Rent Arlington Hall’s Brain

Eight Hours To Go

Thorne hesitated. The clinic’s storefront consisted of a glass elevator that went only down. Below the earth, into the unknown. A sign on its door read in elegant silver script: “Rent a Brain Today, Genius Guaranteed.” Thorne could see straight through the waiting elevator to the barren forest beyond. A frigid breeze shuddered through the branches and whipped at his cheeks.

Cadence squeezed his hand. It felt cold and clammy, like his own. They’d driven two hours north of Manhattan to reach this famed destination for the wealthy and connected elite. To say they didn’t belong was ironic in its understatement. They were 22 years old, fresh out of Julliard—she, a budding opera singer, he, a jazz pianist—and poorer than the illegal immigrants who squatted in the apartment next door.

But their doomed prospects had changed since Thorne’s acceptance into the prestigious Arlington Hall Piano Competition, with its grand prize of $100,000 and the promise of international renown. Each pianist would have twenty minutes to improvise—live on stage—the most brilliant and original jazz piece possible, in the grand tradition of 1920s jazz legend Arlington Hall. A handpicked group of music industry power players was going to judge the winner. And then Thorne, in his recurring fantasy, would rise to thunderous applause, his fingers tingling with ecstatic energy, and accept the top prize. The life he dreamed of would fall into place like a perfect arpeggio—the diamond ring he’d soon be able to afford, the touring invitations, the record deal.

The only problem was his paralyzing fear: What if he froze? It had happened before—multiple times—in concerts far less consequential. For this one, there couldn’t even be any preparation. The contest, after all, was about showcasing creativity on the spot. The emcee was going to assign each player a time and key signature and a first measure. The rest would be up to them.

At home, alone with his trusty Yamaha keyboard, Thorne could compose with the daring, nuanced complexity that had earned him the honor of a finalist spot. Yet under any sort of public pressure, that boldness flattened to mediocrity. It was as if the creative part of his brain shut down. He couldn’t create anything worthy of playing. His inspiration vanished. His mind stuttered and his fingers betrayed him. He cringed just imaging the humiliation—at Carnegie Hall no less, in front of 2,800 people.

Cadence nudged