jumped from the table he had
been sitting on and ran from the examination room clutching his fat head
with both hands, sobbing profusely. The doctor ran after him, not about
to lose his meal ticket, for the town was a quite healthy one and
business was slow. He called after Timothy, “WAIT! WAIT YOU BRAINLESS
FOOL!! We have only just begun to study you! Come back you mindless oaf
so I can have another look inside that empty skull! I have candy!!”
     But Timothy Duckett was already out the front door of the office
and running down the street in a complete frenzy. He headed straight to
the home of his only friend Charles Taylor, who was not at home, but at
work, as he had only come by to visit Timothy on his lunch break, as was
his daily custom. His wife, and the secret love of Timothy Duckett,
instead came to the door. Upon seeing her Timothy cried out in horror
and ran back away from the house, shouting, ”I have no brain!! Where is
my BRAIN????” Closing the door the wife of Charles Taylor said, “Well
that explains a lot,” and went back to vacuuming the living room floor.
     After running around in no particular direction for longer than he
had since his childhood, Timothy collapsed into the grass of a nearby
park and laid wheezing and coughing, and cursing his awful luck. “How
does a brain just up and leave a head? There is no possible explanation!
Oh why is this happening to me? Why couldn’t it happen to someone else,
Charles Taylor for example! Why couldn’t Charles Taylor’s brain have
deserted him instead? No, this could only happen to me! My awful, awful
luck!!” And he began to hug his round body, rocking back and forth and
crying pathetically. 
     When his tears finally ran dry he composed himself and began
thinking of ways to find his fugitive brain. However, the ideas he came
up with are not worth mentioning. Suffice to say problem solving was not
a skill Timothy Duckett had practiced very often, and his line of
thought more or less went in very small circles. 
     It was just then, as he sat trying to squeeze ideas from his non-
existent mind as one would squeeze juice from a non-existent fruit, a
group of three attractive females passed him by. His gaze followed them
as they went to an open area of the park and spread out blankets and
began unpacking a picnic basket full of treats. He watched them from
afar as they ate. When they were finished, they got up  and began to
toss a Frisbee, and it was then that he noticed a fourth among them. He
rose to his feet and began to approach them when, to his shock and
disbelief, there stood his brain, tossing a Frisbee with the beautiful
ladies, right in plain view! He cried out to his brain, “Why you
BASTARD! How dare you abandon the inner sanctum of my head! How dare you
go gallivanting around with sumptuous beauties such as these! You know I
have an extreme affinity for sumptuous beauties! Back to your home you
little weasel!!” 
Greatly relieved and suddenly feeling self-conscious in the
presence of women, Timothy Duckett changed his tone, and began to
entreat his brain in a friendlier manner. “You old rascal come over here
and hop back in my head so we can all get to know each other properly!
Don’t worry I’m not angry with you. Mind you Mind, I was at first, you
caused me quite a scare, but that’s all done now! I’m only glad that
you’re safe, and who are these young ladies may I ask?” 
     Neither his brain nor the young ladies took notice of Timothy
however, and in fact began prancing around the park engaged in a tickle
fight of sorts. The ladies giggled and hid behind trees as Timothy’s
brain pursued them about, tickling whomever he could catch. 
     “Now just wait one moment! I demand your attention! You
disrespectful little prune! Stop at once, you sniveling pink pile! I
will not be ignored!”
     His brain turned to him and smiled, as if only just now noticing
him. “Well hullo there sir? Were you addressing me?”
     Timothy stumbled backward aghast, mouth wide open, which was a very
wide opening I assure you. “Can it be that you do not recognize me? I am
the body whom you have deserted! Now stop this fooling around and get
back in my head!!” 
     His brain smiled up at him quizzically. Then, addressing his
companions spoke, “Do you hear that ladies? This fat man says I am his
long lost brain, and that I should crawl back into his head! That is
what you said fat man, is it not?” And everyone save for Timothy Duckett
had a good long laugh. 
     Timothy reached out his swollen hands to strangle his brain, but to
his surprise the brain was quite agile, and he effortlessly dodged his
advances several times before socking Timothy Duckett squarely on the
jaw. His round body fell to the ground unceremoniously, and unable to
stand, watched through the blades of grass as his brain and the three
females trotted off down a bike path, whistling a tune Timothy Duckett
had never heard before. 
     
 
That night Timothy Duckett lay on his couch in shambles, while
Charles Taylor fanned him with an unread newspaper. 
“I just don’t understand it Charles. How could my brain do this to
me? I have never been so grievously wronged in all my life!”
Charles Taylor was secretly amused at the day’s events, though
mercifully he did not show it.
“Maybe he felt unappreciated? I don’t know Tim, after all these
years not using him, not consulting him about anything at all, I suppose
he just got fed up and left. That is a pretty offensive thing to do to
ones own brain. A brain can only take so much you know. I suppose he
wanted out, more or less literally. A divorce of sorts I suppose.”
Timothy nodded solemnly.
“Well he could have at least voiced his feelings before just
leaving me all alone and brainless! If I had known I had been insulting
the poor fellow all these years I might have made an attempt at
reconciliation! He didn’t even attempt to file the proper paperwork!”
Suddenly the doorbell buzzed, sending Timothy Duckett off the edge
of the couch, clutching his head in misery. Charles opened the door to
find Dr. Jockel smiling from ear to ear.
Timothy groaned, “Go away you contemptuous QUACK! Can’t you see
I’m suffering? I’m not some Guinea Pig for you to experiment on! Leave
me be and go back to whatever it is you doctors claim to do. I am a man
of culture and good taste, not some freak of nature!”
“Well that is debatable.” Replied the doctor giving Charles a
knowing wink. “But Timothy, I am not here to do any experiments on you.
You see I have here in this brown paper bag something that may be of
some interest to you. I found him in a library downtown, apparently
making up for lost time.”
Timothy sat upright.
“My brain? You found my brain? Doctor please this is no time for
jokes! If you have my brain then just come out and say it! Don’t torture
me with ambiguities!”
The doctor shook his head and chuckled. Turning his back to
Timothy for a moment he reached into the brown paper bag and then
dramatically spun back toward Timothy with his arm outstretched. 
“You mean THIS BRAIN??” He cried out, channeling his inner
showman. 
“EGAD it IS my brain!! You’ve done it doctor! You’ve captured my
mind! You’ve cured me of my darkest depression!” And he advanced toward
the doctor who backpedaled toward the door. 
“Ah ah ah, not so fast you airhead. I’m going to need some sort of
compensation for my bounty.”
 “What sort of compensation?” asked Timothy Duckett, who was now
squinting incredulously at his former hero. 
Doctor Jockel scanned the massive living room, which was full of all
sorts of expensive treasures.
     “How about that diamond encrusted ashtray, over there, atop the
mantle.” 
     Timothy retrieved the ashtray, and fondled it in his palms for some
time, considering the proposed trade. Even though he did not smoke you
must remember that Timothy Duckett was indeed a truly awesome fool, and
fools always have a hard time parting with anything they own, no matter
how superfluous an item it may be. The doctor tossed the brain back and
forth between his hands goading Timothy on, for he had anticipated
something like this might happen. 
     “Alright okay, you may take the ash tray if that is what your
greedy little heart desires, but know that it is a present from my own
grandmother, a cherished gift. Let that rest on your conscience.” This
of course was a lie. 
     The doctor took the ashtray and held it up to a nearby lamp,
examining the trinket. Satisfied, he tossed Timothy his decidedly small
brain, tipped his hat to Charles, and left. 

Epilog :)
 
     Timothy Duckett sat with his brain for a long time. He
had not thought of how he would get the thing back into his
head. It hadn’t occurred to him that this would be a
problem. It hadn’t occurred to him that once out of a head,
a brain would be most impossible to re-insert. It occurred
to him now, and he sat utterly despondent. He kept his brain
on a plate, under a glass dome, and from that day forward
prayed each night for his brain to return to him, and
promised that if it did, he would make an utterly new start.
Whether or not the brain ever did return is not for me to
say. If it did let us hope that Mr. Duckett made good on his
promise, and if it didn’t, let us all learn the valuable
lesson, to always use a hankerchief when sneezing, to keep
our brains in our heads, because who is to say what a brain
might do when given the chance and a proper motive.