Nightmare Man, page 3
When I wasn’t reading comics, I was drawing them. I don’t know if I had a ton of artistic ability, but when you practice something diligently, you get good regardless. My high school art teacher begged me to draw something other than comic book characters. She wanted me to try on the styles of the abstract expressionists who were her favorites, to be less representational.
The best I could do for her was to adopt a completely realistic style. Yes, it was the opposite direction she’d asked me to move, but it was at least suitable for things other than the very stylized world of comic book art. And it was my portfolio of this work that got me into the University of Colorado’s illustration program.
There’s not much to say about college. It was too happy a time to be interesting to anyone but me. Engrossed in my art, surrounded by intelligent, energetic peers who both supported and challenged me…It was the best time of my life. I don’t even like to think about it.
It was probably too good, because I didn’t want to leave my friends behind, and got sucked into the vortex that is Boulder, Colorado, the ultimate college town with a massively overeducated population and few decent jobs, but also no one pressuring me to do anything more with my life.
I told myself I was building a better portfolio, and really, I only wanted to take a year off to enjoy my lifestyle without the pressures of schoolwork or real work. So I went full-time at ScanTech, the part-time data entry job I’d worked through school, and partied and occasionally drew. And I met Shannon.
Shannon worked first shift at the data entry center. She had for most of the time I’d been working there, but I’d worked second shift while in school and so had at most seen her in passing at the shift change, along with the hundreds of other people who worked there. But when I switched to full-time and first shift, I knew I had to get to know her. She really was beautiful. Yeah, is beautiful.
Shannon was a townie. She hadn’t attended CU. She’d gone to community college for a year, but basically flunked out. Not because she wasn’t smart, but because she didn’t really have any interest in school and liked partying too much. She was one of the most entertaining girls I’d ever met, and even if she isn’t book smart, I think that takes a certain type of intelligence.
Then again, she wasn’t smart enough to see through my sensitive, brooding artist act. We moved in together within a couple of months, which didn’t seem like a big deal. Then she got a bad case of bronchitis she couldn’t shake.
She says the doctor didn’t warn her the antibiotics would make her birth control stop working. I have no reason to doubt her. She wasn’t trying to snare a winner. I was a nerd who’d landed entirely too pretty and cool a girlfriend. I wasn’t going anywhere. And because she didn’t have health insurance, the doctor wasn’t her doctor, just whoever was working the walk-in clinic that day, and he didn’t know her or her medical history.
It’s funny, because I had assumed that in this sort of situation, any normal woman would get an abortion. Shannon wasn’t some religious nut. We were obviously too young, irresponsible and unmarried. But she didn’t want to, got really angry when I casually mentioned it. And not casually like I was trying to be sly. Casually like I considered it to be the obvious conclusion we had both reached and had no qualms about, though we had never discussed such a thing.
I didn’t bring it up again. In hindsight, with my life the way it is, that seems insane. I was too scared, and I didn’t want to feel like a bad person, like some sort of degenerate who casually tosses a fetus on the fire when it gets chilly.
So we were having a baby. We couldn’t do it on the money we were making doing data entry. Unfortunately, I’d had no luck getting graphic design or illustration work, the only career I was really qualified for. I started applying for jobs I wasn’t qualified for. It quickly became apparent that my degree was not only not going to land me a job, but it was actually a hindrance. No one wanted to hire a flighty artist for a boring office job. They figured I’d be looking to move on at the first opportunity, that I’d be out of there as soon as a vacant building opened up in the abandoned warehouse district so I could squat and start an artists’ commune. I was tempted to put “DON’T WORRY, I’M TRAPPED” at the top of my résumé.
I’d sent out a hundred résumés, and yet I was completely unprepared to receive a call back. After a brief phone conversation in which I had to have come off as an imbecile due to the amount of time it took me to adjust to the idea that a potential employer had responded to me, we arranged an interview, and after the interview, they hired me. They actually hired me.
What I didn’t understand was that Kirkland Collections hired everyone they interviewed who seemed to have a bit of spine. More people were weeded out during the two-week training program, most during the second week where we went live on the phones with a trainer sitting beside us.
A month later, only half of us remained. People went to lunch and never came back. People broke down, left the floor weeping. Some eight years later, I’m the only person in my training class still working the phones. One other guy lasted long enough to make it into QA, where he listens in on our calls and makes much less money.
I found something in myself. I came to think of it as a switch. The switch controls my empathy, and I can flip it to “off.” I have to in order to attack the poor, desperate people I’m sicced on every day. Sometimes I think the problem isn’t switching off, but switching back on.
The initial pay was good, and as my collection percentage went up, it has only gotten better. The benefits are fantastic. While I was looking for work, I heard from a lot of my friends that even if I got health insurance, they wouldn’t cover the neonatal stuff and the birth. They said most policies required that you pay in for two years before a birth would be covered. But all of Shannon’s visits were paid for, and Logan entered this world with a blank slate instead of debt.
Yes, I named my son after Wolverine. No, I didn’t tell Shannon the origin of the name, though she put it together after the movie came out.
The new job also paid for a move to the beautiful Denver suburbs, where everything is new, the roads are arterial, you never have to interact with anyone and the only appreciated art is seasonal lawn decorating. But it cut my commute down from an hour to ten minutes, and eventually landed our kids in one of the top public school districts in the country.
The job also allowed Shannon to stop working, which only made sense because she was even less qualified than me to get a job that would pay for more than day care. To get even a horrible collections job required either years of experience or a bachelor’s. And neither of us wanted Logan to grow up thinking of some other woman as his mother.
Party-girl Shannon began voraciously consuming parenting literature. Children with siblings are better adjusted. With Shannon staying home, two wouldn’t cost much more than one. So before long, Madison entered the world.
I’d had no idea that Shannon’s purpose in life was to be a mother. I think she suspected it and never let me in on the fact for fear of scaring me off, but once the deed was done, she puffed up her feathers and settled into our suburban life like a mother hen. Ensconced with one baby boy and one baby girl in a house with only one previous owner, with an SUV sitting in the driveway, she was complete. But I have grown to feel I am not a component of that world. I am necessary to its existence, but I’m like the Sun, which allows the Earth to flourish but exists outside of it, separated by unimaginable miles of dark, cold vacuum.
The nightmare man never left me, but during college he stayed more often in his shadows. I slept through more nights. My work at Kirkland Collections loosed him. I began to have more night terrors than I’d had during my worst times in high school. The nightmare man torments me every night.
* * *
Dr. Gunnar takes the occasional note, but mostly he just listens. Once I’m done, I feel better to have gotten it all out. I often make jokes about my unhappiness with my life, but I never tell the whole story. It seems self-indulgent, and would make me feel too vulnerable. But I do feel better, which is silly, because nothing has changed.
“Most people who suffer from night terrors have certain recurring nightmares, but the fact that your ‘nightmare man’ is so persistent is very interesting. Usually people see their phobias. Spiders, snakes, rats…I think there’s a key there. What I want you to do for next week is think about why you see this dark figure. What could he represent? If he’s the manifestation of a phobia, a deep-rooted fear, what is he representing?”
Some part of my mind is taking notes on what he’s saying, but most of my thoughts are stuck on “next week.”
“Next week?”
“Yes. I think we should talk another time or two before deciding on a path forward. I think you’re right, that much of your anxiety is situational, and we should discuss ways of coping with it, whether it be through relaxation techniques, meditation, or regular therapy. I can recommend someone.”
I’m suddenly conscious that during the telling of my tale I sank back into the overstuffed couch, exposing my soft underbelly. I lean forward, elbows on knees. “I know about all this stuff already. I’ve tried meditation. It didn’t do anything for me. I tried controlled breathing and it works great. I use it most days. And a therapist isn’t going to be able to get me a new job.”
“Jessie, a lot of people work very stressful jobs. A lot of people have goals they’ve had to defer. Most don’t rampage through their house every night.”
“Night terrors are genetic.” I see the dawning of both a little respect and a little annoyance on his face.
“They are, but you know they’re tied to your stress level, and that is something you can control once you learn the proper techniques. You think the equation is A: the world presents me with stressors and then B: I feel stress. But in truth, the equation is A: the world presents me with stimuli, B: I interpret that stimuli and then C: decide how I will react. Right now, that middle step is automatic for you, unconscious. Therapy can help you make it conscious. But we’re getting ahead of ourselves.” He stands, opens the door, and ushers me out, but at the front desk he stops and says, “We need to make an appointment for Jessie for next week.”
Dr. Gunnar shakes my hand. His palm is soft except for a few enormous, horny callouses in the spots where the barbell rubs. Then he strides back around the corner, his shoulders so wide he almost has to make a three-point turn.
I feel like I’m being railroaded, but I make the appointment.
* * *
I get lunch at McDonald’s, then head to the sleep specialist’s office. His nurse asks me about my night terrors and then leaves the room. After about fifteen minutes, during which I really wish I’d brought a magazine from the waiting room, the sleep specialist enters, reading a clipboard upon which I assume my paperwork is clipped. He asks, “How do you feel about experimental medication?”
I laugh. He doesn’t. After a conversation shorter than my magazine-less wait, I head off to Conway Medical Research Center.
I remember seeing ads for the Conway Medical Research Center during my long, frustrating search for a grownup job. I considered signing up for a study. They seemed to pay good money. I decided against it for two reasons. One, it didn’t seem like a sustainable career, and I needed more than a one-time influx of cash. Two, I’d been there once before, and the experience hadn’t inspired confidence.
At ScanTech, the clients usually shipped their files to us for scanning and data entry, but occasionally we’d work on-site. The standard reason for this is that the client was using the files they needed scanned and couldn’t send them away for weeks. Conway Medical Research Center’s files, however, couldn’t leave the site because they were too sensitive.
What they carted into the room were the files of people who’d died during a study of an experimental heart medication.
Now, these people probably had serious heart problems that had qualified them for the study in the first place. But scanning their files, seeing their pictures, it freaked me out, so that even the promises of making thousands in only a few weeks couldn’t lure me into participating in one of their studies.
And yet here I sit, filling out an intimidating stack of paperwork. Maybe it’ll be going through a ScanTech scanner, soon, controlled by some blasé kid who thinks a person that takes experimental medicine gets what he deserves.
After the paperwork, a nurse takes my vitals, draws my blood, and then I’m sitting in a small white office, waiting for a doctor, again wishing I’d thought to bring something to read. There must be something about the experience of waiting in a doctor’s office that causes amnesia. Like, it’s such a boring experience the mind can’t form a memory of it, leading to a similar experience next time.
The doctor enters, reading a clipboard upon which I assume my paperwork is clipped.
“So except for night terrors, you have no medical conditions?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Didn’t have your tonsils out when you were a kid? Nothing like that?”
“No. It’s all there.”
“And the only medication you take is clonazepam? Even over-the-counter stuff?”
“Just clonazepam.”
“You’ll need to discontinue that while you’re in this study. Your dose looks low enough that you shouldn’t experience withdrawals. Are you comfortable with that?”
“Yeah. The clonazepam isn’t doing much these days anyway.”
“You’re comfortable with the check-in schedule?”
“It’s not exactly convenient, but I guess.” For the next four weeks, they want me to stop in once a day to have my vitals and blood taken and to take my dose of experimental medication. I also need to stay the night a few times, probably wired up from head to toe. It’ll be a massive pain in the ass, but afterward I’ll be able to say I’ve done absolutely everything I could do. Even if it doesn’t work—and I don’t expect it will, I don’t think anything can keep the nightmare man away—it’ll keep Shannon off my back for the next decade. And I’ll get a nice chunk of change as a bonus. I think I’ll spend it on myself.
The man looks up at me for the first time. “It’s essential you commit to this check-in schedule. The data will be useless to us if you don’t.”
“I understand. It won’t be a problem.”
“Great. Well, everything here looks good, so welcome to the study. There’s just a little more paperwork for you to fill out. Then you can take your daily dose and get out of here.” He smiles. It doesn’t really work with his face.
He hands me another stack of paperwork and a pen. I take it with a groan. When I hand it back, he checks it over, then gives me a pill and a waxed-paper cup of water.
The pill is small and green, and I don’t really want to take it. I’ve never trusted drugs, and this is an experimental drug over which I’ve signed away my right to sue in the event of any ill effects, up to and including death.
I look up from the pill to the doctor. I don’t even remember his name. I feel like he’s a little tense, like he’s sitting just a little bit too far forward on his white rolling chair, and watching me with eyes opened just a little too wide. His overly pink lips are parted just a bit. It makes him look hungry.
“What’s your name again?” I ask, still holding the pill.
“Turner. Dr. Bill Turner.”
“Will I be seeing you for my daily visit?”
“What time are you coming in?”
“About 3:30.”
“Yes, then. Probably so. Now please take your dose.”
I give the little green pill one more glance, then toss it down.
* * *
I go to sleep without taking my clonazepam. About twenty minutes in, I feel the spark of awareness in my numbing brain that usually indicates the nightmare man will be coming soon. I don’t always get this warning. Sometimes, when it happens while I’m still semi-aware, I’ll turn on the bedside lamp and try to sleep with the light on. It’s not very restful, but neither is battling a shadow monster. This time, I decide to let the drug do its thing. So close to sleep, it’s easy to find reasons to not move.
I roll over and adjust my pillow, then take a sip of water and place the plastic cup back on the nightstand. There’s a brief period of time when your brain holds a perfect memory of what you’ve seen. My subconscious plays lazily over the image as I drift back into sleep.
My eyes snap open. Something is in the room with me.
I don’t move, just stare into the corner, forcing my eyes to again find the pattern in the inky shadow. I find his hooded head first, and the rest takes shape.
He’s watching me. How long has he been watching me? Does he know I’ve seen him?
I can feel every muscle in my body. They all want to explode. I have to force them into true stillness rather than the vibrating isometric balance they strain for.
He stands perfectly still. Either he’s waiting for me to notice him, or he knows I’ve already noticed him and he’s toying with me. Either way, he’s toying with me.
When he finally moves, he moves fast. I let my muscles have their way and they hurl me out of bed. I land on my hands and knees in a snarling crouch, but I can’t find him. Whipping my head back and forth, I barely catch sight of the end of his coat as it slips beneath the bedroom door, trailing after him.
Then I understand why he passed me by. He’s not after me this time. He’s after my family.
I jump to my feet and open the door without hesitation. Somehow, I know he isn’t lying in wait for me. It isn’t about me.
My body is pumped full of adrenaline, and my eyes are wide open, adjusted to searching for shadow in shadow. The hall light slams into my optic nerves like twin ice picks, but I don’t let it slow me. I cover my eyes with one hand and slide the other along the wall.
