The sleepless, p.1
The Sleepless, page 1
The Sleepless
Dedication
Epigraph
Part One
01.
02.
03.
04.
05.
06.
07.
08.
09.
10.
11.
12.
13.
14.
15.
16.
17.
18.
19.
20.
21.
22.
Part Two
23.
24.
25.
26.
27.
28.
29.
30.
31.
32.
33.
34.
35.
Part Three
36.
37.
38.
39.
40.
41.
42.
43.
44.
45.
46.
47.
Acknowledgments
Credits
About the Author
Copyright
Guide
Table of Contents
Start of Content
To my father, Nelson,
who taught me how to love books,
and who would have loved this one.
Nobody is sleeping in the sky. Nobody, nobody.
Nobody is sleeping.
If someone does close his eyes,
a whip, boys, a whip!
Let there be a landscape of open eyes
and bitter wounds on fire.
No one is sleeping in this world. No one, no one.
I have said it before.
No one is sleeping.
—“City That Does Not Sleep,” Federico García Lorca
Part One
01.
Wednesday, 07/08/2043, 06:56 PM
In the last dream I ever had, I was eating a big, bloody hunk of steak. The details are hazy now: crisp white linens and a side of roasted potatoes, wood paneling, other faceless people at my table, and not much else. I don’t recall the specific cut of meat, but it was definitely not a filet mignon; it was more like a porterhouse. The steak occupied the entire plate and threatened to spill over its border. I cut through the slab with a serrated knife, and, though I’ve had amazing steaks before, I have never felt anything as visceral as the frustration I felt when, before I could finish my plate, I woke up.
Dreams. It’s been so blissful since I stopped having them, but lately, against my nature, they’ve been surfacing in my mind.
That last one in particular keeps coming back. To exorcise these thoughts, I’ve decided the best way was to act it out in real life: I’ve added cooking to my mile-long list of hobbies. I think I’ve finally mastered the perfect porterhouse. Or, I should say, porterhouse cooked just the way I like it. Medium-rare, with the right amount of sear. It took eight tries, meticulous timing, and calibrated heat on both sides, not to mention hours of instructional videos and tons of new kitchen supplies that I didn’t yet own. My apartment has become a nightly test kitchen for steaks, but I got there eventually.
I admire the slab as it sizzles in the cast-iron pan. The timer counts down, and the stove promptly lowers the heat. The oven chimes as the roasted potatoes are done, and I move the spuds into the pan, gingerly placing each one in the right place and at the right angle. A sprig of rosemary across the top, and a dash of finishing salt, and it’s ready for its close-up.
I take several pictures with the kitchen counter’s top-view camera, scroll through the shots as they’re beamed onto my visor, and then pick out the one that looks best. I post it on my news feed, no caption necessary. After I do, holo-ads materialize before my eyes: one for a set of Japanese steak knives, one for a Midtown chophouse, and a third for a ceramic barbecue grill. I pause on this last one, and wonder if there’s enough space on the deck. Maybe after I have it redone. I wave the ads away with a flick of a finger, and they vanish.
I move the steak onto the carving board. A blood red jus seeps from its sinews. The firmness, the aroma, the right balance of browning and char—I nailed it.
After I’ve given the meat time to rest, I make one slice. One bite. It approaches, but does not quite reach, the sumptuousness of the steak in my last dream ever. As I did with the other failed attempts, I chuck the rest of the thing down the disposal.
The threat looms of another long night needing to be filled.
In the beginning, it was easy enough. I occupied myself by watching dozens of classic films that I’d always been meaning to watch. A lot of the movies I liked were adaptations, so I also read the source material. That’s when I seriously moved on to books, and around the time I devised my lists.
I made goal lists and doggedly finished every item. I saw every Oscar Best Picture movie, finished every Pulitzer-winning novel. All of Hitchcock’s films, Henry James’s books, the entirety of The Decline and Fall. Then there were TV shows, podcasts, and of course, video games. So many video games.
I was consuming so much that, after only a few months, I felt psychically bloated. My brain tired of all the media, and my lists felt like drudgery, like I had been masochistically giving myself unnecessary homework. That’s when I started to optimize my time by learning new skills.
I’ve progressively grown the number of languages I can speak, and recently completed Arabic II through a VR exchange program. I’ve mastered lockpicking, non-digital locks at least. I garden, if the box of soil I have up on the roof deck can count as one. I’ve learned how to write Gothic calligraphy and how to read Braille. How to weld, metalsmith, woodwork, build furniture with my own hands. How to play the violin, the double bass, the harmonica. How to knit and sew. How to juggle. How to finish a Rubik’s cube with one hand tied behind my back. How to cook steaks.
And then there’s poker. Talk about optimizing. Now I can fill my nights and make some scratch too. It’s how I can afford this apartment, as well as all the toys and gear that I’ve accumulated for my less lucrative diversions. I’m quite good at it—I’ve had a lot of time to practice—though my online buddies keep teasing me about my tell, an alleged eye twitch when I’ve got a bad hand. I’m pretty sure that’s jealousy talking, and even if I did have a tell, it hasn’t stopped me yet from taking their money.
At some point in the past year, especially as the weather grew warmer, I felt the need to harness my extra time outdoors. At the turn of spring, I started running. I used my freed-up weekends to learn surfing and to train for dragon boat racing. I already have a blue belt in taekwondo, and as soon as I find a 24-hour dojo, I’m doing karate next. I’ve practiced all types of yoga, from Ashtanga to Vinyasa. I fence, I box, and once in a while, I get roped into a late-night game of pickup basketball with other folks in the building.
If for no other reason than this, I could never leave New York. Half the city’s already Sleepless, or at least a convincing facsimile. Everyone’s up at all hours, and up for doing any damn thing. No activity is too esoteric, no interest too specific. If I wanted to learn sailing, there are outfits all along the Hudson that can teach me. If I wanted to learn how to make chow fun from scratch, I know an eighty-year-old woman out in Flushing who gives private lessons. And if I wanted to join a grief support group for recently-dumped left-handed Asian male media professionals in their early thirties, I’m sure I could find one somewhere downtown.
As I wipe up the steak splatter on the counter, the buzzer beeps. I check the time. It’s too early for the delivery to arrive. And in any case, we agreed that it had to be auto-couriered. Can’t be too safe. Not with this package. I play the scenarios in my head, and I’m beginning to fume with anger as I approach the door.
I check the screen and am both relieved and petrified at the sight. Hannah.
For a second I think about not answering, but I can’t help myself. I comb my hair with my grease-splattered fingers before opening the door.
“Are you alright? You look surprised,” she says with no preliminaries.
“Well, this is a bit unexpected,” I say, leaning in for a hug that she limply accepts.
I leave the door wide open and move aside. Her feet shuffle, and I subconsciously mimic her, doing the out-of-step dance of two people unsure of their footing. She wants to come in, but she decides to stay in the hallway instead.
Even as she restrains herself from entering, her attention has already wandered into the den. She peeks surreptitiously, no doubt judging the state of disarray. The pile of jackets on the couch, the empty takeout containers, the stacks of boxes still unpacked. The contents of my life that haven’t quite reached their destinations: kitchen, bedroom, bath, storage.
I try to look unbothered. I would have cleaned if I had known she was dropping by, but the mess is also nothing she hasn’t seen before.
A couple of times since I moved out of our Chelsea apartment, Hannah and I have slipped into our old habits. Nights that start with an errant message and a crosstown trip, ending in a guilt-ridden, awkward goodbye. There’s always a twinge of regret the morning after, but one not strong enough to deter us from backsliding. She initiated, the last time.
It’s been a while since—maybe a couple of months? I wait for her to decide. She doesn’t meet my eyes.
“You might as
She flinches away from me. Slow enough to convey hesitation, but quick enough to show resolve. “I’m just here for the passport. Do you have it?”
For a second I think she’s making up some thin excuse to drop by unannounced. She’s not the type to forget things, and I myself have used the whole “I left something here” routine before. I have no idea what she’s talking about, and it must show on my face, because instantly she rolls her eyes.
“Of course you forgot. Classic Jamie.”
“I’m so sorry, I’m in the middle of this huge assignment and it’s been crazy, and I . . .”
“Totally forgot about it. Yeah, I’ve heard this before.”
I hold back the explanations. Work has been the standard scapegoat for my personal failures, and Hannah deserves better than the stock answer.
“Did we agree on Wednesday?” I ask. “I could have sworn . . .”
“Look, I really need it ASAP. I told you my flight’s in a week.”
“Yes, I remember now,” I say, still not quite remembering. “I still need to look for it, but I’ll get on that tonight.”
“That’s what you said last time.”
“I promise. I’ll do it right this second, just as soon as I—”
“Stop making promises and just do it.”
The push and pull and pushback has a comforting familiarity. Our patterns are so intractable, hardened by the last five years into grooves in our language, our glances, in the way we touch each other. The way we keep reverting to each other. We’re not together, not anymore, and though each of us sometimes forgets that, I’ve quit trying to figure out whatever this is.
“I’ll be back tomorrow night,” she warns. “You better have it ready.”
She walks away, not waiting for me to respond.
Thursday, 07/09/2043, 12:04 AM
The parcel drone beckons me onto the balcony, its red light blinking against the backdrop of the midnight cityscape. I rush out to meet it, assaulted by the whir of its propellers straining against the weight of its package. When I give it the all-clear, the drone sets down its delivery: a sturdy black box encased in a net of packing rope. A combination lock holds its lid shut.
The drone disengages and as soon as it flies out of my way, back into the cloudless sky, I drag the parcel into the apartment and slam the door shut behind me. I tear into the netting and, finding it too tight, I run to the kitchen to grab a knife. I slice through the cords then untangle the knots, fingers trembling, before finally pressing in the key code. The hiss and click are music to my ears. I then lift the lid as one does a treasure chest.
I’d searched and begged and dissembled and deceived, traded favors and secrets to get my hands on this. A thick stack of papers, maybe two reams’ worth, each page printed with dates and names and figures and codes. I’d been at this a while, but there’s still nothing as satisfying as holding a smoking gun in your hand.
For months, my energy’s been focused on the July installment of The Simon Parrish Files, C+P Media’s premier investigative news program. The episode will have been the culmination of hours upon hours of work, and when it airs on all the news feeds at month’s end, it’ll reveal a long-buried scheme involving Mason Dwyer, junior US senator from Minnesota, and how he funded his campaign with secret donations from anti-Sleepless hate groups.
Sleepless or not, I can’t help but hate the guy. Dwyer first ran in 2036, around the time that the fear against hyperinsomniacs was at its peak. The election cycle fanned the flames, and the regulation of Sleepless persons was a platform issue on both sides of the aisle. At first, Dwyer didn’t have a strong stance either way; he understood how deeply divided his purple state was. But by the time he ran for reelection, he was whistling a different tune: feeling the winds of change, he made pro-Sleepless legislation the centerpiece of his reelection campaign. Now the two-time junior senator—a former Marine reserve with dashing good looks and a picture-perfect middle American family—is rumored to be one of the frontrunners for the Republican primary in 2044.
As it turns out, the ’36 Dwyer campaign got most of its spending money from the Senate Freedom Fund, a super PAC with unlimited funds from mostly anonymous donors. I say mostly because they’re still required to keep a record of who’s giving what, but the names are almost always holding companies with their own holding companies. A nesting doll of campaign corruption.
If you don’t look too hard, you might miss the shell companies, the fictive entities through which organizations contribute to senate campaigns without having to report donor names. Organizations like the Alliance Defending Normalcy and Vanguards of Vigilance, which are still at the forefront of persecuting Sleepless persons. They advocate for the stringent monitoring of the Sleepless, and push for Sleepless discrimination in housing, the workplace, all spheres of social and political life. Those details alone would have been bad enough for Dwyer, but these groups also encouraged, funded, and sanctioned hate crimes. People died.
So you can imagine what kind of damage our piece could do to the good senator.
My boss Simon has been developing the Dwyer story for months, and since he has an entire team of dedicated professionals at his disposal, he delegated some pieces of the larger puzzle. As one of his assistant producers, my job has been to follow the money. I needed proof tying the Vanguards of Vigilance to the Freedom Fund super PAC and to Dwyer.
I spent hours of sifting through bank records, stock purchase agreements, capital investment receipts, from dozens of companies. The payoff from pulling on that thread is my source, an investment banker favored by less-than-savory organizations.
I can’t say that the source has the purest intentions, but at least they’re reliable. The sheafs of paper I hold in my hands prove it. The funds movements are all in here; I only need to assemble the data, separate wheat from chaff. My source previously gave me backdoor access to the firm’s digital records, and if that were enough, my job would be done in an hour at most. But I can’t sneak into their mainframe for extended periods of time, and besides, everything needs to be on paper. Simon wants the data quadruple-checked, and I very well can’t have Simon himself hacking into an investment bank just so he can review what I’ve found. It’s already a minor miracle I even got hard copies. So yeah, I gotta do this old-school. Pen and paper and marker and highlighter and stickie notes and flags. Good thing I’ve got an entire night with nothing to do.
Thursday, 07/09/2043, 03:22 AM
I’m on hour three of poring through the Vanguards of Vigilance records when I hear a loud crash coming from the hallway outside my apartment. I go and check, and find that a luggage cart has tipped sideways, spilling its load of end tables and ottomans and throw pillows onto the carpeted floor. A thin old man with a full head of curly gray hair scratches his head in exasperation. I step out barefoot and in lounge pants, and offer to give him a hand.
“Moving in?” I ask as I lift the upright cart from its side. A beeping sound issues from its motor, and the wheels lock into place.
“Yes. I’m 9G,” he replies, pointing behind him.
“Welcome to the building. I recently moved here myself.”
“Where from?”
“Locally. Used to live downtown.”
“Yeah? Me too. NYC, born and raised,” he says. “They told me moving at this hour was fine. I hope the racket didn’t wake you.”
“Not at all. No chance of that in this building,” I assure him. Pretty much all the tenants here at the Everbright are Sleepless, I almost add, but if he’s heard of the building’s history, then it’s probably the reason he’s moving here to begin with. I reposition his small furniture, balancing them on the platform of the robotic cart. An elevator dings open and another cart rolls by to join us, carrying an assortment of potted palms.
“What happened to the freight elevator?” I ask. “Movers usually go in through a separate back hallway.”
“The men we hired are downstairs figuring it out. Apparently some bums broke the locks trying to get in through the service entrance,” he explains. “That doesn’t happen a lot around here, does it?”
