INVASION of the SLEEP SNATCHERS

by Melodie Johnson Howe

On Sunday, Leigh had wonderful column where he was talking — ranting? — about television. I believe that television saps your soul. In fact I wrote a short story, “The Talking Dead,” about just that. (EQMM June 23, 2003)

But if TV can drain your originality, your very essence, then maybe it can fill that emptiness with its own content. Such as Restless Leg Syndrome.

Now I’ve always had a restless mind but never restless legs. That is until TV, and some mad doctor, connived to create a syndrome (scary medical word) about legs that need to move. And this need only occurs when the owner of said legs wants to sleep. In the good old days I used to blithely get into bed at night without fear that my limbs would suddenly try to walk me to Paris. But after viewing the commercial for the pill that will take away a problem I never had, I now have it.

I get into bed with trepidation. I wait. Soon my limbs begin to twitch and jerk. They want to do something, and it isn’t sleep. I tell my legs that their need to walk me to Paris is a figment of my imagination. Besides there’s a vast ocean between my bed and the city of light. I elucidate that I have absorbed an awful pharmaceutical commercial. This is TV invading my body, taking over my soul, my legs, and my sleep.

Suddenly in the darkness of the room I see Abe Lincoln, a furry bucked-toothed rodent, and a deep sea diver. They inform, except for the deep sea diver who doesn’t speak, that they are my dreams, and they miss me because I’m not sleeping. I remind the trio that I have never dreamed about them, and I have no intention to do so in the future. I explain that the reason I can’t sleep is that my limbs are busy trying to take me on some needless journey. Abe replies, in an eerily dull, avuncular voice, that I need a sleeping pill called Lumessmymind. Or something like that. My legs tell me I need the RLS pill. (Medical acronyms are also scary)

My husband is happily snoring. My dog is snoring even louder. I begin to resent them. I wonder if I should buy them those little strips you put on your nose to stop snoring. You know the ones that are advertised on TV? Maybe I could buy a lot of the little strips and stick them to my legs. Or better yet tape them over Abe’s mouth and his grumpy little rodent’s snarly lips. The deep sea diver is still silent. I eye him and wonder what makes him so superior that he doesn’t need to use words. Maybe he can only say, “glub, glub, glub.”

I force myself to close my eyes and stay calm. I deep breathe. Melodie, think about something else instead of your damn legs. Instead of that drugged-out Abe Lincoln. I used to admire Abe Lincoln! He was dark, witty, and intense. Okay, he could be moody, but he kept the United States united. What’s happening to the world!? I focus on the short story I’m writing. Three women. One of them is a murderer. A key is left in the front door. Must have a reason to leave a key in the door. Abe Lincoln left it so the deep sea diver could get in and steal the TV. Don’t come in the house with wet feet….

It’s morning. My husband and dog are both stretching from the luxury of a good nights sleep. I glare at them and pull the covers around me. My legs are calm. My legs want to sleep now. I hate them. I force them to get up. I make them walk me into my office. If anybody’s going to Paris I am. But not on my restless limbs. I’m going with my restless mind. I’m creating my own Paris. Three women. One of them a murderer. Now the reason the key was left in the door was because … why am I thinking about television? My hand is resting on the remote. How did it get there?