Insomnia

Ralph went home (mindful of his previous adventures, he took the bus) filled with cautious hope. It might work. If it didn’t, he always had Bach, Beethoven, and William Ackerman to fall back on.

His first attempt at this technique, which one of the texts called “delayed sleep,” was comic. He awoke at his now-usual time (3:45 by the digital clock on the living-room mantel) with a sore back, an aching neck, no immediate idea of how he had gotten into the wingchair by the window, or why the TV was on, broadcasting nothing but snow and a soft, surflike roar of static.

It was only as he allowed his head to roll cautiously back, supporting the nape of his neck with a cupped palm, that he realized what had happened. He had intended to sit up until at least three o’clock and possibly four. He would then stroll off to bed and sleep the sleep of the just. That had been the plan, anyway. Instead, The Incredible Insomniac of Harris Avenue had dropped off during jay Leno’s opening monologue, like a kid who’s trying to stay up all night long just to see what it’s like. And then, of course, he had finished the adventure by waking up in the damned chair. The problem was the same, Joe Friday might have said; only the location had changed.

Ralph strolled off to bed anyway, hoping against hope, but the urge (if not the need) to sleep had passed. After an hour of lying awake, he had gone back to the wing-chair again, this time with a pillow propped behind his stiff neck and a rueful grin on his face.

There was nothing fu

After the last Japanese pillbox had been blown up, Cha

He found a copy of Sports Illustrated and began to slog through an article on women’s te

3:00 a.m. He had become all but convinced that this was going to work.

His eyelids were so heavy they felt as if they had been dipped in concrete, and although he was reading the te

I’m going to sleep tonight-I really think I am. For the first time in months the sun is going to have to come up without my help, and that isn’t just good, friends and neighbors. that’s great.

Then, shortly after three o’clock, that pleasant drowsiness began to disappear, It did not go with a champagne-cork pop but rather seemed to ooze away, like sand through a fine sieve or water do-,x,n a partially clogged drain. When Ralph realized what was happening, it wasn’t panic he felt, but sick dismay, It was a feeling he had come to recognize as the true opposite of hope, and when he slipperscuffed his way into the bedroom at quarter past three, he couldn’t remember a depression as deep as the one which now enveloped him. He felt as if he were suffocating in it.

“Please, God, just forty winks,” he muttered as he turned off the light, but he strongly suspected that this was one prayer which was not going to be answered.

It wasn’t. Although he had been awake for twenty-four hours by then, every trace of sleepiness had left his mind and body by quarter of four. He was tired, yes-more deeply and fundamentally tired than he had ever been in his life-but being tired and being sleepy, he had discovered, were sometimes poles apart. Sleep, that undiscriminating friend, humankind’s best and most reliable nurse since the dawn of time, had abandoned him again.

By four o’clock Ralph’s bed had become hateful to him, as it always did when he realized he could put it to no good use. He swung his feet back onto the floor, scratching the mat of hairalmost entirely gray now-which curled through his mostly unbuttoned pajama top. He slid on his slippers again and scuffed back to the living room, where he dropped into the wing-back chair and looked down at Harris Avenue.

It was laid out like a stage set where the only actor currently on view wasn’t even human: it was a stray dog moving slowly down Harris Avenue in the direction of Strawford Park and Up-Mile Hill. It held its right rear leg up as much as possible, limping along as best it could on the other three.

“Hi there, Rosalie,” Ralph muttered, and rubbed a hand across his eyes.

It was a Thursday morning, garbage-pickup day on Harris Avenue, so he wasn’t surprised to see Rosalie, who’d been a wandering, here-and-there fixture in the neighborhood for the last year or so.

She made her way down the street in leisurely fashion, investigating a the rows and c usters of cans with the discrimination of a dead fie market shopper.

Now Rosalie-who was limping worse than ever this morning, and looked as tired as Ralph felt-found what looked like a good-sized beef bone and trotted away with it in her mouth. Ralph watched her out of sight, then simply sat with his hands folded in his lap, gazing out on the silent neighborhood, where the orange hi-intensity lamps added to the illusion that Harris Avenue was nothing but a stage set standing deserted after the evening performance had ended and the actors had gone home; they shone down like spotlights in a perfect diminishing perspective that was surreal and hallucinatory.

Ralph Roberts sat in the wing-chair where he had spent so many early-morning hours lately and waited for light and movement to 9 invest the lifeless world below him. Finally the first human actorPete the paperboy-entered stage right, riding his Raleigh. He biked his way up the street, tossing rolled newspapers from the bag slung over his shoulder and hitting the porches he aimed at with a fair degree of accuracy.

Ralph watched him awhile, then heaved a sigh which felt as if it had come all the way from the basement, and got up to make tea.

“I don’t remember ever reading about this shit in my horoscope,” he said hollowly, and then turned on the kitchen tap and began to fill the kettle.

That long Thursday morning and even longer Thursday afternoon taught Ralph ROberts a valuable lesson: not to sneer at three or four hours’ sleep a night simply because he had spent his entire life under the mistaken impression that he had a right t(o at least six and usually seven. It also served as a hideous preview: if things didn’t improve, he could look forward to feeling like this most of the time.

Hell, all of the time. He went into the bedroom at ten o’clock and again at one, hoping for a little nap-even a catnap would do, and half an hour would be a life-saver-but he could not so much as drowse.

He was miserably tired but not the least bit sleepy.

Around three o’clock he decided to make himself a Lipton Cup-A-Soup. He filled the teakettle with fresh water, put it on to boil, and opened the cupboard over the counter where he kept condiments, spices, and various envelopes containing foods which only astronauts and old men actually seem to eat-powders to which the consumer need only add hot water.