Unblinking

I take the evening walk home over snow-dusted yards and sidewalks as the cars are turning on their lights. The wind throws my white breath behind me, but I don't mind. I suck in the cold till it burns in my lungs, and keep watching my shoes as my cheeks go numb. I haven't slept in 28 hours, I haven't dreamed in 22 months, and I haven't eaten since Wednesday unless tomato soup counts.

The public library stays open till nine. Somehow, I take comfort in that as I'm trudging past it tonight. Its lights shine on past dinnertime and if you play your cards right, a book might come home with you. I curl up with books but never finish them. I guess I'm waiting for the right one to come along; a story out of love with its hero, by a writer nobody knows, though he knows us all so well.

Up the narrow steps to the door with the tarnished knob. Every journey of mine begins and ends right here, night in and day out, no way out and nobody knows, because I keep things to myself. The old lady downstairs takes half my pay on the first of every month, and she's nice about letting me know when my TV gets too loud. Inside, the bathroom mirror shows the whites of my eyes, stained pink with bloodshot lies – the only painkiller I ever tried.

By the smudged glass of the window in my room, to the faint, flat light of the unblinking moon, I lay unredeemed, unable to dream or even to sleep, wishing I could finish a book, or keep one promise or find my way back to the last day of my life that mattered. I don't know if there's a God, but somebody must be watching, because I can't get this stupid show to end. 

Somebody's watching. Is it you?

Sleeping Pill Swallow

Unisom is the flavor of the month.

I downed the capsule five minutes ago, which means I should be snoozing in a half hour or so. If I'm lucky.

It's almost 7 a.m. here. Most everyone's waking up now in my city. I haven't slept. I don't sleep. I stay up all night, then I take a sleeping pill, then I hope sleep comes to me. Yes, this is typical.

I've been insomniac for years – since the Clinton presidency, in fact. The sleeping pills are a new thing; not quite the last resort, but still a drastic measure for me. And they don't always work unless I take two of them.

But then I tend to sleep way too long. 

When I wake up, I'm back in the cycle again. 

At midnight, I'm at the gym, pretending to lift weights, flexing for the mirror, running on a treadmill. I get home at 1 or 2 a.m., and I'm still wired. I write, I read, I try to relax, and next thing I know, it's dawn. Sunbeams lined across my floor.

No. I don't do cocaine or meth. Never have, never will.

I used to call this an occupational hazard. Busy nights and rushing deadlines. My neurons and synapses all bursting and firing and crackling past midnight so I can finish my work. But I get home and can't find the switch to wind myself down. 

The grocery stores stay open all night. Sometimes, I wander around in them at pre-dawn like a little boy lost, buying this and that, because I might as well get something done if I'm not going to sleep. I hope I don't look as gone as the rest of the ghouls roaming Wal-Mart’s nocturnal aisles. 

Mostly I write. If I've got nobody to write to and nothing important to work on, then I call it a blog entry. 

It's been a good 20 minutes. The Unisom's taking its sweet time. I finished a box of Sleepinol capsules last week; little light-blue pills that looked like Smurf eggs. They worked better. I ought to shoot an e-mail to Consumer Reports; maybe they can use a freelance article reviewing the effectiveness of over-the-counter sleep aids?

If I get to sleep before 8 a.m., then I'll wake up around 3 in the afternoon. That's plenty of ZZZZZ for me. It's sure as hell enough to keep me up all night again. 

I'm slightly dizzy now. 

Can I close my eyes now and listen to the soothing whoosh of my central air, the sound of soft morning rain painting the streets outside a nice shiny grey? I used to imagine myself in a meadow, under a tree, just a boy surrounded by little white puppies, so playful. That doesn't work anymore.

I haven't had a dream in ages. Not any that I can remember. I might be disappointed if I could. Maybe all my dreams are of boring things, like instructions for assembling refrigerators, or road maps of Nebraska. There's got to be some reason why my mind doesn't bother to save my dreams.

I better stop now. I fear I'm doing a better job of putting you to sleep, than myself. 

Until next time.

My Fake Smile

Look closely at the picture. That's me. Me, with my fake smile on. The lips pull backward, upward into a grimace that's easily mistaken for a genuine expression. But it's not. See the eyes? There's a disconnect between the expression in them and the attempted smile below.

A smile always starts in the eyes, you know.

Studies can't be done, but I'd guess the average person sees 2 to 3 fake smiles per day. Or uses them himself (or herself). People in the service industry probably see and use a lot more of them than others, but I shouldn't digress. Fake smiles wouldn't be so common if they weren't necessary.

And of course, they're necessary. We're only human, but society would like us to behave pleasantly toward strangers, not to be a burden on every living creature who crosses our path, no matter what worries us. No matter what heavy thoughts and considerations we all drag around inside our heads. When we interact with strangers, we must S~M~I~L~E.

I don't have a problem with that. I do admit, I'm not the most smiley person God ever flung down to Earth. I'm one of those people who always accidentally looks unhappy unless he's smiling, so I actually have to try harder to smile. That means, of course, that my fake smile is easier to spot than others. I live with it.

Anyway, there it is. I do have a real smile that I break out and show people now and then -- at least, some people say they've seen it before. But you know how folks can exaggerate. Maybe I smiled. Or maybe it was only a smirk, or a grin or a sardonic twist at the corner of my mouth. Who knows?

Anyway, if I ever catch my own real smile on camera, I might show it to you.

Maybe.

But today, I'm sorry. You'll have to settle for the fake one.

The Quiet Visitor

Isn't this the chair you sat in every time I came to visit?

I see it here now, pushed back from the table and turned to one side. What were you thinking the last time you left it this way?

Where did you go?

And this. Is this the glass you sipped from on those long afternoons you spent trying to sustain us? It's nice, this glass. Warm to my touch. But when was the last time you held it in your hand?

The room's as cluttered as I remember it, but somebody is missing. I should straighten one of those picture frames on the wall, but I'm so clumsy, I'd knock them all down.

Where's the light? It gets dim here at this time of day. I guess I didn't realize how shadowy the room could become without one of us to liven it up. How many days did you sit in this chair by yourself, waiting for me to appear?

The rest of the world is so much bigger than this room, and so is your heart. I know you're out there somewhere and I hope every day finds you less lonely than the last. I guess I'm not really going anywhere for a while. So I'll stay here and keep these dreary walls awake until you return.

You won't know it. But I was here. Are you sure that glass is in the exact same place you left it?

He's missed and missing and misses you, but he's a million miles away. So smile,

laugh,

cry,

run,

and live, you wild little heart.

Forgive me for being gone.

Salt

The gaunt man wearing the sunglasses picked up the shaker of salt at his table, held it over his green beans, hesitated, and put it down again, shaking his head. Across the dining area of the restaurant, an aristocratic woman in a green dress watched him from behind her upraised glass of tea.

She thought: Well, is he going to use the salt or not?

The man poked a forkful of green beans into his mouth and chewed vigorously, then reached for his salt shaker again. His fingers wavered just short of it and the man sighed. He was unaware of the woman in the green dress.

What could his dilemma be? the woman mused, swishing an ice cube in her warm mouth. And why does he wear those shades in here? She watched him drum his fingers on the tabletop in front of the salt shaker.

The man noticed, with vague wonder, that he was getting an erection. The rustling and tightening in his crotch quickened his heartbeat. He could even feel the stitching in his underwear. He squirmed in his chair to offset the discomfort and thought about salt. First, he imagined huge trucks with mountains of salt stored in their beds. Then, he envisioned that little girl with the umbrella and the short skirt, skipping cheerfully through a downpour of salt. Sexy. He seized the salt shaker.

This is it! thought the woman as she watched. He has made up his mind! Somehow, this man’s rendezvous with the salt shaker had aroused some unbidden fascination in her. This, she mused, must be what Mondays do to middle-aged women like me. While some people debated gun control and right-to-life issues, here was a man utterly torn between eating his green beans with or without salt. She watched, not caring anymore if he happened to notice she’d taken an interest. She watched.

In his mind, he saw nymphette, vulnerable women slithering like snakes across hot, shiny flats of salt. He saw the Morton salt chick standing in the sodium rain, delicately drawing up her skirt just for him to see. An unclothed housewife sucked the salt from the mailman’s sweaty abdomen. YES! HE WANTED SALT! HE WANTED IT WANTED IT WANTED IT!

He shook the shaker violently. Crystals of salt landed in his food, on his table, and on his suit. He thrust his thick-feeling tongue out to catch the flying sodium like a six-year-old tasting the first snow of the winter. Behind his mirror shades, his eyes widened and jittered with horrendous glee.

The aristocratic-looking woman was aware that her mouth had popped open as the shaded man threw some kind of tantrum in his chair, which now squeaked and creaked undter his sudden upheaval. Amidst the shock of the stranger’s eruption, a single ice cube melted on her tongue.

The man’s shades finally toppled from his twisted, grimacing face as he stood and thrust the salt shaker into his pants, still shucking it. He grinned broadly at the woman in green, but seemed not to notice her. Nor did he notice the stout, wide-eyed waiters who were making their way over to restrain him. Nor did he notice that his green beans were getting cold.

The woman never ate at that restaurant again, and for reasons she couldn't consciously place, she never again wore her green dress.