Nights like these are the worst, the absolute fucking worst; nothing but infomercials on the television, steak knives, limited edition gold coins, Oxi-clean. It’s mind numbing, but there isn’t anything better to do. I haven’t slept in two weeks. Sure, I nod off sometimes. I have these weird dreams where everything feels like a sitcom, some kind of twisted Kafkaesque audience babbling on the background with their ridiculous canned laughter while I eat my cereal, smoke a cigarette, fight with my piece of shit car, and head to work. But they all pass away as the day wears on.

I work as a medical records clerk in a small inner city hospital. It isn’t much but it gets the bills paid and keeps me at a safe distance from everyone else. The countertop between me and the rest of the world goes on for miles. The stacks of paper graze the sky like mountains (did you know that Mt. Everest is full of very frozen, very dead bodies? The explorers who never made it back. There’s no time to burry them and the cold keeps them perfectly preserved). There are some interesting people that come in from time to time.

“I’m a recovering addict and want my records from the last time I OD’d. I think it would be good for my recovery to see it…I don’t really remember too much of it.”

But that’s beside the point. I can’t sleep. I try and try and try. I’ve eaten as much as a month’s worth of Ambien in a single day. It wasn’t a suicide attempt although I wouldn’t really have cared if killed me, I just wanted to sleep…nothing. Sure I got a pretty sweet buzz. Walls started breathing. Lights started flashing in my peripheral vision. My mind started playing tricks on me and the sitcom became a little funnier, but other than that…nothing.

I’ve tried transcendental meditation. It was about as effective as Ambien. I’ve nearly given up but I’m not quite there. The past few nights, I’ve been walking along the long dusty road just outside of my neighborhood. It’s pretty at night, right when the sun sets and gradually creeps below the horizon. There are a few barns scattered along the vast expanse of corn and beans and God knows what else (let’s play find the meth lab). But that’s to be expected in God’s country, in my small, dull kind-of suburb of 938.

Despite all of this pessimistic dribble, I’ve come to cherish those twilight hours but not nearly as much as some decent sleep. I think the pursuit of a good 8 hours has become my religion. I converted from a moderate Baptist who never really gave a shit to a sleep evangelist. If hell is real…I think I’m already there.

There was one night not too long ago (it’s hard to tell nowadays). When I came across something interesting; a large black van was parked on my road, my favorite road where I would stumble along during all hours of the night. Where I would drink cheap beer and smoke pot if there was nothing else better to do (there rarely was). It was a curious occurrence I wasn’t used to having guests. As soon as I walked up the van took off. Oh well.

A few more nights have passed since. I’ve seen a total of two more vans. They aren’t anything special. They’re different but exactly the same. They’re all black with tinted windows. They’re come in all sorts of makes and models, a different pair every night, there have never been any more than two at a time. It’s quite odd. I don’t really care, but I am starting to wonder about the whole thing. Who could be responsible for this and why? Why here in this corncob of a town? The whole thing is starting to irk me maybe I’ll take a walk somewhere else tonight.

I see one outside of my house…This is getting very strange. It’s just sitting there. It may be a friend of my neighbor’s, a chubby greasy haired neighbor who has loud, sloppy sex with a string of uncharacteristically attractive women while his 12 year old and her gangly group of rugrats smoke cigarettes behind my woodshed. I don’t know. I can’t tell. This is getting very strange.

“Mr. Anderson,” I jumped as my cell phone rang.

My name isn’t Mr. Anderson. I send out a bunch of fake names to those damn telemarketers. I’ve been Jose P. Smith, Todd Burroughs sr. Jimmy (yes just Jimmy… like Cher) and Mr. Robert H. Anderson. It’s something to do, making up fake names that is. I find a little bit of joy in it. I get the thrill of wearing another person’s skin, of seeing the world through different eyes. It may not b e the healthiest hobby, but it’s something to do.

“Speaking,” I replied.

“Mr. Anderson, this is Chloe Cole of Life Systems. Here to tell you about an important offer regarding your home security.”

Chloe Cole…she sounded hot. I imagined all the sultry, vile things I would do to her as she spoke. I started getting hard.

“Mr. Anderson, according to a recent FBI study…”

The FBI? My dick went limp immediately after hearing those words. The fucking FBI? What do they have to do with this? Are they the ones that have been watching me? What would they possibly want with me?

“Wait. Did you say FBI?”

“Uh…yes that’s right, according to a recent FBI study.”

I hung up and shut my phone off.

It’s been a few days since my FBI scare. I’m still seeing the vans everywhere I go. It’s gotten worse. I seem them at work sometimes. They pull up across the street by the bar and grill joint on South Jackson and start inching away as soon as I spot them on my smoke breaks. They’re crawling all over my favorite road during all hours of the night and day. Something is very, very wrong with all of this. I don’t know if I’ve gotten anymore calls or not. I…misplaced my phone a few days ago. I think I missed my sister’s birthday. I don’t know for sure though. It’s all starting to run together.

I had another sitcom dream. I was waiting for the bus in the city (I don’t drive in the city. I stick my car in the parking garage on West Ave. and do what I have to, to get to work on time). A homeless man came up to me. With some sob story about how his wife left him and how she was brainwashing his kid with some kind of New Age, Illuminati crap. I reached into my wallet to give him 5 bucks. I hand him the money and as he’s walking away, a heroin needle falls out of his back pocket. They were roaring with laughter at that one.

I don’t know where I am or what time it is. Everything except the black FBI vans is a hideous mass of swirling grey confusion. I think I can smell the water treatment plant but I’m not sure. I want to go home…I just want to go home and sleep. I pulled a gun on the kids smoking behind my shed yesterday. I hope that little bitch doesn’t tell her sex-crazed father about it.

This is it the final act. I’m done. I’ve decided that the FBI is watching me. That they’re going to break my door down and shoot me to death any day now. I’ve tried turning myself in but as soon as I approach that gaggle of vans, they vanish into thin air…I can’t keep doing this. The sitcom in my head has overstayed its welcome and needs one hell of a good closer…I know what I have to do. The gun, the gun that I threatened the neighborhood kids with is cocked, loaded and ready to go. This may seem a tad melodramatic but at least I’ll finally be able to get some shut eye…Goodbye for now.