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Al's Brain and Repair Shop
Idol Minor+, Prompt 1
"There are things that drift away like our endless, numbered days"
Robert J. Thompson, author, raconteur, and man-about-town, strode purposefully into his office and faced off against his laptop. The key is not to show fear, he thought, and then lifted the lid. Bright safety-orange letters appeared on a black screen: “This writer has worked 563 days without a creative thought. Slumps are avoidable!” A screensaver meant to motivate him now made his shoulders sag.
It had been 563 days since the Times published its annual “Where Are They Now?” article, warning the literary world that he was fading into irrelevance. His novels soon disappeared from bookstore shelves and reappeared without ceremony in the “Remainders – 90% Off!” bins, where they lingered.
It had also been 563 days since his last drink, his last party, and even his last woman. Drafts had come and drafts had gone, but they had all been crap.
He turned on the desk radio, hoping for some inspiration. Iron & Wine came out of the old speaker, singing “There are things that drift away like our endless, numbered days." He switched it off. He’d been hoping for something like “Devil with a Blue Dress On/Good Golly Miss Molly.” Something with some muscle, not a demotivator.
Mitch Ryder & the Detroit Wheels, thought Robert, now that’s inspirational! Maybe that’s the problem. What’s a writer without his vices? Besides, how can days be both endless and numbered?”
Clean living hadn’t worked. It was time to find his own Molly – especially one in a blue dress, someone who could clear the rust out of his brain, or at least help him forget about it for the night.
He grabbed a nondescript hat, threw on a vague jacket and headed for Jack’s Bar, which barely survived in a strip mall a few blocks away, sandwiched between a revolving door of nail salons, laundromats, and the only other long-term tenant, a bargain liquor store with a drive-thru window. Not a great joint for finding women, but the drinks were cheap and he could run a tab.
The bartender looked at Robert as he settled onto a stool. “Scotch rocks,” Robert ordered. The bartender made a decent Flaming Duck Milkshake, but Robert didn’t have the stomach for it tonight.
After his second drink, Robert looked around the bar. In the corner was an attractive blonde dressed in business clothes. Her hair color at least was natural and she was doing a good job of holding on to her looks. Best of all, she was alone.
“That’s Alice,” said the bartender. “She lives around here. Comes by once in a while. Nice.”
Robert picked up his drink, headed over, and asked her if she minded some company. Alice looked at him for a long minute.
“Not yours,” she said, with a tired smile.
The rest of the evening was uncomplicated, and when Robert woke up the next morning, he was alone, but that was OK. He had some writing to do.
He went over to his computer and turned it on. “This writer has worked 564 days without a creative thought. Slumps are avoidable!”
Days 565 and 566 went by. Being good hadn’t worked. Being bad hadn’t either, but it felt better.
Day 567 at least brought some interesting mail, a flyer from Al’s Brain and Auto Repair Shop. It advertised brain de-rusting, along with car repairs and a free tire pressure check.
Robert had read about brain de-rusting on the internet. It was supposed to revitalize a person’s brain. There had been claims, counter-claims, and the whole topic had degenerated into another partisan dogfight. Ever since the death of science and the malleability of truth, it had become impossible to trust anything.
Attempts by the medical profession to close down the brain-derusting clinics had fizzled after the entire concept of professional licensing was abolished. Anyone could be a doctor or a lawyer, or even a brain-deruster.
Al’s Brain and Auto Repair Shop had survived all the controversy. When Day 572 passed with no sparks, Robert gave in.
Might as well get my brain derusted, he decided. Nothing else’s worked.
It was a bold move by a formerly bold writer, and it made Robert feel good.
At least that’s a start, he thought, as he fished Al’s ad out of the wastebasket.
“Walk-ins Welcome!” the ad read. There were coupons for oil changes, tune-ups, and 25% off any brain-derusting service. That was the clincher. Robert was a little short on money, now that his publisher had demanded the return of his advance.
“I can get my brain derusted and my car fixed at the same time – a real two-fer.”
Robert drove over in his sports car, which had seen better days. Al’s Brain and Auto Repair Shop clearly had never seen better days. It had originally been painted white but was now gray, dirty, and peeling. Out front was a rack with a few used tires for sale, currently being used as a perch for a mangy cat enjoying the sun. Both service bays were empty, with lots of tools and dirty rags scattered around.
Robert was starting to have second thoughts. He wasn’t sure about having Al work on his car, let alone his brain.
But I’ve got that coupon and I can always leave, he thought. How bad could it be?
Just then, Al came out of his office and started walking toward Robert. Al was wearing fresh scrubs and an immaculate white lab coat, with a stethoscope drooped casually around his neck.
“What can I do for you?” Al asked.
“I was interested in getting my brain derusted and my car’s transmission is making funny noises,” replied Robert.
“Let’s go to my office and you can tell me why you want a brain-derusting,” said Al.
The office was sparsely furnished, just a table with two chairs. Most of the room was taken up by a large machine with two tanks, a lot of copper tubing running around it, and red-and-green blinking lights. It looked like a space-age still. There were four rubber tubes hanging on it, plus a pipe running to a sizeable metal bin sitting on a mechanical ultrasonic cleaner. There were several large cans with “Brain Cleaner” written on masking tape over Rust-Oleum Rust Reformer labels.
“I’m a writer,” began Robert. “My first three novels were easy, and the critics and public loved them. Then all of a sudden, nothing.”
“I think I can help you,” said Al. “Sounds like a clog brought on by too much dirt and rust. You haven’t been taking care of your brain.”
“The deruster will clean you right out and get you running again,” Al said. “We offer two services. Our Basic is just that – think of it as a brain enema. Then there’s our Deluxe, which includes a reset to original factory specifications. Your brain will be ready for another 100,000 miles.”
“Wow! How does it work?” Robert asked.
“Well, for the Basic, we attach two of those tubes to your ears and the other two to your nostrils. Then we pump our special brain cleaner through your ears and out your nose. It only takes a few minutes. For the Deluxe, first we do the Basic, then we take out your brain, put it in a bath of brain cleaner, and run the ultrasonic cleaner for a day. Either way, we put you out like a light. You won’t feel a thing!”
“Brain removal?” asked Robert, feeling nervous.
“That’s a protected trade secret,” said Al. “But I can tell you that we just pop your head open, take out your brain, drop in a loaner, and you come back the next day and we reverse it. Then you go home and write your next best seller, money-back guarantee. Plus, we take care of your car, all for one low price. You can’t beat that!”
“Whose brain do I get for the loaner?” asked Robert.
“It’s just Rose,” replied Al. “She was our top mechanic until a car fell on her. Really nice. You’ll see.”
Robert still hesitated.
“Look,” said Al, “we’re not real busy today. $250 for the brain and the car, not including parts, if you do it right now.”
“Sold.”
Al brought out his brain tools, which looked like the auto tools, only cleaner. Robert swallowed the knock-out pill, and Al went to work.
After he gave the brain its enema and put it into the ultrasonic cleaner, he woke Robert’s body up.
“I feel like #@!%,” said Rose. “Did you really talk someone else into your brain derusting again?”
“Yeah. It was a hard sell. But you’re back for the day. Go have fun, but come back in time to fix the guy’s car.”
“OK,” said Rose. “It’s been a while for me. I’m going over to the Cock Pit, have a few drinks, and see if I can’t get lucky. I hate it when you stick me in some guy’s body. It’s never the same – just one and done. At least this one’s not bad looking.”
Rose returned Robert’s body the next day with a smile on his face, and fixed his car.
The procedure complete, Al returned Robert’s brain to his body. It was all shiny and new, full of ideas and ready to write. He just couldn’t understand the Cock Pit bar stamp on his wrist.
At home, Robert headed straight for his laptop. He ignored the screensaver and started typing. He worked hard, revised sensibly, and a year later, the new Robert Thompson novel reached #1 on the Time’s best-seller list, a searing portrayal of a male stripper and the woman who loved him.
He went back to Al’s to thank him, but the store was closed.
Only the mangy cat was left, a dusty bundle of black fur that nonetheless seemed happy to see him.
Robert thought she looked like a “Rose,” though he couldn’t say why. He took her home with him and gave her a bath, a bed, and the promise of beef-flavored kibbles for all the years to come.
* * * * *
“Devil with a Blue Dress On/Good Golly Miss Molly” by Mitch Ryder and the Detroit Wheels.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RAClxmXqX0M
“Passing Afternoon” by Iron and Wine
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q0dP7iZv9K0
"There are things that drift away like our endless, numbered days"
AL’S BRAIN AND AUTO REPAIR SHOP
Robert J. Thompson, author, raconteur, and man-about-town, strode purposefully into his office and faced off against his laptop. The key is not to show fear, he thought, and then lifted the lid. Bright safety-orange letters appeared on a black screen: “This writer has worked 563 days without a creative thought. Slumps are avoidable!” A screensaver meant to motivate him now made his shoulders sag.
It had been 563 days since the Times published its annual “Where Are They Now?” article, warning the literary world that he was fading into irrelevance. His novels soon disappeared from bookstore shelves and reappeared without ceremony in the “Remainders – 90% Off!” bins, where they lingered.
It had also been 563 days since his last drink, his last party, and even his last woman. Drafts had come and drafts had gone, but they had all been crap.
He turned on the desk radio, hoping for some inspiration. Iron & Wine came out of the old speaker, singing “There are things that drift away like our endless, numbered days." He switched it off. He’d been hoping for something like “Devil with a Blue Dress On/Good Golly Miss Molly.” Something with some muscle, not a demotivator.
Mitch Ryder & the Detroit Wheels, thought Robert, now that’s inspirational! Maybe that’s the problem. What’s a writer without his vices? Besides, how can days be both endless and numbered?”
Clean living hadn’t worked. It was time to find his own Molly – especially one in a blue dress, someone who could clear the rust out of his brain, or at least help him forget about it for the night.
He grabbed a nondescript hat, threw on a vague jacket and headed for Jack’s Bar, which barely survived in a strip mall a few blocks away, sandwiched between a revolving door of nail salons, laundromats, and the only other long-term tenant, a bargain liquor store with a drive-thru window. Not a great joint for finding women, but the drinks were cheap and he could run a tab.
The bartender looked at Robert as he settled onto a stool. “Scotch rocks,” Robert ordered. The bartender made a decent Flaming Duck Milkshake, but Robert didn’t have the stomach for it tonight.
After his second drink, Robert looked around the bar. In the corner was an attractive blonde dressed in business clothes. Her hair color at least was natural and she was doing a good job of holding on to her looks. Best of all, she was alone.
“That’s Alice,” said the bartender. “She lives around here. Comes by once in a while. Nice.”
Robert picked up his drink, headed over, and asked her if she minded some company. Alice looked at him for a long minute.
“Not yours,” she said, with a tired smile.
The rest of the evening was uncomplicated, and when Robert woke up the next morning, he was alone, but that was OK. He had some writing to do.
He went over to his computer and turned it on. “This writer has worked 564 days without a creative thought. Slumps are avoidable!”
Days 565 and 566 went by. Being good hadn’t worked. Being bad hadn’t either, but it felt better.
Day 567 at least brought some interesting mail, a flyer from Al’s Brain and Auto Repair Shop. It advertised brain de-rusting, along with car repairs and a free tire pressure check.
Robert had read about brain de-rusting on the internet. It was supposed to revitalize a person’s brain. There had been claims, counter-claims, and the whole topic had degenerated into another partisan dogfight. Ever since the death of science and the malleability of truth, it had become impossible to trust anything.
Attempts by the medical profession to close down the brain-derusting clinics had fizzled after the entire concept of professional licensing was abolished. Anyone could be a doctor or a lawyer, or even a brain-deruster.
Al’s Brain and Auto Repair Shop had survived all the controversy. When Day 572 passed with no sparks, Robert gave in.
Might as well get my brain derusted, he decided. Nothing else’s worked.
It was a bold move by a formerly bold writer, and it made Robert feel good.
At least that’s a start, he thought, as he fished Al’s ad out of the wastebasket.
“Walk-ins Welcome!” the ad read. There were coupons for oil changes, tune-ups, and 25% off any brain-derusting service. That was the clincher. Robert was a little short on money, now that his publisher had demanded the return of his advance.
“I can get my brain derusted and my car fixed at the same time – a real two-fer.”
Robert drove over in his sports car, which had seen better days. Al’s Brain and Auto Repair Shop clearly had never seen better days. It had originally been painted white but was now gray, dirty, and peeling. Out front was a rack with a few used tires for sale, currently being used as a perch for a mangy cat enjoying the sun. Both service bays were empty, with lots of tools and dirty rags scattered around.
Robert was starting to have second thoughts. He wasn’t sure about having Al work on his car, let alone his brain.
But I’ve got that coupon and I can always leave, he thought. How bad could it be?
Just then, Al came out of his office and started walking toward Robert. Al was wearing fresh scrubs and an immaculate white lab coat, with a stethoscope drooped casually around his neck.
“What can I do for you?” Al asked.
“I was interested in getting my brain derusted and my car’s transmission is making funny noises,” replied Robert.
“Let’s go to my office and you can tell me why you want a brain-derusting,” said Al.
The office was sparsely furnished, just a table with two chairs. Most of the room was taken up by a large machine with two tanks, a lot of copper tubing running around it, and red-and-green blinking lights. It looked like a space-age still. There were four rubber tubes hanging on it, plus a pipe running to a sizeable metal bin sitting on a mechanical ultrasonic cleaner. There were several large cans with “Brain Cleaner” written on masking tape over Rust-Oleum Rust Reformer labels.
“I’m a writer,” began Robert. “My first three novels were easy, and the critics and public loved them. Then all of a sudden, nothing.”
“I think I can help you,” said Al. “Sounds like a clog brought on by too much dirt and rust. You haven’t been taking care of your brain.”
“The deruster will clean you right out and get you running again,” Al said. “We offer two services. Our Basic is just that – think of it as a brain enema. Then there’s our Deluxe, which includes a reset to original factory specifications. Your brain will be ready for another 100,000 miles.”
“Wow! How does it work?” Robert asked.
“Well, for the Basic, we attach two of those tubes to your ears and the other two to your nostrils. Then we pump our special brain cleaner through your ears and out your nose. It only takes a few minutes. For the Deluxe, first we do the Basic, then we take out your brain, put it in a bath of brain cleaner, and run the ultrasonic cleaner for a day. Either way, we put you out like a light. You won’t feel a thing!”
“Brain removal?” asked Robert, feeling nervous.
“That’s a protected trade secret,” said Al. “But I can tell you that we just pop your head open, take out your brain, drop in a loaner, and you come back the next day and we reverse it. Then you go home and write your next best seller, money-back guarantee. Plus, we take care of your car, all for one low price. You can’t beat that!”
“Whose brain do I get for the loaner?” asked Robert.
“It’s just Rose,” replied Al. “She was our top mechanic until a car fell on her. Really nice. You’ll see.”
Robert still hesitated.
“Look,” said Al, “we’re not real busy today. $250 for the brain and the car, not including parts, if you do it right now.”
“Sold.”
Al brought out his brain tools, which looked like the auto tools, only cleaner. Robert swallowed the knock-out pill, and Al went to work.
After he gave the brain its enema and put it into the ultrasonic cleaner, he woke Robert’s body up.
“I feel like #@!%,” said Rose. “Did you really talk someone else into your brain derusting again?”
“Yeah. It was a hard sell. But you’re back for the day. Go have fun, but come back in time to fix the guy’s car.”
“OK,” said Rose. “It’s been a while for me. I’m going over to the Cock Pit, have a few drinks, and see if I can’t get lucky. I hate it when you stick me in some guy’s body. It’s never the same – just one and done. At least this one’s not bad looking.”
Rose returned Robert’s body the next day with a smile on his face, and fixed his car.
The procedure complete, Al returned Robert’s brain to his body. It was all shiny and new, full of ideas and ready to write. He just couldn’t understand the Cock Pit bar stamp on his wrist.
At home, Robert headed straight for his laptop. He ignored the screensaver and started typing. He worked hard, revised sensibly, and a year later, the new Robert Thompson novel reached #1 on the Time’s best-seller list, a searing portrayal of a male stripper and the woman who loved him.
He went back to Al’s to thank him, but the store was closed.
Only the mangy cat was left, a dusty bundle of black fur that nonetheless seemed happy to see him.
Robert thought she looked like a “Rose,” though he couldn’t say why. He took her home with him and gave her a bath, a bed, and the promise of beef-flavored kibbles for all the years to come.
* * * * *
“Devil with a Blue Dress On/Good Golly Miss Molly” by Mitch Ryder and the Detroit Wheels.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RAClxmXqX0M
“Passing Afternoon” by Iron and Wine
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q0dP7iZv9K0
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- Erulisse (one L)
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I enjoyed the twists in your story. :) Keep writing!
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A worthy question!
I liked Alice's witty refusal, and the understated humor in The rest of the evening was uncomplicated.
It advertised brain de-rusting, along with car repairs and a free tire pressure check.
What an insane combination. But such a deal!
“Brain Cleaner” written on masking tape over Rust-Oleum Rust Reformer labels.
Hahaha! Robert should have been truly alarmed by that point.
I liked the idea of a 'loaner' brain, much like a loaner car, and the car mechanic situation was a two-fer for Al! But I found myself wondering what would happen if someone came in for car repairs but not brain de-rusting? Can Al actually fix cars without Rose's help?
I think I could probably use a good brain de-rusting. I mean, look how well it turned out for Robert! Admittedly, his book sounds horrible, but "best-selling" and "good" are not always the same thing, and he's clearly happy with the results!