So Many Ways to Sleep Badly

by Mattilda Bernstein Sycamore

  Someone calls from downstairs—this is Monica, remember me? No. I’m from City Clinic; I have some medication for you. Huh? Did you get the message? No. She comes up, I look out the peephole just to make sure it’s not an FBI agent, ready to take me to Guantánamo—I haven’t even eaten yet! Luckily, it’s a friendly woman who tells me I have gonorrhea in my throat. She gives me a pill. I ask about side effects—none. Of course that’s a lie, but I take the pill anyway—it’s so small, hopefully it isn’t arsenic.

  Sometimes it’s just too hard to write, like today I walked around the Tenderloin for a while, and when I got home there was an octopus in my head, wrapped around my brain and I still can’t get it off. I remember when my father would order calamari at Minetta Tavern on our visits to New York, and I always thought it was so gross, even though it looked like pasta. Or maybe because it looked like pasta—he’d always try to trick me. In bed, I bite off a piece of a fingernail and then chew on it until I can’t remember where it came from. When I pull off my eye mask, the sun’s so bright. I’m not sure if my headache throbs, I just know that I want to hit my sinuses with a sledgehammer—splat!—there goes my brain.

  You know it’s a bad day when I start singing, “What is love . . . baby don’t hurt me, don’t hurt me . . . no more.” Waiting for the bus, I decide to befriend the woman next to me, because she’s eating too, but then I look over at what she’s eating: Burger King. On the bus, there’s that hilarious queen who moved here from New York, she used to wear a huge hat covered in branches and fake grass and flowers, maybe some of them real. Today, she doesn’t have the hat, but she has fake grass in her dreadlocks, and she’s wearing a vest with no shirt on, hello heat wave! She keeps turning around on the runway. Then, as usual, she’s yelling—Happy Earth Day!—or maybe it is Earth Day. Everyone on the bus is laughing, and we’re all probably laughing for different reasons. I’m laughing ’cause it’s beautiful.

  While I’m on the phone with Andee, I notice there are roaches crawling all over my food—they don’t usually come out so much during the day, but they love the fucking heat. At someone else’s house, I might be freaked out, but at my house I just brush the roaches off and keep eating—it’s not like I’m going to cook an entirely new dish.

  But did I tell you about the trick who brought me an apple? It’s still sitting on the table, a week later—of course I can’t eat apples because of all the sugar, but he didn’t know that—he just wanted to keep the doctor away. When I was a kid, I knew it wouldn’t work, but I ate apples to keep my father away, since psychiatrists are doctors too.

  It’s so hot when I wake up that I go right into the shower, to cool off, after the toilet overflows and I wonder how much it’s going to hurt to mop it all up. Probably not as much as typing. The soap is melting. The shower doesn’t work—I’m still sweating. It’s so hot outside that the fire escape feels like it’s going to burn my feet. All of my morning voicemail messages are boring.

  My new sleeping secret: at 10:10 a.m. I take 5 mg. of Sonata, just before the fire engine drives by. It’s supposed to be fast-acting and have a short half-life, or is that what they say about a nuclear bomb? Just when it finally kicks in—about an hour later—the construction vehicle with every hinge permanently rusted—that monstrosity that drives by every day now, shaking my whole building—makes its appearance. Then two amazing runs of the screeching pipes. Two p.m. and I feel just like a duck living in a contact lens case, only dryer. But don’t forget the $330 glass Easter basket at Aunt Bill’s Antiques!

  I take Rue to the Tibetan place for her birthday, she tells me she was in the bathroom at City College and some hottie was waving his dick at her, she opened the stall door and . . . guess who? Jeremy. The food’s delicious, except one dish tastes like it was cooked with rancid oil. I don’t say anything.

  Sometimes when I’m with Rue, I feel like I’m going to start crying because I love him so much and I wonder if that’s weird. She’s trying to decide whether to go to the trick who fucks her and smells, even though he’s clean he just smells. I wake up at 7 a.m. and I’ve turned on my side on the new mattress, which is too hard, so my neck feels like it’s attached to my body with rusted twine between thumbtacks. I guess this isn’t a hard mattress for a normal person, but I’m certainly not normal. My nose is glued shut by allergies, and I feel so awful that I start crying. This guy on the radio talks about jumping off the Golden Gate Bridge, the water was like a brick wall and then it pulled him under. Later, but not much later, he felt a fish and that’s when he knew this wasn’t a dream that he’d survived.

  I spend all day craving sex, even though I’m so exhausted I can’t think, or maybe that’s why. When I can’t sleep, I jerk off with the covers around my dick, such a soft playhouse! In the morning, I have a sore throat. From coming? Yeah—from coming. Not to mention the horrible screeching pipes. I call the building manager. He doesn’t answer.

  Everything is saved by good sex—it really exists. The first guy I meet on craigslist isn’t the one, luckily he leaves before I have time to find him attractive. The good thing is that I clean my apartment for him, so it’s clean. I decide to meet the next guy in Lafayette Park and it’s amazing right away, first he’s up against a tool shed and then a tree. I’m kissing his neck and he seems unsure about it, but pretty soon we’re making out, over and over again, and my favorite part is rubbing my face up against his, really softly until I feel his cold ears. Then I want his come down my throat but I know he’s freaked out about safety, because the first thing he said—after hi, I’m Andrew—was: are you clean?

  That’s Mister Clean, Mary. He’s one of those gays who’s been playing at straight for so long that it almost feels like it. Except for the passion, which is why it’s good sex—thank the fucking Lord for all the spots of come on my coat afterwards! Is it his come or mine? I don’t know because we jerk each other off so we’ll come together, and afterwards we’re both dripping in strange places and we’re trying to wipe it off with the toilet paper I brought. It’s not quite working.

  Andrew’s from Seattle, he gives me a ride home and tries to shake my hand goodbye. Sorry, honey—you just sucked my cock—I think we can kiss. I get inside and it’s only 11 p.m., there’s still time for the rest of my life. What exactly is that, again? Well, there are the rats in the walls—I heard one again last night—the screeching pipes, the pain, and the mattress that’s too hard, but what seems even harder is calling the mattress store to get another replacement.

  But, more importantly, are you wearing your AIDS ribbon upside-down for Vaccine Awareness Day? News from the future, always stuck in the past: that bitch Mattilda had a ghostwriter; everybody knows she couldn’t even type! Now that she’s made millions, I hope she does her part by sponsoring Coors Beer Busts for all the little starving children—this is what democracy looks like: shoe polish in an elevator. But what happens when the elevator cable breaks? Silly girl—who has cable in an elevator?

  An adult entertainment survey: Do you watch videos? No. Do you rent or buy videos? No. How often do you watch videos? No. When was the last time you watched a video? No. What do you think of adult entertainment options?

  Ralowe wants me to be friendlier to the telecommunications specialist, though she won’t even say hi to anyone who doesn’t look her in the eye. Meanwhile, everyone’s looking at Brad Pitt’s tits—but where is the milk, there’s gotta be milk in here somewhere! Ouch—you got something in my eye. Ralowe says there was some scandal a few years ago at UC Berkeley in a men’s sexuality class. It was a student-run class, and the first class was a circle jerk. Ralowe says can you imagine—all those frat boys in a circle jerk? But honey, no frat boys are going to take a men’s sexuality course. Ralowe says: but can you imagine? Yes, honey, I took the adult entertainment survey.

  In the Bayview: a sting operation by the state police, detaining and arresting hundreds of black people guilty of driving. In Iraq: sifting through plastic bags filled with bones. In Massachusetts: gays an
d lesbians partying all night in the streets—we can finally get married! Walking outside, I get shooting pains in my neck. I look on the internet for fibromyalgia resources, and then my back hurts too—and I won’t even tell you about my wrists. After a sleeping pill and a few hours of something in my bed, I’m assessing the situation. Until the pipes start screeching, and I’m wide awake trying to soothe my brain but thinking about calling a plumber, calling the building management company, shooting the building manager who keeps telling me it’s just because people don’t turn their water on all the way.

  On the radio, I listen to a bunch of guys getting sworn into the army in a dead-end town in Texas, where there are eight prisons. This one guy calls up his father, his father was in Vietnam and tries to dissuade him, but the son says: now, soldiers are respected. Then his dad cries, once he’s won over. I cry too, though not because I’m won over—the music becomes overwrought or maybe that’s just me, sitting straight in my uncomfortable ergonomic chair and wondering if there’s any hope.

  The announcer asks the recruiter: do you ever think anyone you recruit might get killed in Iraq? No, says the recruiter, I don’t ever think about that. Then we get an announcement from Wal-Mart, which invests in neighborhoods, and advice that parents who monitor their children’s behavior starting early on have a good chance of preventing drug abuse.

  I call Rose to find out about her show, she says when are you coming back to the family? Oh, no. Apparently, teenagers do stupid things like confronting their fathers about raping them, no one can remember anything from when they were three, it didn’t happen, why am I hurting them, it’s sad the way I see the world. The cicadas have arrived on the East Coast this year—it’s once every seventeen years. I remember the last time—they covered the trees and hummed over everything.

  Just the screeching pipes make my day so hard, as Israel kills more Palestinians and the U.S. kills more Iraqis and I read about Vietnam, read that it was impossible not to stand up against that war—to take every risk—and I wonder if that’s possible now. The risks. I wish I could go to jail and grow stronger, but I don’t know if I’d survive. Nothing to eat and so much pain, it’s hard enough to sleep in my plush bed. My whole neck feels like a bruise, a huge bruise I carry around with me from the time when they’d tighten that rope around my neck, bag around my head, I think I mean literally. When I’d float up above while he was doing things down there—to us—the kids—and they—the adults—were out there burrowing themselves in. And my grandmother says: how could you do this to us?

  Rue calls: it’s hard to walk because my back’s out, the chiropractor wouldn’t do an adjustment without X-rays and now I have to wait until Monday. Rue’s futon feels worse than a rock because who would sleep on a rock? The worst thing about the shrieking pipes is that I think that otherwise I might actually be sleeping, because lately they wake me up from something deep, and then I have to get up and eat toast, take passionflower and pulsatilla, and then pour some of the powder from a sleeping pill into water and drink the bitter fruit.

  When I wake up, it’s the pipes again and I call the building manager. Now I have ammunition from a plumber who says it’s a broken pressure regulator, or the chambers on the pitch valve—and either way, it can be fixed. I get back in bed, then I get back up and that’s actually when I take the flurazepam, which puts me into a haze until I wake up feeling like I swallowed the dust out of a vacuum cleaner.

  I feel like I’m always rushing onto the bus, hot, at the beginning of the day, and then waiting for the bus, freezing, at the end of the day. Colin Powell’s favorite quote: I serve at the pleasure of the President. Hmm . . . slavery? But thirty-year-olds are now renting yachts to celebrate their birthdays! What’s better—romance or rejection—wait, is this a trick question? If you hate the world, yourself and your life, things may be more difficult for you than others, who may hate only one, two, or two and a half of the three choices. Vivacious or vicious—you decide!

  I’m not suggesting that you can’t choose both. Everyone insists that it’s always foggy in San Francisco, but I swear it’s been sunny for weeks—I just want some fucking clouds! I wake up and I’ve actually got my wish, but I can see the blue sky underneath, and—sure enough—the sky takes over within five minutes. So long, gray day.

  Ralowe wants to talk about the ways in which our work—that is: my work, his work and Benjamin’s work—relates because of the ways in which we’re all oppressed by power under late capitalism. First, he has to watch more porn. Ralowe says: if you and I had a falling-out, what would you change my name to? The Sustainable Foods Expo at the San Francisco Aquarium: that shark may look tough, but wait until you bite into it! Outside at 2 a.m., I barely need my scarf and mittens—something’s wrong. Precarious or vicarious—well, that’s an easy question.

  Gina’s done with school, so we can be friends again. She wants to know if I’m still soaking my wrist guards in boiling water, just in case there are any lice. Here’s what I learn from sleep: the Lord is the last piece of information. I make it into a chant, trying to put myself back into dreamland, but pretty soon it’s the end of the night and I’m talking to Jaysen. He says when he was three or four, and his mother was on welfare, she’d leave him at daycare and forget to pick him up. She was getting drunk, Jaysen says, but now I’m at peace with it. I say who are you—Featherblower Lavender Sunshine Intention Blessed Be?

  There are two roaches crossing the kitchen wall together—they keep bumping into each other, and I wonder if they’re in love. I’m talking to Andee about Zan, she goes right up to the people in bars who we’d run away from as fast as we could, the guys who are kind of hot, but you know if you had to talk to them for one minute they’d suck all the life out of you, and you’d never be able to get it back—she goes right for those people and dives in. But last night I went to Rudeboys, Andee says—I danced the whole time, I only went into the darkroom for a second—they were playing all the songs that I don’t even remember what they were called, like “Everybody, everybody . . . everybody, everybody.” Then there was this guy who I just loved for the way he danced—I wish you were there, though—because then I could have busted all my moves.

  Andee realizes it’s 10:30 a.m. in London—shit, she says—I have to go, I’m gonna sleep for at least two days. I look outside and the moon is so low, just barely above the Monarch Hotel. Florence says she’d love to see me in D.C., but there’s one condition: you can’t dress with that flea market look. Why is she obsessed with flea markets? She just wants me to wear khakis or jeans—or something new, anything.

  I wear khakis to my tricks these days, but Florence doesn’t want to know that. Not that I’m interested in telling her what she wants, but her hearing’s not so good these days so I’d have to repeat it too many times. In my dream, Ralowe’s afraid of the alligators in a pond by a construction site near where I grew up, but I think they’re cute—though I’m not sure how big they are. We’re walking on the side of some horrible desolate suburban road with construction all around, though in the dream it just seems normal, like it seems normal to have alligators in a construction site in suburban D.C. I haven’t been there in so long, I wouldn’t be surprised.

  It’s a rare night without squeaking pipes, so why do I wake up feeling worse? Actually, I can’t wake up, I just walk around standing-up-sleeping. On NPR, the latest research shows that kids are different from adults! Ralowe, Liz and I take the bus together just at the moment when I crash into some hole, and Ralowe is performing 77 flavors of stupidity—why does she needs so much attention? Liz seems all right with it, and I’m trying to get there, though really I just need to get home.

  Nothing’s better until I get an email from the guy in the park a few weeks ago—says he had fun but he’s been traveling, hasn’t checked the email—tonight he’s horny, though he’s just gonna jerk off, it’s gonna be a huge load. Whatever. Should I go to the Power Exchange?

  I decide to take a sleeping pill and go to bed, then I de
cide just to take extra mind-numbing sleep tinctures. I really hope tomorrow’s better. At the last minute, I add a sleeping pill to the mix, just in case, then I get in bed and sure enough I’m wired. I get out of bed and call the phone sex line 651 times, which is great for my hands, neck—oh, my neck. Did I mention that as soon as I got in bed, my neck started to burn? It’s the horrible new mattress—it’s killing me! One of these days, I’ll get a replacement for the replacement, but right now the store keeps telling me to talk to customer service, and customer service keeps telling me to talk to the store.

  I have this fear that I’m going to be chopping vegetables, and then suddenly I’ll chop off a finger or poke my eye out—so, no, I didn’t sleep well. With so many tinctures and a fucking pill, you’d think I’d sleep past 12:24. But no—wired as all hell, with the added comfort of a head filled with asbestos—so that’s where the cancer’s coming from! I’m standing on the corner of Church and Market, waiting for the bus, breaking down—help, too many gay people with leases on their partners, partners on their leases! On Van Ness, there’s a bar of soap shattered on the ground, and I draw hearts with the pieces. At home, it’s 7:46 p.m. and I’m desperate to get in bed—hopefully I’ll feel better afterwards, though I’m not expecting it.

  When I wake up, I’m bikini-perfect. Ralowe says: why is it that whenever anyone cruises me, it has to be someone wearing a SECURITY T-shirt, like this guy at the Virgin Megastore, I was at the listening station—I figured he was in inventory control, upset that the black person was spending so much time listening to the CDs, but he kept nodding at me. Rue calls to cancel our plans—he’s tired after doing yard work for some rich guy. I crash, well actually there’s nothing much to crash from, so I just fall. No one to call, so I go to used book stores until I’m too hypoglycemic to function, then I return home. Later, I’m laughing about all the bad vegan food I’ve eaten at restaurants lately, that’s what puts me in a good mood.