The Man with a Hole in His Head

 Some people love cats, others dogs, some love good food, some love their local futball team. Johan Mahlman loved music. He loved music so much it almost killed him.

The fateful night had started out like many of his evenings did, listening to a live band. A cybersecurity consultant in South East London, Johan had left his office early to find a perch at a pub table upstairs at The Old Blue Last. An obscure indie rock group was band number 841 on his quest to listen to 1,000 bands in one calendar year. 

“They sound like the Arctic Monkeys, though with a bit more energy.” Johan shouted to his friend Pat as the music swirled around them. The man on stage screamed, while a lead guitarist played a frenetic melody over an asynchronous drum beat, both in harmony only with the smell of stale beer from the floors.

“The Arctic Monkeys? More like regular monkeys, they’re terrible! You’re better than them” Pat shouted back. ”You should get a band, and play. You’re amazing!” 

Johan pointed to his perfectly fine shoulder. “Ever since I hurt my arm, it hasn’t felt right. I’m not any good anyway. Not like these guys.”

Johan winced at an out of tune chord. “Maybe someday.” Johan leaned over. “I want to play, but first I need to capture all the music in here, then I’ll be ready!” Johan tapped his head once, then twice. 

Suddenly Johan felt a strange twinge behind his eyes. Sitting on the bar stool in Whitechapel, just north of the river Thames, a fog settled in around the edge of his eyes, closing in while the music around him pulled away, becoming fainter as if drawing him into another dimension where sound didn’t exist.

The room went silent, and his head throbbed with a dull tightness. Confused at the sudden change, Johan stood up, a hand in the air as if he wanted to ask a question. Pat, mid sip of his Boddington’s Ale, watched wide-eyed as Johan, like a Jenga tower with the wrong block pulled out, leaned one way, then the other before crashing through the pub table, hurtling his pint of Bass lager and his life through the air to crash against the floor broken and never to be the same again.  

   A music fanatic, as well as an excellent guitar player, Johan had been collecting music from all genres for his entire life. From his early days listening to heavy metal, to the indie bands of the 90’s, to grunge, punk, rap, and lately classical. He listened to jazz, EDM, K-Pop, trance, country, Mbaqanga, hip-hop, indie, along with musicals from Bollywood through to New York.

He had been told by a guitar teacher once that to become a better musician he should listen to live music, and he took the lesson to heart. 

He had collected every style of music; songs and symphonies, orchestras and operas, chorals and quartets, all stored in his brain, not knowing if there was a limit. Johan strived to hear every concert, listen to every new genre, and spent his money to find every new song, from every corner of the globe.

Classically handsome and often confused with the actor Kit Harington, Johan’s wide grin and sparkling light brown eyes canted down and to the side, like he was just about to break into a laugh.

 His slightly too large ears were perfect for collecting every musical note, and his wide smile let him make friends easily, getting him into shows and concerts throughout London. 

He had even convinced his girlfriend to join in on his goal. Zoe, a blond Slovakian bombshell, accompanied him on many of his concerts around Europe.

The next morning, he woke up to a pounding headache and the prior evening lost to blackness. Johan had no idea what to do about his new illness.

“I can’t barely hear anything, and my head.” Johan said to Zoe. “It’s full of cement.”

Tears streamed down from her bright green eyes as she reached out for him. “Come on, I’ll take you to hospital. I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

                “See right here- there it is, but I’ve only heard of it once before.” Dr. Graham said, pointing to a dark photo of a brain. A rotund man in a white coat, his dark brown eyes looked on Johan with concern. “Here’s the MRI.” 

The lights in the National Health Service medical office flickered off the beige walls and dark skin of Dr. Graham’s bald head. 

“Hypercanticumagnosia” Dr. Graham leaned back with his hands folded on his extended belly. “The brain you see, is a vessel, and for the owner it has limitless potential. An amazing organ, it has the capacity to plumb the depths of philosophical treatises, and to ponder the infinite universe surrounding this blue -green ball we live on. 

Our brains allow us to enjoy the visual pleasures of a beautiful painting, be it in the British Museum or graffiti on a wall in Camden Town. To create art as well, to build whole worlds and new visions.”

 Dr. Graham lifted his hand to wave. “Our magical brains can interpret the sounds of a gurgling brook, then recreate it through the elegant notes of a well played symphony, or a guitar solo. It can hold us back too, creating fear where there is none.”

Dr. Graham put both hands on his knees as he leaned forward. 

“But to a doctor, to think of the capacity of the brain as infinite is ridiculous. The pink folds of soft tissue are encased in a hard skull, not more than 60 centimeters around, a weight of just 10 pounds. A bowling ball we can say.

Does the universe fit inside a bowling ball? Of course not. However most people never test the outer limit of the finite storage available to them. Truly how much room could sporting scores, celebrity romance gossip, or the latest political scandal take up? Barely a speck. But not you.” Dr. Graham’s finger wagged like a school teacher pointing to a Gold Star student.

 “You, Johan, unique among all of humanity, have achieved what most people thought impossible. You have filled your head completely with music.”

Dr. Graham gestured to the black and white photo, showing a small white ball in the right front of the circle. “We need to let it out. Here it's the most dense. We’ll go in there.”

Johan pointed to his ear, and then Dr. Graham scrawled his diagnosis on a page and handed it over to him. The doctor leaned back in his chair. As his feet were too short to reach the ground, he swirled one in the air.

“We have to be quick. In this situation we shouldn’t let it go more than 24 hours, or at the most 48…”

“-Will that release the pressure?” Johan shouted, his face tightening into a grimace.  

“I’ll make it a top priority.” Dr. Graham turned back. “We have to create an opening, or…” Dr. Graham raised his hands to his head, and then threw out his fingers. Looking straight at Johan he mouthed the word. “Boom”

That midnight Johan felt his head would explode.

“How do I know if it’s getting worse, or if it’s just my imagination?”

Tears streaked down Johan’s cheeks as he winced against the pounding in his skull.

Zoe just shook her head, and grabbed his shoulders.

“Just breathe Johan! Let it out-”

Johan took a deep breath, and then an audible crack split the room, a drop of blood flowed out of each of his ears. His head began to shake with the pressure, foam pushed out of his nose and curled up at the corners of his mouth.

Two days later, Johan finally checked in for his surgery at King’s College hospital. It’ll be an ‘Awake left temporal craniotomy." Dr. Graham stood in front of a whiteboard in Johan's hospital room. He drew a crude outline of a human head, then added a hole in it.

 “It’s not a routine procedure, but only the same potential negative outcomes as in any surgery, hemorrhages, seizures, infections; only a minor risk to life.” He shrugged, scrawling the name of the possible risks on the white board.

All the color drained from Johan’s face. "Minor risk to life?” Johan gripped the cold steel rail of the hospital bed, squeezing with everything he had. If he could just hold on to the reality of the rail, he would hold onto his life.

Dr. Graham smiled. “Yup, minor!” He underlined the word. “I’ll see you bright and early tomorrow!” 

After the surgery, Johan woke up blinking into the sun pouring through the hospital room window. For the first time since his brain seizure, the beeping of a hospital monitor near him connected him to reality. 

Soon a nurse came in, followed by Dr. Graham.  

“Good Morning, " Dr. Graham said. “Can you hear me?”

 Johan nodded. “It sounds like you’re far away though. And my head still hurts.”

“We were able to get into your brain.” Dr. Graham said, gently placing his hands on Johan’s bandaged head, checking the wrapping. “However-” he paused.

“What -however-?” Is everything OK?” Johan tried to sit up but the movement made the bright room spin around him.

Dr. Graham pushed Johan back down. “We’re concerned we didn’t relieve the pressure. For the time being, we left the hole open under a bandage, just in case.”

“There’s a hole- in my head?” Johan’s eyebrows shot up, curled into large question marks.

“We’ll keep an eye on it and close it up in a few months if everything looks ok. Sound good?”

Johan's mouth dropped open.

For a man who had music around him all the time, how could he notice one more song? A few days later on a rare, London sunny morning Johan puttered around his living room when he the chorus of a song, ‘Easy Like a Sunday Morning’ played.

“Someone's turned up their music” Johan murmured to himself. The surgery had relieved the pressure, but he wasn’t sure how much room he had left.

Johan listened at each wall to identify where the music was coming from. He couldn’t imagine which of his neighbors had such taste in music, the surrounding units being filled with people too old, too young, or just not cool enough to listen to Lionel Ritchie.

Music still played in the apartment when his friend Paul came by, to sit in Johan’s kitchen with him. “My offer still stands for you to play guitar at my Farmers Market. Interested?” Paul said. 

“No, I’m not ready. The doctors can’t seem to solve my problem. Leaving a hole in my head is not a long term solution!”

“I love the hidden speakers!” Paul said, listening to the music. “Are they Bose, or Sonos? I prefer Bang & Olufsen myself, they’ve better low tones.”

Johan shook his head. “I think it’s a neighbor.” He pointed to an opposite wall. Maybe that one?”

“What? It sounds like it’s coming from this room.” Paul stood up to look at the wall, then the cupboards. “Is the speaker under the table?”

“I'm not playing any music?” Johan said, his hands up. 

Paul leaned into Jason, putting his ear close to the hole in his head. 

“What are you doing?” Johan asked, a terrible thought flashed through his mind, but that wasn’t possible.

“It’s coming from you!” Paul confirmed his fear.

Johan realized the awful truth. His head, so full of music, had begun to leak from the hole in his head.   

As a cybersecurity professional, he tried to describe his problem. Should it be considered a Man-in-the Middle attack, or a Denial-of-service? Either way, Johan had his own personal data breach.

“This is worse!” Paul said. “Surgery didn’t work. Have you tried holistic medicine?”

“What, you have some herbs, or powdered newt for me to take?” Johan laughed.

“No, a person.” Paul wrote a name and number down a piece of paper. “ Anastasia. A mystic, she knows alternative medicines that might be able to help you.” Paul offered it to Johan. 

Just at that moment, Johan’s whole face squeezed tight, and his hands flew up to his head in a futile attempt to stop the lightning bolt of pressure ricocheting around his brain. Then, once again, his world went black. 

                “It seems the pressure is increasing.” Dr. Graham said, peeking through the hole in Johan’s head. The heavy base of Megadeth's ‘In My Darkest Hour’ poured out of Jason’s head and rumbled through the examination room. 

“How much longer do you think?” Johan asked, slumped over. He couldn’t lift his eyes above the floor. 

“This is uncharted territory.” Dr. Graham said. “A few weeks, or just a few days.”

Johan had only one option left, and called the number Paul gave him. 

A middle aged woman opened the door. Long black hair in tight curls poured over her shoulders and her colorful dress.  

She reached out a hand filled with rings. “Johan?” The woman asked. “I'm Anastasia, come in.”

She led him to a dark room with tapestries on the walls, several candles burning, with the sweet scent of sage filling the room.

Johan spoke of the pain, the hole, and then the music leaking out as Anastasia poured thick black coffee. When he finished, Anastasia sat without responding while the melody of a song filled the room. 

  “What is that,” Anastasia leaned in toward Johan. “a kind of magic…?”

Johan nodded. “A Kind of Magic, by Queen. See what I mean? My brain, it just plays whatever I'm feeling, the music just comes out. I thought the surgery would help but I still feel the pressure, and the songs just don’t stop.”  

“My rituals and potions will not solve your problem.” Anastasia said. “To control the music emanating out of you, you must do it yourself.”

Her finger tapped her chin, examining Johan closely. 

“You listen to much music, but you said you don’t play yourself. Why?”

“I’m not good enough, and my schedule is too busy with work to practice more.” Johan stared at his hands. “I just don’t have the time, and I like going to the live shows, to listen to all the new bands coming out.” Johan looked up. 

“Why did you think you could fill yourself up, taking in everything but giving back nothing?” Anastasia said.

“I don’t know. I love music, and listening is easier than playing.”

“Soon, you’ll explode.” Anastasia said, the candle light twinkling in her dark eyes. “Unless.”

“So what do I do?” Johan asked, jumping up. “I will do anything!”

“You’re too full, the music needs to get out.” Anastasia stood up. “To release the pressure you don’t need a hole in your head. You need to find your true nature, and believe in yourself. The obstacle is the way. Go through your fear of playing, and be a conduit for the music.” She held Johan’s arms. “Let the songs out, share what you have collected, share your talent with the world.”

Anastasia leaned in with a whisper. “That’s the only way to save your life.” 

The sun sparkled off the fruits and vegetables at the Farmers Market.

“Are you sure about this?” Johan sat in a chair on a small stage as Paul plugged in the amplifier. “No one minds me playing here?”

“The market needs more music." Paul adjusted Johan’s microphone. “ And then when I told them you were a professional musician-”

“-But I’m not a professional musician!” Johan looked up.

“You will be!” Paul winked.

“I want to thank my fans for showing up today.” Johan spoke into the microphone and waved to the handful of people in front of him.

Dr. Graham drank coffee nearby, while Zoe, Paul and Pat shared a bag of cinnamon muffins.

By himself in the corner of the Farmers Market, goosebumps ran down both arms. “I didn’t make a set list, what should I play?”

“The Beatles!” A middle aged woman called out, walking up for the show with a bag of vegetables.

Johan began picking a few notes. As he played, fear and panic swirled through his head.

The pressure inside him didn’t lessen as he hoped, but built up, pressing against his skull as if his head would burst right then and there, showering the crowd like Gallagher crushing a watermelon. This could go terribly wrong.  

Johan stopped, the music ending with a long resonant note echoing out.

He squeezed his eyes closed and tried to feel the music. Johan called up the song he was about to play and he focused on how much he loved making music, how it connected him to those listening.

The tinkling of a guitar began playing out of his head.

Johan stretched out his fingers, then his voice cracking at the first line, Johan began accompanying the song playing from the hole in his head.

  “I'm fixing a hole where the rain gets in/

   And stops my mind from wandering/

    Where it will go..”

Johan’s fingers found one chord then another, moving through the old Beatles tune when suddenly the dam broke, and the pent up energy, like a raging river coursed through him, filling him with joy as the music released through his hands on the guitar, and through his voice as he sang. Collecting all the music in the world had been a selfish plan he realized. He could play! He needed to share the music, connect to other musicians, and other people to let the never-ending river of music continue. Johan would no longer be a dam, but another stream contributing to the great ocean of music flowing around the world. 

 Caught up in the song, he didn't even notice when the dollars started flying toward him , and his future, and new career launched.