YOU KNOW, SURPRISINGLY, they don’t sell a lot of brains in the local 24-hour grocery store around the corner from my house. And, believe it or not, they don’t really like it when you ask about them. At least, not the sleepy college kid working the only open cash register the night I become a zombie.

“Hi, yeah, listen, uh …Tad? Tad, I’m looking for, well, see, my, uhhm …grandfather …is coming into town this weekend, and he really likes, well, believe it or not, he loves brains. Don’t look at me like that. I guess they ate them on the farm when he was growing up or something, but …do you know where I could find any?”

“Tad,” or so says the name tag on his chest, looks past me, around me, out into the parking lot, and everywhere but at me before finally saying, “Very funny.” Then he stares at me, as if to say, without words, “I’m too smart to be punk’d. Even if it is two in the morning and there’s not another soul around for miles.”

“It’s not a prank, Tad. Seriously. I looked all over the meat department, found tubs of chicken livers, something called ‘chitterlings’—not sure I want to go there—even a big, gray cow’s tongue, but …no brains. So …do you know where I could find them? I mean, I’m asking as a customer”—here I hold up the insanely fat roll of $20 bills Dad keeps in a cookie jar in the kitchen in case of an emergency (which, I think you’ll agree, this is)—”so I’m really not trying to prank you.”

He sighs, reaches for a curvy microphone next to his cash register, pushes a button at the base, and says, “Harvey, I’m sending a live one back to the butcher for a few pounds of, get this …brains….”