Sleep Talkin' Man (4 page)

“I like the balloons. I want one. If I don’t get one, I’m gonna squeeze one out right here, right now!”

Earlier, I compared my sensitivity to Adam’s sleep talking to that of a mother to her child’s cry—and it now occurs to me that STM is, in fact, very much like a child. A precocious, obnoxious, extremely foul-mouthed child. Consider his complete lack of inhibition, irrepressible playfulness, disregard for consequences, random zaniness, capacity for cruelty, and yes, those sulky tantrums.

We sometimes find STM in typical childhood situations familiar to many of us:

“Don’t pick me last. No, please. Oh, you bastard! Now I’m not going to play … I know I’m sulking. You can fucking suck my fat one.”

(Although I don’t know how many kids could manage to face such a crushing ego blow with that combination of both self-awareness and bold retaliation.)

Other times, STM is happily lost in a world of fanciful imaginary creatures the likes of which would impress even Dr. Seuss:

“No, I want to swim with the giant gajumba. Hold on to their shell … the ones with the spiky faces, you idiot! They’re fun.”

Or we may happen upon him participating in one of those fiendish activities sadly common among the less compassionate of young boys:

“Catch it. Catch it … use both hands … its legs are still wiggly! Now clap. Niiiiice.”

STM gets to act on every childish impulse, without any niggling parents or pesky adult conscience trampling on his fun. Freud might call him the ultimate id.

STM emulates a very different sort of child than Adam was himself. And what was Adam like as a kid, you ask? Let me set the scene.

“Welcome to your first day at duck school.
I’ll make the lesson simple.
OK: Quack. Quack quack. Very good class.
Now go swimming.”

England in the 1970s. There’s an alternative notion of teaching afoot. The idea is that children learn best through play. Many schools had adopted this educational theory with promising results. Adam’s first school took this premise further than Maria Montessori ever intended. It seems their approach could be summarized as “children should just play all the time; they’ll learn stuff eventually, right?” Riiiiight.

Adam, a joyful, creative little soul, had taken the “play” aspect of this philosophy and run with it, and had consequently become a darling of the school. Throughout his early educational career,
his parents received glowing (if vague) reports regarding his progress and talents. They were so pleased at how their younger son was excelling academically. At the age of six, Adam took the entrance tests for the new school to which his parents hoped to send him. Faced with this novel situation, Adam made his best guess, based on previous experience, as to what was expected of him. You can imagine the dismay of the test marker to receive an exam back that was covered in intricate, lovingly drawn doodles, but didn’t offer an actual answer to one single question. Well, what would you expect from a child that had never taken a test in his life, and—by the way—couldn’t remotely read or write? The letter the prospective new school sent to Adam’s parents suggested that perhaps their son was retarded. Adam did get accepted to the school in the end, after being sent off for a full battery of tests with a psychologist to prove that he was not, in fact, mentally challenged. Here is his father’s response to the acceptance letter, which I came across while going through Adam’s old school records:

Dear Headmaster,

Thank you for your letter of the 2nd March with the good news that Adam has won a place at your school. I enclose herewith duly completed the acceptance form with the acceptance deposit. I trust you will excuse the teeth marks in the acceptance form. The family’s general air of excitement transmitted itself to our dog, who managed to get to the post with the ensuing results.

Yours sincerely,

R. H. Lennard

One wonders if perhaps the headmaster thought the whole family was a bit special.

It’s the belly button button.
Press it and go to hell!

“Of course I’ve always loved music.
YOURS makes me want to poo my pants.”

As Adam entered the double digits, the free-spiritedness that defined him in his younger years started to give way as the insecurities of adolescence crept in, and the little embarrassments and setbacks of secondary school did nothing to help. When it was time for Adam to begin secondary school, he joined his older brother Darren at Haberdashers’ Aske’s School for Boys, a posh private school with a strong focus on academics (play having been proven inadequate preparation for our non-play-centered world). It may not have been quite the right fit for sensitive, creative Adam, but he made an earnest effort to find his place.

One such endeavor was to join the music department. Adam had always been interested in percussion—in fact, he would later go on to become a downright decent drummer. But these
were very early days in Adam’s music education, and his teacher thought it best to start him off on the forgiving triangle. This instrument propelled Adam into an elite society of the school: the Haberdashers’ Aske’s third orchestra.

(Note the “third.” That means there were two that were better. To get a sense of the level of talent—and enthusiasm—we’re talking about here, go to YouTube and search for “Orchestra Fail.” Make sure your speakers are turned up really loud.)

Adam’s parents remember with great relish Adam’s first (and last) concert with the orchestra. Seeing him up there on that stage, surrounded by violinists, cellists, and flutists, the Lennards were bursting with pride. As the conductor tapped his wand on the stand, Adam raised his triangle with an air of gravity, preparing himself for his triumphant debut.

It just so happens that, in the piece being performed that evening, the triangle was to remain silent for the first 148 bars, only entering in the final climax. For 148 breath-holding bars, Adam’s parents watched him, arm held high in the air in front of him, clutching his triangle
aloft—looking for all the world like one of the Hitler Youth—nodding his head dramatically to each beat as he carefully counted the bars. Finally his moment approached, and it was with an expression of triumphant ecstasy that Adam raised the striker, and struck that triangle with all the passion he could summon.

Unfortunately, Adam had forgotten that he needed to hold the strap on which the triangle is hung, rather than the triangle itself. So, when he finally struck his fair instrument, he produced nothing more than a dull, discordant clang. From his place on the stage, Adam saw the front section of the audience recoil in horror at the cruel assault on their unsuspecting ears.

Thus came to a close Adam’s tenure with the Haberdashers’ Aske’s third orchestra.

As he got older, Adam, still looking to find his place, took a stab at mixing in with the “bad” kids. One day the school board members had come for a meeting, and Adam’s friends decided it would be amusing to steal all of their Mercedes hood ornaments. When the theft was discovered, the headmaster rounded up all of the usual suspects,

Adam among them. The first kid emptied his bag—out clattered a Mercedes ornament.
Clinkety clank.
The next kid, same thing.
Clink clank clinkety clank.
One after another, all of the boys were forced to dump out their prized booty on the headmaster’s desk. Finally, the headmaster faced Adam at the end of the line. Adam sheepishly upended his bag, and out clattered … a Ford ornament.
CLUNK.
He had been so worried about the damage he would cause to an expensive car, he had passed up all the shining Mercedes for an unassuming Fiesta. Thus ended Adam’s stint among the hoodlums of Haberdashers’, such as they were.

From all family and school reports, Adam was a delightful little boy: sweet, funny, harmlessly mischievous, creative, outgoing. But alongside those traits, he was also a sensitive, emotional child, and as he got into his formative years, that sensitivity transformed into a consistent struggle with low self-esteem. Recently, I got a chance to go through all of Adam’s old school records. I expected to find lots of humorous comments from teachers proving just how much of a character
he was. Instead, what I found over and over, year after year, was some version of “Adam is a wonderful, bright boy with lots of potential. But he needs to work on his self-confidence.”

Now, many soul-searching, therapy-attending years later, Adam has a very healthy sense of self. He’s secure in who he is and genuinely happy. But what does this all have to do with the sleep talking? Well, it turns out that many psychologists believe that, in the deepest layers of the mind, lots of the growing up and maturing that we all do doesn’t penetrate. So, somewhere in his subconscious must live child Adam. And perhaps, when adult Adam is asleep, when his conscious mind lets down its barriers, the sensitive, insecure Adam of his youth is left exposed. But now, in a playground all his own, he has the opportunity to do it all over again, as a guy who has the balls to stand up to anyone, who says what he wants, swipes whatever metaphorical hood ornaments he wants, who knows that he’s the best damn thing that ever walked the face of the earth. And you know what? If that helps my husband claim back some of the tougher
moments of his childhood, I’m all for it. Because in those wee hours of the night, when STM appears, that triangle rings out as clear as day.

STM: MASTER OF
SELF-AFFIRMATION

There was so much blood!
Oh, there must have been at least five llamas. Totally unprovoked attack by those puffins. I managed to clip their wings. This is llama turf.

Not being able to do something could teach you a lot about yourself. Mmm-hmm.
Like what a fucking loser you are.

Really? If you can pee that high, DEFINITELY join the fire brigade. Yah.

Darling, with an ass as big as yours, innocent bystanders could get hurt!

I am Mediterranean Man! Hear my cry:
TZATZIKIIIIIIiiiiiii and tremble with fear.
I will cut you with my throwing pita.
But not at three o’clock, ‘cause it’s siesta time. TZATZIKIIIIIIiiiiiii and away!

Now I’m going to batter you to death with chicken drumsticks!
It’ll be really messy, but I’m going to enjoy every hour of it.

Tiptoeing elephants? Come on guys, give it up. I can see you! You’re huge!

Stand further away. You can’t possibly appreciate my greatness this close up.

I’m like a god. Only, it’ll hurt more when I judge you.

Listen: Some people play Scrabble.
Some people play chess.
You? You play turd puppets.

Well that’s just great. Peanut butter in my crack. Goddamn it.

I’ve written your epitaph. Yup.
I did it early. You wanna read it?
“Here you are, lying dead. Ha ha ha ha ha.”

Hey, boobs! Stop staring at my face!

Oh yes, I must have an enema.
And I’m going to keep what comes out, ‘cause it reminds me of you. I will take it home, dry it, make it into paper, and write your name on it as many times as possible, and frame it. Put it on my wall, and there it will remain. It will be my memory of you.
I may do it more than once, depending on what I’ve eaten.

I need this like I need a second crucifixion.

It’s growling. Shhh, it’s growling closer … It’s an angry thing, a big angry thing. It likes cabbage, though.

I’m not waving at you. I’m just building up for the big fucking slap you’re gonna get.

I could go find somebody who could surgically remove that stick from up your ass.
Or, you could just chill the fuck out, Batman.
Choose.