Sleep and I have always had a love-hate relationship. I love it, but it
resists me every single night. I was an adult before I learned that
normal people fall asleep within twenty minutes. When my health teacher
told us that, I wanted to punch him in the face, and knock him out. Then I
wanted him to wake up, and punch me in the face so I would know what it
feels like to not lie awake in bed for literally two hours. Over the years,
I’ve tried some things to alleviate the problem: meditation, melatonin,
stronger pills that put me, and the morning drivers around me, at terrible
risk. Some of it has helped a little, but nothing has helped a lot. I would
get six hours on a really good night, and I was proud of myself for anything
over five. Now that I’m older, I’ve decided to prioritize my time better.
Instead of staying up late, and waking up just before it’s time to go to
work, I figured I may as well go to bed early, and have more me-time in the
mornings. If it’s early enough, it’s still dark, so there’s no glare on my
TV. That’s what’s really helped, waking up before sun, instead of fighting
for every ounce of rest in those precious final moments. Now I lie awake for
an hour, but since I give myself more time overall, I end up with seven
hours, and it probably doesn’t get any better than that. I even try to avoid
this thing called social jetlag, which means sleeping different hours on
certain nights, which for most is due to not having to work on the weekends.
Last night was different. It was a Friday, and I was in the middle of a good
TV binge, so I decided it would be okay to go to bed at 23:00. That’s 11:00
PM for you people who can’t count past 12. It turned out to be a bad
idea...for a bizarre reason. Had I gone to sleep at my new normal time, I
wouldn’t have been awake to hear the man outside my window.
At first, I think it must be an innocuous noise. The purr of my
refrigerator, the buzz of the street lights, the revving of a distant car.
It isn’t so distant, and it isn’t so innocuous. It sounds like someone
mimicking the sound of a motor with their mouth, and it only gets worse when
he starts talking. “Flying fish,” he says, “flying fish”. Over and over and
over again, “flying fish. Yeah, baby, flying fish.” Fuck, what does he want
with me? I’m about to die, I’m about to die. What do I do? Don’t turn on the
lights, then he’ll see that you’re here. Look out the window. No, not that
one, it’s too close. I can’t see anything. What about the window in the
study? Still nothing. Can you still hear him? “Flying fish.” Call mom,
she’ll know what to do. No, bring the dog in first, and put her in her
cage. Then call mom. Shit, it’s late, they go to bed earlier than I
do. Call 911, she says, that’s what it’s there for. Yes, it qualifies an
emergency, call them now. Dispatch doesn’t understand my problem fully, but
she dispatches a fleet anyway. Firetruck first on the scene. I look back out
the window in the study. The firefighter is bent at the hip, hand on the
shoulder of a man. He’s sitting in the street, up against the curb. He’s
wobbly, and incoherent. He must be drunk. She’s being gentle and patient
with him. Ambulance, police cruiser, that red pickup truck the fire station
boss drives, another police cruiser. It’s okay, Daisy, go back to sleep.
Chew on your cactus if you’re nervous. They load him up faster than I would
have thought. I’ve seen car accidents in real life; been in a couple myself.
They usually move slower than movies make it seem. They close the ambulance
doors, and clear the street. The quiet returns, and it’s like they were
never even here. Then a fish flies past my window, followed by another, and
another. He wasn’t lying.
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