Sleep Over

by H. G. Bells

  Even in the time before the riots, I watched my fellow cabbies get mobbed by suit-dressed yuppies and pretty working mothers, several pedestrians rushing to a cab when it tried to stop and pick up one single fare. I took note of their failures and tried a different approach, getting out of my cab and addressing an orderly line of people waiting down the block from the ruckus.

  “Look, now stay there, and we’ll figure this out,” I said, my hands up to try and keep them from surging forward to my cab. “Let’s do this with some civility. Please raise your hand if you are going downtown.” Every person in the line put their hand up.

  “I mean, not just downtown.” They put their hands sort of half down, but still ready to reach back up at a word. “Let’s say, to Burrard and Georgia. I’m going to Burrard and Georgia,” I said. Six people’s hands shot back up.

  I took the first four of them from the line, with what I hoped would be taken as a somberly apologetic look at the others still waiting, and beckoned my fares to my cab. I made sure to watch as they buckled up.

  “Two nights without sleep and the cabbies have to come to the rescue,” I said, smiling as I helped a slender woman in a business suit get her strap adjusted. She smiled back, obviously weary, but looking pretty enough. The facade of mascara did wonders to maintain a sense of order. Her drooping eyelids showed off her colorful eye shadow, twinkling blue and purple in the light of the sunrise. The care and attention she had taken in making sure to keep up that part of her routine was even more attractive than the look it afforded.

  “Turn on the news, would you?” asked the man in the front seat, bringing me out of my hazy revelry. He was dressed smartly and had a sleek briefcase on his lap, but he’d forgotten to shave. The appearance of appearance wasn’t as important to him, and, while it was endearing to see how expensive his suit was and yet how unshaven his face, he was not nearly as attractive as the woman with the eye shadow. His was a hasty mask, hers was something deeper.

  “Sure,” I said, “but first I must ask you all the million-dollar question. Anyone get any sleep last night?” Their silence was my answer. I turned on the news and drove them downtown. There was coverage of Russia beginning to push troops around, and just the first hint of trouble between India and Pakistan with that fight at the border crossing. I tried to keep my attention on the road; I drove us by three different accidents. My passengers kept their eyes deliberately dead ahead as we drove by the flashing lights. This was when there were still flashing lights to be had.

  We drove over the bridge and into the financial district. Everywhere people shuffled to and fro, dragging their feet to whatever destination they felt needed them so badly in such a dire time. Busses and cabs crowded the streets, but also cars, still, also cars. All vehicles were dangerous, but none more so than the human-driven weapons we had built our cities to accommodate. And planes still in the air—they were a later danger though; I looked on as a gentle seaplane approached Coal Harbor. As we waited at a red light, my passengers and I watched it touch down gracefully in the harbor at the end of Burrard Street. The light changed and I took us forward once more, checking the intersection, left and right, several times while inching forwards until it was safe to go onward.

  I pulled up in front of the bus stop to deliver my quadruple fare. They paid me and thanked me and got out to go to their office jobs. This was while people still went to office jobs. I sat for a moment, hands on the steering wheel, engine off (in an idle-free city, of course the engine was off). I watched another seaplane come in for a landing, touching down in the still waters, silent and smooth. Where were they coming from? And what was in downtown Vancouver that they were risking flights on two nights of insomnia? One of the many things being repeated in the vast cloud of social media and talk radio is that missing a single night’s sleep was equivalent to having a blood alcohol content of over .1 percent, which was over the legal limit to drive. But two nights? We were all driving impaired.

  A van pulled up to the curb just ahead of me and the driver got out and went to the back doors. I watched as he opened them in a way that radiated excitement. He moved quickly and deftly, all his gestures perhaps 10 percent larger than they needed to be. Though, as he turned, I caught a glimpse of his face, and thereupon was not the look of happiness, but one that I had seen time and again in business, the look that transcended cultures and languages: the look of greed.

  I continued to watch as he pulled things out of the back of the van to create an elaborate tent. He put a sandwich board on the sidewalk.

  THINGS TO MAKE YOU FEEL BETTER! ALSO: BE PREPARED! was the name of his jalopy shop. Incredible: he appealed to the need to feel any sort of reprieve from the awful insomnia but also preyed upon that most effectively manipulated emotion, fear. On the board were prices for things such as FACE AND GAS MASKS: $28, $78. WATER PURIFYING DROPS: $30. MULTIVITAMINS: $18. and so on.

  Then, at the bottom, was simply a smiley face, with an innocuously tiny price tag next to it, spelled out so there could be no confusion, reading $100 (ONE HUNDRED DOLLARS).

  I watched as he started to get customers. People walking by first disregarded him, but then I could see them slow, pause, and consider whether it just might be the best thing they could buy, for who can say they have water purifying drops at home? And with that missile being launched at Jiddah, who can say what will happen? People were scared, and a thing like that can really make people think about how well-supplied they are. The mere suggestion that they might be needed, and that things had become so dire that they were being sold out of a van in the financial district of downtown Vancouver—well, that man probably made quite a tidy profit.

  People like that had stocked up well before the Panic hit. He probably had his house stuffed to the gills with supplies to sell, if a house has gills to be stuffed to. Stacked to the rafters perhaps? In any case, people like that . . .

  I watched as he unsuccessfully tried to mask his greed with an air of helpfulness.

  I saw whispered transactions as people forked over one hundred dollar bills for the “smiley face,” which, through brief glimpses, was revealed to be a phial of some dark brown liquid.

  Who knew that we could revert back to buying snake oil from the backs of street-side wagons in mere days.

  And when I realized that, when I saw that this would be the most exciting time for someone with a degree in business and who loved analyzing markets, well, those four people I’d just let out of my cab were the last four fares I ever drove.

  I didn’t even make a ton of money. I’m not one of the ones that has to be in hiding, that preyed upon fear, that sold snake oil. Well I suppose technically . . . If my logo is still on a whole line of sleep aides, well. I never made false claims. I simply tried to see what I could do to get myself as deep into the market as possible, and, well, what fun I had! My brother in Delhi, he’s one of the ones in hiding. Sure, I did the North American marketing, but he’s the one that got rich off it. Quite a nice bit of serendipity that he had just the right product at just the right time. While the infrastructure was still up to make shipments, he shipped.

  And when it wasn’t the right product anymore, when it was my label going on something completely different, he didn’t even tell me. He still shipped. I was putting that now infamous brand name on a product that was snake oil. But I believed at the time, along with the rest of them. Ignorance is seldom an excuse, but I can at least take comfort that I was unaware of my deception, and that there was no malice in my actions.

  No, I don’t know where he is. He used me just like he used everyone else.

  At least I had the time of my life on that brief roller coaster. I got to play big, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to apologize for putting my talents to good use.

  Everything feels cold. Like, I know it’s cold out, but it’s, just, more so. I feel the cold deep inside, to my bones. Oh Christ and my eyes hurt. Like I blink some times and it feels like my eyelids are sandpaper. I’m trying to drink water enough
to stay hydrermated but my tummy feels all full of pinecones and sticks.

  And I didn’t even eat any pinecones adn sticks today

  My eyes track all on their own. Like this one time I had vertigo—the room spins even though I know it’s just my eyes. I’ve gotten used to it a little, and it’s not that bad, now, in this sleepless hell, but it’s sitll aweful. I I think this is what kills us. I knwo there’re probablly people doing better than me, people with drugs, and maybe that AntiWake stuff works for some fof them, but it didn’t work for me.

  My fingers feel like globs of butter. They’re hitting keys and theysort of stick to them, and it’s really hard to get them to lift off again.

  My mouth tastes like old coffee and maybe dirt. Sort of like iron I think, though I can’t say I’ve ever full on eaten iron. Maybe it’s blood I taste. And smell.

  If all that they find of us, of our civilisation I mean, the record of how we went out, is these notes from people dying of no-sleep, whatever that word is, then we’re going to look like a bunch of idiots. Please don’t judge us from these notes from our end-time, oh alien visitors. We were once great, or at least, we were ok.

  At least once I didn’t have fingers that felt like butter and sandpaper for eyelids.

  Please body, just let’s get through this. I swear I’ll take better care of you. I knew you needed sleep, but now, now you get to call the shots. No more staying up late against your will. If you help me through this we can both

  PART 2

  PANIC

  You come to the shit holes, looking for drugs, when before you condemned us to die for the same thing that’s now saving your lives! Fuck you!

  —Graffiti on a building in Somerset, Ottawa, Canada

  Now you gotta understand the panic. Once that third night turned into the third day, and we really caught on that something was up, like, nothing was stopping it, we started to get our collective freakout on. People were finding all kinds of crazy stuff on the internet. That damned Russian Sleep Experiment bullshit was scaring the crap out of people, even though it was fake (Creepypasta I believe the kids called it). Fatal Familial Insomnia was suddenly a term everyone knew. It was the Bay of Pigs, or maybe for my younger patients, Y2K, only worse, way worse. We were all going to die of lack of sleep, and soon.

  It was a prion disease, a solar flare, a chemical warfare mistake. It was an epigenetic shift, a mutation, the beginning of a new species. It was aliens. It was the government. Unending theories.

  And people were flocking to medical clinics, doctors, nurses, anyone that had any sort of idea of neurology or the ability to prescribe drugs. Ottawa had mandated all doctors to work, trying to quell the rising panic in the country, and itself; the fourth largest city in Canada was brimming over with the chaos. It was everywhere, underlying the attempts at politeness, the clinging to civility in the face of societal breakdown. Sure, having a doctor to go see may have seemed like a comforting idea, but we had nothing to offer them. We had the official pomp of medical know-how to placate them perhaps, to try and lend some sort of comfort to them, but it was a Band-Aid on an axe wound.

  “Did you know about those dogs that were kept awake to see what would happen?” asked one of my patients. That was when I was still taking patients. Day three, the day the riots started, yes, so early, so little idea of what we were in for.

  “Yes, and she kept them awake and they died,” I answered, having answered variations on that anecdote all morning.

  “The puppies died after five days. Five days, doctor! And the other dogs lasted like what, eleven to nineteen days? And they died!” I did not tell him, or any of my other other patients, that the lack of sleep was affecting human infants even sooner than they had the puppies in that particular experiment. The death was creeping up the ranks, and had already wiped out most of the newborns. It hadn’t gone fully public yet, but doctors knew. We knew. And we could both do nothing and say nothing, the first of our agency being stripped from us as the plague wiped away every trace of our humanity.

  “Well Mr. Kobb, it’s been three nights. The official world record is eleven nights, and I have no doubt that you can make it that far too. No one is in danger of dying from this lack of sleep, in and of itself. The car crashes, sure, and tons of other accidents, have taken their toll, but the lack of sleep itself is nothing to worry about just yet. You just keep from driving and try and wait it out.” I talked a bit faster than normal; the Ritalin I had taken an hour before was in full effect.

  “Please doc, you gotta help me. I’m goin’ nuts here, I can barely see straight. Isn’t there something you can give me?”

  I knew other doctors were giving their patients things, trying to either help the individual patients, or help in the efforts to diagnose the larger issue at hand by prescribing various remedies, coming at the insomnia a dozen different ways, trying to see if anything worked. I would not be a part of it. We didn’t know what was causing it, and I certainly didn’t know how to cure it. It was one thing for me to take things, mild doses at first, just to continue to try and help, but entirely another to start down that road of experimenting on people or caving into their desire to take a pill to make it better.

  “Mr. Kobb, I’m afraid we’re going to have to wait this out. Until I know the cause, I simply cannot prescribe anything to you. We just don’t know what would help and what would harm.”

  “Please, anything, I’ll try anything.”

  Jesus, three days without sleep and people become the biggest pussies. I was drop-dead tired and barely keeping my head screwed on, but there I was, seeing patients. Starting to slur my words once the Ritalin wore off, but seeing them none-the-less.

  “You’ll have to muddle through it like the rest of us are doing. I’ll not experiment on you,” I said tersely, writing a note on his chart. They at least felt like I had done something when I wrote on their chart. He sighed.

  “Yeah, well, when this is all over you’ll be getting an earful, but for now, I’m too tired.” He sighed and looked up from the exam table apologetically. “No, forget that, sorry Dan, I’m just so damn tired!”

  “I know John, I know. Me, too,” I said, putting my hand on his shoulder. He sighed and stood, walking to the door with a defeated hunch in his shoulders. He paused with his hand on the doorknob, usually the time when patients would get to the point of their visit, the real reason they’d come seeking help. If it was something psychological or something to do with sex, it was always when their hand was on the doorknob that they finally got to the crux of their problem. Not with Mr. Kobb, though—it was just a simple addition.

  “Doc, I’ve been eating more fish like you said. It’s been making me feel like I have more energy, so, thanks,” he said. Then he left.

  I picked up the phone and punched in to reception.

  “Jen?” I said. “Anyone that’s here about the insomnia can cram it,” I said. “I mean, send them away. I have nothing for them. We should put up a sign.”

  “Doctor, I don’t think they’d like to hear that,” she said. There was a fear in her tone; something was wrong. Jen was the kind of person that could be telling me there was someone bleeding out in the waiting room but sound cheerful when doing it. She had a permanent smile, the perfect person to welcome people to a doctors’ office when they’re feeling anything but happy. Just as important as the doctors were their staff; Jen coming in to work as she did made my job possible. If she could put up with a waiting room full of my patients, I could grin and bear it to see them one at a time.

  “Jen, is something wrong?” I asked flat out.

  “Well Doctor, that’s lovely to hear,” she responded. Shit.

  “Jen, I’ll be right there. Say Tuesday if you think I need to call the cops, or say Wednesday if you think I can handle it.”

  “Oh yes, it’s on Tuesday,” she answered. Goddamnit.

  “Ok Jen hang in there, I’ll call them, and then I’ll come and help. Just stay calm.”

  I pressed the rec
eiver down long enough to reset the line, then dialed 9-1-1.

  “9-1-1, what’s your emergency?” asked a man who answered.

  “I’m, I’m not entirely sure. My receptionist asked me to call the police; I think one of my patients is giving her trouble.”

  “Sir, have you seen the trouble?”

  “No,” I said tersely, “I wanted to call you before I went out there and got involved. Can you please send someone to help?”

  “Sir, we have no units to spare unless we have a better idea that there is some danger involved. Are you able to go assess the situation?”

  “Goddamn it, are you kidding me?” I spat.

  “Sir, please call us back if you cannot deal with the situation on your own,” said the man. He hung up. Jesus, 9-1-1 hung up on me. I never thought I’d see the day.

  I put the phone in its cradle and leaned on the door of the examination room. Jesus.

  I straightened up, put on a stern face, and strode out and down the hall, towards the waiting room and my secretary. I went straight for her, looking to her to give me some indication as to the problem. Her eyes darted to a man sitting in the corner.

  His right leg was bouncing up and down rapidly. His hands were fists bouncing along in his lap, knuckles white from clenching so hard. His wide eyes stared out the window, focused on a spot of nothing, seeing nothing. His brow was beading sweat. All the other patients waiting were well away from him, looking up at me uneasily. The only one whose gaze was elsewhere was a boy who sat motionless on the chair beside his mother.

  That was one of the strangest things I think I saw during a time when every day was filled with strange things; that little boy sitting there in my waiting room, motionless, not looking at me. His little feet were hanging off the chair well above the floor, the toes of his superhero-print sneakers drooping slightly down. His hands were clasped, palms up, in his lap, and completely still. I suppose you don’t even notice that children are in constant motion until you see one that isn’t, and it sent a chill down my spine.