I’ve been having trouble sleeping of late so my doctor hooked me up with a sample pack of one of those new-generation sleep aids.
I’m sure you know the ones I’m talking about. They have peaceful, serene ads on television often featuring a woman sleeping soundly while floating above her bed. Outside the window a benevolent moon shines down while languid hoot owls watch quietly from the trees.
The people in those ads always wake refreshed, stretch with anticipation and bound out of bed. I wanted to do that in the worst way, to bound and anticipate. The blister pack contained enough pills for five days and I was eager to get started.
I took one that very night and it seemed to work. There was no stretching and bounding in the morning but I did feel like I had slept better. The second night was much the same as the first, but I noticed that I was feeling a bit melancholy during the day.
On the day after my third sleeping pill I found myself sitting in front of the television set and crying uncontrollably. This was particularly disturbing because I was watching the Food Channel. It was a travelogue piece on Barney’s Beanery in Los Angeles. The Beanery is an exquisite dive on old Route 66 and they were showing a foot-long chili dog topped with cheese and chopped onions.
Now I am a product of the 60’s and Barney’s is where Janis Joplin ate her last meal. There is also much to mourn in the fact that I am now lactose intolerant and can’t eat cheese, chili gives me heartburn, hot dogs are high in cholesterol, and as for chopped onions, well, you can just forget about them.
And yet, I felt the depth of my sorrow to be a bit excessive. I was really blubbering. I hadn’t done that while watching a show since Ole Yeller bought the farm. I read the insert that came with the blister pack. Among other possible side effects, it listed depression and suicide.
Now, where I come from, suicide is not considered a side effect, it’s more or less a main event. I ditched the rest of the pills, shut off the TV, and went out for a chili dog with all the trimmings.
In a blast from the past, David Rose, author of plenty of satire, and former guest writer to The Springs Magazine, offers his take on the world.
