A(lone) Sleep

Excerpt:

Sleep purgatory can feel like hell when you have been working overtime all week at a job you hate. Andrew knew this fact all too and he knew that he was too young to have such an unyielding understanding. Twenty-seven and he was no longer able to tell when his night’s sleep began and ended. Going to bed, physically climbing into a bed in his New York City apartment happened each night. As far as he could tell. Blankets on body, warmth trapped inside away from the December that leaks into the windows, despite lodging a weekly complaint to his for the past seven weeks. At this rate, it would take another few weeks to get a positive response with the project completed by mid-summer. His head positioned sideways on one pillow, resting with the entire weight of the day pushing against the down filled sack. Two pillows gave him a neck ache, but one was like sleeping downhill. He needed the sensation of blood flowing out of the brain and through the rest of the body, not the heart laboring to give the top all the red riches. Because of this ritual he knew that he was in a position to do what he once had known as sleep. By now, as he lay in a semi-awake haze that resembles both a hangover from too many rum and cokes and the euphoric feeling from childhood spins and ensuing falls, he has assumed that he will remain awake until his 6:13AM alarm would go off. He looks at the clock. 1 2:24AM in a blinding red pegged digital fashion.
For a while, he attempted to will sleep in the energy spending full effort want for sleep. Every possible action was attempted and assessed at work. Modifications were made the next day followed by an in office reassessment. The scientific method, he thought, was actually useful in everyday life. This assault on sleep known as his ‘college years.’ On nights when he could get a hold of some sort of medication or alcohol, he would abuse either or both with the hope that the depressive elements of the substances would cause him whatever prevented him from sleeping to relent. Waking up the morning after, his mouth full of chalk and a flavor that is incomparable to anything else, he neither regretted nor rejoiced in his decision. It was as if the beer stayed in his mouth over night and slowly curdled inside of his cheeks. Saliva would break down the grain elements, separating them from the yeast. Former would dissolve and latter grow in the damp environment. Then moths would settle into the crusted cheeks and dissolve in the acidic rising yeast to become a solid paste more gum-sticking than peanut butter. He would have to brush his teeth, mouthwash, rinse with water, and brush again. All just to have the neutral taste of blandness in his mouth. Nights he did not have a sleeping aid were spent counting sheep. He started at one for the first few months, but then found it fun to continue from night to night. Occasionally, a dog would make its way across the fence to make sure that Andrew was paying attention to his counting. When he graduated, his single night record was 2,195 and the total was up to 1,321,545; putting his average at just shy of 1,000 a night.
After graduation, he gave up on the sheep. He disclosed how many sheep he had counted to a girl he was casually telling off at a Jersey City bar. She was not particularly attractive in any specific way. Rather plain, dressed in heels to make her short legs, what she considered to be her major physical flaw, look long and sleek when wearing tight pants that accentuate her ass. Andrew saw the heals and knew that she was like every other NYC area twenty something girl that dresses in her best clothes to go out to try to meet the man of her dreams and ends up taking some random guy back to her apartment to have casual meaningless sex. Each time convinced that the new man genuinely likes her for her looks and maybe even her personality. Giving herself up because it is what everyone else does and is what is expected of her. Generally conversations that she has do not do anything but fill the time before leaving. She has a routine where she will go to the bar, order herself a drink, and curse as she pretends to look through her purse for money she ‘lost.’ An over eager guy will always take the initiative to pick up the drink and at least the next few. More often than not, this is the person whose bed she will sleep in that night.
The night after graduating from college, there is no need to mention where Andrew went for he does not even like to tell co-workers where he did his undergraduate studies, he went to the first bar he could find in Jersey City. Jersey City is still on the rise, if you live there, and Andrew liked to duck into random bars to find a little sleeping aid. He would always take up a seat at the bar. If he was lucky enough to be there early, he could find a corner seat where he could have the attention of the bartender at the busiest time. Tipping was key to this strategy. The first tip always had to be generous, but not an amount that may seem like it is to make a pass at whomever was tending that bar. The corner also afforded him the best view of the bars patronage. He could see who was entering the door. Andrew hated to run into co-workers at the bar. He hated his job enough that the last thing he wanted was any sort of reminder that he worked for CITI.
He despised those interactions second to former schoolmate run-ins. He hated seeing people that he barely knew five years ago or some ten years ago, who pretend as if they were his best friend. They give a big hello. The one with the inflection on the first ‘l,’ to show surprise and excitement. Both were constructed emotions that were as fake as the hug the followed. Then came the overly enthusiastic,
“How are you? How have you been? What have you been up to? It has been so long. It is sure great to see you.”
Of course you must respond in kind a pretend as if you are happy to see the person. Since you will probably not run into each other for another five years, it is best to just suck it up and put on a good face. Most people were fine by Andrew’s standards, but he resented fakeness.
He learned that at the corner of the bar he could see anyone who might know him and then turn to angle away so that he or she will not notice him at the bar. Generally this worked and was well worth the risk-reward. Although, when caught he was stuck. It is hard to get up and leave when sitting alone having a drink at the corner of a bar. People recognize that he is alone and assume that he needs company or ‘somebody to talk to.’ That happened infrequently enough that Andrew would make sure to secure a corner seat.
This time he was not intending to go to a bar, but knew that a few drinks would ensure a few hours of sleep. He convinced himself that he would go in and order two Long Island Iced Teas. A quick strong drink that slaps you across the face 30 minutes after the completion of the second drink. A third would leave him with better sleep but the window to get home becomes far too short. It would have to be finished within five minutes of the second and the walk home would have to be at a brisk pace. He could order both at once, drink in twenty minutes, and be home in less than an hour after entering the bar. Since he was later than usual, he had to jockey for a bar seat. Andrew would not have his drinks standing. Time was willingly sacrificed to drink seated. He knew it to be a silly habit; most people do not sit at bars in Jersey City. Childhood can be partial to blame. It was one of those etiquette rules that would bother his mother most. Eating and drinking was to be done in a seated position, and as all children eventually learn, it is best to listen to mother than to deal with her nagging. Eventually, enough obeying will lead to habit. Like counting sheep before sleep starting at the previous nights ending number, Andrew Wills was unwilling to break his customary bar procedure.
After waiting, more like hovering or vulturing, for 7 minutes, he kept the time, Andrew sat. Hovering or vulturing, as he liked to call it, consists of finding a single person who has no business sitting at the bar and standing directly behind him or her. It was important to have a slight lean that would not bring attention to the bartender, he cannot have a drink until seated, but enough to give the patron the anxious feeling of space being needlessly invaded. People have no problem packing it in on the dance floor, but stand too close to them at the bar and they will impolitely leave.
Seated and with drinks ordered, Andrew began his customary scan of the establishment. He kept a mental inventory of the different bars he had been to so that he could know where to go on a given night. There was a dive bar that was a favorite for Tuesday nights. The drink special was PBR. A few of those down the hatch in succession can induce sleep the moment head touches pillow cover. The hangover is second worst to anything by Natural, but it is the best sleep aid. Sadly, PBR is not readily available and buying a case for himself has never seemed practical. The ritual of going to the bars had become a superstition of sorts. Hence the whole sitting down to have the drink. He figured out a system for each bar and type of drink, there was no way that he was going to change his system.
Just as the drinks were being mixed, the mildly attractive junior seductress put in her order with the second bartender. The second bartender was new. Andrew spotted it the moment he entered. You can always tell inexperience by the way that the bartender moves about his or her bar. The veterans move with an ease that resembles ballet. Each step well prepared and no thought of what is around. Another passes and does nothing to disrupt the dance. New bartenders are klutzy. They bumble about checking where the liquor is stored and forget what beer is on tap or the drink specials. There is too much thought in pouring a simple rum and coke, counting under the breath or ducking downwards to assure that it is mixing and the right proportions. Andrew did not even need to watch for long. Like a football scout checking out the latest stud quarterback from a Texas high school, Andrew needed only a few moments to gather what was going on. Time would reveal some smaller imperfections, but just looking at posture can give away how experienced he or she is.
The girl began to search for the money in her purse as Andrew began to have his pre-drinking anxiety. It came no matter what he did. It was the only moment, when at a bar, that Andrew was susceptible to conversation. As it happens, the girl looked over with her eyes big and brown and did her best Katherine Hepburn, eye batting for help. Andrew obliged without thinking about the consequences. The grip of the feeling had grown to a full uncontrollable boil within his gut. He could already taste the morning and feel the hangover. He quickly paid for her drink with the inability to comprehend what was taking place. She opened conversation with a coy,
“What brings you here tonight? My name is ------- by the way”
“I came to have a drink.”
“Oh, so you came to meet your friends.”
“No, just two drinks and then home to bed.”
Andrew was growing restless as the bartender was pouring other drinks. His two Long Island Iced Teas sat there ready. The bartender was pouring two Miller Lights, getting foam all over the bar because he was not paying attention. He wanted to be home by 11:30. It was five minutes to eleven and he still had to drink his two drinks and walk fifteen minutes to his apartment.
“Well why don’t you stay here with me. I can keep you company.”
“Look,” often anxiety will also lead Andrew to become curt and far too honest, “I am here to have my two drinks. The strongest possible because I want to go to sleep. If I do not have these drinks that I will have to go home and begin with sheep number 1,321,545. I am sick of counting fucking sheep and I just want to go to sleep. Enjoy your drink. You’re welcome.”
The swift rejection was so casual that she hesitated thinking that he was joking. Even the way he said ‘fucking sheep’ was so forced that it could not have been honest. His voice was rushed and higher pitched that it was before. When she looked at him, hoping to find a smile, she just saw a slumped over the bar kid. Rather accustomed to rejection, she usually went on her way to another place without saying anything. This time she felt like she had to have the last word. Too many times had random men spoken poorly to her for no reason at all and she picked up and left without a sound.
“I think you walked into the wrong building tonight. Alcoholics Anonymous is not going to be held here tonight. You can also check out Farm Animal Lovers Anonymous on Sunday nights at the Baptist Church. Who the hell counts over one million sheep? Fuck you very much!”
Andrew was not at all interested in the girl. She was not his type. Too short for his taste. Too much make up and particularly eye liner. He did not care that she cursed him off and was unaffected by her comment until the next night. He did not want to spend money at the bar, especially on a crowded Saturday night. So, he was left with his sheep for sleep. When he began to count all he could imagine was the FALA meeting on Sundays at the Baptist Church. He attempted to banish the thought and then the girl came in to invade his thought dreams.
That is why, as he lays semi-awake, Andrew can no longer use sheep to help fall asleep. He tried sporadically for three years, but even five years since the interaction he cannot count sheep to fall asleep. He knows that he made it over one million, but does not remember his count. Now, it is not even she that bothers him. It is the fact that he cannot continue his count. Each time he thinks he remembers he stops himself because he cannot really know where he left off.
He is pretty sure that he was sleeping at some point. There must have been a dream stuck in the middle. Cause there is no way that it is 3AM and he has been awake since climbing into bed 5 hours ago. He made a dramatic shift in his position from pseudo-fetal on his left side with the right leg fully extended, left curled under, right hand under pillow, and left arm perpendicular to the bed hanging off the edge. To laying flat on his back with both hands behind his head in the same way that you see a person reclining on a commercial for Continental Airlines sleeping seats. For some reason this is the most relaxed position according to the television. Kick back, put up the legs, lean backwards and place hands behind the head to make a pillow but look as if you are about to start off a set of ab crunches. This position was Andrew’s least favorite, but he thought that by staying in an awkward position for a few minutes, the welcomed change will induce a slide into slumber.
Lack of sleep brings about a fascination with sleep itself. Working becomes that thing that fills up time between attempted sleeping sessions. Really work was closer to sleep that sleep itself. He would imagine all the ways that he could fall asleep. Some more mundane than others. Daydreams of arriving home so exhausted that sleep resembles something more like a coma. Rip Van Winkle sleep if you will. Others were more involved and entirely improbable. One involved literally sliding into sleep. He would start at the top of a great yellow slide.
Of course, every slide has to be yellow after the great slide collusion of 1947. Schools are not complete without a slide and one that is not yellow is not up to standard. The color of the yellow has to be just right. French’s Mustard yellow is too bright, Gulden’s too brown. It has to look like it was once a brilliant yellow. That was such a great rival to the brightness of the sun that the sun decided to shine all of its UV rays upon the plastic to wear the yellow down to a muted white-yellow. Being a vain sun, it cannot entirely ruin the color of yellow and give everyone a bad impression of its own color.
The slide was so tall that it took the entire day to climb. At the top, he is so tired and ready to go home that he flops down the slide with his body stretched along the plastic warmed by the friction of the person in front of him. His head rests upon the slide and bumps along each of the sections while picking up speed with each foot closer to the bottom. It started as a corkscrew to maintain speed but ended with a steep drop. As speed would pick up the weight of the pushing wind presses his lids down upon eyes sick of all that is related to the color yellow. He is so sick of it that he can taste the creaminess of the color in his throat any time it entered his field of sight. It is as if sleep is forcing itself upon him and he is a willing victim. The dream ends with a crash. Usually it is not him making it to the end, but someone slamming on a stapler or the copier clicking because it wants more paper. For Andrew Wills, the work day starts when he gets home. There are no smoking breaks from the labor of sleep.