Being Smart is Dumb

There was a flash of light. Then everything changed.

I was still trying to figure out what happened when someone tapped my shoulder. I turned to find a young man wearing a black suit. Black shirt. Black tie. The whole thing, like he was dressed for a stylish funeral.

“Excuse me sir,” he said respectfully. “Mister Monroe would like to see you in his office.”

“What the hell just happened?” I shouted over the music. “One second I was –“

“I’m sorry sir,” he said, cutting me off. “You’ll have to ask Mr. Monroe your questions. He’s waiting for you now.”

I glanced back towards my companions. I was still in shock. I could barely recognize them now. If not for Seamus’ red hair, I wouldn’t be able to tell any of them apart. A few moments ago they had been average looking students, like me. Now they were three shirtless muscle bros, shaking their asses to the beat and laughing like schoolgirls.

Nothing made sense.

Our little group of queer doctoral students had created a tradition where we went out for a burger and a beer every Friday. This week we’d decided to try a new bar – an actual gay bar this time. It was supposed to be a decent pub. I knew they had dancing later, but we’d be long gone before it transformed from a pub to a club.

But somehow it had transformed instantly. Whatever had happened, that flash of light... you would never find me in a place like this. It was all pounding club music and disco ball lights. I didn’t fit in here.

When I walked in, I’d been wearing khaki pants and a blue button down shirt. I looked like the kind of guy who spends all his time doing physics calculations because... well, that’s exactly who I am. Usually I’d describe my body as ‘gangly’, but since the light... I glanced down at my newly pumped up body, my overly muscular form squeezed into a pair of booty shorts and a neon orange muscle shirt. It was hard to judge, but I felt several inches shorter than my usual six foot two.

I didn’t fit in here... even if I did look just like every other club kid on the dance floor.

When in doubt, gather more evidence. I gestured a ‘go ahead’ motion at the young man in the black suit. He led me through the crowd of gay erotica characters towards an unmarked door behind the bar.

We went down a short hallway, past two rooms of bar supplies and another room that looked like some sort of security station from a movie, filled with security camera monitors and flashing computer banks. At the end of the hall the black suited man opened another door and ushered me inside. He stayed outside and closed the door behind me.

The difference was stark. While the hallway had clearly been the back hall of a dance club, this office could have been in any random building. The walls were painted a plain off-white colour and the fluorescent lighting did nothing to make the room better. The only sign we were still in a club was the pounding music, still faintly audible through the door.

“Hello Charlie,” said a man behind a desk. He was the most normal looking person I’d seen since everything changed. He wore a rumpled tan golf shirt that did nothing to hide his beer gut. His hair was both thinning and greying simultaneously. He looked like he should be the manager of an office supply store.

“Hello,” I said, doing my best to sound calm. My newly buff body had distorted by voice, making it deeper and more resonant. “I prefer Charles, if you don’t mind. I assume you must be Mr. Monroe.”

“That’s right. It’s good to meet you. Please, have a seat,” he said, gesturing toward a chair.

I considered it briefly. This was entirely outside my experience and I had dozens of questions. Was taking a seat going to cause any other change? Was I agreeing to a social contract I didn’t understand yet? My mind was full of wild hypothesis. If Mr. Monroe was the devil in disguise, as impossible as that was, it wouldn’t be a good idea to accept any of his suggestions. If he was simply a late-middle aged club manager, it could do no harm.

Assume he wasn’t involved – then why had he called me to his office? Surely this meeting and our recent transformation had to be related.

I took the safer choice.

“I prefer to stand,” I said. Normally I would have put my hands in my pockets to show I was at ease, but these shorts didn’t have any pockets. Not even shallow ones.

I briefly tried to hold my hands behind my back. My reformed musculature wouldn’t allow for me to hold them there comfortably. I dropped them down so they hung beside me – my back muscles were wide enough that my arms were pushed out and hung awkwardly in the air. At least compared to my previous build.

“Fair enough,” Mr. Monroe shrugged. “It makes no difference to me.”

I tried to decide what approach to take. It was safest to assume that Mister Monroe was involved somehow. If that was the case, he had abilities that I was unable to explain. Politeness might not be a bad idea.

On the other hand, he had called me to his office. Did he want to discuss the situation? Would it be more beneficial to be direct and use a brusque attitude? No, that wouldn’t do, not if I wanted him as an ally. I decided to get right to the point, but to do so politely.

“Are you responsible for what just happened to me and my colleagues?” I asked. Perhaps a bit too challenging, but I wasn’t overly concerned.

“Yes, of course,” he said, giving me a little smirk and a shake of his head. “When you came into my pub a few hours ago, I saw overheard you talking – we have quite the security system here.”

“You overheard us talking?”

“That’s right. You probably saw the security room on your way in here,” he suggested. “Once I overheard your conversation, I couldn’t resist. I flipped the switch and now... well, it takes a few hours, but now here you are.”

I tried to recall what we had been talking about right before the flash of light. I believe Vincent had been discussing his work in high energy physics.

Before I replied, I considered the rest of what Mr. Monroe had said – he flipped a switch. He had used some sort of technology, and what had seemed like an instant to me had in fact taken several hours. Interesting. Also promising. If he used technology to transform us, that meant he might be able to transform us back.

“We were discussing work in the high energy physics lab,” I said.

“Not quite,” Mr. Monroe said with a head shake. “Here, I’ll replay it for you.”

He tapped a few keys on his laptop. I heard Vincent’s voice over the crackly speaker.

“... which is true,” Vincent said. “Unfortunately most of our undergraduate help isn’t quite up to the challenge.”

“How so?” Quinn asked. Quinn worked in sociology, and though he contributed his share of insight, he wasn’t on the same level as those of us working in the real sciences.

“Two of my lab assistants are behaving poorly,” Vincent said. “Twice last week, they came in with hangovers, and they often take time off in the evenings for exercise or social activities. I tried to explain to them that you can’t have an academic career and a non-stop social life. I’m afraid they really understand the rigour that true science takes.”

I remembered this now. We had all agreed that Vincent’s students needed to find a balance, much like we had. One beer-and-burger night per week, and the occasional board game night as required. Everyone knew you couldn’t be a ‘party animal’ and a scientist at the same time.

Mr. Monroe tapped another key and the recording stopped. He looked at me expectantly. I felt a sinking feeling, but I needed to confirm it.

“Am I correct in thinking that you overheard our conversation and used some sort of technology to transform us into... ‘party animals’, for lack of a better term?” I asked.

“Got it in one,” Mr. Monroe said with a grin. “For all intents and purposes, you and your friends are now a group of 24 year old bros. You dance all night, show up hungover for work, you never miss the gym... it’s exactly what a bunch of tightass queens like you need.”

Oh great, karmic retribution. Mister Monroe seemed to have taken it into his own hands to be our judge, jury and executioner – at least as far as our former lives went. I decided it was unlikely I could win an argument that was so emotionally driven. But if I could uncover the mechanism he used to transform us... maybe I could find a way back.

“What did you do to us?” I asked.

“Well, I used my magic raygun... you don’t object if I call it that, do you?”

“Without understand its workings, any name will do,” I said, shrugging my wide shoulders. My body felt foreign and awkward.

“I zapped you all with my magic raygun. I adjusted you all, stripping away the nerdy losers that you were and turning you into a group of hard partying muscle boys. The world can never have enough muscle studs.”

“But something went wrong?” I asked. If what he said was true – and the evidence so far suggested that it was – then his ‘magic raygun’ had worked flawlessly on my companions. It had even worked on my body, transforming me from a thinly built scientist to an overbuilt gym aficionado.

“That’s right,” he said with a smile. “You see, I can edit bodies without consent. But minds require some level of consent, even subconsciously, before they’ll fully undergo their transformation. Deep down, your friends all had some desire for this. They all wanted to be stronger, dumber, and funner than they were.”

“More fun,” I corrected him absentmindedly. I was thinking through the implications.

“Grammatically correct, but none of them really cared about grammar,” Mr. Monroe said with a slight grin. “All three of them were using their smarts to cover up their insecurities. Being ‘the smart guy' was just a way to make themselves feel better.”

“You never asked them,” I pointed out. “There’s no way for you to be completely sure.”

“If they could have been the life of the party, they would have. Their smooth transformations confirm it. The only mistake I made is... I misjudged you – I thought you’d be just as easy.”

I stood silently, staring him down. I didn’t like the implication that all the members of my group were some sort of intellectual frauds.

“So,” Mr. Monroe said, tapping a pen on the desk. “The question is... what do we do with you?”

“I suppose transforming me back isn’t a possibility?” I asked.

“Well... it’s possible,” Mr. Monroe admitted. “But it’s unlikely. I want you to join your friends. It’s funner for me when I get a whole group.”

“More fun,” I corrected automatically.

“You really just can’t stop yourself,” Mr. Monroe said with a shake of his head. “You actually see being smart as a good thing, huh?”

“Intelligence is a virtue,” I answered without hesitation.

“I’ll tell you what,” he said. “I believe the opposite. Hell, I know it. You shouldn’t want to be smart. Being smart is dumb. If you can prove me wrong, I’ll transform you back. I’ll even transform your friends back.”

I smiled. That was a challenge I could win. It was obvious. The two ideas were contradictory and therefore they couldn’t be equivalent. Besides, I was a debate champion in my undergrad, and Mr. Monroe didn’t look like he’d be a challenge.

“What do you say Charlie?” he asked, giving me a wide grin. “Let’s talk this out. I know a man like you will present his evidence fairly and make a reasoned argument.”

“I accept,” I said carefully. “Those two ideas are contradictory. They can’t be the same.”

“Good. Now, why isn’t it dumb to be smart?”

I thought for a moment, idly flexing my rounded pecs. Left, then right, then left again. I couldn’t resist the urge to play with my new body that small amount. In time, I suspect it would corrupt me, just like my companions.

But Mister Monroe had given me a way out. All I had to do was make the argument.

“Intelligence is a benefit to our offspring,” I said. “When parents are intelligent, children also tend to be intelligent, and that improves their quality of life.”

“That’s a good thought,” said Mr. Monroe, raising a cautionary finger. “But you’re a gay man. You don’t plan to have biological offspring. Therefore, your intelligence won’t be inherited by the next generation and their quality of life won’t improve. Your argument is invalid for your own smarts – all that should matter to you is your own lifetime. In your case, being smart is dumb.”

I considered his counterpoint. He was right, he had challenged me to prove what it was a virtue for me to be intelligent, not just for the existence of intelligent people in the general case. I was glad there was no score in this game because I’ll admit I flubbed the first round.

“Regardless of if my genes are passed on, intelligence has improved my quality of life,” I pointed out. “Being intelligent has enabled me to graduate from prestigious schools.”

Mr. Monroe gave me another grin.

“Your intelligence drove you to want degrees from those prestigious schools, and now you’re heavily in debt,” he pointed out. “Your quality of life has decreased because of your intelligence. Being smart is dumb."

“But by getting those degrees, I’ve become more employable and will make up that income in the future,” I argued.

“There are less than a dozen places that’d hire you,” Mr. Monroe said. “All of them for a fairly low salary. Meanwhile, your PhD makes you less employable Nobody wants to hire overqualified people. Being smart is dumb.”

I bit my lip again. Looking at it that way, my PhD might not be a net financial gain. But my intelligence was still plenty valuable.

“Being intelligent means that I’ve become more aware of the world. I have causes I care about, and my interest in them helps to improve the world.”

“Wrong again,” said Mr. Monroe. “Posting on Facebook about climate change doesn’t make a difference, it’s just adding more noise. You haven’t improved the world, you’ve just given yourself anxiety.

My anxiety was hard to deny. I could feel it gnawing at me, even now. And he had a point about just adding more noise. Nobody looked at my posts and made different decisions, and certainly nobody who had the power to make legislative or policy changes. Sure, I’d hoped to advise policymakers one day, but I had no practical examples to point to yet.

But I valued my intelligence. There had to be a good argument here somewhere. I started running through them in my mind, desperate to find something airtight, something that would guarantee Mr. Monroe would have to transform us all back.

Was my family better off? No, they didn’t understand what I do, and we do nothing but argue about it at holidays. How about my friends? Truth be told... I wasn’t sure I’d ever cultivated friends. The closest I had was my queer PhD student group, and those guys were all dancing half-naked down the hall – clearly intelligence hadn’t made their lives better.

It was like looking through a prism and seeing my whole world distorted. I had always seen intelligence as improving my life, now all I could see was the way it had isolated me, impoverished me, even driven others away from me.

Intelligence was a virtue. I now nervously realized that was an unproven assumption. I didn’t have any evidence. That was the hole in my argument.

And through that hole, a new life came crashing through.

When I was a kid I learned to play violin. I thought it made me look smarter, but now I realized it made me look nerdy. Shit. My new life swept through me and my violin faded away, replaced by the memory of playing drums, spending hours and hours practicing my rhythm and driving my parents insane. Mom had to wear earplugs while she cooked supper and Dad had banned me from playing after eight.

I became aware of the club music through Monroe’s office door. The steady beat flowing through my body. Out of habit I tapped my finger against my leg.

Monroe smiled, watching me try to come up with a reason... smart couldn’t be dumb, could it? I was smart... wasn’t I?

I remembered applying for college. Receiving a dozen acceptance letters back from the most prestigious schools in the country. I remembered how good it made me feel.

But I never applied to college, did I? My new life surged through my head and I remembered blowing off my college applications. Mom and Dad wanted me to fill them out, but... Wasn’t that the year I got really serious about the gym? Who had time for anything else?

Yeah, I remembered the locker room. The smell of sweat and iron. The victory of breathing through each new rep. The way the guys looked at me when I grunted out my first bench rep with a full plate. The way they admired me when I got to two plates. I remembered flexing in the mirror, whipping off my tank top and showing off my gains on Instagram. Notification after notification. Everyone loved watching my body flex, and I loved to show it off.

I felt it flex and move now, unable to resist the music. It felt natural, just letting the music roll through my body as I arched my back and thrust my hips. I danced in place, trying desperately to remember. Why did I wanna be smart anyway?

I knew there was a reason... there had to be a reason...

The last few years of school blasted out of my head. The last day of high school I stood around with all my jock buddies and swore I’d never read another book. Fuck books – all they did was make me feel dumb. All those smart guys I knew in high school, they all went to college and shit. I went dancing. The last few years had been night after night, club after club... practicing my moves until it was automatic. Being sexy until it was all I knew.

Why would I wanna be smart… I couldn’t think of a single reason.  I didn’t know why I ever tried to fight it.  Monroe was totally right.

“Shit...” I said out loud. My voice was deep and sexy. It turned me on just hearing it.

“Yes?” Monroe grinned.

“It’s like...” I said. Fuck, it was hard to think. I musta done shots. Gotta be careful. Gotta take care of my abs if I wanna stay sexy.

“Being smart is dumb,” Monroe suggested. “Being dumb is funner.”

“You got that right bro,” I grinned. “Dumb is waaaay funner. All those nerds don’t know how good it feels to just like... move your body to the music.”

I couldn’t help myself. Monroe was like... legit right. Fuck being smart. I needed to shake my ass and hang with my friends. I barely noticed Monroe there anymore, I was staring down at my fuckin’ muscle tits. Dude, I looked so pumped and sweaty... fuck I’m a good dancer. I grooved to the faint music, repeating a move I’d practiced for my TikTok.

“You must be wondering why I asked you in here?” Monroe said, waving his hand to grab my attention.

“Huh?” I said. I wasn’t, but I didn’t wonder much of anything. I knew how to dance. I knew how to fuck. Both in one night was heaven.

“You’re a good dancer Charlie,” Monroe said.

I gave him a big grin and gave a big high kick, showing off my flexibility and balance. Fuck I loved my body. It felt so good to move.

“I want you to be a dancer, here at the club,” Monroe offered. “You could get paid here. Why don’t you think about it?”

“I uh...” I said. He wanted me to like... work here? Fuck, I loved getting paid. “Yeah bro, I want that.”

“Excellent. You’ll start tomorrow. For now though, your friends are waiting for you outside.”

“Thanks bro,” I grinned. “Yeah, I gotta go.”

My boys were already tearing it up on the dance floor. It was like... criminal to stay clear. Vinny and Q-Ball both had dark hair, so they needed my blond locks to add some variety. My cock was rock hard, just picturing my bros and me, four party studs going wild. Everybody staring at our rock hard bodies... wanting to fuck us... wanting to be us...

I was stoked about the new gig, but right now... I had to lose my shirt and lose myself in the music.

Tonight bro... tonight I just wanted to DANCE!