3 May 2023, 3:37 am

Counting sheep makes me itchy, so I’ve begun devising scenarios in which all the people I’ve ever met meet at the old racetrack to lay down twenties in the name of one greyhound or another. The races only last a couple of minutes each, and my high school track coach is always the biggest winner. This might seem odd, but you must remember I haven’t slept in two weeks.

I give interviews to big magazines in the early hours of the morning. No, Vogue, I don’t collect anything. GQ, my prized possessions are my teeth. My biggest regret is not telling her I loved her before she overdosed. Yes, I know it wouldn’t have changed a thing. I am a Libra, People; how’d you know? No, Rolling Stone, I haven’t slept in two weeks; thanks for asking.

I ask a lot of pretty imaginary women out on dates, and they always accept. I’m so charismatic. I’m three inches taller than I am. We meet at the dive bar or arcade, and as they try not to impale people with pool sticks or elbow me on the backswing of the punching machine, I try my hardest to stay present. They suggest I get more sleep, and I ask them if they’ve ever had insomnia. I ask if they know I’m trying. I tell them I haven’t slept in three weeks. They get too drunk, and I have to drive them home.

I spend a paycheck on blackout curtains and eye masks and air purifiers and white noise machines and melatonin. My therapist tells me I need to learn how to breathe. She tells me I’m getting myself riled up. She says it’s like when you throw a dog a tennis ball once and then try to walk away. I ask her how she expects me to calm down when I haven’t slept in four weeks. She says it’s a matter of harnessing the right energy. She lights incense and takes my credit card.

Sometimes I think what I need is a reset, so I get up and pace the length of my apartment. In the living room in the dark, I study the pictures on the mantel. What a beautiful family you have, I say, and then turn my attention to look at the host in the mirror. How’s your grandmother? I ask. Dead, I say. Haha. We both laugh. I laugh. Well, at least someone’s sleeping. Haha. Have you heard I haven’t slept in five weeks? I adjust a throw pillow and pad back to my cave.

I begin to find myself drifting in inappropriate places. At my desk, in traffic, waiting in lines. I begin to realize it doesn’t make much difference at all. I can do eight hours of work in two and then study the gray of my cubicle walls for six. I have no pictures tacked up. I have no plants. I haven’t slept in six weeks. I close my eyes and listen to Jim from accounting talk about the designer pendulums on his desk. Look, this one is made of rocks from Vernazza! I turn to look at the rocks and then remember I’m on the other side of the office and trapped in my enclosure, and I think I tweak my neck. I lay my head down on my keyboard. I doze for a couple of minutes until I feel a tapping on my shoulder and hear someone asking for the expense reports. I was done with them before 9:30 in the morning. Whoever it is tells me I should be careful sleeping on company time. I mumble that I haven’t slept in seven weeks.

I start riding the bus. I’m afraid of becoming one of those people who think they’re in reverse and drive through a Starbucks. I wouldn’t mind hitting a tree or drifting off the Zakim or the Tobin, but I don’t want to hurt anyone else. Other people sleep; other people deserve to live. I watch old women with shopping bags and laundry baskets struggle up the bus steps. I forget to help them. They have the same scent my aunt had in the six months before her heart stopped on a warm October afternoon. I ask the women if they’re afraid. They move away from me and get off at the next stop. I stand on the seat and purse my lips so they fit in the crack of the window. I’m sorry! I yell as the bus drives away. I haven’t slept in eight weeks. The driver threatens to kick me off. I say oh no, sir. Just one more stop. When I disembark, I tell him I haven’t slept in nine weeks. On the sidewalk, I realize I forgot to thank him, but I’m already standing in the bus’ exhaust fumes and a rainbow puddle.

I often give up around four o’clock in the morning. I make a cup of coffee and decide to cook my dinner for the week. I season the chicken and place it in the oven to bake and don’t realize until I smell smoke that the chicken is actually a moldy sponge. I shut off the oven and throw the whole 9x13 out my living room window. The oven’s knobs wink deviously at me. I tell it to cut me some slack; I haven’t slept in ten weeks.

Afraid of the oven, I decide I’ll finally learn how to play the keyboard that’s been tucked under my bed for three years. I think I teach myself one chord before my neighbor starts banging on the door. He keeps knocking, and I doze a little. I come to and watch as a piece of paper slips under the door. It says the sponge dish killed a raccoon when it landed. I didn’t even hear a screech. I stick my head out into the crisp, pre-sunrise air and see the guts in the parking space. I think about following the dish out the window with a perfect swan dive. One nocturnal mammal casualty is enough for a single morning. I write, “I haven’t slept in eleven weeks,” on the other side of the paper and slide it back into the hallway. I stand at the peephole for three hours.

All the people I’ve ever met stage an intervention at my apartment. There’s a charcuterie board on the table, and all my throw pillows are on the floor. They collectively take a step forward, and I crouch into a defensive position. They say they’re worried about me. They say I’m becoming increasingly erratic. I say that I haven’t slept in twelve weeks and kick my shoes off so they hit the wall. Some of the paint chips. The landline starts ringing. They answer and hang up before saying anything. It’s only ever telemarketers anyway. They pull a bag of powder from their pocket. I ask what it is. They say it’s a mixture: Ambien, Xanax, Valium, Lunesta. They hand me a glass of red wine and tell me to snort the powder. I ask them to pick a greyhound each and then make a quick break for the door.

E.C. Gannon was born in Boston and grew up in New Hampshire. She is now a student of English and political science at Florida State University. Her work has previously appeared in The Kudzu Review and Oddball Magazine.