The comforter gently compresses my body down into the fabric of my old couch, and for the life of me, I don’t have the heart to do anything but accept it. Apathy shaped by insomnia makes the room remind me of smoke that is too heavy to rise past the waist, gives my form a loose feeling you might get from a muscle relaxant or deep contemplation. Someone might even think I was meditating if they couldn’t see the look on my face right now. I’m that relaxed. No CD’s of waterfalls or whales mating to help achieve enlightenment, just The Munsters on TV and a loose interpretation of the word “awake.”
Click, News. Click. Infomercial. Click. Sitcom. Click. Another sitcom.
The TV screen does a poor job at making my face go unnoticed in the dark room though; the glow shows my true self too easily. “No, not quite at peace,” the audience would say with a thoughtful look, like they were studying a piece of bad performance art. “More like a vegetable. She breathes, she has a pulse, but brain activity. . . might be a stretch.” I can still click the button though. Changing the shows keep me busy enough. It’s like chaos on tap.
Click. Spanish channel. Click. Pentecostal show. Click. News. Click. Cartoons.
Click.
I’m not quite sure how afternoon happened, but it did. The usual group at the table sits all around chattering with their drinks, but honestly, the table does more to catch my interest at the moment. The conversation’s a bit too mechanical for my taste – pleasantry, correct response, retort, joke, laughter – rinse and repeat. Loops of old sticky coffee stains intersect each other in blotchy chains on the fake wood surface of the table, and while it’s not pleasant, the neglect has more flair than the same old, same old. I mentally slide up and down, from table to people. back to table, out of habit mostly. Glide up to listen to chatter, decode whether or not it’s sincerity – nope, just small talk – slip back into studying the fake wood. Controlled listlessness, it’s the easiest thing to achieve.
Click. “¡Fernando, Por qué! ¡Pensé que usted me adoraba!” Click. “We must find the location of the village, Jebby!” Click. “Trust in our Lord, Jesus Christ, for he will bring you out of the d-”
Click.
Late night infomercials are peculiar things; they have to be when their main shoppers are insomniacs and a populace with introverted midlife crises. Other people might see one on, be amused by the host’s over-enthusiasm for the product, and then wonder why anyone would buy such a piece of junk.
These people aren’t their target audience.
I’ve watched this infomercial for three days in a row, and as each day passes, I am more involved. A couple days ago, I would have laughed at the fake awe on their faces when the appliance chops up an entire onion or cleans all of the dirt off the sample slab of carpet, but now, I can’t help but watch an entire hour of product placement and think, “Wow, it even juices carrots. . .”.
Click.
“Wait, why did you buy two of the same food processor?”
God, I feel like I’m watching a reality show in real time. This is the part of the program where Ron snubs my kitchen appliances. Being only three cups into my morning coffee, I don’t really like the tone of his voice. I try not to sound as condescending as I want to be when answering his question.
“Because I want to make salsa in one and fruit salad in the other without washing anything.” It’s a simple enough answer, but I take a moment to reflect on how snotty it came out. I feel like he must be an idiot for not realizing this, but at the same time, I’m pretty sure I got the simultaneous salsa and fruit salad idea a commercial or something. Which one of us is the idiot here? I place myself back into reality and hope I haven’t missed anything while I was gone. I come back into the conversation right when he says “Aren’t those things, like, 60 bucks even without the shipping?”
I can’t even help but sigh when he says that. Idiot.
“I’m only on the first payment. Only three payments of $19.99. It’s an investment, Ron. Jesus.” The talk ends there, and we watch while my new processor slaughters an apple. Only two seconds, and it can even process the core!
Click.
There’s a good chance that I have dozed off a couple times in the past seven days, but I wouldn’t be able to tell you. My body wants sleep, not rest. Not when I have my new food processors and Steam Vac, courtesy of express mail. I think I might have sent some money to that Pentecostal show I was watching too, but I can’t really remember. All I know is they sent me some pens and note paper with their name on it. I should probably slow down, try to get some sleep and clean off some of the mental residue of bad reality shows and re-runs from my system. I could wake up with a clear head for once.
But I can still press the button.
Click.
