THEY NODDED. “Yeah, like liposuction for the brain.”
As if, it were as normal as brushing teeth, of judging every single person you walk past on the street, as normal as coming early and arriving late, routine everyday occurences – you know.
“And how much does it cost?” I asked, flipping through the brochure, all marketing jargon, pumped off its own juice, before and afters, sad to happy, radiant bleached teeth and a dose of confidence in itself that if it were to manifest in an individual would send them manic for psychiatric evaluation.
“You need to book a consultation with Dr. Plantowicz.” Despite the fact we were stood at a nightclub bar, my four beers and six tequilas – including the worm pickled in agave – weren’t sure whether to be impressed or impressed.
‘You only use 10% of the brain. Through brain reduction Dr. Plantowicz, can improve your life with one simple procedure. By reducing primitive archaic areas of the brain, studies have shown that the outter cortex and prefrontal lobes increase in performance. Clinical studies show Dr. Plantowicz’s patented technique can improve the following faculties:
Memory, speech processing and comprehension, mental alertness, intelligence iq+30 pts, reduced anxiety, elimination of OCD, improved sleep, increased energy levels, weight loss, ambition, confidence, sexual performance, libido, coordination and financial assertiveness.’
As the bass kicked in on a dance number, I experienced that Jurrasic Park moment, seeing the double JD ripple on the perpetually wet black faux granite bar, that should have been coursing down my gullet, instead I was still reading the pamphlet.
‘Do you want to be the person you always thought you could be or wanted to be?’ Of course I wanted to be Michael Jordan. Could Dr. Plantation do that, skin colour and all?
I looked across at the clinical, perfectly shaved guy who gave me the pamphlet, questioning why he chose me to talk to. Was it that obvious my life was below average? Scanning I tried to spot my friends who’d vacated the mirror surround booth, seeing only dimly lit shirts and dresses, all drinking to fuck, us guys so we could activate the dance section of our brains, then the speaking part, and the girls needing it to feel ok about getting slammed by us while delivering vomit tinted kisses: period or not.
A girl walked by looking at me like I shouldn’t be returning her eyes, pulling at the sides of her silver boob tube, eyes wary, judging me, communicating desire, a desire not to interact with me in any way shape or form because she was looking at the pamphlet guy who gave her the once over.
Clearly he’d had the treatment, exuding confidence, a beacon for sexualised girls. Holding my glass, I watched him in a flash of admiration as he looked outwards, back to the bar, surveying the night he seemed to own while I drank to attain the ability to talk to girls more wasted than me.
“Is there a number to call for the consultation?” I asked flipping the pamphlet around unable to see any contacts.
“I know him. Why not get the consultation tonight?” Then he added, “Drink up.”
I didn’t see or taste the white sediment at the bottom of the JD. I did feel more tired…