A Headless Economic Revolution
A short story about finding peace.
We don’t see…wait...over here…no, that’s not it either…I…stumble…oh, there it is. The light switch.
That’s much better now, just give it a moment to warm up and you’ll be able to make out the shape of my face stitched onto the head sitting idly on the kitchen table, patiently awaiting my return. By its expression you can tell it has been doing its share of thinking today while I’ve been gone.
I won’t be needing your assistance here, dear reader, as my body has memorized the steps from the front door to the table. Seven steps forward…my left hand grazes the back of the chair at the head of the table signaling when to swing gently around to the left.
Letting my hand glide down from the chair, it floats over the table surface like a hawk swooping down upon an unsuspecting field mouse until…snatch…the hand decisively grasps the dark locks of hair and hoists the head atop these broad shoulders. Using both hands to adjust the alignment, the tightening of a few screws locks everything into place.
Curious?
Perhaps you couldn't care less about how I chose to be headless, but seen as you have come all this way I’ll try to keep it short.
When Dr. Emile Duchamp first introduced his disconnection technique allowing willing participants to have a ‘mediator’ surgically implanted into their neck, rendering the neck discontinuous, yet connected via the device, most everyone reacted with horror and disbelief.
Oh, how naive we all were then. Quickly taking the stances that we believed to be the most socially acceptable without spending appropriate time with uncomfortable concepts.
That was 12 years ago, and as ethically opposed as most people were to the procedure at the time, Duchamp eventually found a subject willing to permanently alter his body. His name was Francesco Rossi, a young Italian man who had fallen deeply in love with the idea of becoming the very first cyborg, a true pioneer.
Everyone was shocked, of course, as was the fashion. But over time, as people saw that Francesco was able to go on living a relatively normal life, more people took the plunge.
Once there were enough subjects to conduct a study, a set of data was produced that showed subjects who underwent the procedure experienced far lower levels of stress and anxiety due to the mediator regulating their blood chemistry to produce far higher, more consistent levels of happiness throughout the day.
Subjects also reported that the ability to detach from their thoughts at night greatly improved quality of sleep and that driving felt much safer because the mediator could simply connect to their car and use the built in systems to navigate even the most hazardous situations with a near 100% success rate.
Being ‘headless’, they said, was not all that different from being ‘headful’ and actually had many benefits that people had quickly dismissed due to the controversial nature of the matter.
The most interesting piece of information, however, was that headless subjects reported being able to communicate with other headless without speaking.
This became the most important feature of the mediator because by eliminating the imprecisions caused by the nature of words, misunderstandings rarely, if ever, occurred and meaningful connections were able to be established with great ease.
As all of this news was coming out, I was not paying attention. I was simply living my life as I always had, going to work on Monday, unwinding each night with some cable television and a joint. On Fridays and Saturdays I would go out drinking with friends and sometimes I’d get lucky and find a nice girl at a bar. We’d keep each other company until Sunday, when I’d take the day to recover from a brutal hangover and brace myself for Monday to come around again.
During this time, Dr. Duchamp’s procedure was quietly making its rounds on the fringes of society, occasionally I would see a ‘headless’ standing on the corner of the street as I drove past. I felt that if they had eyes, they might have caught me staring. It was always brief, always forgotten soon after in favor of more pressing matters.
One day, our manager called us all into her office and told us we were all being let go, the manager herself included, and that Aaron, the skinny, unassuming IT specialist was being promoted to regional manager. We hardly had time to register our disbelief before the door to the hallway swung open and in walked a suit, ill-fitted at the shoulders and stacked at the ankles, carrying a slim, black briefcase.
The red and gold tie lead the eyes not to a face, but to a flash of chrome and a faint, blinking red light. I would not have been able to recognize this person were it not for his gait: long, unnatural steps followed by a pronounced amortization by the knees. This headless’ name was Aaron.
Aaron approached the manager, bowed curtly and then walked briskly into her office, closing the door and the blinds in quick, rhythmic succession.
The following weeks were mostly silence punctuated by whispers of colleagues who had decided to keep their jobs, even securing promotions by electing to get a mediator. The procedure itself was free, the government had completely subsidized everything once it became clear that it would render the public much happier, healthier, and more subdued. There simply was no reason for the people to become dissatisfied with the way things were if they were always feeling good and had a strong community of headless friends.
Working long hours was never a slog, actually becoming quite enjoyable for them, and the alcohol and drug industry entered a deep recession as more people turned to mediators. The world as a whole became far more efficient, far safer, and a far more productive. The path to the climate crisis was set on the right track within the first 3 years of the headless economic revolution while the rest of us couldn’t find a stable job anywhere. Crime rates dropped dramatically, and the roads, once populated with aggression, for once seemed quite civil.
Art and music thrived during this period as well, people would leave their heads at home, work all day, and then come home and relax by reading books, listening attentively to music, and visiting museums on weekend excursions. There was such a weight lifted off the intellect by removing a work mindset from the psyche that the headless could spend much more time pondering life and appreciating the experiences of others through creative mediums.
Dr. Emile Duchamp had discovered the answer to all of the world’s problems. There really was no issue that went unresolved: Hunger, homelessness, unhappiness, crime, unequal wealth distribution…Well, that’s a lie, Dr. Duchamp and his friends basically own the US government now, but everyone is ok with it because they always have a perfect mix of serotonin and dopamine in their bloodstream.
I held out as my friends and family members all went headless. I found a few drinking partners at bars still in business until they went out of business. Then we held ever smaller gatherings at our apartments until liquor become so rare and expensive that we couldn’t afford it anymore with our meager government stipend.
That is why, one day, I surrendered and walked into a local medical clinic. It’s beautiful vaulted ceilings led the eyes up to huge skylights that flooded the room with a warm, white light. The receptionist smiled as she led me to a room where, within the hour, I was walking out of the building as a headless man.
Somewhat to my surprise, I felt good. Like, really good. The sunshine on my face warmed me all the way up inside, the flowers smelled so deep and fragrant that I would lean down to them, close my eyes, and use their soft aromas to paint rich portraits in my mind. All of the sounds of the city were so pronounced, so three-dimensional, all playing off one another in harmony. Life was beautiful.
You see, this is, despite its appearance to the righteous headful, a very beautiful way to live. I have not once stood up and screamed at the news on TV since my procedure, a near nightly occurrence pre-headlessness. I have not once gotten into an argument about something totally nonsensical. I have not once regretted my decision to go headless.
Sure, for most of the week my body is off somewhere doing something rather drab, I don’t even remember what my body’s official job title is anyway. The good news is that it doesn’t matter, that is the government’s responsibility, not mine. All of that is a petty price to pay for the freedom to let my mind wander the depths of emotion, tracing the shape of my soul with an imaginary stylus.
It has taken me only a few months of living freely inside of my head to realize that it isn’t so dark in here at all. All I needed to do was find the switch and turn it on.
