kid know about adult life? Who is she to comment? How does she understand? Work. Home. Nightmare. Work. Home. Nightmare. I can’t take it.
I say, “Maybe. Thanks,” and stub out my cigarette and go back inside instead of exploding. Not shouting, but literally detonating into fiery shrapnel.
* * *
Once again, I’m explaining to Dr. Turner why I’m quitting the project.
“It’s affecting my son. My night terrors are getting crazier, and they seem to have made Logan’s emerge.”
“Jessie, night terrors aren’t contagious. They are genetic, though. Your son probably is developing them. Many young children have them and grow out of them. How old is Logan?”
I hadn’t thought of that. “Nine.”
“At that age, the night terrors he’s experiencing are probably the beginning of a chronic condition.”
The hope goes out of me, taking with it my will to stay upright. I slump into my seat, but I really want to sprawl on the examination table.
“The work you’re helping us with could also help him. Night terrors have caused people to throw themselves out of tenth-floor windows, to kill their spouses, to never get a restful night of sleep, but the medical establishment has never seriously looked for a treatment. Your son doesn’t have to go through this.”
“So how is what you’re doing going to help more than the benzos everyone else prescribes? At least those worked a little. These seem to be making things worse.”
“What we found is there’s a place in the brain that’s inactive during the first hour of sleep in people who suffer from night terrors that is active in the average person. The opposite of what you’d expect, huh? You’d think your brain would be overactive .”
“And what does your drug do to that part of the brain?”
“That I can’t go into. But personally, I think targeting this directly is the only hope for a treatment. Tranquilizers work around the problem. We’re staring the problem straight in the face, and we’re the only researchers doing so.”
He hands me the little green pill and the little cup of water.
I swallow it down.
* * *
Sometimes a smoke break seems to do more harm for my mood than good. Sometimes, seeing the open world, the huge sky, seeing the mountains, all that beauty and space and variety, sometimes it agitates me more than it calms me. It’s too jarring a contrast to the dimly-lit cubicle maze, to the flavorless sameness of miles of gray Berber and gray half-walls and seemingly endless hours of phone work ahead of me.
It’s sick, wishing for the day to go more quickly. We only have so many hours, and there’s such a huge, interesting world to explore, filled with people to meet, foods to eat, sights to see, both natural and man-made, that will snatch the breath right from your chest. I should be wishing for endless time, for every minute to last as long as possible. Instead I spend every second of my workday waiting for the clock to finally hit 3:00, waiting all week for Friday, waiting all year for my two weeks of vacation. TGIF means I’d give away half of my waking hours. It should be, like, TGIOWCttWEotG. Thank God I’m One Week Closer to the Warm Embrace of the Grave. I get one turn at all this, and my mind can’t look at it as a gift, only a trial to be waited out, to be gotten through. It’s so obviously sick, but I don’t know what to do about it.
Needless to say, I didn’t return to my desk and my calls in the best of moods.
“Mr. Galloway, I’m glad I caught you.” The word “caught” is actually encouraged. We want people making rash decisions. We don’t want people to stop and think about how likely we are to take them to court over a few thousand dollars. What we want to do is freak them out, make them feel trapped and overwhelmed, and get them to give us a credit card number right during that first call. “I’m Carlton with Kirkland Collections, and we’ve been trying to get hold of you for a while.”
“Goddamn
I say, “Maybe. Thanks,” and stub out my cigarette and go back inside instead of exploding. Not shouting, but literally detonating into fiery shrapnel.
* * *
Once again, I’m explaining to Dr. Turner why I’m quitting the project.
“It’s affecting my son. My night terrors are getting crazier, and they seem to have made Logan’s emerge.”
“Jessie, night terrors aren’t contagious. They are genetic, though. Your son probably is developing them. Many young children have them and grow out of them. How old is Logan?”
I hadn’t thought of that. “Nine.”
“At that age, the night terrors he’s experiencing are probably the beginning of a chronic condition.”
The hope goes out of me, taking with it my will to stay upright. I slump into my seat, but I really want to sprawl on the examination table.
“The work you’re helping us with could also help him. Night terrors have caused people to throw themselves out of tenth-floor windows, to kill their spouses, to never get a restful night of sleep, but the medical establishment has never seriously looked for a treatment. Your son doesn’t have to go through this.”
“So how is what you’re doing going to help more than the benzos everyone else prescribes? At least those worked a little. These seem to be making things worse.”
“What we found is there’s a place in the brain that’s inactive during the first hour of sleep in people who suffer from night terrors that is active in the average person. The opposite of what you’d expect, huh? You’d think your brain would be overactive .”
“And what does your drug do to that part of the brain?”
“That I can’t go into. But personally, I think targeting this directly is the only hope for a treatment. Tranquilizers work around the problem. We’re staring the problem straight in the face, and we’re the only researchers doing so.”
He hands me the little green pill and the little cup of water.
I swallow it down.
* * *
Sometimes a smoke break seems to do more harm for my mood than good. Sometimes, seeing the open world, the huge sky, seeing the mountains, all that beauty and space and variety, sometimes it agitates me more than it calms me. It’s too jarring a contrast to the dimly-lit cubicle maze, to the flavorless sameness of miles of gray Berber and gray half-walls and seemingly endless hours of phone work ahead of me.
It’s sick, wishing for the day to go more quickly. We only have so many hours, and there’s such a huge, interesting world to explore, filled with people to meet, foods to eat, sights to see, both natural and man-made, that will snatch the breath right from your chest. I should be wishing for endless time, for every minute to last as long as possible. Instead I spend every second of my workday waiting for the clock to finally hit 3:00, waiting all week for Friday, waiting all year for my two weeks of vacation. TGIF means I’d give away half of my waking hours. It should be, like, TGIOWCttWEotG. Thank God I’m One Week Closer to the Warm Embrace of the Grave. I get one turn at all this, and my mind can’t look at it as a gift, only a trial to be waited out, to be gotten through. It’s so obviously sick, but I don’t know what to do about it.
Needless to say, I didn’t return to my desk and my calls in the best of moods.
“Mr. Galloway, I’m glad I caught you.” The word “caught” is actually encouraged. We want people making rash decisions. We don’t want people to stop and think about how likely we are to take them to court over a few thousand dollars. What we want to do is freak them out, make them feel trapped and overwhelmed, and get them to give us a credit card number right during that first call. “I’m Carlton with Kirkland Collections, and we’ve been trying to get hold of you for a while.”
“Goddamn
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