Brain Food

by J. Joseph Wright

  She had his pants unzipped as she closed the door, and her hand wrapped around his dick before it was even out of his Jockeys. That night he didn’t make love. He didn’t even have sex. He fucked. Fucked like a wild animal, like he’d never fucked before. Untamed, uninhibited, untainted by any moral or even physical limitation. He felt like he could go forever, climaxing over and over, until she became a quivering mound of Jell-O. Not him. As soon as they’d finished for the seventh time, he rolled out of bed, his brain buzzing.

  An old story he’d hit a roadblock on, suddenly he saw it from a new perspective. The narrative was being told from the completely wrong point of view, and that limited the plot seriously. Not only that, the lead character’s motivations were all wrong. The ideas began to pour out of Stan, and he had to write them down.

  “Shit!” he searched the cluttered mess—clothes, makeup, feminine products he’d rather not see. He found a pen, but no paper. “Shit!” his head spun. Desperate for a way to get the words out, he started on the only blank slate he had to work with—the discolored, cracked plaster wall.

  He only meant to jot down a few ideas, a couple sentences, maybe some notes. Before he knew it, he was actually writing the story, from beginning to end. It came easy, one chapter flowing into the next, complications arising freely, characters developing naturally, intricate storylines weaving with the precision and mastery of fine tapestry. It was a marvel to behold, and he would have thought it impossible if he weren’t the one actually writing.

  Then, it was finished.

  He sat on a chair spilling over with little dresses and even littler unmentionables, ready to look at what he’d done. Teya stirred. She saw him and smiled. Then she saw the walls of her apartment and her jaw dropped. Every inch was covered with ink, a handwritten masterpiece.

  “You have to take me back to that place,” he said. “I have to see Gomez.”

  She nodded.

  7.

  Jingle! Jingle! Jingle!

  “Señor Gomez,” Stan burst into the tiny shop, trying to stay composed. “I need your brain food. How much do you want for it?”

  “The question is,” the old man said, his hand hovering over the weathered wooden box. “How far would you go?”

  “What?”

  “Are you willing to pay the price? Because money is not what I want for the brain food.”

  “Please, don’t tease me with riddles, anymore, old man!”

  Gomez played with his long, silver beard. “When the time comes, I shall come for my payment. All you must do, and you must swear to do this, is make sure to eat it all. Every last crumb, do you understand?”

  “What happens when I eat it all?”

  He smiled faintly. “You will have eternal life. Isn’t that what you really want?”

  “Yeah,” he looked at the box. “Sure. I guess. But right now all I want is to write again. And this little baby will help me do that, for sure.”

  “Oh, yes,” said Gomez. “That it will. Remember, eat it all.”

  He took the box and left in a hurry. Old man and his cryptic hocus pocus. He didn’t care or really listen for that matter. He wasn’t too concerned with what might happen once he ate it all, anyway. Only one tiny flake, so small it fit under his thumbnail, was enough to write a whole novel in one morning. The entire hunk had to be a lifetime supply, easily. By then, he’d have so much money, he’d be swimming in it. When the old man came knocking for his loot, he’d be able to pay anything he wanted, with interest.

  “Not a problem,” he chuckled, knowing he’d gotten the better of the bargain.

  8.

  Beep-Beep! Honk! Beep! Honk!

  The traffic on 66th Street, though at a dead standstill, hummed with activity. People chattering and milling about, car horns blaring.

  “Is this place usually this crowded?” Stan asked the limo driver.

  “It’s usually crowded,” he answered. “Just not this crowded.”

  “What’s everybody here for?” Stan peered at the folks lined along the sidewalk, cordoned off by several police, three on horseback, NYPD emblazoned on their blue vests.

  “They’re here for you, sir,” the driver smiled as if it was a silly question. “Don’t you watch the news? You’re something of a big deal, you know?”

  Stan rubbed his eyes. “I guess I am, aren’t I? I spend so much time working, I don’t even get to watch TV.”

  “Well, you should,” the driver pulled into ABC studio’s basement parking garage, a half dozen camera flashes as they crossed the sidewalk. “You going on a whirlwind tour?”

  “That’s what my agent says. Three talk shows, five interviews, coffee with a bazillion TV execs, and that’s just before lunch,” Stan punched a sentence into his tablet computer. A new idea had hit him, and he wanted to make sure to jot it down while still fresh.

  “Whoa, Stan,” the door opened and his agent, Phoebe Flanders, a redheaded dynamo with the moral fiber of a shark and the personality of a kitten, flashed a million-dollar smile. “There’s my number one client.”

  “Everything on schedule?” he climbed out of the limo, still typing away on the tablet.

  “Yes, yes. Of course. We’ve got a tight ship today. Tight ship. Lots of people want a piece of you. You’re hot, hot, hot, Stan! I see nothing but bright, blue skies in our future, Stan! Nothing but bright, blue skies!”

  “Yeah,” he snickered and tucked the little computer into his pocket. “Where were you with this talk before, three years ago when I was struggling?”

  “Hey,” she patted his chest. “Where were you with all these brilliant ideas? I’m sorry, but you were washed up, Stan. You were going nowhere in a goddam hurry. I stuck with you as long as I could, but come on. A bust is a bust.”

  “And now?”

  “Now you’ve reinvented yourself. You’ve done it, Stan! And not only that, you’ve surpassed yourself. I mean, Circle of Ash went number one faster and stayed longer than any book I’ve ever seen. And the sequels? Automatic bestsellers. Plus, the movies are going to be box-office gold. You can’t miss, Stan. You shit diamonds, you beautiful man. I love it!”

  The TV studios were much smaller and more compact than he’d imagined. The audiences seemed right on top of him, and they were excited. He’d never seen so many people so happy to see him. LIVE! With Kelly was the first stop of the day, and when they called his name, the crowd went wild.

  “So, Stanley,” Kelly asked after everyone got back into their seats. “Tell us, what does it feel like to be such a creative mastermind?”

  All at once, two hundred people laughed hysterically, then broke out into a hearty round of applause with a mixture of hoots and hollers, mostly from the women.

  Stan smiled meekly. “You know. This might sound a little corny, but I just see myself as an ordinary person.”

  “Ordinary? Stanley, do you understand just how many lives your stories have touched? I mean, and I think the audience will agree, your writing is much more than just writing. It’s got soul, it’s got meaning. You, sir, are one of the all-time greats…” she kept speaking, but the audience didn’t let her finish. It was the first time, actually, Stan felt the true power of his work, and that power haunted him. He knew, deep inside, the real author of those stories, the real creative genius wasn’t him. He wasn’t the one to be congratulated or honored or given such high acclaim. It was the brain food.

  9.

  Later that evening, after the interviews, the appearances, the luncheons with every TV and movie executive in town, he retired to the penthouse suite of the New York Hilton, overlooking Central Park. Candlelight slinking in the breeze, he sat beside a crackling fire and began writing on his laptop. Even with the endless hours doing promotions, he forced himself to work. Of course the brain food helped, though he had to eat more and more to achieve the same effects. And the effects were wearing off quicker the more he used it.

  Dun-Dun! Dun-Dun! Dun-Dun! Dun-Dun!

  His phone played the theme fr
om Jaws, signaling a call from his agent. He didn’t want to answer, but did anyway.

  “Hey, sweetie,” her voice was extra-syrupy. “Just wanted to remind you that we have a five a.m. wake up tomorrow, ‘kay? They go live at an ungodly hour at Good Morning America. How’s the suite? Any problems?”

  “No problems, Phoebe.”

  “Good, because I’ll get on that manager’s boney ass if you have any complaints, any complaints at all.”

  “Phoebe, nothing’s wrong with the room,” he browsed the marble columns, the Monet on the wall, the high ceiling inlayed with copper tiles, the observation deck with massive infinity pool, dropping into an endless New York City skyline. “Now let me get to work.”

  “Oh, you powerhouse, you. Work, work, work. I’ve never seen anyone like you. You work more than I do, and that’s saying—”

  “Goodbye, Phoebe,” he hit the call end button and got back to writing, though things seemed sluggish. He’d begun what he considered his finest work yet, a thriller wrapped inside a mystery with the façade of a love story. He’d devised highly engaging, yet highly flawed characters, engineered an intricate, multi-tiered plot with so many twists even he was having difficulty keeping track.

  After failing miserably to write a vital chapter, he stopped and gathered himself, working up enough will to tear away from the computer and enjoy the view from his forty-seventh floor veranda. He should have been happy. He had all he’d ever wanted—the fame, the fortune, the recognition. However, he knew it wasn’t real. Fool’s gold. The only reason for it all was in that ancient box.

  The brain food was calling to him like a drug, tormenting with empty promises. With it, he was Stanley Cox, writer extraordinaire, master storyteller and billionaire in the making. Without it, he was just plain Stan, the has-been, the guy who wrote that book once and made it big, then faded into obscurity.

  He raced to the bedroom where his bags were waiting, plucked up a small tote, and set it on the mattress. He zipped it open to reveal the antique wooden container and yelled, “You won’t get me, understand! I don’t need you anymore! I can do this by myself, now, you hear me!”

  He zipped the bag closed again and rushed back to his computer.

  Blink. Blink. Blink.

  The cursor had returned to its old tricks. Stan did his best not to pull out his hair. He got up and paced the room once, twice, thrice, sat down, and tried again.

  Blink. Blink. Blink.

  “What’s happened to me! Why can’t I think of a goddam thing!” he went to the terrace and shouted into the night, into the street with the traffic and the horns and the sirens. “Why can’t I think of a fucking thing!”

  He sat at the computer again, panting, sweating, even bleeding after making a fist so hard he’d dug into his palm. Determined to write, he pressed his fingertips on the keys. Shaking, twitching, he had nothing. No power left. He was nothing without brain food, and he ultimately gave up and admitted it.

  He returned to the bedroom swiftly, to the bag where the precious little box waited. Before he got his luggage unzipped for the second time, he heard a knock at the door. At first he was scared, then he remembered he’d ordered room service.

  10.

  POP!

  “Shit!” Stan jumped at the sound of the champagne cork. He glared at the waiter, salt and pepper hair, dark complexion, slight build. “You scared the hell out of me, man.”

  “I am sorry, sir,” the waiter had a heavy Hispanic accent. He poured a glass and handed it to Stan. “Compliments of the house. We are very, very grateful to host an amazing talent such as you, Mister Cox,” he picked up a knife. “Would you like some cheese with your champagne?”

  “Thanks, but I…” Stan’s pulse shot to light speed. He fumbled the champagne glass and it shattered on the floor. Neither of them reacted. That face. He’d seen it before. He’d been to hundreds of places, seen thousands of faces in the last three years, but this one face he remembered from somewhere…somewhere important. Then it hit him like an adobe brick.

  “Alejandro!” he backed up a step. “The bartender in Mexico.”

  “At Guillermo’s, in Bahia de Los Angeles,” Alejandro nodded.

  “But, what are you doing here?” Stan was suspicious. He’d heard of gangs kidnapping the rich and demanding excessive ransoms. “I’m calling security!”

  Alejandro rushed toward him, his empty palms up in a submissive gesture. “No, no! You must listen to me. Give me a chance to explain why I’m here.”

  “You’d better talk fast, Alejandro.”

  He sat on the expansive leather couch. Stan took the loveseat opposite him, across the glass and silver leaf coffee table.

  “I know what you’ve been doing. I know how you’ve been able to become the great and beloved writer that you are.”

  “I’ve…I’ve worked hard…honed my craft.”

  “You went to Señor Gomez in Cabo San Lucas. You got the brain food from him. That’s the only way to explain your instant rise to success,” Alejandro sighed. “It is my fault. I told you about it. I tried not to, but the man at the bar…the man, he…he—never mind. That is the past. I’ve come to make it right. I’ve come to warn you.”

  “Warn me?” Stan stretched, pretending to get comfortable. “About what?”

  “You know what,” Alejandro became agitated. Stan didn’t like it. “It’s that-that abomination Señor Gomez gave to you. You have it, right? Tell me you still have it.”

  “I may, and I may not,” Stan was getting bored with the conversation. “That’s none of your concern.”

  “But it is my concern. I told you where to find it. Now you are perpetuating the curse. You are making it stronger, and you don’t even know it. You have no idea what you’ve gotten into.”

  “I know it’s gotten me this,” he waved his arm at the panoramic view of Manhattan.

  “That’s what you think,” Alejandro shook his head. “This is all an illusion to make you satisfied while it eats at your soul. Can’t you feel it? Every time you eat a little, it takes a little from you. Tell me you still have some of it left. Tell me you haven’t eaten it all!”

  “I…I have a little.”

  “Good! Do not eat any more. Keep some of it left, and don’t eat it all. If you do, he will return, and he will take his payment from you!”

  “That’s your angle, isn’t it, Alejandro?” Stan saw right through the charade. He stood and hurried to an electronics panel near the front door. “You’ve come to extort money out of me? You want to claim some kind of rights over my ideas or something? Well bring it on, buddy!” he pressed the intercom. “SECURITY!”

  He opened the front door and two men the size of pro wrestlers dragged Alejandro forcibly from the suite, but not before the bartender from Baja shouted another warning:

  “I’m begging you, Señor Cox! Do not eat it all! Do not eat it all!”

  11.

  Squeak. Rattle. Squeak. Click!

  The weathered box felt rickety, yet at the same time solid, and opening it was tricky. He had to press a hidden latch under the top edge to release the brass locking mechanism. Three layers of silken tissues concealed the dwindled contents within. He unraveled the tissues and searched for the remaining bit, now only the size of a marble. As he held it, a wave of anxious energy bubbled to the surface. He wanted so badly to take a little slice. Just a little. But no. He resisted, scared shitless by what Alejandro had said. He didn’t want to admit it, but he was. So he wrapped the brain food up again, stuffed it in the box, and slammed the lid closed. He’d go cold turkey, and tonight he’d write using his own creativity.

  However, no matter how hard he tried, and no matter how hard he tried not to try, the words never came. The goddam cursor mocked him again. It soon became obvious the cursor was being smug, confident he wouldn’t be able to defeat it. That’s where it was mistaken.

  “You think you got me beat, don’t you?” he screamed at his computer screen. “You think you’ve won because I
can’t eat any more of that stuff, don’t you? Well you’re fucking wrong!”

  He ran to the bedroom and tore into the box, digging through the fancy packing to the precious nugget deep inside. He was careful to crumble off only a little corner, ensuring there was at least something remaining.

  The bitter taste became instantly overwhelmed by his soaring consciousness. One second he was devoid of a single idea, the next they came at him so fast he had a hard time containing them. The work became like breathing after that. He breezed through chapter after chapter, writing the first draft of the new novel in just under six hours. Then he started rewriting. He’d gotten to chapter twelve in that process when he heard a knock at the door.