Insomnia

“I used to be Joe Wyze, but now I’m older and Wyzer.”

This was almost certainly an ancient joke, but it had lost none of its savor for Joe Wyzer, who laughed uproariously. Ralph smiled a polite little smile with just the smallest touch of anxiety around its edges. The hand which had enfolded his was clearly a strong one, and he was afraid if the pharmacist squeezed hard, his hand might finish the day in a cast. He found himself wishing, at least momentarily, that he’d taken his problem to Paul Durgin downtown after all. Then Wyzer gave his hand two energetic pumps and let go.

“I’m Ralph Roberts. Nice to meet you, Mr. Wyzer.”

“Mutual. Now, concerning the efficacy of these fine products.

Let me answer your question with one of my own, to wit, does a bear shit in a telephone booth?”

Ralph burst out laughing. “Rarely, I’d think,” he said when he could Say anything again.

“Correct. And I rest my case.” Wyzer glanced at the sleeping aids, a wall done in shades of blue. “Thank God I’m a pharmacist and not a salesman, Mr. Roberts; I’d starve trying to peddle stuff door to door.

Are you an insomniac? I’m asking partly because you’re investigating the sleeping aids, but mostly because you have an hollow-eyed look.”

Ralph said, “Mr. Wyzer, I’d be the happiest man on earth if I could get five hours’ sleep some night, and I’d settle for four.”

“How long’s it been going on, Mr. Roberts? Or do you prefer Ralph?”

“Ralph’s fine,”

“Good. And I’m Joe.”

“It started in April, I think. A month or six weeks after my wife died, anyway.”

“Gee, I’m sorry to hear you lost your wife. My sympathies.”

“Thank you,” Ralph said, then repeated the old formula. “I miss her a lot, but I was glad when her suffering was over.”

“Except now you’re suffering. For… let’s see.” Wyzer counted quickly on his big fingers. “Going on half a year now.”

Ralph suddenly found himself fascinated by those fingers. No jet contrails this time, but the tip of each one appeared to be wrapped in a bright silvery haze, like tinfoil you could somehow look right through. He suddenly found himself thinking of Carolyn again, and remembering the phantom smells she had sometimes complained of last fall-cloves, sewage, burning ham. Maybe this was the male equivalent, and the onset of his own brain tumor had been signaled not by headaches but by insomnia.

Self-diagnosis is a fool’s game, Ralph, so why don’t you Just quit it?

He moved his eyes resolutely back to Wyzer’s big, pleasant face.

No silvery haze there; not so much as a hint of a haze. He was almost sure of it.

“Going on half a year. It seems that’s right,” he said. “Going longer. A lot longer, actually.”

Any noticeable pattern? There usually is. I mean, do you toss and turn before you go to sleep, or 11

“I’m a premature waker.”

Wyzer’s eyebrows went up. “And read a book or three about the problem too, I deduce.” If Litchfield had made a remark of this sort, Ralph would have read condescension into it. From Joe Wyzer he sensed not condescension but genuine admiration.

“I read what the library had, but there wasn’t much, and none of it has helped much.” Ralph paused, then added: “The truth is, none of it has helped at all.”

“Well, let me tell you what I know on the subject, and you just kind of flop your hand when I start heading into territory you’ve already explored. Who’s your doctor, by the way?”

“Litchfield.

“Uh-huh. And you usually trade at… where? The People’s Drug out at the mall? The Rexall downtown?”

“The Rexall.”

“You’re incognito today, I take it.”

Ralph blushed… then gri

“Uh-huh. And I don’t need to ask if you’ve been to see Litchfield about your problem, do lo If you had, you wouldn’t be exploring the wonderful world of patent medicines.”

“Is that what these are? Patent medicines?”

“Put it this way-I’d feel a helluva lot more comfortable selling I wagon with fancy yellow most of this crap off the back of a big red wheels,”

Ralph laughed, and the bright silvery cloud which had been gathering in front of Joe Wyzer’s tunic blew away when he did.

“That kind of salesmanship I might be able to get into,” Wyzer said with a misty little grin. “I’d get a sweet little honeybun to do call her Little Egypt, like in that old Coasters song… she’d be my warm-up act. Plus I’d have a banjo-picker. In my experience, there’s nothing like a good dose of banjo music to put people in a buying mood.”

Wyzer looked off past the laxatives and analgesics, enjoying this gaudy daydream. Then he looked back at Ralph again.

“For a premature waker like you, Ralph, this stuff is entirely useless. You’d be better off with a shot of booze or one of those wave machines they sell through the catalogues, and looking at you, I’d guess you probably tried em both.”

“Yes.”

in a sequined a dance’ d bra and a Pair of harem pants “Along with about two dozen other oldtimer-tested home remedies.”

Ralph laughed again. He was coming to like this guy a lot. “Try four dozen and you’ll be in the ballpark.”

,well, you’re an industrious bugger, I’ll give you that,” Wyzer said, and waved a hand at the blue boxes. “These things are nothing but antihistamines. Essentially they’re trading on a side-effect antihistamines make people sleepy. Check out a box of Comtrex or Benadryl down there in Decongestants and it’ll say you shouldn’t take it if you’re going to be driving or operating heavy machinery.

For people who suffer from occasional sleeplessness, a Sominex every now and then may work. It gives them a nudge. But they wouldn’t work for you in any case, because your problem isn’t getting to sleep, it’s staying asleep. correct?”

“Correct.”

“Can I ask you a delicate question?”

“Sure. I guess so.

“Do you have a problem with Dr. Litchfield regarding this Maybe have some doubts about his ability to understand how really pissy your insomnia is making you feel?”

“Yes,” Ralph said gratefully. “Do you think I should go see him?

Try to explain that to him so he’ll understand?” To this question Wyzer would of course respond in the affirmative, and Ralph would finally make the call. And it would bel should be Litchfield-he saw that now. It was madness to think of hooking up with a new doctor at his age.

Can you tell Dr. Litchfield you’re seeing things? Can you tell him about the blue marks you saw shooting up from the tips of Lois Chasse’s fingers? The footprints on the sidewalk, like the footprints in an Arthur Murray dance-diagram? The silvery stuff around the tips of Joe Wyzer’s fingers? Are you really going to tell Litchfield that stuff?

And if you’re of, If you can’t, by are you going to see hill, in first Place, no matter what this guy recommends?

Wyzer, however, surprised him by going in an entirely different direction. “Are you still dreaming?”

“Yes. Quite a lot, in fact, considering that I’m down to about three hours’ sleep a night.”

“Are they coherent dreams-dreams that consist of perceivable events and have some kind of narrative flow, no matter how kookoo-or are they just jumbled images?”

Ralph remembered a dream he’d had the night before. He and Helen Deepneau and Bill McGovern had been having a three-sided game of Frisbee in the middle of Harris Avenue. Helen had a pair of huge, clunky saddle shoes on her feet; McGovern was wearing a sweatshirt with a vodka bottle on it. ABSOLUTELY THE BEST, the sweatshirt proclaimed.

The Frisbee had been bright red with fluorescent green stripes.

Then Rosalie the dog had shown up, The faded blue banda