Sleep Talkin' Man (3 page)

If you look at me again, I’m gonna bugger your fucking eyeballs and eat them, so you stare at my shit.

Flowers for the lovers, schnapps for the thinkers, death to the vegetarians … I don’t care if you eat fish, you give yourself that stupid name, you deserve all you get.

What do you think you’re doing? Totally inappropriate behavior. Now sit down, put the electric sander away and concentrate on your art project, please…. Monkeys!

Cuff him! Arrest him! I don’t care, that manatee is going down!

What do I think? Oh, I think as soon as I finish this sentence, I’m gonna kill you.

I want Viking horns. Fuck-off big pointy ones. Yeah, Vikings. I’ve got an urge to pillage your ass.

Don’t. Don’t! Oh, don’t exfoliate your labia.

Everyday I wake up and I think, I look more and more like the perfect me.

Fucksticks! That’s it, I’m not playing anymore. Just give me back my tiara and my sash and the purple monkey.
I’m outta here.

You’re never too old for Legos…
Suck my balls, dumbfuck.
Building shit is fun.

If you make me read Plato, I’m gonna punch you in the penis.

Look at them staring at people like that. Your boobs are so obnoxious.
Uch.

I’ve weaponized this pumpkin. Yeah.
Just for you.

Never before have I had the opportunity to ride one of these wonderful creatures.
I’m gonna take it slow, and make it last all day. Mmmm-hmmm.
I love saddling up my hamster.

Oh, stop crying, emo. You can write it all down if you want. Then at least I don’t have to listen to your fucking whining.

Oh! It’s so cute.
Now put it back in the fucking box.
It makes me want to puke.

Oh for fuck’s sake! Double chocolate-chip cookie doesn’t mean two chocolate chips per cookie! You’re so literal! God!

I’m so lucky to have disciples like you—FRIENDS, friends like you.

Okay, Jesus, if you are the son of God, wave your hands in the air … Ha ha.
Didn’t think so.

You’re a cock and a fuck-up. Any further complaints can be directed toward my ass, where I’m sure you’ll receive a warm response.

Yeah I want a bike with 128 gears.
Fuck off, I’m not gonna ride it, schmuck.
I wanna BRAG about it.

“You can stop clapping now if you want. Really. You’ll need your energy for cheering me later.”

No question about it, Adam’s alter ego loves an audience. I think Sleep Talkin’ Man’s taste for the spotlight goes right back to that February night when he gave his debut performance. I loved it so much, it’s no wonder he stuck around. The more I delighted in his antics, the more prolific he became. Like a child, STM seems to thrive on positive reinforcement, and sulk when he’s angry. On those rare nights when Adam and I go to sleep upset with each other, I never get a peep out of him, as if he’s punishing me. On happier nights, he regales me with extended bouts of hilarity.

“That’s it. Your family: one big giant cluster-fuck.”

Perhaps a look at the extended family in which Adam grew up offers some insight into STM’s love of the limelight. This sizeable ensemble of uncles, aunts, cousins, second cousins, and second-cousins-once-removed frequently congregates, generally over food. These are high-spirited, raucous affairs at which the stereotypical understated Englishman would get lost in the overlapping cacophony of playful political debate, embarrassing anecdotes, and low-brow humor. But everyone in this crowd manages to hold their own. There is something very, well, Jewish about these lively family gatherings, which I found instinctively familiar and comforting, being so far from my own family and culture. It was heartening to find that, even in a society that is known for its reserved disposition, Jewish exuberance shines through.

Maybe it was a result of growing up as a member of this boisterous bunch that Adam developed both his joy in performing for others—something very much encouraged among the Lennard clan—and also his ability to comfortably fly under the radar when things get exceptionally lively—a useful talent amid such a rowdy group. As the sole performer in Adam’s slumbering subconscious, however, STM can shamelessly hog the limelight all to himself.

I used to wonder why Adam’s sleep talking so often coincided with my bouts of insomnia. I eventually figured out that it was precisely because Adam subconsciously sensed that I was listening—I might be tossing restlessly, or getting up to pee, or popping open the laptop—that he started performing. And, in fact, there is loads of evidence that Adam is on some level aware of the world around him when he’s asleep, as he frequently reacts to subtle external stimuli. For example, this is how he responded to the sound of me typing away on the laptop:

“Clip clop clip clop clip clop clip clop clip clop … Who brought a horse in the bedroom? Oh well. Looks like I’m sleeping in the barn.”

and me peeing in our en suite bathroom:

“What are you pouring that away for?
I wanted that. Christ you’re a selfish fucking cunt … I don’t care.
Cold tea is still tea nonetheless.”

(um … yuck?)
and our little beagle Molly chewing her foot:

“Nibbling. Stop your nibbling.
Always with the nibbling.
Nibble my fucking fist! That’ll stop your nibbling. Can’t nibble with no teeth.”

and me getting back into bed:

“Whoop! Elephants landing!”

(I especially appreciated that one.)

He’s even reacted to several stages of stimuli, like so:

(I open the laptop in bed)
“Mmmm, balls of light. Bibble bobbly bibble.
Bibble bobble.” (I quickly close it again out of guilt) “Oh, it’s burst! I hope it enjoyed itself whilst it was around.”
(I think, screw the guilt, I’m bored, and open the laptop again. Adam sings:) “Here comes the sun. Hmm hmm hmm hmm. Here comes the sun, and I say … Hmmm. I said something. I forget what.
Not important now.”

My appetite for Adam’s sleep talking became insatiable, so naturally I started exploring whether I could trigger him. After much experimentation, I have learned the following:

• DON’T say his name, or actual words of any kind. Something about language from outside his own head seems to jolt him back into the waking world, with all hope for sleep talking dissolving into the night.

• DON’T pet him, stroke him, kiss him, hug him, blow on him, or balance objects on his head. Any of these actions causes Adam to believe himself to be under attack, resulting in a violent awakening accompanied by the shouting out of the name of whatever creature is out to get him this time.

• DON’T wiggle around to shake the bed. Although this does get him talking, he whines about being seasick on a boat, thereby making me feel like a bad wife.

• DON’T pick up Molly the little beagle and snuggle her up against him. He is likely to start awake suddenly thinking she is a furry monster, and scare the shit out of her. I eventually concluded that the safest
yet most effective way to get Adam talking is to make a short little noise that I somewhere between a grunt and a hum. Just to let him know, “I’m here. You can entertain me now.” I call it “grumming.”

I carried on with grumming for a while, with great results. Eventually, though, Adam noticed my grums in the recordings and figured out what I had been doing. Feeling like a guinea pig, he extracted a promise out of me that I’d stop. Being the loyal, obedient wife I am, I did stop … for a while. But sometimes, on those really quiet early mornings, when the light is just starting to peek through the window and I’m dying for the kind of comic relief that only Sleep Talkin’ Man can provide, I give a quiet, little “maybe he won’t hear this on the recording tomorrow” grum. It still works.

Yeah, Happy Valentine’s Day.
Thanks for fucking me.

Now I’m going to ask really nicely for you to un-fuck this situation.

Just shut up.
Your voice is drowning me in a wave of bullshit.

Yesterday I made history.
Tomorrow can suck today’s dick as far as I’m concerned.

Guinea pigs make terrific drinking buddies. Just don’t eat them!

I bring sassiness, sexiness, and awesomeness to the table. What the fuck do you bring, dickhead?

I really wanna kiss your face … with my fucking fist.

Steady … steady … focus … FUCK!
Concentrate, concent—oh shit! SHIT!
Hmm, there we go … Ther—
Oh ass cunt wobbly tits!
I give up. I’ll never balance this penny.

Yeah, shove it in sideways until you can’t see any sunlight.
It may hurt, but it’s the only way you’re gonna keep those potatoes dry.

Who put the broccoli with the papaya?! Don’t EVER put the broccoli with the papaya.
The papaya needs no friends.
Leave the broccoli out of it.

Oh, I love the space you leave behind when you go away. So please, fuck off and give me back that space.

My eyeballs are sticky. Will you lick them for me? Make sure you get all the way into the tear ducts. Mmmm.

You over there,
you’re going to be my friend today …
I don’t know about tomorrow,
let’s just get through today, asshole.

Yeah. I’m gonna cook monkey brain.
Tell them it’s cauliflower.
I love the sound of veggies retching in the toilet.

Don’t you give me those puppy eyes.
Put ‘em back. Puppy needs them.

I am the hummus of knowledge.
And you are the breadstick to dip.

Bring it on, King Kong. I’ll kick your monkey ass right back to the jungle.

Little hands can’t manhandle.
No. They can only minihandle.
Oh, pity those little digits.

My ass rocks. Don’t you just love it?
You love my ass, can’t take your eyes off it.

I’ve got a horrible urge to catch tuna in your stockings. Sustainably, of course.

I am the lord of all pirates! I’ve got the treasure map to find ALL treasure maps.
Beat that, suckers!

You try so hard, and you fall so short. Just give up, numbnuts.
It will save you a lifetime of pain and shame. Your life: fail.

Why don’t you come back to me when your brain’s decided that it wasn’t designed to be a shit box, okay?
Run along now.

It’s NOT a fat ass.
I suffer from Hippo-bottom-mass.
You should feel sorry for me.

You know, it’s not easy being me.
You should try it. I bet that after just five minutes, you’ll then have an incredibly healthy respect for how amazing I am.

OK, so that’s your weekend homework.
Go home and slap grandma.

Come to me my penguin brothers and penguin sisters and dance your dark winter dance and flap and flap those fin-like wings

Oompa loompas don’t sing in heaven.
They tidy up the clouds.

Nobody told me I couldn’t bring that to tea. Why can’t I bring it to tea?
I’m really sorry to have upset you.
It’s not my fault, I thought it was OK.
Oh, it’s not fair. You’re bastards and you’re trying to spoil my fun.
Go on. I’m taking the iguana home.

Come on. Let’s all go be happy in front of some miserable people.

“Where—Where’s my coconut?
I know you moved it. Give it back to me.
I want my coconut! I can’t pee without my coconut. I’m going to peeeeee. Oh, I’ll have to get a new coconut. Mmm, that one was just the right size … and furry.
Coconuuuuuut … coconuuuut … where aaaaaarre yooouuu? Mmmm. Bollocks.”