Bedtime Story, Act I

Can you give me a lift? I can pay you for gas.
Where to?
Over to the West Side, just over the city line.
People still hitchhike? And at your age?
You don't know my age.
Just saying. It was a Sixties and Seventies thing. But frowned upon. Because . . .
You gonna give me a ride or not?
Yeah, yeah. Calm down. Sure. How much for gas?
Ten.
Make it twelve.
Why twelve?
Cosmic.
Deal.
I need it now. Because, you know. Ya never know.
What's next, a "request" for a blowjob or get out and walk?
Too predictable.
True.
Let's dispense with the basic formalities. I'm Raoul. And you are . . .
Lefty.
Lefty? Not very feminine.
Not very feminine? Who the fuck are you to say?
No one. No one at all. "Fuck" ain't so feminine either, but I guess that depends on what you mean by "fuck" and what I mean by "feminine."
Here's twelve singles, one is a little ripped.
We're all damaged. Thank you. Appreciate it.
No prob.
What street we going to?
Hawthorne.
I prefer Emerson or Thoreau, with a dash of Melville.
Aren't you clever. 
I am that. What block?
1200 Hawthorne.
Got it. I hope this is nothing illegal.
Why do you say that, Raul?
Raoul. The French spelling.
Are you French?
I am not. Are you?
No, sir, if I may be so formal.
I like your voice. It's soothing. The voice a kid wants to hear for a bedtime story.
Do people still do that?
What? Speak with voices instead of texts?
No, tell bedtime stories.
Yes, I'm sure.
It's getting dark.
It's not dark yet but it's getting there.
Bob Dylan.
Excellent.
You're the second person in two days to talk about my voice.
Really? In a good way?
Yeah, what's your bedtime story?
What are you wearing?
What do you mean? That sounds naughty, especially for a so-called bedtime so-called story.
You know. Scent.
Chance. By Chanel.
As in, don't take chances?
The bedtime story, please.
Once upon a time...
Please.
Once upon a time an elderly man without any visible tattoos, a courtly fellow with a slight British accent, posh, wearing Tom Ford Ombre Leather, glided his 1957 Thunderbird convertible to a gentle stop on Strait Street as he saw a hitchhiker, an anomaly of the age, her thumb out, corny, as in an old movie, slightly sullen, not smiling but catching the driver's eye. The car stopped, but not the driver's mental ruminations. She was in her forties, likely, cut-off frayed blue jeans, hot August evening, Versace (maybe) shades atop her dirty blonde hair, tall, willowy, statuesque. Stately. Green eyes, but possibly blue or hazel from this distance. This spelled danger. Something out of a film noir that the film's backers chickened out on as a lousy financial risk. He rolled down the passenger-side window electronically. (The windows up on the convertible helped his hearing and didn't mess up his hair.) As he began to call out to her, he found himself yawning. She yawned.
Hey, it's right here. Stop. Here it is. 1200. Hawthorne.
I guess this is it.
I guess it is.
I guess so. 
See you.
Maybe see you again.
Thanks. Yeah. See ya.

sleeping on the other side of the bed

The coldness of it, the stiffness. Its newness, unused and absent the human imprint. Mine or anyone else's. For the longest time, a set of pillows on that side, away from the end table and lamp, museum-like, virginal. Pillow props. Faux companions missing their heads, and bodies for that matter. That side of the mattress not virginal. That's a convenient fib, but let's not get into that, not today. It's a good thing I didn't say "almost virginal," because, well, that's not even oxymoronic. It's lexically lazy. I switched to that side because I feared ruination of the year-old bedding. Trapped in the imprint of a nightly journey, bearing the weight of dreams, seasons, and fantasies, my habits having embossed that side of the bed. Nocturnal branding seen from an aerial view, i.e., from the loft's high ceiling, the contour lines of my personal topographical map impossible to hide or erase. I am surprised at how I've adjusted. The light on "the other side," "the far side," is bright enough for me to read in that space, a necessity. It's a shorter trip to the bathroom. I assumed I'd do this other side thing for a night or two. It's caught on. It has a momentum I never expected. Do you insist? Really? You're going to go there? The whole business about flying solo versus partners, paramours, assignations, guests of the demimonde, one-night stands not getting traction of their own into six-month sequestrations, the lonely man in his lonely bedroom. No, it ain't like that. I'm slightly offended you swerved in that direction, you fuck. How long will this last? More concerningly, how would I adjust to a bedmate? Could I have merely flipped or repositioned the mattress? Not without looking like a one-man Marx Brothers sketch. I've heard people say, "You can act yourself into a new way of thinking." Counterintuitive, and all that. I'm hoping that's the case here. That Sleeping on the Other Side of the Bed will translate into my becoming another person, one with another perspective, figuratively and literally. The Sleeping on the Other Side of the Bed Person. Can a left-handed person become right-handed? Not this guy. But can a right side of the mattress person (me, from an aerial view) become a left side of the mattress entity? So far, yes. There are other dynamics at work here, opportunities for growth. They say, "Don't go to bed angry." "Don't let the sun go down on your anger," etc. Add to this: the perils of the Silent Treatment. How does one apply this to someone who is flying solo between the sheets? How does this pertain to a single occupant in a queen-size bed? One thing is sure, no one to blame for "stealing the covers" except moi.What's next, a shower immediately upon waking, before my breakfast rites? Never.

eyes wide closed

I've been a napper for as long as I can remember. I was a preemie, and my mother says I've always needed more sleep. I invoke that to defend any nap, anytime, all these years later. About twenty years ago, a colleague and I would leave our workplace and drive to Snooze Alley, as my co-worker labeled it. Near a strip mall a mile down the road from our office, we would eat our lunches in our respective cars and then take a little snooze. Chris would go all in, reclining his seat all the way back. I was not that radical. Nevertheless, we never overdid it. Our snoozes never made us late for returning to the office. Close, but not quite. A good 15 or 20 minutes was fine. This was before the term "power nap" came into vogue. Chris and I believed in the restorative benefits of our nearly daily habit. In Japan, sleeping on the job is a sign of diligence. It's called inemuri, "sleeping on duty." It says, in effect, that this person is working so hard they need a break. But it is fraught with cultural distinctions. Men get away with it more readily, as does upper management. No inemuri on the assembly line. The culture also dictates that inemuri practitioners obey unwritten norms regarding form and space. In other words, don't sprawl out under the conference table, or take up half the subway seat or park bench. I suspect drooling is frowned upon. Don't you agree that America could use a healthy dose of inemuri? I do. Along somewhat different lines, the Japanese have traditionally put employees out to pasture in ways that differ from ours. Sometimes an employee regarded as a has-been is assigned to become a window watcher, a member of the “madogiwa zoku,” or the “window seat tribe.” They sit by the window, with nothing to do, and get paid for it. This would not be allowed in our Puritan-work-ethic-driven society. I guess the idea is to force the members of this glum lot to resign. I suppose they could simply sit by the window and snooze, combining the best of inemuri and madogiwa zoku. These practices make me want to go to Japan, or to evangelize such practices in America. America has forgotten the virtue of laziness. People in hot countries enjoy their siestas. They've been around a lot longer than we have. In the long run, they are not lazy. They are sensible and human. This year, France instituted a law that limited after-hours emails. Workers have a right to disconnect. Volkswagen did this with its employees in 2012. Glad I have a 2007 VW Rabbit. Time for a nap. See ya.