The Danger of Sleep, or Me Being Myself

As a child I had the funny habit of talking in my sleep. Bedmates have told me that it still happens. Of course I have no recollection of the nuggets of wisdom that I’ve shared in twilight. My sister, Annie, though, had the issue of sleepwalking, at least at an early age. That scenario has always frightened me. To meander about with no control is a hell, an involuntary action, like a heartbeat, but potentially lethal. Thank the heavens I don’t have to worry about that.

Or so I thought.

Then there was last night.

It was an eventful night. My plan was to stay in and work on a photography book that I am designing. The long week did a number on my 30 year old bones and to rest comfortably on my couch with the computer and a snort of whiskey seemed ideal. A friend called and reminded me of a party, of the tiki variety, and stirred my soul enough to rouse my aches. A twenty minute cab ride later I was nerding it up with fellow geeks, all with cooler jobs than mine. Nico asked me to mix her a drink even after warning her that I don’t know how. I approached the bar and gazed at all the choices of booze and liquor. As I held her glass and stared a girl was mixing up something for her belly and soul. I asked, “What is a good mixed drink? My friend asked me to mix her one but I don’t know how.” I think she took it as a pick-up line and was cautious to answer.

“What does she like?”

“I don’t know. She’s not my girlfriend.” Bad choice of words, Luc.

“Figure something out.”

Okay. Rum, pineapple juice, vodka. The Mister Buckets Serious Time. Luckily, Nico liked it. “It tastes like booze.”

“Yeah, there’s quite a bit in there.”

“I like it.”

“Excellent.”

My phone rang. It was Johnny. “Get in a cab and come down here.”

“Where are you?”

“The Hilton. I’m drinking beer on a helipad. The view is incredible. Plus I know you’ve never drank on a helipad.”

“That’s true.”

To the hostess: “I gotta go. I’m gonna drink on a helipad.”

“What’s a helipad?”

“It’s where helicopters land on top of buildings.”

“Awesome.”

“I know.”

Another twenty minute cab ride and I am at the doors of the Hilton. I enter, holey pants and all, and approach the front desk. “I need to get to the Conrad suite.”

He just stares.

“Conrad suite,” I repeat.

“Elevator one. It is on floor T3.”

Mirrors and brass raise me to the penthouse. I curse myself for not bringing my camera. The elevator opens to a short hallway with only one door, which is locked. I knock and a smiley fellow opens up and I say, “I know Johnny.”

“C’mon! The wine’s there and there’s some cheese, too.”

The place is immaculate, straight out of Pretty Woman. It could be the exact place where Julia Roberts refuses to kiss Richard Gere on the lips. She will only open her legs. Bizarre standards but standards that I could follow, if need be.

There are multiple rooms. Two of the three bedrooms are locked, possibly because of the same bizarre standards being followed. Johnny introduces me as, “You remember the stories that I’ve told you about? Well, this is Luc!” They seemed honored to meet me and I wondered what Johnny has told them.

Glass of wine in hand, we ventured onto the aforementioned helipad. Surrounding us was silence and a gorgeous view of downtown. I wandered, found a crawlspace that housed the inner workings of the elevators, and generally celebrated in my fortune. The party wound down and we hopped in another cab to return to our realities.

I stopped into Simon’s for a nightcap and a quick update in the lives of the bartenders. I returned home, took the bitch for a walk, and went to bed. A day lived. Insert content sigh here.

Enter panic here.

Sometime in the night I left home. I don’t know when, or why. All I know is that I awoke atop Mount Trashmore, the gigantic, man-made hill in the park a few blocks away from my apartment. Next to me was my phone, a leash, and my shoes. Luckily I was fully clothed, but the luck went only that far.

Emma was nowhere to be seen. Confusion, of course, had already set in but now a panic started. How in the fuck did I get here? Where’s Emma? When did I start sleepwalking? WHERE THE FUCK IS EMMA?

I whistled and yelled and felt the tears beginning to well. Am I this crazy?

A woman jogging (it was 6:00am at this point) filled me in on the happenings with a judgemental, “You should keep your dog on a leash.”

“I am just waking up. I sleptwalked, you cunt.” Another fine choice of words. “Where’s my dog?”

“Down there.” She had a look of terror as if I was going to attack her and then promptly fled. The damn cunt.

Emma was loving it. To sleep outside is the dream of every household pet, I assume. I collected my things and returned home, bewildered and thankful.

But now what? Is this going to be a recurring thing? Should I strap myself to the bed or just accept it as one of my “gifts”?

Damn, life is weird.

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Comments
2 Responses to “The Danger of Sleep, or Me Being Myself”
  1. April says:

    I should drink more. And for the record, this is my favorite Lucas story.

  2. I can’t attribute the sleepwalking to drunkeness, unfortunately. I think I’m just losing my mind.

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