BRAINS NOT BRAWN
Brains Not Brawn
(first Published in ‘Scribble’ number 29 Spring 2006, ISSN 1465-6361 http://www.parkpublications.co.uk/scribble.htm)
Terry Nolan’s legs had been twisted since the accident, but he still had a razor-sharp brain; he kept it in a glass jar in the cellar.
The cellar steps had been a bit of a problem at first, but after a week or so he had been able to confidently manage them. The big advantage was that it was a space that was his; a sanctuary from his mother. He loved his mother, but she had a tendency to cramp his style – and having little enough of it, he needed to exercise it as much as he could. The cellar steps were too much for her arthritic hip, so he could use them to escape.
*
He had first seen Victor in a back street second-hand shop not too far from his home. Since the accident he had done a great deal of reading. He had begun to realise how little he knew, but was equally perplexed by how much there was to learn. He had seen many books on antiques and old instrumentation, but none of that had prepared him for the contents of the shop. He could recognise so few of the objects for sale that he wondered who on earth could have previously owned them, and what on earth they used them for.
Then he saw Victor.
“Ah, the young mathter hath an interest in necromanthing?“
Terry jumped; the shop owner had appeared at his shoulder. Even though he stooped, he still towered over Terry. In the long black cape, the shop owner looked more as though he were on his way to the opera rather than indulging in retail sales. He kept his stare fixedly on Terry, stroking a non-existent goatee beard.
Terry looked back at the large glass jar. A label had been carefully hand written and fixed on the lid. It simply said ‘Victor’. He had no idea what the owner was talking about, and the thick lisp did not help, but something was definitely fascinating about the item.
The shop owner looked Terry up and down, but as Terry was only five foot one, it was more down than up.
“I think Victor hath taken a liking to you”
Terry stopped. He had bought a few things for his cellar to make himself feel at home, but this was a little different. “Look I’m afraid I don’t have much money.”
The shop owner shook his head. “Victor can only be taken out on loan. Why not take him home and come back in a little while if you want anything else.”
*
It was a full week before Victor had begun to speak to him.
“Ah Terry, my necrophilic nemesis. Do you never consider my corporeal needs?”
It was at that stage that Terry realised he needed to buy a dictionary. At first he had not been sure how to feed Victor, but his mother had said that fish was brain food, so he sprinkled in shredded tuna on a daily basis.
“Ah, blessed pabulum to nourish the synapses.” Terry realised that he needed to buy a bigger dictionary.
Victor did not talk about his past and Terry was too polite to ask, so he never found out the circumstances which led to Victor’s current situation.
Victor was more interested in the present. “So tell me about this ‘Internet’ again”
After his accident, Terry was not able to go out into the world for quite a long period so his mother had decided to bring the world to him, or a least a very selective version of the world in the form of cable TV and the internet. He had not let himself get hung up on daytime TV, but for Victor this was a revelation. Fifty channels of garbage, to the rest of the world, were manna from heaven for Victor. Most afternoons Terry left him to it and followed his doctor’s orders by staggering round the local park on his crutches. This also meant that he might accidentally run into Ingrid.
Terry had been shy before the accident but afterwards had been closer to his shell than a hermit crab. He had even tried discussing it with Victor.
The little green lights on the modem had flashed furiously as Victor accessed the internet. The computer screen was turned off but this did not seem to matter to Victor.
“Hermit-crab – popular name for a group of small crabs which take up their abode in the empty shells of whelks and other gastropods”
“I’m not literally like a hermit-crab, Victor. It’s a metaphor”
“Ah grasshopper, but does not the hermit-crab grow beyond the confines of his shell and go out into the world to seek a fresh abode?” Victor had taken a liking to the nineteen seventies series ‘Kung Fu’.
Sometimes he despaired at Victor’s line of thought.
*
Terry was late for his walk. It was sometimes difficult to get Victor to shut up. He looked at his watch and tried to speed up. Ingrid would be catching her bus soon and unless he got a move on he would not see her at all today.
At the far end of the park Terry could see Nigel and two of his gang. He had had a few run-ins with them in the past. Before he had met Victor, Nigel and his gang had taunted him regularly, not for any particular reason, just that they could. They had called him a cretin. Terry had protested somewhat half-heartedly and they had just laughed. After knowing Victor for a few weeks he would have tried to engage them in a discussion on the effect of the thyroid function in the production of cretinism, but now he knew enough about human nature to keep his mouth shut. Nigel’s answer to things he did not understand was usually violent in nature.
Victor had expostulated “Ah grasshopper, as Shakespeare once said ‘violence is the last resort of the incompetent’”
How exactly that helped him to deal with Nigel, he had no idea.
He looked towards the bus stop, just in time to see Ingrid stepping onto the number 47, her skirt rising slightly as she stepped up, revealing a hint of thigh. He made a note to have strong words with Victor about keeping to a strict timetable to allow him to get out on time.
He had once discussed with Victor how he should approach Ingrid, but had immediately regretted starting the conversation.
“I would organise a Spring Ball with a sumptuous banquet; quails eggs always go down well. Send a coach round to collect Ingrid well in advance, but do not inform her until……..”. Terry had left him to it; too many afternoon historical dramas were obviously playing on Victor’s mind, not that there was anything else for them to play on.
He hobbled over to the bus stop and stood in the place where Ingrid had been, relishing sharing the space. As he turned he saw Nigel and his gang approaching, the mixture of testosterone and cheap after-shave forming a combination potent enough to clear them a path through any crowd.
“What are you doing here little poisoned dwarf?”
“I have had an accident not a congenital disorder” thought Terry.
Nigel laughed and aimed a kick at one of Terry’s crutches. He staggered but caught it before it fell to the ground. Terry steadied himself and felt the crutch balanced in his hand.
What had Victor said? ‘Violence is the last resort of the incompetent’. All very esoteric, but after weeks of watching police drama he had added ‘ If all else fails hit them hard in the nuts and leg it’.
Years of using his arms to get around had toned the muscles in his arms to a level any bodybuilder could admire. Terry swung back the crutch, the anger at missing Ingrid fuelling the adrenaline. The muscles rapidly increased the forward momentum as the metal crutch headed towards its target.
The bus arrived. Terry turned, the crutch still in his hand and literally hopped onto the bus and took his seat.
He looked out of the window at the sight of Nigel in tears clutching his genitals and the other members of the gang staring with open mouths. He'd really done it now.
Terry wasn’t sure which bus he had got on, but as it was heading into town he decided that he might as well avail himself of the library, as he had a list of things that Victor had recently said that he needed to look up.
*
On the way back home through the park, he was not surprised to see Nigel and the gang. He swallowed and limped forward. What did surprise him was that they stood either side of the path saluting him, with one arm raised and one gripping their crotch. As he walked between them, each head dipped in acknowledgement, but when he reached Nigel he noticed that the saluting arm joined the other one in covering his genitals.
Back home Victor was as keen as ever to hear about his day out.
“Ah Terry, feed my vicarious senses by relating today’s highlights”
Terry told him of his encounter with Nigel, but omitted any mention of Ingrid.
“Here’s looking at you kid.” Victor had been at the afternoon movies again.
“But I have a bone to pick with you”
“Sorry Terry, but in my present position that would be a little difficult”
“You know perfectly well what I mean. The quote ‘Violence is the last refuge of the incompetent’ is not from Shakespeare, it’s Salvador Hardin, a character in an Isaac Asimov novel”
“Ah, grasshopper, it has been a day of much increase in understanding.”
“For me or for you?”
Victor smiled, as much as one could see a smile on a neural cortex “You know Terry, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.” |
