I Left My Brain in Tonawanda

There was a cheap repair place in the northern suburbs of Buffalo that promised overnight service. We combined a quick cross-the-border shopping trip with a brain upgrade.

That night, I received a call on the ancient bedside phone in our hotel room. It probably dated back to the time of Alexander Graham himself. The phone, that is. The hotel was old too, but possibly a bit newer.

“Mr, uh,” said the kid from the brain place. “Mr Bailey. There’s been a bit of a problem, see.”

“With my brain?” I asked, not seeing.

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