Eleven Hours
Warren Crane
It was farmers market day, late afternoon and most of the town was
at the market, eating roasted corn, talking about the pesky bugs and listening
to their neighbors gossip. As one conversation overheard another, each relating
the story they heard and hadn’t given a second thought, Beth's eleven hours of
sleep now permeated the ether and captured the collective conscientiousness,
one group turning to the next exclaiming, “Hey, I heard about that today, too.”
“Me too, only I heard it was twenty four hours.” Another scoffed, “Twenty four,
that's not sleep, that's a coma.” “I heard that Chuck guy telling people at the
Post Office. He knows the lady, he said eleven hours.” Someone asked, “Who's
Chuck?” Another replied, “You know, that village idiot guy that walks around
blabbering away.”
At first people were astonished, anxious to relate their restless
sleep experiences of getting up every two hours to pee and then not being able
to go back to sleep. Astonishment soon turned to envy, envy to anger and before
you could say Cat's meow, the bleary eyed sleep deprived wanted to know who
this person was and how dare they? “Chuck said it was that lady who lives
across from the Court House in that big Victorian, the one that goes to all the
city council meetings.” Another said, “Oh sure, I know her, she was born in
Elmwood, thinks she owns the place.” “Yeah, her names Beth, I've always
wondered about her.”
The next night it was one or two people meandering past in the
late evening, stopped in front of the house and staring blankly, then more each
night, huddled groups talking and watching from the benches at the Court House
across from Beth's house. By the fourth night there was a hoard of them,
flashlights glaring, chatting with the cars that slowly cruised by. More
clustered the next night and Beth became alarmed. She heard rumors that she was
involved in illicit activity, that she committed a horrendous crime. She looked
pleadingly at her husband to do something, but what, neither could say. Bill
volunteered to sneak out and see what he could learn.
He snuck out the rear door, across to the Court House and back to
the huddled crowd. The bits and scraps he could make out, “maybe its drugs,”
“it's just not normal,” and “somebody needs to do something about this” was
alarming but not dangerous. A lady holding a baby muttering about “eleven
hours, not possible. It's either this baby or my husband clutching at my
breasts every two hours.”
Then everyone’s attention focused on the house when Beth pulled
the curtain aside, worried, trying to see Bill. Someone said, “She's looking at
us!” Bill yelled “Hey!” caught by surprised with his level of resentment toward
his wife, the sleeper. Another joined in, yelling “Why isn't she asleep?” “Time
to go to bed now." Another screamed, “Shouldn't you be asleep?” Then from
a Grand Mother, “Sleeper got to sleep” which morphed to a chant, “Sleep”
“Sleep” Sleep." Bill cringed, ashamed of being the first to jeer and
slinked to the rear of the crowd hoping to flee without being recognized. The
crowd, rattled by their conduct, fled the scene.
The next night the villagers were even more roiled and teenagers
joined the fray. Eggs were thrown, of course, what else would you expect. Beth
left to spend the night at her mother’s leaving Bill to deal with the mob. In
the morning cars slowed to witness them hosing the eggs off the porch and the
front of the house. A fed up Beth got into her car, afraid to walk to City Hall
and drove to the police station where she demanded to see the Chief. The Chief
listened attentively, nodding that “yes, he was aware of the situation” hoping
to conceal his sympathies for the ire of the townspeople, himself being a
chronic insomniac. A reassured Beth left, he locked his office door and asked
the Duty Officer to assemble the night patrol and hold his calls.
The Chief told his men, “Give it the full Christmas Tree, sirens,
bullhorns, spotlights, better yet, pulse em on and off. Do it every time you
see people gathered, especially past Beth's place. Hell, give it a pulse every
time you go past her place, put her sleeping skills to the test.” The Chief
knew he would have hell to pay when it came time to break his patrolmen of their
new found behavior. They were a bunch of Jack Russell's, they learned a bad
behavior on the first try but it took hours of carrot and stick to get them to
stop.
Patrol cars were posted, traffic was discouraged. Frustrated, the
townsfolk turned on one another, yippee Corgis and Chihuahuas were purchased,
then neglected to torment the neighbors with incessant barking. Those with
teenagers bought them Mopeds and set them loose on the night to race along the
residential streets. Beth got so nervous she couldn't sleep and turned on Bill,
showing a vicious streak he could not object to, after all, he was guilty of
the first jeer.
Chuck went back to his usual routine of haranguing hapless
customers at the Post Office and coffee shops around town until he was killed
in a hit and run accident. "Gee, how sad" was the usual comment
accompanied by the attempt to hide an inappropriate smile.
Beth kicked Bill out, sold the house, bought a new car, her other
car had been stolen on a trip to Tijuana. She didn't care anyway, the front
fender was damaged. She left the key in the ignition and the window down
to make it inviting. She followed Guillermo her Puerto Rican Salsa Dance
teacher to San Juan, blissfully sleeping through formal breakfast and simply
settled for room service. She gave Guillermo the heave ho just before Easter.