It Looked Different on the Model (4 page)

Ambien Laurie is also scientifically inclined, as evidenced by the memory of her responding to a dream in which my living-room wall was entirely covered, floor to ceiling, by a chart, much like the periodic table of elements. In each little box, however, was not a letter abbreviation but a number and a delightful drawing of what appeared to be distinct and different mushroom clouds, swirlies, and scrolls. In the dream, I was in awe of the complexity of the chart and all of the elaborate illustrations when my eyes finally reached the top and it all became clear: It was The Fart Chart (see
this page
), and every
type of fart, categorized by its ferocity, attributes, bubbles, and bursts, was depicted in a very artistic rendering with a corresponding identification number.

Still swimming in the dream as she stumbled to the bathroom through the dark hallway, Ambien Laurie sat on her throne and thought to herself, Ahhh, number 248 is a good one. I should really do that one more often.

The evidence of Ambien Laurie is present not only in random crumbs around my house and bursts of nighttime brilliance but also in snippets of emails the next morning. I have woken up numerous mornings to find responses in my inbox to emails I was unaware I had sent from deep within the shadows of the previous evening, and I have to start piecing events together like it’s a crime-scene investigation. Imagine my surprise when Ambien Laurie wove a tale about Mr. Grunt, a sixty-five-year-old phys ed teacher who was covered in graying marsupial fur and kept his hamburgers warm underneath his floppy man boobs. Yeah. I already know. If you think it was horrible reading that, imagine the horror of discovering you not only
wrote
it but
sent
it to people, and I mean people as in plural. Picture that the thought of Mr. Grunt actually emerged from your unconscious and that your self-edit button was not only deactivated but completely disconnected by a ravenous eater of purse trash, who then realized there was no one in the air-traffic-controller tower, thus allowing random and crazy-ass thoughts to fly out of the brain airport unattended, Mohamed Atta–style. You could write a story about lost Germanic children, a witch, and an oven, and you would get a softer response than from a story about Mr. Grunt, who really is a bastard. I had revealed a part of myself that I never wanted others to see, kind of like when Michael Kors took his shirt off on the beach and exposed his unholy, Pluto-sized flesh-covered belly button to millions of
tabloid readers. If I could insert a link right here to that mind-burning image, I would, because it is perhaps the only thing revolting enough to divert your attention away from the shame that I conjured up a PE teacher who uses body flaps as a food warmer.

Perhaps the worst thing about this tale of caution is that most nights at around 10:00, 10:15
P.M
., certain friends will knock on my email door and ask if Ambien Laurie can come out to play, and if I mention, no, she’s not home, they’ll reply very simply that they’ll check back in forty-five minutes. They think she’s hilarious, and, honestly, if you think a monkey eating your food, spending your money, and poaching your friends is the bottom rung, wait till those friends start clapping for her when she flings around the Mr. Grunt talk. Watch what happens then (Ambien Laurie said of the Kors belly button: “Someone’s mother was a lazy piece of shit. She couldn’t tie a string around that?”). Perhaps it could be worse; my friend Rick, after a night of restful, peaceful Ambien sleep, woke up and climbed out of bed, only to notice that his underwear, which had been on him when he climbed into bed half an hour after taking his pill, was gone. It remained a mystery until he left for work an hour later, when he found his briefs on the sidewalk that led to the garage.

So I suppose that she could be worse and get behind the wheel of a car, go on an all-you-can-eat binge at IHOP, or take a stroll around the neighborhood while leaving her panties behind in the driveway. Right? Things could be worse, right? I mean, essentially, Ambien is
you
in an altered state, kind of like the twilight sleep that women of my mother’s generation were given when they went into labor. And, for that matter, I am thrilled that when I wake up all I find is pretzel shards on my bathroom mat or cookie crumbs on my face and not a bassinet
next to my bed with an offspring in it who expects me to pay for college.

I just hope I don’t have another nighttime family somewhere.

Whatever. Ambien Laurie is not so bad. She’s really not. She’s just active. Would it be better if she sat around, calling people to tell them that she loved them, like every average alcoholic? Bo-ring. Big deal. Who can’t do that? Ambien Laurie is an innovator; she has taken the nighttime to a new level. So sometimes she eats on the potty. Who cares? It’s basically like any other chair in the house, it just has more options.

I’m getting a little hungry. Feels like snack time. If I’m not mistaken, that remaining cheese cracker sandwich is still on the table in the hall. She talks big about throwing shit away; she never does, and of course I’m going to eat it. Of course I’m going to eat it!! But not all of it. I’ll only eat half of it and leave the other half under her pillow. That’ll get her all worked up.

Hey, Mr. Grunt. How’s it goin’? Wanna watch
Precious
?

No, I don’t wanna bite. Gotta cracker in the hall. Keep the burrito in your shirt, please.

Listen, we’re not watching
Gran Torino
again. I hope that’s not going to be a problem. ’Cause I’ll eat your face off. I’m cool, either way.

You make the call.

The Fart Chart