It's Not Sleepy Time

Since I was a kid my dad has shown no respect for my sleep needs. I can’t be sure whether his insolence was directed toward me, singularly, or toward sleep, as a natural act. For example, while in high school, he would barge into my room at 6:30 AM, flipping the lights on while speaking in full-confrontational tone about the negative ramifications of being tardy for school. He would regularly beat my alarm clock by 2 minutes. The most precious 2 minutes of sleep. Everyday was a fire alarm. I stand today living breathing proof that ‘morning person’ is a result of nurture, not nature. There are no morning squirrels. All squirrels are ‘morning’ squirrels, hungry for nuts. I didn’t remember much more about my sleep traumas as a child but these last few weeks have broken the Damn of Terror, which repressed years of early morning jihads.

I am on amber alert… again.

Week One: I had just moved in to the Pelican. It was a Saturday, mid-day and I was taking a nap. I sleep very lightly so when I am out, I cherish every second. And my naps take 30 minutes. No more, no less. Therefore the window to fuck with my nap is slim. He barged into the closed room and stated loudly, ‘Jamie’. He ‘states’ my name on these occasions, as if he is answering the question ‘Would you like steak of fish?’. It’s cold hearted. A shiver-shock shot down my spine. I fear these moments like Luke feared the Emperor in Star Wars. Luke felt his presence, loathed his presence and was omniscient of his presence moments ahead of time. Dad, you are the Emperor of Insomnia.

Then he repeated himself. ‘Jamie’ (or steak?). I didn’t answer. Most people would walk away and feel slightly horrified for having fucked up someone’s nap. Not this guy. He’s like a retarded version of Columbo. Colum-fuck up your sleep-O. He gets his answer, every time, to a question that, really, need never have been asked.

‘What’, I bluntly state, obviously annoyed. ‘Are you hungry?’ he asks. Now his tone falls to that of a care-giver. Evil, hateful, care-giving, mother fucker.

I once saw a National Geographic show about the hunger in Ethiopia when I was young. It stayed with me for years after. And I took notice that not one hungry dude was sleeping in Ethiopia. I took notice: hungry people sleep like hell.

Juxtaposition: I laid like a corpse.

What about a sleeping guy would make someone say ‘He might be hungry’. In fact, I would go so far as to say that if there is one thing that a sleeping guy wants, it is more sleep. And lots more sleep.

One summer we took him to Africa to visit the starving people in Ethiopia. He stepped off the airplane, walked up to a starving, black guy and offered him a pillow.

So I answered him. I told him that it was a ridiculous question to ask a sleeping guy. He got offended and left the room with the answer for which he came. Just like retarded Columbo would have.

Week Three: It’s pitch black. It’s 10 PM on a Sunday. I went to bed because I needed it severely. I know he feels my sleepy desires and feeds on it. In fact, he gets uber-happy whenever I am intensely tired. So I feel when he feels my presence and my sleep becomes instantaneously fucked up, as a result. The Dark Emperor of Insomnia broke into my cranium!! I think, ‘You gotta be kidding me. After 15 years he hasn’t missed a beat’. He hadn’t even stepped foot into the room and he had already ruined another night of my precious sleepy time. My precious.

Fortunately, he proceeded with his dark plan giving me the satisfaction that maybe he hadn’t read my thoughts so precisely. So after about 30 minutes of pseudo-sleep in the pitch-black room, on a Sunday night at 10:30 PM, the door slammed open. It slammed open to reveal the white hallway light and his wirey shadow.

‘Are you sleeping?’ he queries. This time, at least ostensibly, in his voice, he’s concerned about waking me. He's gotten old and is slipping. He thinks I don't know of his dark plan.

A tiny part of me knows this is hilarious. Unfortunately, the dominant part has already turned Hulk-green. ‘Are you kidding me?’ I ask, varnished in a thin layer of polite.

‘I have to use the computer’ he says, in a late Sunday night huff. Who has late-Sunday night huffs? It's a day of god, for Christ's sake! So I grab a pillow, walk into the living room and onto a couch. My sleep hath been ruined again.

Week Four: I come home on a Saturday afternoon. I walk into my bedroom which doubles as an office. My mom is sitting in a chair in front of the computer. My dad is standing behind her in his tighty whiteys looking over her shoulder. He looks over his shoulder at me and grins an evil grin.

‘Mind games. You bastard’, I think.

The old man is spry. And after 15 years he’s on the top of his game. I wonder if my neighbor’s parents are cooler?