TOPHER PAYNE
| 8.27.2008
IT’S FOUR IN THE MORNING.
I wake up agitated. It’s too quiet. I realize the air-conditioning isn’t running. The bedspread is on the floor and the sheets are soaked with sweat. The room even smells hot.
Confounded, I check the thermostat. It’s 86 degrees, which would be perfect if I was at a barbecue, but not really ideal for a night’s sleep. There’s air coming out of the vents, but it’s warm air, mocking me. I throw on boxers and look at Preppy snoring contentedly. I have no idea how he sleeps through stuff like this.
I’ve always been the person who wakes up at the slightest provocation, bolting up to seek the source of any sound. My father used to go to work at five every morning, and I’d jump out of bed when I heard him in the kitchen.
I don’t really know why I did it every day. But I couldn’t keep myself in the bed, knowing there was something going on in the house that I needed to investigate. I’d find him at the kitchen table, eating Raisin Bran in his postal uniform.
“You should be asleep,” he’d say. “Everything’s OK.”
Then he’d give me a hug, and I would go back to sleep until I heard my mother moving around a little while later.
Standing outside my house in my underwear and flip-flops, I shine a flashlight on the air conditioning unit, which is currently not doing anything. This is a little panic inducing, because calling a technician will require money we don’t have.
Suddenly, I miss having a landlord. Plus there’s no way I’ll be able to sleep knowing there’s a problem to solve. This is exactly why I wake up to every sound. Because there might be something I need to take care of, like a broken air conditioner.
Now, if only I had the slightest idea what to do. Other than knowing the sound it’s supposed to make, I’m at a complete loss.
WHEN I LIVED IN MISSISSIPPI, I dated a guy named John whose next-door neighbor loved reggae music. John’s neighbor seemed to particularly love reggae music at three in the morning, played at a volume that provoked a rage in me I wasn’t aware I possessed.
I would toss and turn in John’s bed, pillow over my head, trying my best to avoid the inevitable confrontation. But it was no use. I’d inevitably launch out of bed, pounding on the wall with my shoe. The music would get louder. John was oblivious to all of this. Without his hearing aids, he was profoundly deaf, an aspect of his existence that presented countless hurdles but did usually guarantee a good night’s sleep.
So I’d have to throw on my boxers and a t-shirt and march across the hall to his neighbor’s door. He’d greet me in a cloud of pot smoke, wearing a sarong, black lights glowing in the background. Our conversations were never cordial.
“Jesus, do we have to go through this every night?”
“Dude, what’s your problem? Your buddy never complains when you’re not here.”
“Because my buddy is DEAF, you jackass. But I’m not, so could you turn it down?”
“I wish he’d fuck another deaf guy, then.”
I’d try to explain my frustration to John the next day, but he’d just tell me not to worry about it. How does one explain annoying sounds to a deaf person?
“It’s like if roaches were crawling all over you,” I told him. “You couldn’t sleep through it.”
Later, when John started having nightmares about bugs attacking him in his bed, he blamed me.
STILL STANDING OUTSIDE, I think of kicking the air conditioner. That tends to work with vending machines when they won’t relinquish my Snickers, but I decide against it. Then I follow a cable to a fuse box on the side of the house, covered in ivy. I start ripping the ivy off, delighted by a possible solution.
That’s when I see the big spider. It’s one of those fat bastards, so big they look hairy.
This launches me five feet back, having a small panic attack. Because I saw "Arachnophobia" at a particularly impressionable age, I have always seen spiders as malicious, calculating creatures, hell-bent on world domination. Even "Charlotte’s Web" gave me the heebie-jeebies, especially because she had Debbie Reynolds’ voice, and frankly I find that woman alarming. She’s like a garden gnome in drag.
Now the spider is the only thing standing between me and cool air, and by extension, sleep. I take off one of my flip-flops and run toward the fuse box kamikaze-style. I smack the hairy monster off the box, flip a switch, and the air conditioner returns to life with the sound I was hoping for.
I feel quite pleased with myself as I go back into the house, having slain the monster and completed my mission. Back in the bedroom, Preppy is spread-eagle on the bed. I want to wake him and share my harrowing hero’s journey, but decide to wait ‘til morning. I give a little push to roll him over, but he won’t budge.
“Baby, move over,” I say, pushing harder.
He flings an arm out in protest, managing to punch me in the face.
“Jesus Christ!” I yell, a hand to my throbbing eye.
“Shh,” he says. “You’re being loud.”
He resumes snoring. I grab my pillow and the bedspread and head for the sofa, deciding I’ve fought enough battles for one night. I should be asleep. Everything’s OK.
Topher Payne deserves a good night’s sleep. Reach him through editor@davidatlanta.com.
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