“Ah One an Ah Two” Brain Surgery
“Ah One an Ah Two” Brain Surgery
By Jack Rawlins
My name is Dr. Fredrick Fruedsky. I’m a psychotherapist. Therapy is hard work for both patient and doctor. To me, Happy Hour at Harry’s every evening is sacred time. My two ice-cold, straight-up extra-dry martinis are my personal therapy sessions.
Like my patients I have my share of hang-ups. At the top of my fecal roster, I rank obnoxious, extroverted, loud-mouthed cell phone users who force me to be privy to one side of their dull conversations. But the guy on the stool next to me last Friday was an exception. He was doing double shots of Jack Daniels, mumbling before each one,” Ah one an ah two.”
When he flipped on his cell, I felt compelled to listen. This is what I heard:
“What’s this about? A malpractice suit, that’s what. Didn’t your mother ever tell you to pick up your things? You left your damn scalpel my head.
“How did I find out? My doctor said you cured my epilepsy when you cut my corpus callosum. But when I told him about my new problem, he thought I should have a brain scan. The technician at Eastlantic Imaging saw it. She was pissed at me for going in the tunnel with metal. Said I might have screwed up a zillion dollar piece of equipment.
“What new problem? Lawrence Welk, that’s what. I can’t shut him up.
“No, I don’t hate dead guys. I hate bubble music 24/7.
“No. I don’t want another operation. You already screwed up once. Now you want a second chance already? Besides, there’s one good reason for keeping your equipment.
“Not only did you fix my epilepsy, you’ve given me total recall. Your neglect tapped my total brain power. No pun intended, but I’m on the cutting edge of everything. I make Mensa’s members look dumb.
“Yeah, yeah. I should be grateful. But, I gotta tell you Doc, nobody in his right mind can spend the rest of his life listening to bubble music. Tinnitus I could handle. Bubbles, no way!
“My doctor says your little tool must have released my long-term repressive memory.
“When I was a kid I had to listen to Welk. Every Saturday night for seventeen years I was force-fed his Champaign music. My parents said, ‘His music is good for you.’ And now, thanks to the pointy antenna you left in my head he’s come back to haunt me. The only way I can silence his polka beat is to do double shots of Jack. And I can’t afford to stay bagged all the time.
“You’re sorry? That’s all you can say?
“Okay, Doc. Here’s my plan. First, I want to thank you for curing my epilepsy. Second I want to thank you for the total recall. Third… and this is nothing personal… I’m going to sue your ass.
“What? No, you can not have your favorite scalpel back.”
When he figuratively and literally flipped off the Doc and belted another shot, I handed him my card. I scrawled a note on the back that said: “Father Francis O’Brien, Call 800-OHMERCY. “
“Perhaps he can help,” I said.
He glanced at the card and asked, “What’s he gonna do, pray for me?”
“No,” I said. “He’s an exorcist. Maybe he can drive out that evil accordion music.”
“Wunnerful wunnerful,” he answered, and belted another Jack with “Ah one an ah two.”
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