American Insomniac (short story)

I have not slept in three and a half weeks.

That’s 25 days and 25 nights. 600 hours, almost.

Maybe it’s been longer than that.

I don’t know.

What I do know is I am well past the current world record. No need to congratulate me. I am approaching the upper limit of sleeplessness the human mind can handle before it expires.

Expires, as in: dies.

I’ve got just under an hour til the lights flicker off one by one, frontal lobe to brain stem.

59 minutes.

Which gives you and I just enough time. Everything I’m about to tell you is true. I am going to tell you things I’ve never shared with anyone. I have nothing to lose.

The first step to recovery is honesty. I read that in a self help book. You have to start by telling the truth. You have to accept something is wrong with you. That you can’t figure it out all by yourself. If you want me to say it, I’ll say it.

I need help.

I am beginning to hallucinate shadowy figures creeping in from the corners of my vision and they’re not making very nice faces at me. I’m sick to my stomach with dread that I deserve what’s coming for me. I’ve done things I’m not proud of.

Let’s start with the Facts.

That which can be: Measured, Observed, Proven.

Fact. I am a twenty seven year old American male living in a country far, far away.

I used to be an accountant. Now I’m something else.

I stand five foot seven inches tall and weigh one hundred fifty five on a good day. Pounds.

I am only a little insecure about my height.

Did you know over fifty percent of men in the Western world lie about their height?

I never do. That’s one line I won’t cross.

Fact. I have not slept a wink since the last US major holiday.

At first, I thought it was too much caffeine. Or not enough exercise. Something simple, straightforward, easy to fix. So I cut out the coffee. Picked up jogging. I tried herbal remedies, over the counter medication, under the counter medication, a taser.

I can now tell you with confidence my problem is not in any way simple, straightforward, or easy to fix. Please do not offer suggestions. I’ve tried it all.

I’ve tried the mantras, the yoga, the glass of warm milk before bed.

I know too well all the rhythmic breathing exercises that have ever been invented.

Box breathing. Nadi Shodhana. In. Out. In. Out.

I’m an expert in visualizing and then counting one by one an endless series of ovine shapes, always white, cloud-like things that go Bah.

I’ve authored countless little high-pitched aphorisms you whisper to yourself in the dark to ward off the dread of what yet another night of no sleep will do to you.

The first night you say to yourself: It's fine. It’s just one night. It happens to everyone from time to time. You say to yourself: Sure, you might be a little tired during the day, but hey! You’ll sleep like a baby because of it!

But then you fail to fall asleep for the second night.

And a small, dark voice in your mind begins to entertain the possibility that maybe something is really wrong with you. Like maybe you have some hidden problem, lying in wait, something way deeper and more malignant than you could ever imagine.

It’s on the third night you think to yourself: Surely at some point my body will just knock me out, right? Animal instinct will kick in and I’ll just pass out. Basic survival function, right?

But when, nope, that doesn’t happen, and you instead plod through another day of debilitating, soul level exhaustion paired evenly with red alert, panicked, cold sweat, wide eyed vigilance, and at this point are petrified of even the thought of attempting to lay down to pretend to sleep, when on that third night you lay there once again, it’s then you begin to wonder how long this might go on before you die. Before you blip out of existence.

A halogen light bulb pushed to its limit.

The answer, in our case: about 54 minutes.

So, you start taking all number of sleep medications in, frankly, irresponsible doses.

You take Temazepam and Trazodone and Zolpidem and several popular brands of melatonin gummies.

The hours of every night begin to follow a pattern.

You lay down. Close your eyes. Breathe. Try to ignore the ticking of the digital clock. Roll left. Roll right. Lay on your belly. Lay on your back. Sit up. Get up. Turn the lamp on. Read. Turn the lamp off. Close your eyes. Count sheep. Count cows. Count whatever you want. Turn on the radio. Turn off the radio. Turn on the white noise machine. Turn on the brown noise machine. Masturbate. Get up. Take a hot shower. Drink a warm glass of milk. Lay down. Get up. Take a cold shower. Drink a glass of cold milk. Masturbate. Read. Lay down on the couch. Lay down on the floor. Bang your head against the wall and then the headboard and then your desk and then the floor itself. Masturbate. This time, leave the tie around your neck when you’re done and get back in bed and pull on it as hard as you can to try and deprive your brain of oxygen so you can maybe then drift into a hazy, suffocated slumber. None of it works.

As every true insomniac knows, the harder you try, the worse it gets. Which of course leads you to the bizarre act of trying to not try to fall asleep.

Taoists call this process: Wu Wei.

Americans call this process: Impossible.

But one way or the other, you must stop trying. You must learn to surrender.

I suppose that’s why I’m here.

I’m surrendering up control to a higher power. Don’t let that get to your head.

Fact. When I first arrived in this city with nothing but the clothes on my back, I had nowhere to stay. No plan. I figured I’d figure it out along the way.

Lucky for me, I happened upon a young woman who happened to live alone.

She had a lovely little studio apartment all to herself in the center of town and I happened to move in just as she happened to be moving out. The whole thing worked out.

The young woman who used to live in my apartment had a flair for interior design. She’d managed to turn this small, dingy hole of a place into something totally livable and nice.

I’ve kept it just the way she had it. Haven’t replaced a single piece of furniture, wall hanging, ceramic bowl, or potted plant. I haven’t changed the overhead light bulb. It could go out any moment now. The yogurt lid from the day she left this place is still in the trash.

After she left this place, people came by looking for her. They’d knock at the door, ask me, Do I know where she’s gone. They hadn’t heard from her.

I told them things like, I wish I could tell them.

Friends, coworkers, one time lovers, they all came by to check on the young woman.

Did I happen to know where she might have disappeared off to.

I wish I could say, I’d say. Then I’d shrug, like this. Then I’d close the door.

Visits like these dwindled as the months wore on. Now, no one comes at all.

Fact. I don’t have many friends.

Correction. I don’t have any friends.

That’s the honest truth. I keep to myself. Nothing’s wrong with me. Nothing’s wrong with me. Nothing’s wrong with me. I’m just the kind of guy who can survive on his own.

The young woman who used to live in my apartment had these bright green eyes that seemed to me distinctly feline. They lit up when she spoke. Her eyes. When she opened the door, she smiled wide, like really wide, like she was just thrilled to see you, even if you had only met once before, the day prior, at a cafe, in passing, and only briefly at that. She had a rare good nature about her, this young woman. I got the sense from talking to her she was the type of person who would go out of her way to help other human beings. Type of person to notice a cat trapped up in a tree and stop what she was doing to fetch a ladder. Or rush unfazed into a burning building to retrieve a child that wasn’t even her own.

Her name was Harriett, I remember.

Or Ellen.

We’ve spoken only once since she left this place.

I’ve made mistakes. I wish I could forget them. I can’t. They follow me.

And you might say, Well, hey there, don’t beat yourself up, everyone’s made mistakes. No biggie. Have you considered cutting yourself some slack.

But you don’t understand.

These mistakes lie well outside the realm of normal or reasonable or “no biggie.”

I am a liar. That’s my diagnosis. There. I just did your job. How much do I owe you.

Fact. I’ve lied to everyone I’ve ever met.

It’s not that I can’t help it. I can help it. I choose not to.

I lie about inane, stupid, meaningless things. I have this thing where I introduce myself with a fake name. Every time. I don't know why I do it.

Hi, My name is Devin/Carter/Jeremy/Phil.

In the moment of first impression, you can be anyone you want.

Most people don’t lie about things like this. Most people don’t lie about anything. They’ll say they don’t believe in lying. They’ll say they tell the truth because lying is wrong. But that in itself is a lie. The truth is: they’re afraid. Of bending reality to their will.

They can’t stomach it. That’s why they give themselves away. They scratch their face when they lie. Scratch their nose. Avoid eye contact. Shift their stance left to right, back and forth like they have to piss, bad. They stutter.

I don’t do any of that.

I say what needs to be said in a low voice, without breaking my gaze, and people buy it. Every time. I’m not trying to brag. I’m just giving you the Facts.

Fact. I remember every lie I’ve ever told.

That’s the only way to get away with it. You have to remember everything.

When you lie, you enter into a cosmic deal with the universe. A binding agreement between you and all the powers that be. Sure, you can bend reality to your will, no problem. But you have to keep track of the details. Who else is going to do it? Not God. No.

You won’t find him here.

Like all good things in life, you have to do it yourself.

Fact. Every night, lying in bed, sleepless, instead of counting sheep, I play a little mental VHS tape of every lie I’ve ever told. Starting from the early days.

Mom, I don’t know what happened to the birthday cake, really. When I got here it was already missing a chunk.

I did let the cat out on schedule, Mrs. Atkins, I did. And rest assured, the gate was closed and locked. So no, I don’t know where the poor thing is. Really.

I love you. I really love you. Hey, look at me. Do you hear me. I haven’t felt this way about anyone before, maybe ever.

Are you 100% certain you closed the back gate? Because I’m certain I did. And I don’t mean to make you doubt yourself here, but consider that even the smallest margin of error on your part would have been enough for the poor thing to get out. No, I did not see where it went. I have no idea.

Did I plagiarize my paper along with seven of my friends’ papers for money? No. Why would I do something like that? And what proof do you have?

Baby, I’m not pretending. I know it’s not always easy to get through to me. But I’m telling you the whole truth. Nothing but. Look in my eyes. You can see, right? Take my hands. Come here.

Yes Mom, I’m definitely going to be using the funds for college. But I want to make the payment myself. As a gesture of personal financial responsibility. So would you mind just wiring the full amount over to my personal checking? Thanks. Love you.

I’m not going to leave you, baby. I’m with you for the long haul.

Mrs. Atkins. I really am sorry about your cat. And the state you found her in. It’s a horrible thing that’s happened. It hurts me to see you hurt like this. Which is why I’m offering the next three months of my baby plus cat sitting services for 10% off. No need to thank me. It’s my pleasure.

My name’s Carter/Aaron/Alan/Rick. It’s a pleasure to meet you.

I love you.

I realized early in life that lying was maybe the only thing I was really good at.

The only downside, of course, is the fear of being discovered.

You start to feel as if you’ve cheated the universe. Stuck the powers that be with the short end of a shitty deal and accrued for yourself something like a high-interest cosmic debt of, like, galactic proportions, and it’s only a matter of time before your credit defaults and the universe sends its collection agency (in the form of Karma or Fate) to break your legs or kneecaps or in some oblique way punish you for trying to pull a fast one over the very fabric of reality. And it could be any second that you hear a sudden knock at the door or a piercing ring on the telephone and, Oh, look who it is, it’s Karma/Fate here to pull the rug out from under you and bring that leaning tower of make-believe crashing down upon on your dishonest head, suffocating you in its rubble. Any second now.

But hey. All that aside. Don’t let anyone tell you it’s not profitable.

Here’s another fact. Lying is the single most valuable skill on this planet earth. Our whole civilization is built on it. We don’t call it lying, of course. We have other names for it.

Positioning. Storytelling. Spin control. Mass media marketing.

Want to make a shit ton of money? Learn to lie. Lawyers, politicians, corporate consultants. They know this better than anyone. Because when the real world is made up of information... when the very thing we call “reality” is nothing but pixels and data centers and zeroes and ones... when the “truth” becomes only that which can be influenced, bought, and sold… the liars, or sorry, the marketers, are the only ones who tell the “truth.”

Truth is not something you can touch or feel or see. It contains no calories.

Truth is what you can get people to pay for.

Anyway. What was your question. What do I do for work.

I guess you could say I’m a salesman. That sounds right. A man who sells. I talk to people on the phone and get them to invest in my product and/or services.

Perfectly legitimate vocation. One of the oldest jobs in the book.

Fact. Jesus Christ himself was a salesman.

The young woman who used to live in my apartment left behind a black leather address book on the coffee table when she left this place. Every page was full of names, numbers, and addresses of people she used to know. One hundred fifty friends, family members, distant relatives, long-ago schoolmates.

I used the computer in the young woman’s office to find out as much as I could about each name in the book before reaching out to them directly on the rotary phone.

Every good salesman does his research.

Today I’m calling the young woman’s old employer, a florist from the small, middle of nowhere Midwest town she came from.

The trick is to call someone who’s not close enough to know the young woman’s parents. Someone who hardly even remembers the young woman herself.

The florist picks up the phone, says Who is this.

I ask her if she remembers the young woman. I mention the young woman by name. Ellen is her name, it turns out. I was right. The florist says No, she hasn’t heard from Ellen in years, she says.

I tell her I wanted to reach out and introduce myself. I tell her I’m Ellen’s fiancee, and that We’re planning our wedding, actually.

Florist asks if she can talk to her. It’s been so long.

I tell her She’s out running errands right now but I’ll have her call you back as soon as she gets home, and that We’re overjoyed to invite you to our wedding. It’s at Niagara Falls this June and we’d love for you to join us. No pressure either way, just please RSVP by April 31st.

You tell her The Save-the-Date is already in the mail. That the young woman who used to live in my apartment sent it over just yesterday, But I couldn’t resist calling everyone on the list to break the exciting news.

Recall: there’s over one hundred fifty names in this black leather book, and on a good day I’ll get through about ten of them. So far today I’ve talked to the florist, the young woman’s old high school math teacher, and one of her old childhood friend’s Mom, Aunt, and Father.

The young woman gathered so many names and numbers in these pages. She must have been quite the people person.

You share a few intimate details about the young woman with the florist. Cheeky, gossipy things to make the conversation feel real. Things like: how she’s become so frazzled with all the wedding planning. How you find it adorable. How we just endured our first serious lover’s spat over where to host the wedding and how the both of us had to learn to compromise. But now, on the other side of the horrid conflict, our love bond has grown somehow even deeper.

Saying things like this makes the florist more inclined to believe you when you get to the important part: Well, it’s been so lovely getting to know you, Miss [insert whatever the old bat’s name is, refer to the address book if you’ve forgotten] And I can’t wait to meet you face to face in Niagara! Oh, and one more thing.

Shift your tone of voice. Like so.

Ellen begged me not to mention this and I really wasn’t going to. But… our cat Delilah was struck by a fruit truck, if you can believe that, and her back half is totally paralyzed. In lieu of any wedding gifts, we’re just asking folks for donations to her recovery. And I really do hate to ask. I do. But her treatment is scheduled for next week.

The florist will say, Oh no, I’m so sorry to hear that.

You’ll say, The poor thing can’t move at all. We’ve been pushing her around in a low-friction laundry basket. It’s just awful. If we don’t get her the operation she needs, she’ll be... oh god...

Leave a pause here for dramatic emphasis.

But, you know, there is some hope. If we can just cover the down payment for the treatment, we can save her life. We have to get it in by tomorrow.

Mention once more how much the young woman loves the cat and how sorry you are for bothering the florist about money because really this is not at all how you were raised, not at all how you like doing things, and if anything, Don’t even worry about the money, please just come to the wedding.

That’s what matters most.

But they’ll all say Yes.

The florist, the old schoolteacher, the long-ago friends, all of them will say, No, Please, I’d be happy to help, and then you have to almost deny them the pleasure of helping out financially, because you’re so “embarrassed” about having to ask in the first place, until they’re the ones demanding you let them transfer over anything from 1 to 4 thousand dollars as a lump sum amount to save poor little Delilah’s dear little life.

And when they finally get you to let them send the money for the paralyzed cat, you send them an encrypted private payment link over email. You never explicitly tell them to pay you over the phone. You just stay on the line. You make small talk about logistical details of the wedding, as if you forgot you were just talking about poor little Delilah, and you go on and on like this until the florist or whoever sends the payment just to get off the line with you, and you’ll say Thank you so much for saving little Delilah’s life and she’ll say, You’re welcome, and you’ll both hang up at the same time.

I make about ten of these calls a day. I’m aware that one day I will run out of names in the book. But as every salesman knows, you’ve got to get while the getting’s good.

And plus there’s always Eloise. Eloise is the young woman’s maternal grandmother.

She lives in Fort Lauderdale, Florida and has stage four dementia and clearly not enough trusted family members checking in on her.

If she had trusted family members checking in on her, they’d come to to find she’s been sending off her retirement savings account in three thousand dollar increments every Tuesday for the last two months, when she (every Tuesday,) gets a call from her dear granddaughter’s new fiancee introducing himself in a bright chipper voice and inviting Grandma Eloise to their upcoming wedding, always and forever to be held at Niagara Falls.

She’s always so happy when she hears the news. Nothing less than geriatric ecstasy, each and every time. Which, at this point, is there an argument to be made that maybe I’m doing her a real service by giving her a ring every Tuesday? I mean, who else is making her smile on a regular basis? Certainly not Trina, her dialysis nurse. Who else offers her even one small dose of human connection in her otherwise dull and rapidly dimming interior life? Who else calls and checks in on her and says her name back to her once a week, every week, without fail? I talk to her more frequently, probably, than her own son.

Or the young woman who used to live in my apartment. Certainly.

Does that not warrant at least some kind of financial reward?

And you might say, Well hey, all this sounds fine and good, but like, how do you sleep at night?

And to that I say, very funny.

But you don’t know what its like. To go almost a month with no sleep. How could you.

You don’t know what it’s like to spend a full three hours staring at the same faint crack in the ceiling, begging God above for the love of God to conk you out. And to know, in your heart of hearts, he’s not listening. You don’t know what it’s like to sit up and stand up and put the same day’s clothes back on your unwashed body in the darkness of early morning.

To take monumental care not to glance at the digital clock on the night stand or the microwave oven on your way out of the apartment. To drift down the empty streets of an empty city, peering into lit and unlit windows, unsure what you’re looking for.

To feel the distinct churning in your guts, that vague hunch that someone or something is always right behind your back, as if sleep itself follows you now, taunting. But when you glance behind you again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again it is always only open air behind you.

It’s on one of these night walks where I first see her.

The young woman who works in the bread shop.

She’s closing for the night. Or no. It’s early in the morning now. She must be opening the place. I see her unlock the door and I think about saying Hello, but I don’t.

The young woman who works in the bread shop is there four days a week. She’s got a warm smile when she greets her regulars. She walks along the water alone after work, sometimes whistling. She lives across town in a brick building. On the third floor. There’s a lamp that casts a yellow glow out her window. Just one pinprick of light in a city asleep. She’s the kind of person who has cats, probably. I haven’t seen them. Just a feeling. She’s not the type of person who would talk to me. Not me. Never me.

But maybe she’d talk to Jeremy Winthrop.

Jeremy Winthrop practices what he says in the mirror before he says it. He’s one of my favorites. I haven’t taken him out for a spin in some time. He’s the kind of guy who would talk to a young woman like her.

The young woman who works in the bread shop has a habit of going to one particular bar after work. A local spot on the water. That’s where I go up to her. I’m not the type of guy who’s capable of approaching a woman in a bar, but today I am Mr. Jeremy Winthrop, who is.

I say hello. I buy her a drink. I ask her questions about herself and probe for a niche interest, like the Roman Empire or endangered animal protection or speed cubing and Wow, would you look at that, I happen to be interested in exactly the same thing. What are the odds of that. I invite her to come back to mine. She smiles, nods. She’s way more receptive to the notion than I might have guessed. Looks like Jeremy Winthrop’s still got it.

And then we’re in the apartment, some time later, and she won’t look me in the eye. She doesn’t comment even once on the interior design. She goes out of her way to offer to make drinks for us, even though I’ve just offered to make drinks for us. She goes into the bathroom.

I put my hands in my pockets and take my hands out of my pockets. I stand up and sit back down. She closes the door to the bathroom and turns the overhead fan on. I take the opportunity to go through her handbag that she’s left on the coffee table. In her bag I find a collection of small knives, zip ties, an opaque plastic bottle full of gasoline, a pantyhose mask.

Then the door opens and she comes back into the room with drinks. I scramble back to my spot on the sofa. She offers me the drink in her left hand. She initiates a toast and we both take a sip. It’s just a little too bitter. I know what’s going on. I can see everything. I drink my drink.

It takes thirty seconds for my eyelids to start fluttering.

She whispers to me, Don’t go to sleep yet. Stay with me a little longer.

I ask her what she’s put in the drinks. I ask her if she’s here on behalf of the universe, as in, like, is this my cosmic debt finally defaulting.

Are you the collector, I ask. Here to punish me for my crimes against reality.

She just smiles at this. Does she think I’m cute? Hard to say.

I can’t think straight. For the first time in a long time, my head and eyelids grow heavy. They blink and then drop. When I open them again I’m restrained at the waist and ankles by black elastic tension cords. The young woman is in front of me. She makes it clear to me in one terse sentence that I am to confess.

If I confess, I’ll be set free.

But I have to be honest. I have to tell her everything. Things I’ve never shared with anyone.

I tell her I’ve never done this, I’m no good at this, I don’t have much time.

The young woman who used to live in my apartment sits down in the apartment and waits for me to speak. She looks the same as she did. I’ve kept the place exactly as she had it.

I open my mouth to speak as the light blinks out.