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Last Night at the Brain Thieves Ball
Scott Spencer
O miserable minds of men! O blind hearts! In what darkness of life, in what great dangers ye spend this little span of years!
LUCRETIUS
Contents
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A Biography of Scott Spencer
1
MY DESK IS SHAPED like a kidney and has a slight wobble. I have finally learned to draw the curtains to the small window in the parallelogram of senseless noise they call my office. That’s something: what we call progress. Before me are five lime green folders (I can see the strips of lamplight on their shiny surfaces) filled with photostats, carbon copies, photographs, test scores, intercepted letters, witty memos, dream summaries, fingerprints, thumbnail sketches, EEG charts, oscillograph readings, EMG abstracts, GSR readings, EKG charts—a whole hulking beast of immoral information that pirouettes painfully around the one indisputable fact: I am a brain thief.
I am a brain thief and I wish to repent. You can quote me. Facts galore! It is getting me down, this business of brain thievery, this morning coffee in a Styrofoam cup. All day I am assaulted by a stereophonic barrage of hostile noise. Upstairs, the Force Recruiters are learning to kick down doors. At this very instant I hear the One, Two, Three … KICK of Miss Mitchell’s Force Recruiters above, followed by the clatter of fifty doors onto the heavily varnished gymnasium floor. They clatter floorward, the dummy doors, at precisely the same instant. Miss Mitchell is very strict about that. And anyone she trains as a Force Recruiter had better toe that line. I can’t be sure, of course, but that’s, I am told, how things are up in the gym—all those huge fierce men and Miss Mitchell, in her mouse gray jumpsuit with an enormous silver whistle dangling from her neck. “All the doors must fall at the same instant,” she probably says, and looks at the Force Recruiters apocalyptically.
Aside from that, I have been hearing footsteps that seem to slow down as they pass my office, speed up and vanish.
And then, I am having one of those days when even my simplest thoughts echo sententiously in the vast cellular silence of my brain, reverberating endlessly through gray corridors.
I have seen Miss Mitchell, our Violence Coordinator, in the cafeteria and think she’s a real piece. It is one of my dreams to sneak into the gymnasium and watch her train the Force Recruiters. But it is not allowed. Visiting. Or fraternization. Or much of anything. It’s a tight ship. Everywhere you look there’s a shoulder to the wheel, an eye on the ball.
It’s the leg closest to my left foot. Even the slight pressure I use to write these words causes my desk to wobble. Whoever is in charge of such things must consider my interior decorations a matter of complete indifference. I have written repeatedly that I am in need of a new desk and the request has not been acknowledged.
The five lime green folders are still before me. A faint odor of Xerox wafts from them. Miss Dorfman, the secretary assigned to me, is in Arizona on her vacation, visiting her insane cousin, of whom I have heard far far too much. The last time my desk began to wobble she fixed it. But I can’t remember for the life of me what it was she did. With her hands. Her strong, salmon-colored hands. “There, Mr. Galambos,” she said to me, sitting on the floor and grinning, “fixed!”
Before me, right next to the green folders, is an orange and magenta sign that Mr. Worthington “suggests” we hang in some suitable place, IMAGINATION: THE BIG PLUS. Although there may exist men in this organization who are more powerful and important than Mr. Worthington, I do not have contact with them. Mr. W. is my boss and every once in a while he comes into my cubicle and asks me how it’s going. He is an old, bland gent for whom I have a strange, practically slavish adoration. Yesterday, around ten in the morning, he came in and asked me, “How’s it going, Paul?” and offered me a mint. Then to my surprise and, yes, gratification he complimented me on my work on the gamma motor neuron. Not that I am unaccustomed to being complimented—my work here is far above the competence level—but I was faintly uncertain about my gamma motor neuron hypotheses. Through a clever manipulation of some stray data on Subject #3-R-d (a Roberta Merkin of Grand Rapids, Michigan), I was able to postulate that changes in furniture styles cause changes in posture which cause changes in susceptibility to anxiety stimuli. In other words, it is possible to design breakfast nook chairs that will send legions of men to work each day with their teeth absolutely on edge, their knuckles white. Of course, for the office we will suggest chairs that will counteract the nasty neuronal nag and put everyone quite at ease. Thus the gamma neuron will shift dramatically man’s loyalty to his work place, a task no number of company picnics and stock option plans could possibly accomplish …
Perhaps I am one of the most brilliant, lonely men alive. My brilliance and loneliness seem to have no boundaries. I have been working for New England Sensory Testing, Engineering, and Research (NESTER) for four months now and I’m beginning to feel it was all a terrible mistake, a huge error which every passing day compounds.
Once I was an associate professor of experimental psychology at a university on the eastern seaboard of America, and I was having the usual associate professor’s luck. My bride, Lydia, had gone back to her family in Forest Hills, New York, with our son, an adopted eight-year-old to whom I was just becoming accustomed. I had alienated permanently the head of my department with a few needless remarks at two o’clock in the morning while wishing him good-bye on his stagelike porch beneath an orange light bulb hideously orbited by a thousand strange insects. Then add the subsequent affair with a nineteen-year-old student who responded to my moist, overripened affections with a nervous breakdown and dropped out of school—to be whisked witlessly back to Newport News by her drunken father and a sassy chauffeur. My tears, real tears, of no interest to history or to anyone, are mentioned here in passing.
When one finds oneself enmeshed in the cold, buzzing logic of a place like NESTER one naturally asks: How did I get here? It’s hard to choose a place in time and say: This is where it all began. Every day we pass innumerable forks in the road and retracing our steps is usually impossible. But there was a point, say two years ago, call it the Christmas holidays, when my life took on a pointlessness and a tedium that edged me toward the very limits of panic. I could no longer tolerate reading my old, half-good lectures to those smiling semicircles of cross-legged undergraduates. My marriage was as rewarding and invigorating as a few hours in front of a slot machine. I had never in my life been blessed with the gift of popularity but my relations with friends and acquaintances were at an all-time low. The fellow whom I had casually—perhaps too casually—considered my best friend, and who lived a scant 250 miles from me, failed to inform me when his wife gave birth to their daughter, for instance. My finances were neither in shambles nor in a state of growth. The money I made and the money I spent and saved remained constant, and it was clear that this was to be my standard of living for the rest of my days.
I was acutely aware of growing older. I was morbidly conscious of living in a changing world. In an age of upheaval, I wanted to do some upheaving of my own. I was no stranger to the current advances in science, warfare, sex, and men’s fashions. I would read about them in the magazines and see them on television. Speeches, threats, proclamations, confessio
ns. But none of them included me. I wasn’t a part of the times. I wasn’t noticed and, were I to disappear, I wouldn’t be missed. I joined book clubs. I wrote provocative letters to my senators and congressmen, hoping that I would be one of those blessed academics who is invited to manage the political affairs of a dynamic candidate solely on the basis of a well-phrased letter. I subscribed to over fifty magazines. I adopted bizarre opinions. I followed everything that was current with a sharp, critical eye, waiting for history to rub off on me. But of course it never would.
Even my work in the laboratory was beginning to pale. The lab had long been my refuge, but how many times can you watch a bunch of pink-eyed rats nose their way around a sheet-metal maze and still think it’s interesting? Even the little embellishments, like electric shocks and ringing bells that would send the hapless rodents into a defecating tizzy, added nothing to my interest in these routine exercises. And it wasn’t only the routine exercises that bored me. The whole thing bored me. Even my rather neat contribution to the scientific understanding of DNA left me cold. After all, I asked myself, what did it matter? It didn’t serve to connect me to anything. My world was still a small and essentially a shabby one. I took to thinking of my colleagues as a bunch of squares. I began to fantasize about life on an expense account, my name in gossip columns. I brooded over the fact that I wasn’t an atomic physicist. If I were an atomic physicist, foreign governments would try to tempt me to defect. I might be involved in tumultuous controversy. Mayhem! But no. That wasn’t in the cards for me. I wasn’t getting anywhere. I grew sideburns and bought a pair of two-toned shoes.
Then I came across NESTER’s two-sentence classified ad in a weekly magazine of refined opinion. “Dynamic Progressive Company Seeks Psychologists for Public Relations Program/Full Experimental and Executive Freedom/Unlimited Opportunity.” I had always been a habitual reader of employment advertising—I pored over the classifieds like a quadraplegic over sporting goods catalogues, with that same futile enthusiasm, that same discerning desperation. My sense of futility found its roots not in my personality but in my history. I had, that is to say, answered scores of notices and never once came even close to landing a job that I wanted. Either my applications went unacknowledged or I was urged to meet with some raving mediocrity who wanted to entice me to take a position either similar to or shabbier than my own. But there was something about NESTER’s notice that excited all that was juvenile and optimistic in me.
I stayed up late into the night, writing them a long letter—though I didn’t at that time know to whom I was writing. It was strictly a matter of “Dear Sirs” and a post office box. I described my qualifications, expressed my willingness to change jobs, to sell my house, and change towns, and said I looked forward to hearing from them.
Two weeks after unknowingly nibbling NESTER’s bait, I became aware of two muscular men with short yellow hair following me about the campus. When I first noticed them I guessed they were recent enrollees, back from Southeast Asia and finishing up their education on the GI Bill. They had that cruel, experienced look of Vietnam veterans. It was the beginning of the winter semester and they both signed up for my class in Classical Conditioning. I took note of their calm, vaguely malevolent eyes as soon as I walked into the small room where I pontificated. My first assumption was that they were out to give me a hard time because I had signed a number of petitions and proclamations denouncing the war and had a few months before spent a couple of hours with an assortment of academicians and liberal townsfolk in a silent vigil in front of the post office, the only federal building in the area. They were registered under the names Clinton Factor and Ray Pernod, names which, for some reason, sent little chunks of ice tumbling through my circulatory system. I had meant to check up on them in the administration building but, characteristically, I never got around to it. All my years I had been plagued with a life-style in which the most insignificant details of my days obstructed my ability to cope with the larger forces governing me. In other words, a mild desire to listen to a Mozart concert on FM radio would send me racing home after my final lecture instead of going to the administration building as I should have.
Not that checking up on them would have done any good. Undoubtedly, their records would have been neatly filed and in order and I would have looked at them, nodded, put them back, and returned to my life with a sense of security as false as my wife Lydia’s smile, if I can be permitted a bit of gratuitous bitterness.
It is not altogether uncommon for associate professors to be manhandled or even slain by irate students, but such outbursts usually occur after final examinations and grades. So even though I was aware that Factor and Pernod were in my field of vision (and I in theirs) with an eerie frequency, I didn’t worry about it too much. Once, when I noticed them nursing bottles of Heineken near my table at the Gooch (a local hangout where I occasionally convinced young women to share meals with me), I approached them with an open smile and we all shook hands. “How do you like school?” I asked them. They glanced back and forth at each other, apparently unsure to whom the question had been directed. I looked at Clinton Factor, who was the slightly smaller of the two and whose squared chin was a mass of small white scars. He said, “We like it fine, sir,” and Pernod called the waitress over and asked for their check. “And how do you like it, sir?” asked Pernod, smiling at me. He glanced at the check, handed it to Factor, and slapped a quarter and a dime onto the powder blue Formica table.
A week later someone pushed me down the stairs as I was on my way to lunch. I was on the third-floor landing of the social science building, holding a notebook and a lunch bag. I felt a pair of strong hands smash into the small of my back and I screamed, and then the stairs leaped up to my face and there was darkness. There was not, unfortunately, a loss of consciousness. I was acutely aware of my body striking the hard wooden surfaces, my ankles dragging, my muscles twisting, my elbows banging, my head splitting. I sat up when I reached the bottom still holding on to my lunch bag, though my notebook and papers had been scattered. A few flickering gray shafts of vision pierced the fearsome blackness that had descended upon me with my fall. Then I saw perhaps a dozen horrified students lurching in my direction and behind them one of my big blond nemeses—Factor or Pernod, I did not know which—fading down the hall.
The next thing I knew I was in an ambulance. I came to briefly and saw a white-jacketed attendant withdraw a hypo from my arm, and then I felt my tongue swell in my mouth and I was gone again. I awoke in the university hospital, in a private room. Denny Grinnel, the young chairman of the psychology department and by now no friend of mine, was at my bedside with his young son Farley, who in my confusion I first took to be my own adopted boy, Andrew. “Hello there,” Denny said when my eyes opened.
“Hello,” I said.
“What in the hell happened to you?” he asked.
“Someone pushed me down the stairs,” I answered, not aware of any particular pain.
“Hmmm?” he said, moving closer to me and putting his lanky arm around his son’s shoulders.
“I said some dirty son of a bitch shoved me down the goddamn stairs.”
He shook his head. “All right. Don’t strain yourself. We’ll talk later.” He stood up. I realized my voice, clear enough to me, was no more than an assortment of sub-human mumbles to Denny. “You just rest. You’ve had a nasty spill.”
“I was pushed.”
“Hmmmm? What? Oh, never mind. Dr. Pitch is looking after you. A good man. He told me you’ve broken no bones and it looks like you’ll be out of here real soon. You go in for X-rays in an hour or so—”
“Why don’t you let me do the explaining?” a voice interrupted. It was Dr. Pitch, who entered rubbing his enormous red hands together and—
One of Mr. Worthington’s numerous lackeys rapped on my door just a few minutes ago. I snapped closed this notebook and jumped up, practically toppling my trembling desk. (A flash of fluorescence reflected over its surface as it swayed.) “Who is i
t?” I croaked.
The door opened and it was Tom Simon, Mr. W.’s private secretary or liaison officer or valet—who knows what he was? “Note from the Man Upstairs,” he said, shaking a long, lime green envelope at me. I took it from him and he turned on his heel and left.
I ripped open the svelte envelope, tearing part of its contents. I have always been overcome with greed and expectation when opening mail. Inside, there was a sheet of pale yellow paper, folded once down the center. On it, written with a green felt-tipped pen, were “Keep up the good work” and Mr. Worthington’s full, rich signature—each letter in his name looked like an animate object. I sat down heavily in my meager swivel chair and turned until I faced my narrow window. Outside, on the compound’s manicured grounds, spring was beginning. The lawn was piebald. Right now, the sun is going down somewhere behind me and night moves across the lawn like an enormous shadow, turning the grass deep purple and the blotches of snow steel gray.
Keep up the good work? What is that supposed to mean? Normally, I would take it as a routine compliment for my work here—for I am quite good at what I do—but coming as it did when I was in the midst of writing my confession and exposé it seems like a warning. It’s as if Mr. W. is quite aware of what I am up to in here and has let me know in his own inimitable, subtle fashion. When you are surrounded by brain thieves—indeed when you are a brain thief yourself—you cannot expect to have very many secrets. The game begins!
As I was saying (days have passed), Dr. Pitch entered my hospital room, rubbing his enormous, meaty hands together and sniffling. He gave me a cursory look- over, not even touching me. “Nothing is wrong with you,” he said, smiling. “You are only taking space in a crowded hospital. I will have to falsify your forms or they will just kick you right the hell out of here.” He glanced at his watch. “Good Lord,” he exclaimed, “it’s almost eight o’clock.” And then he left. Denny and Denny’s son left on his heels. I was alone.
Last Night at the Brain Thieves Ball Page 1
