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Foster Has An Earworm

George Beckerman

    Foster came home from work telling his wife Tanya he heard a song that he could not get out of his head all day. He played it for her. She agreed. Pretty catchy. At the dinner table, Foster heard nary a word about Tanya’s day at work, nor her summer vacation ideas or more importantly, that their 5 year old son Ricky bit another kid on the elbow in kindergarten. All Foster had going on between his ears...was the song. As they lie in bed that night, Foster felt there had to be some reason why he was holding onto it, while Tanya dismissed it as gone, “Literally ten seconds after I heard it.”
    The next morning, Tanya awakened to find Foster sitting up in bed, looking haggard, dark circles rimming his eyes. “It’s still there.” “What is?” “It. The damn tune. All. Night. Long.” His suffering seemed legit. So Tanya threw him a sexy smile and suggested that maybe a little morning distraction will boot the damn refrain from his brain. She reached into his boxers to jumpstart the festivities. Nothing. Nada. A half-hour later, when post-coital tingling should have been magically massaging their prone, sated beings, it was obvious that Foster’s instrument of manhood had been hijacked by the new tenant in his auditory cortex. Tanya was not pleased.
    So Foster consulted the human race’s go-to expert...Google, which suggested that he chew gum. And chomp he did. For days on end. The result: a cracked cuspid, extraction and root canal before the final sentence was levied...an implant. But through it all, the melody in Foster’s dome played on.
    Eventful weeks passed.
    Foster, seriously unfocused during an important sales presentation, allowed some of the song’s lyrics to infiltrate his pitch. Client, gone.
    At the disciplinary meeting with Ricky’s school principal, Foster involuntarily hummed the haranguing hymn. Then apologized. Then whistled it. Another apology. Followed by loud foot-tapping. The Principal told Tanya “Maybe your husband also needs a time out.” Tanya, not pleased.
    His mind gone awry, Foster forgot where he parked his SUV, reported it stolen, later found it, and was arrested for stealing his own car.
    Foster somehow purchased five thousand dollars’ worth of Spanish American War memorabilia on eBay, but didn’t remember doing it.
    Our boy’s erection? Still on leave. But the ditty was still present and accounted for. This broke the camel’s back for Tanya. Her ultimatum: seek professional help or their marriage is in trouble.
    The next day found Foster in a psycho-therapist’s office asking why music he didn’t even like was still lodged inside his head. The shrink answered with one word: Earworm. Repulsed, Foster reflexively used his forefinger as a Q-tip, trying to clean one of his ears, but realized it just made him look like an idiot. He quickly withdrew his digit. “The technical term is INMI. Involuntary Musical Imagery. In layman’s language, an earworm. Your brain has the hiccups.”
    The clinician explained that a classic example is “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star”, where the first phrase rises in pitch and the second falls. This makes it easy to remember. Other predominant earworm gems are “Bad Romance” by Lady Gaga, “Don’t Stop Believing” by Journey, and ironically, “Can’t Get You Out Of My Head” by Kylie Minogue. But “Twinkle, Twinkle,” that really sends them over the cliff.”
     “Number one on the charts. With a bullet,” he joked as he tapped his forehead. Foster was too busy being desperate to be amused. “Doc, my life is falling apart. Please tell me what to do.” His answer: “Try chewing gum.” Foster was ready to leap out of his chair and physiologically eff-up a psychoanalyst.
    The doc saved his own ass by recommending biofeedback. Foster was immediately stoked with hope until he learned he would need three sessions per week at three hundred per, which won’t be covered by insurance. Hope has a way of shattering quickly and cruelly. The shrink felt it was his duty to warn Foster that the longer the song lived within him, the harder it will be to exorcise.
    And so, Foster embarked on the bank account-draining quest. Unfortunately, biofeedback didn’t work. It was followed by chiropractic manipulation, acupuncture, yoga, massage, and guided imagery. Fail, fail, fail, fail, and fail. Hypnotism revealed other personal problems of Foster’s that we can’t reveal due to HIPAA privacy rules. And the soundtrack? Still relentlessly rattling in the poor guy’s noggin.
    Foster’s sonic status quo went on for months. But his job and savings...gonzo. Tanya was also slipping away. She and Ricky spent more time at her sister’s than at home with him, where he became depressingly glued to the living room couch on which he slept through most of the days.
    In last-ditch desperation, Foster consulted a psychic, who lit a stick of incense and asked if he had a job. “Shouldn’t you know that?” “Not seeing any sign of one. What about a family?” Foster shot her a strange look. “Sorry, coming up empty again.” Furious, he called her among other more salty things, a tinhorn transcendentalist laid waste to a few Ouija boards and stormed out of her shop without paying.
    When Foster arrived home after posting bail, he realized that the clairvoyant’s crystal ball was on the money. Not only was he fired (by text), homeless, (Tanya changed the locks) but she notified the school that her ex-husband was a psycho and was forbidden to pick up Ricky. “Ex”? The final dagger was waiting for him in the mail. Divorce papers.
    That night, Foster lie on the cot of his rented room, wide awake and anxious beyond comprehension. His only company was the song. As he looked at the ceiling fan above him, his expression was that of an unfortunate soul calculating whether it would hold his weight in the event he wanted to....”No! No! No! No! As he screamed, Foster repeatedly smacked himself upside the head. “Stop it! Not cool! I will not give up!
    The next morning Foster was awakened by a fire engine siren. When the blare faded in the distance, he remembered where he was, how he got there and looked impossibly sad. But as he sat up, something slowly dawned on him. For the first time since his misery began, he didn’t hear the evil strain.
    Could it be? Foster quickly jumped to his feet and walked a few laps around the closet-sized room. Listened again. Nothing. “Omigod, it’s gone.” Foster went into a wild victory dance that he would never, ever do in public. Then he stopped. And waited again. Still nothing. His nemesis really was in the rearview mirror. Part two of the dance commenced.
    A few months later, Foster was driving his car, looking alive, well and brimming with confidence. It was a gorgeous day, and Ricky was in the back seat. Foster pulled up to the curb outside the school.
    He got out, opened the back door, unbuckled Ricky’s seatbelt and planted a kiss on his son’s forehead. “Have a fun day, Ricky.” “Thanks, daddy, you too.” Foster watched Ricky join his friends as they excitedly rushed into school. As he got back in the car, Foster’s cellphone ringtone belted out “It’s A Good Day” by Peggy Lee. “Hi, honey...Yes. I just dropped Ricky at school. I’m off to work for the big presentation.” Foster noticed Ricky’s lunchbox in the back seat. “Oh no, Ricky forgot his lunchbox.” He reached over and grabbed it. “Seems new. Tanya must’ve just bought it. I’m gonna run, sweetie. See you for dinner...Love you too, Stacey.” Foster clicked off blissfully wondering if he had discovered the Holy Grail Of Happiness.
    As he drove off, Foster noticed a button on the lunchbox handle. Curious, he pushed it. Out came a song. “Twinkle Twinkle, Little Star.....” After a moment, Foster realized something felt different. Very different. Not a good different. His joy suddenly turned into unmitigated horror. “Oh shit!” While desperately trying to turn off the lunchbox with his left hand, his right hand repeatedly smacked the side of his head. This left no hands available for the steering wheel. And that...was very unfortunate.
    The solution to cautionary tales such as this: Earworms do not like bagpipe music.

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