Insomnia’s Perks
By David Snyder
I have lived my entire life in the same city. The cracks in the sidewalk, the elitist shops, and the restaurants — all are known without hesitation. Oh, the underground death-metal juice bar open from 4 AM to 4:36 AM? Love it! Go all the time. You’ve never been? You must be from out of town.
During the summers, countless directions are given to tourists who have flocked to town to see the ponies run around, and to crowd our streets. Depressingly, the majority of the directions are given to the well and truly fanny-packed in search of the casino — during the middle of a Tuesday.
Boredom and sameness are not unheard of after having seen little of the world, having seen the same scenery for my long life of nineteen years. Each season is appreciated a bit less than the last. The winters drain the light from the sky earlier and earlier in the day. The spring’s warmth keeps taking its sweet time more often. The summer means tourists, tourists, tourists, and the haze of thoroughbred excrement. It truly is chemical warfare round here come August — when I can be found delivering pamphlet copies of the Geneva Convention to the mayor. Fall brings a return to the classroom sooner than the year before, and more fallen leaves to be looked at sternly with rake in hand.
However, one can live his entire life in the same house, in the same city, and be invigorated anew if only he suffers a night’s insomnia.
Having fluffed and reset the sheets and blankets, raised and lowered the thermostat, read something truly incomprehensible — anything by Nabokov — next to the steam of a cup of sleepy tea, all so-called free-will had been resigned to the brain’s cruel shortcomings. If only the brain remembered the glories of a solid night’s rest. However, not a wink of sleep was had nor Zzz’s to fill the proverbial speech bubble, and the alarm was set to blare its contemptuous horns in an hour and twenty-three minutes time the last time I needlessly turned my phone’s screen on. Sleep was certainly not on the cards, so there was little reason to put off the unrivalled joys of the day’s first meal. Only, nothing was quite right. The light — both calmer and more welcoming than usual. The snow — flakes still falling, as they coated the ground untainted by the print of a sole. The air — deafening as not a single combustion engine whizzed by.
If one dares take a stroll down Broadway during the hours before even the bravest of delivery men, braving the somehow even sharper air and drier winter winds, one is in for a right shock. The city and its streets feel completely uncharted. Without the huddled masses, gas-guzzlers, buses, and bicycles drowning out the city’s natural hymn, nothing feels familiar. Entire storefronts appear, having hidden behind the cause of busyness this entire time — as sidewalks are covered with heads cast down and earbuds plugged in. The regular café, not full of subhuman 13-year-olds, is instead populated with its pajama-clad employees playing cards, listening to Sinatra and Martin take turns belting it out over the radio. Of course, every seat in the house is available — not just the ones in the back next to the used syringes! The coffee has only just been taken off brew and the day’s bagels are warm and impeccably soft in all the right places.
The world needs to be seen. People need to travel and experience a little adventure now and then. However, if one can’t take the next train or flight out of town, all one needs to do is have a cup of coffee before bed, and hit the town while the sun yawns.
