Stress, it turned out, was the cause of the little headache, that and a poor diet. I told the doctor, a nice of enough fellow in his sterile white coat and office in the posher downtown area, has he ever prepared pieces for a showing in a second rate gallery? Third-rate sculpture is free of the stress of big time reviews, and first-rate stuff can be aloof and not give a damn about the critics and the buyers, but we second-raters: diet is the least of our concerns. He laughed the way doctors laugh, they way people who see friends of friends laugh.

It was after all the chest tapping and knee bonking that he got to my ears with the ear-light checker. He frowned for a while, then checked the other ear. Then, curious, he started hitting my head with the knee hammer. Then he put his own ear to my head and tapped some more. Was this some new technique? Was I in the hands of some new age quack? I asked him if it was a tumor after all, and he said no, I think your head is just hollow.

I played along. But how a headache, then?

Stress, like I said. It's not your brain that hurts, it's the muscles in your skin. But your head itself- well, I think there's nothing in it.

Well thank you very much. I tried to sound like I was masking hurt feelings with a playing along attitude. Actually I was merely incredulous. But one must make appearances.

He said he could do a few tests, if I had the time. It would mean a few days in hospital.

And I found myself agreeing. I had some free time, the show being over, and the last thing I wanted was all the half-friends and acquaintances I have coming round, trying to cheer me up for the review in the Times. It was really more depressing than the review itself. And it's not as if was a scathing review. It was just unenthusiastic. I'm sure, left to my own emotional bath, the waters would have calmed in no time. But these people see the review and decide I must be low, so they call up and invite me out to brunch and try to console me even before they've seen what mood I'm in at all. Actually, I relished the opportunity, this hospital visit, to give them something back. They just consoled me to make themselves feel better, anyway. At least I'm not poor Ira, they say, who was really deflated by that review in the Times. Well, a stay in hospital, let's see how good that made them feel!

So I went to hospital, bought a new pair of pajamas for it and everything. I was really quite silly. I purchased magazines and told my sister because I knew she would have flowers sent. I was very nice about it, didn't give her cause for any real concern so that she would drive out all the way from Liverpool. She's the type to do that. I made it seem like no large matter. Because it wasn't. Even though I treated it like it was.

They ran tests, CAT scans and other scans probably named after equally loathsome animals. It took all of 36 hours but I feigned an upset stomach so I could stay the second night. It was really quite peaceful in that room there all by myself, it being a down week for broken hips and heart attacks, I suppose. I had one of those horribly large nurses, complete with wart and hair on her chin; she treated me like some kind of naughty nine year old most of the time. It was all rather delicious. I received the occasional phone call, but I was so convincing that no one saw a need to actually visit. Thank God.

The original doctor came by when I was leaving, and we went to the office they have for visiting physicians to discuss my "case." Now there's a fun word. I would have to use it when people asked why I wasn't in my flat when they'd rung to console me on the bad review. I was having some tests done in hospital, I would say. The doctor says my case is quite extraordinary.

In his office, he said his suspicions had been confirmed. There was, in fact, nothing in my head.

You mean literally, I asked.

Yes, quite literally, he told me. I mean there is some air, it's not a vacuum, after all. But other than that- well, not a sausage.

But this is incredible.

He shrugged. Not really. I've seen this sort of thing before.

Really.

Oh, certainly. I chap was in here about two years ago. Nice enough. Wrote crossword puzzles for a living. I think they call them criciverbalists. And his head was just like yours: completely devoid of solid matter.

But.

Yes, there was a great deal of fuss at the time. All manner of papers and journals being written, tests, more tests, some idle experiments. They even cut his head open, for a first-hand view.

And it was empty.

That's right. Could have used himself for a flower vase, if he'd wanted.

But what does it mean?

The doctor shrugged. That's just it. It means nothing. It just says we know far less about the human body than we think we do. Now, if he was a concert pianist, or a child molester: then we'd be on to something. And you. If you were prime minister, say, or if you were fond of eating beetles. Something odd like that.

So.

So the nonsense died down. He went on his merry little way, and we on ours. He didn't let it affect him much.

Do I. Do I have a heart at least?

Of course! the doctor said, laughing. A fine heart, strong, pumping that red vitae around your body just like it should. And I don't want you to get the idea that there's anything necessarily wrong with you. You're fine. Fit as a fiddle. You just happen to have an empty head. That's all.

I see.

Tell you what, make it fair, we'll ignore the deductible this go around. All right.

I shrugged. Sure. I guess. Nice of you.

Not at all. We stood up, and shook hands. By the way, he said. I saw that awful review in the Times. The bastards. I'm sure your work is quite good.

I shrugged again. Yes, well.

The photo I saw, anyway. Quite good, from the looks of it.

Well, thank you. .thanks for everything.

Not at all. Have a nice day.

I left his office and went home, and saw that I had as many as four messages on my machine. One was my agent, reminding me not to get too complacent- my next showing is in three weeks, and I needed to get started right away.

I suppose this empty head business will just have to wait. I've got to arrange to pull a few things out of storage, get them cleaned up. If I was a third-rate sculptor, I wouldn't be able to afford storage. And a first-rate sculptor has people to clean his pieces for him. Alas, it's we runners-up that seem to have to do the most work.