Year's Best Horror Stories XVIII Part 8

"Hate what?" Jeff asked wearily. Instinctively he pulled her naked body closer.

"I hate that every time we make love, you fall asleep right after."

"Don't take it personally; it's not just you."

"You mean you fail asleep after s.e.x with your other girls too?" She smiled.

Ever since they began dating last semester she had been painfully aware of his erratic sleeping patterns.

"No, that's not what I mean." He threw a mock punch lightly against her cheek. "Can we not talk about it right now?"

"Okay." She kissed him, got out of bed, and started dressing. "I'm going back to my room to change and get pretty for the party -- "

" -- you're already pretty," he broke in.

"Okay, then I'm going to get prettier."

"Can't be done."

She stood by the door and looked at him. "You're allowed to sleep a little more now if you want -- but I'll be back at 7:30 for dinner and parties -- no sleeping then."

He nodded agreement.

As she left she turned around and said, "I love you."

"I love you too," he said and meant it."

s.h.i.t, Clyde thought, late for work again.

He grabbed a pair of torn jeans from the floor; not finding a clean work shirt he put on the one that smelled least. He never saw the point of washing the clothes he pumped gas in; they would only get filthy again.

He sped through downtown Wilmington in his rusty, nine-year-old piece of s.h.i.t Chevrolet, wishing he had Jeff's brand new Audi. The Audi was a replacement for the BMW that was totaled in last summer's wreck. Clyde thought of the other aspects of Jeff's life: the trip to Jamaica last spring break, Cynthia, room and board at one of the most expensive schools in the country, the 20,000 dollars Jeff's parents had given their son on his twenty-first birthday. Clyde received two gifts for his: a bottle of Jack Daniels and a pat on the head. "Congratulations," his father had said, "you're legal now."

In the rearview mirror Clyde saw gray smoke pouring from the Chevy's tailpipe. Maybe he could tell Phipps he was late because of car trouble. Give him any excuse you want, Clyde told himself, it doesn't matter and you know it, cause you've been late one too many times.

One more mile and he would be at Phipps's Gulf. The thought of facing his boss sickened him.

At least you have to live through my h.e.l.l too, college-boy. Hope you like it, Mr. Jeff Education.

Clyde couldn't have gotten accepted to any college worth going to (and if he could have he knew G.o.dd.a.m.n well that he would have had to pay for it himself).

Thinking about it now, he guessed it really didn't matter -- he knew everything Jeff knew: all that s.h.i.t about Keynes and the money supply and tours and Descartes and elastic curves. He wished Jeff would stop cramming that worthless c.r.a.p into their mind. He wished Jeff would never go to cla.s.s and just spend all his time f.u.c.king Cynthia, or maybe Kathy Oilman from last year (now there was someone who knew what she was doing in bed).

Clyde turned the corner and even at a distance he could see the metal sign: Phipps's Gulf. He thought about turning around rather than facing Mr. Phipps.

He switched his mind back to girls; he compared the Duke girls to the hideous women he sometimes took back to his nasty apartment -- there wasn't much comparison at all: the women Clyde brought home were always rancid; Jeff had always thought so, and now, after Karen and Cynthia, Clyde thought so too.

He was losing his taste for them. And he was losing his taste (not that he ever really had one) for his s.h.i.t car, his s.h.i.t apartment, and his s.h.i.t life.

He wanted sleep.

Real sleep. Time out from the world. What does that feel like?

Once before, five months ago, he thought he felt sleep for a moment.

It was at the end of summer. Jeff had been home in Greensboro, out with friends on a Sat.u.r.day night. The next day he would return to Duke -- cla.s.ses started Monday morning. A girl had come on to Jeff at Bentley's Cafe and Clyde wished Jeff had taken her home (she had a particularly nice a.s.s and it would have been a very sweet dream). Only he didn't take her home -- all he could think about was seeing Cynthia the next day. So Jeff left early: he knew Cynthia well and undoubtedly he would need his energy when he saw her.

On the drive home Jeff wasn't drunk but the guy that ran into him was. The collision nearly killed Jeff. It would have if he hadn't had his seatbelt on. As it was his head rammed into the steering wheel rather than the windshield. He had four broken ribs from where the belt held him back. The grill of the BMW ended up in the mangled engine and it took two guys with blowtorches thirty minutes to get the door open and get Jeff out.

At the hospital they kept him so pumped full of drugs that he slept virtually all the time, so Clyde was forced to stay up night after night.

But the second night in the hospital it happened: Clyde closed his eyes when he felt tired and -- he didn't become Jeff. Not immediately anyway. For a few moments he thought he felt what sleep, sweet dreamless sleep, must be like. Like a vacation. Like being able to turn yourself off from the world.

Unconscious darkness.

That was the only time.

Now, when Clyde pulled into the station, Mr. Phipps, a fat ugly a.s.shole, wasn't happy. Not at all. He was pumping gas into cars, gas that Clyde was supposed to be pumping. His large belly was not held in well by his white oil- stained shirt. The sight of Clyde turned his face a sunburned color. Phipps ran toward Clyde's Chevy screaming. "DON'T GET OUT OF THAT CAR -- JUST KEEP DRIVING. Jesus Christ, you'd think just once you could be on time. Just once. You think I hired you so I could pump gas while you beat off?"

Clyde tried to explain: "I over -- "

" -- I know. You overslept. Well tough s.h.i.t. Its f.u.c.king 7:00 at night... just get the f.u.c.k out of my sight."

Clyde did. He drove slowly through town with nowhere to go. Tired as usual, he considered going back to the apartment, but the thought of going back to that mattress (with G.o.d knows what insects in it) repulsed him. He stopped at some place called the Oasis Bar. A Budweiser and a grilled cheese sandwich helped some but he still felt like c.r.a.p. He ordered another beer and then another -- best just to get drunk, fall asleep, and vacation in North Carolina for a while.

He put his head down on his corner table in the almost empty bar.

Jeff is 14. He is waiting for the letter. Is this real? It can't be, but he knows it is. The letter will not come. He pours some milk and waits longer for the mailman, already an hour late. The mailman fills the box and leaves. Jeff slowly opens the door, and without looking, grabs the mail. Slowly, a letter at a time, he files through it. The letter is there, second to last. He looks at the envelope addressed to him. In the upper left hand corner, scribbled in black ink, was the return address: Clyde Wa.s.serman 102 Marco Rd. Wilmington, Del He opens the letter though he knows what it says because he was there when it was written. It says only: I knew it was real.

Clyde Jeff woke quickly in his dark room. Cynthia was coming in, knocking as she opened the unlocked door.

She stood silent over the bed.

She looked like a billion dollars; her brunette hair was perfect. Her long- sleeved white satin blouse was tucked snugly into her gray wool slacks making her bra slightly visible through the fabric.

"Jesus, you look good," he said.

"Well you don't; you're supposed to be ready -- you promised."

"Sorry." Jeff jumped out of bed. "Give me one minute," he said, throwing on a bathrobe and then grabbing a bottle of Head & Shoulders and a leather shaving kit.

He hurried back into the room with his hair still soaked. She browsed through a copy of Playboy while he got dressed. It took him two tries to get his tie the right length; it was the first date in a long while that he'd worn one -- usually they just went to a movie or drinking somewhere on campus. But tonight, to celebrate the end of exams, they had reservations at The Station and you couldn't get in there without a tie. Jeff felt refreshed, not fatigued, but he knew Mr.

Sandman could come suddenly at any time: Clyde was asleep on a barroom table and Jeff wasn't sure how long Clyde would be allowed to stay there.

At The Station Jeff and Cynthia both ordered steaks so Jeff requested a good California Cabernet Sauvignon. (Let's see, he thought, what would you prefer, Clyde? Boone's Farm perhaps? Maybe recent vintage Wild Irish Rose?) Soon they were eating and laughing and talking about what a jerk Professor Broffenbrener was when the fatigue came on like a storm. Jeff did something he rarely did. He fought it. G.o.dd.a.m.n it, stay awake now, he told himself.

"Are you okay?" he heard Cynthia ask.

"Yeah, fine. Sorry."

He fought harder: his left foot and arm were already asleep, and it took all his concentration to keep his head clear. It was no use.

Jeff stood up weakly. "We'd better go. I don't feel well," he mumbled. He managed to pull out his wallet and throw more than enough money on the table. As they walked out he said: "Listen, you better go to the parties without me. Go with Karen and Lynn, I'm gonna have to sleep."

Cynthia frowned. She had seen this many times before but tonight more than ever her disappointment was evident. "Listen, let me take you to a doctor."

"I've told you: I've been to every doctor there is; please, honey, just get me home."

Cynthia got behind the wheel of the Audi and before she got the car started Jeff was gone.

"Jesus, buddy, would you wake up!" Clyde felt hands on both his shoulders.

"Hey, sleeping beauty, you can't pa.s.s out here; this ain't no hotel." The ugly man was two inches from Clyde's face, speaking loudly. "We thought you were dead. I never seen anyone so hard to wake."

Paying for the food and beers left Clyde with about forty dollars in his pocket: he'd spent half his last paycheck on cocaine (and it wasn't much of a pay- check to begin with). He stumbled into the parking lot and, for a few minutes, sat freezing in the car with nowhere to go.

Cynthia helped Jeff from the car back to his room. He hated letting her down like this but it was nothing that hadn't happened on important occasions before (the worst time was when he slept through a Duke-Carolina basketball game). She put him in bed, carefully placed the covers over him, kissed him, and said quietly: "Why couldn't I have fallen in love with an insomniac."

Clyde is sixteen. He tries to sleep, to go to North Carolina. Through the cardboard-like walls of his crumbling house the sounds of his father screaming at his mother fill the room. Outside the neighbor's dog is barking. The fatigue has come but he cannot escape to the other place. The noise is too great. Clyde hears a dull thud and he knows it is a punch being thrown. Then another. A door slams.

His father has stormed away to somewhere. Clyde's mother sobs loudly in her room. He could sleep now if only the neighbor's dog would shut up. It won't. Clyde rises from his bed, tired, tired. The clock says eight P.M. He grabs his hunting knife, the one his father gave him, and walks out the door to the neighbor's yard.

The beagle runs to greet him. Dogs are so trusting, he thinks. Clyde pets the puppy with a long slow stroke. From behind, Clyde pulls the dog's head up with his left hand and with his right (please don't, he almost hears Jeff say) he carves a red slit into the dog's throat. Now there would be quiet for a while.

Two men staggered out of the Oasis Bar, laughing.

The warmth of the bed's blankets was gone; in the car there was only cold.

Clyde knew where he could go and he knew what he had to do. A way to get some sleep.

North Carolina would be nice this time of year.

It was 8:30 P.M. now.

He could be there by 2:00 in the morning if he sped. He reached into the glove compartment of the Chevy. The car's inside light had not worked in years but there was enough light from the Oasis Bar's neon sign. His knife was still there and so was the cocaine.

It took three tries to get the car started -- the first two times sounded like he was trying to shove a piece of metal into a fan. Finally it started.

He drove the Chevy across the street into a Quick Mart and got some gas and a twelve-pack of beer.

It seemed strange now to Clyde that he and Jeff had never met. A few times they'd thought about meeting halfway (near Richmond maybe) but it would have been a boring conversation: you can't say much to a sleeping person. And from the time they were old enough to do it Jeff had not really wanted to. College-boy is ashamed to be acquainted with me, he thought. Excuse me for not liking golf.

So now they would finally meet.

It really wasn't murder, Clyde thought.

Nothing like it. Jeff would just be... relocated. What would Jeff's business teacher have called it? Consolidation. A merger perhaps. Or you could look at it as a form of suicide. Take your pick.

Then there would be sleep. Lots of it, every night, just as the Good Lord intended.

But G.o.d he would miss s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g Cynthia and the others.

His cold Chevy continued down 1-95. Clyde bet himself that Jeff would be asleep when he got there.

Soon Clyde was somewhere in Virginia. Outside of Petersburg a new rattling sound came from the Chevy's engine. All he hoped for was that the car would stay in one piece until he got to Duke and back. Once he took care of Jeff he could take Jeff's Gold Visa and get $500 from the cash machine. Cynthia probably would have been p.i.s.sed off if she'd known that Jeff's 6-digit code was KATHY1: that's who he was dating last year when he opened the account.

He turned off 1-95 onto 1-85, and then paid a toll.

Soon there would be perfect sleep. Nights of quiet. Dreamless nights -- or at least dreams that weren't real.

The white on the green background said: DURHAM 120 MILES. One and a half hours at this speed. That would put the estimated time of arrival at 2:00 and the approximate time of death at 2:15.

Now it was just after midnight and Clyde began to feel Jeff trying to break through, trying to send him to sleep.

Jeff was fighting. Fighting hard, fighting for his life.

Clyde tired. His eyes shut for a moment and he was jolted back by the sound of the gravel under the tires as he veered off the highway. He managed to steer back onto the road and then, still startled, he pulled over. His left side was asleep but with his right arm he groped in the dark glove compartment. He felt the sharp blade of the hunting knife, but he didn't need that, not just yet. Deeper in, he felt the plastic packet containing the cocaine: he had about a half gram left. He carefully unwrapped the tiny bag -- a corner cut from a baggy -- and, still working only with his right hand, dipped his key into the powder, raised it to his right nostril, and snorted.

The same for the left nostril.

Almost instantly he felt more alert. More alive.

He repeated the process.

Finally he dipped his finger in and rubbed some c.o.ke into the walls of his cheeks and mouth -- he always enjoyed the numbing sensation.

That should keep Mr. Sandman in Durham for a while.

Feeling came back to his left side and soon he was on the road again. He left the remainder of the powder on the pa.s.senger seat for easy access. I may need it again, he thought.

Soon he saw familiar exits along the highway -- but in an unfamiliar way.

He knew the stretch of 1-85 going into Durham. Jeff had driven it many times before. There was the all night Exxon station. There was Bojangles Chicken.

The closer he got the more excited he became.

He pa.s.sed the Hardee's on the left -- Jeff and Cynthia usually got biscuits there on Sunday mornings.

Finally: Exit 751. Duke University.

Two minutes later Clyde pulled the Chevy into the West Campus lot and shut off the engine, not believing this old car had managed to bring him all the way from Delaware.

He snorted the rest of the cocaine and then licked the plastic container clean.

Next he slid the hunting knife under his bulky green winter jacket. For the first time he walked onto the campus he knew by heart. It was nearly two in the morning now but there were still parties dying down. Quiet music came from several of the common rooms; on the way he saw a light from the ground floor of Cynthia's sorority. Cynthia would still be up he bet; she was one of the last to leave any party. Such a social animal. He looked in. She had changed clothes since earlier in the evening; now she had on jeans and sweater.

I've got some business to take care of now, Cyn, but I may have a few minutes for a good-bye f.u.c.k before I head back up north. You don't know it, but I've been inside of you -- I was inside you every time Jeff was.