White Coat

It is a positively insane notion, and yet he finds himself sitting in a chair opposite of a massive crowd as someone introduces him on stage, frantic as he skims through his index cards one last time. The emcee calls him by name, and he stands.

His index cards scatter to the floor. 

Stooping down to gather them, he quickens his pace. His heart syncs up to match it. It was fine to be that peculiar doctor with a dream. It was another to be talking about that dream in front of millions of people. Okay, so maybe there are only five hundred in the audience. He's going to count the other thousands sitting at home in their underwear, shoveling cheese curls into their mouths. He should probably forewarn them to stop, as their jaws are about to slacken at the story he is going to weave for them.

Where did that first index card go?

It flutters away in the wind, and he nods at the emcee. It's okay. That was just the, 'hello, my name is Dr. Poe' card, but he is pretty sure that they already know that. 

He pushes at the microphone to lower it, given that he's a lot shorter than the man before him, and wishes he had brought a box to stand on, so they could focus on something more than his receding hairline. He should have buzzed it all off, or at very least worn a hat and platform boots, maybe pulled off some sort of cowboy ensemble. Instead he had worn a white coat, as if he had to prove he was indeed a doctor.

It's not like mad scientists also wear white coats, and do the things that he did.

They do. They totally do.

He'd like to argue that he's not mad, but he's pretty sure that index card also got taken away in the wind, or is misplaced somewhere in the deck, because there is no way his speech starts with a line about thanking them for their applause that they haven't given. Yet. He's going to remain optimistic that the audience will thunder with applause and not throw rotten fruits at him.

Looking out into the audience, he doesn't see any hidden fruits. Then again, by mere definition, hidden means he wouldn't see them, but that's just his nerves talking himself into a hole. He needs to focus, because they are staring. Also because he is hungry and once he finishes here they promised him a celebratory dinner. 

He hopes they're going to McDonalds. He wants a McFlurry, because he is hot, and sweating through this stupid white coat. He had sent his assistant out for one half an hour ago. The restaurant was right around the corner. Either the line at the drive thru was long, or Edgar was getting cold feet, as fearful as him to be at this speech.

Why hadn't he invented something more currently useful, like time travel, or a universal pause button? Then he could stand here and gather his thoughts without an audience staring at him, with the event coordinator pacing back and forth over dead air time, willing him to say anything.

There isn't an easy way to say this. His assistant had written out a speech for him, and he had gone over it a few times, but it was hardly committed to memory. Why had Edgar not numbered the cards for him, or put it on a single sheet of notebook paper?

"Hi, everyone," he says, knees wobbling. He's going to wing it. It is probably a horrible idea, and it'll replay on the news forever, but-

Is that his McFlurry?

He sees an arm shoot up with the cup. He wants it now, before he passes out. Before it melts into a McPuddle, if he doesn't first.

Edgar races up the side stairs and he motions for him to come over. He takes a heaping scoop, dropping Oreo onto his no longer clean jacket. It's going to stain, but he can finally think a bit straighter.

"You would not believe how many broken ice cream machines there are in this town."

"Sorry, low sugar," he covers, in an attempt to save face. "Edgar, could you talk them while I eat?"

He's passing the buck, and he knows he's going to get torn apart by the media. He also knows that his assistant is going to demand a raise, a well deserved one.

"About what sir?"

"About the miracle of life, I suppose. I'll be quick."

As he eats his ice cream, not as quickly as one can, though he's is going to call it preventing brain freeze, he thinks over his speech. It's a very simple notion really. 

First, he had put out an ad to find a suicidal person. One with a functioning body, just not the brain to enjoy it. One that didn't have the means to follow through, whether it be for the sake of not having the supplies or fear of failure. Although suicide was no longer facing any legal backlash, there were still the stubborn older generation stuck in their ways, the ones that believed with enough therapy, anyone could be happy. Now he had to figure out how to tell the world he had voluntarily taken their mind away. 

It wasn't all for naught. He had a use for their bodies after all. That was the groundbreaking part of his speech, how he had taken the healthy mind of his wife and made it compatible with a body that could work again. One that wasn't bound to die in six months time.

One that coincidentally has gorgeous red hair, cascading down her back, flowing in the breeze as she sat up in her chair, waiting for him to finish his McFlurry so that he can introduce her.

He has successfully moved her mind into a new body, and he is going to brag to the world. It solves two problems. The suicidal won't die in vain, and people will get extra time with their loved ones, people who aren't ready to go, just because their body is.

He thinks he is a genius. Confidence raging, he finishes off his ice cream and leaves the empty cup under his chair.

"Thank you, Edgar."

"Of course, sir."

"Hello world. Thank you for being patient. I'm Dr. Poe, and today I'd like to talk about-."

Thunk.

She falls over, her red hair covering her like a blanket. The speech halts, again, and he rushes over to his wife. 

There's no pulse.

It's been one week, four days, and nine hours with a pulse, and now nothing. He flips her over, and the emergency crew comes on stage. They run to her and pull her off, the audience watching in horror. It's nothing compared to the horror in his mind right now, as it races through the past week. 

He pulls the microphone off the podium and sits at the edge of the stage, chocolate stained white coat discarded to the side. Loosening his tie, he addresses the audience.

"I'd like to talk about love. I had successfully transplanted the brain of my wife into a hot body of a suicidal woman because I wasn't ready to give her up yet. It was supposed to be this great answer to the call of death. And in those eleven days that I had her back, you know what I did?"

"Her?" an audience member shouts.

He flushes, guilty. "I didn't actually take the time to tend to the mind I had been so desperate to save. Please, make sure you enjoy the people you have while you still have them."

He had given the last two years of his life to saving his wife instead of being there to enjoy what he had. Sure, he'd be remembered for furthering development in strategies to transplant a brain, but he had never planned on making history. He had planned on making memories.

The emcee takes the microphone from him as he leaves the stage to go find where they've taken her. The white coat stays abandoned. He's done tinkering with life. He's no god.

Nor should he ever want to be.