Sleep
by Rosalind—Age 52—Bala Cynwyd, PA
The easiest job I ever had was being paid to sleep. Two nights a week I’d walk through dark, quiet streets to the University of Chicago Sleep Lab. After changing into pajamas, I’d sit on a stool in a brightly lit room while Sam, a grad student, pasted a dozen small black electrodes onto my face. Sam was your basic super-intelligent, nerdy guy. Cute if you liked the type, which I did. But he was married. Still, I enjoyed chatting and joking with him. Then, he’d lead me down the hallway to a small bedroom where he’d plug me into the headboard of a handsome wooden bed, with fresh sheets, a plump comforter and big fluffy pillows.
Sam said the same thing each night as he turned off the lights. “It’s okay if you don’t dream. Whatever happens is good. It’s all data.”
Sam studied my dreams from his lab down the hallway. He refused to tell me the purpose of the study. That would “skew the data.” I didn’t even know what had gotten me the job; during the interview, I told Sam about an upbeat pelican and dirigible dream. Apparently it was just what the Sleep Lab was seeking.
I enjoyed chatting with Sam as he electroded my face and I looked forward to settling down in that comfortable bed. I liked rehashing my dream life with someone I trusted. One night I woke up to find Sam standing by the bed wearing Groucho Marx glasses and moustache. He grinned and said “April Fools!”
Another night I woke up from a nightmare and Sam was there. The clipboard fell from his hand. He reached for me. We kissed, a long passionate kiss. It was a little awkward, because I was still plugged in. And I couldn’t help but fret that such a passionate kiss would skew the data. Then I thought—who cares about the data? Kissing Sam felt so good!
Then I woke up. Sam was there, yawning, clipboard in hand. “Care to tell me about it?” he asked. I thought about telling him. I was obligated to. As Sam himself had said, it was all data. But it was my data, and this particular piece of data was none of his business. “Just another pelican and dirigible dream,” I said. Sam nodded, scribbling. I knew I had to quit the Sleep Lab.
Image: barsaat/Flickr
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