Kristin Boldon

The Sleepless State

“Good afternoon. United Bank of Sleep. We don’t rest until you do. This is Brittney. How may I assist you?”

Adrienne winced at the perky voice, glad for the no-vid option. “I need eight weeks. How soon I can get in?”

“You’d like to make a deposit on your account?” Brittney’s voice had the timbre of morning birds. 

“Yes. No. Wait. I don’t know.” Adrienne dug the heel of her hand into an eye, as if pressure might tap some hidden source of knowledge. “Sorry. I’m running on fumes. I just finished a gig this morning.”

“Let’s check your account. Name and date of birth please?” 

Adrienne impressed herself by not stumbling over these. 

 “Welcome back Ms. Martino. “I see your position is, um, ah, paid companion.” A pause. “It looks like you haven’t been in for…” A sharp intake of breath. “You made a withdrawal over eight weeks ago. Your exit eval says you were severely lagged. There was a protocol override from… oh my, Dane DeForest himself… with an assurance you’d be back in two weeks.” 

Adrienne wondered if Brittney and all UBOS employees had the DeForest holiday card at their station. Happy family, two golden retrievers, all shining in the sun. UBOS was pronounced “YOU BOSS,” as if the client were in charge. “I’m a little late.” Adrienne’s voice was the texture of the dried-out brown sugar in her cupboard, even after the two pints of water she downed when she’d walked in the door. Her fridge held two kinds of mustard and an empty bottle of hot sauce. Nothing perishable. But nothing to eat. 

“This is highly irregular and quite…” Brittney searched for an adjective. Or was it an adverb? “… dangerous.”

“Thank you for your concern, Brittney. The circumstances were...” Adrienne paused. Extraordinary? No. Exsanguinous? Definitely not. Extra special? There was a word, what was it… “Extenuating.”

“I’ve never seen Mr. DeForest’s name on a waiver before.” Brittney’s voice held a question Adrienne would not answer.

“What do you care? I’m a frequent sleeper. I signed the waiver.” Down, girl. Brittney was just doing her job. 

“You’re outside the parameters. I shouldn’t even be talking to you. Please hold for a manager.”

Not a manager. “Brittney! Please! I need your help!” 

“You’re going to fry your sleep circuits. If you haven’t already.” Brittney’s voice was prim. But she was still on the line. “You’ve built up quite a tolerance for the sleepless state. Most people struggle beyond five days. Have you visited any unlicensed sleep providers?”

Adrienne shifted to a placating tone, the one she used with clients like Dane DeForest. “I would never. Please. I need eight weeks. What’s open?”

More keyboard tapping. “The soonest I could get you in is next Tuesday. Given the amount of your lag, a ten-week stay is the minimum. I recommend twelve weeks.”

“I’m a long-time client. I know how much I need.” Adrienne’s mind skipped over the question that tried to rise in her brain. Like many freelancers, she’d been on the sleep bank merry-go-round since before there were records. 

“As a Diamond Pillow member, you’re entitled to extra weeks in a deluxe bed at no extra charge if we have an opening.”

“Diamond? Since when?” Her silver level as a freelancer was a point of pride. Most freelancers tumbled into Basic Beds when they could afford them. If you worked for an organization you got the perks of a corporate account, but you also had a boss. Meetings. Since childhood, the phrase “Has issues with authority” echoed on Adrienne’s report cards and job evaluations. Freelancing had risks, but with no boss and higher pay, Adrienne deemed them acceptable. 

There was a double percussion to the key taps. Brittney must have long nails. Adrienne clipped hers every morning. Hygiene. And simplicity. Stupid reward labels. Who wanted to sleep on a diamond pillow? The sleep industry began with airlines. Pilots were the first subjects once sleep science was approved, hence the lingo. 

 “Your Diamond status was sponsored by Mr. DeForest.” 

Adrienne’s eyes opened wide. She responded with a bland “Mm-hmm,” the calm that endeared her to clients, none of whom recognized its elements of dissociation and disdain. 

Brittney paused in her chatter. When she got nothing more from Adrienne, she continued her spiel. “Let’s get you set up for next Tuesday. Five days from now. We require forty-eight hours' notice to canc—”

“Not an issue. Are you sure there isn’t anything sooner?”

“As someone on a flagged account, I’m afraid my hands are tied, Ms. Martino.”

Well played, Brittney. Rub it in, why don’t you?

“Would you like to try the 600-thread-count sheets? For Diamond members, they’re included.”

Membership has its privileges. Where did that phrase bubble up from? Adrienne pulled her attention back to the phone.

Brittney segued into details about nutrient infusions. Vegetarian, nondairy, with extra protein and vitamins B, C, and D were all covered by her new status, a big improvement over the Silver level’s “Saline Plus.”

“Will you be providing your own transportation, or would like me to order a car? We don’t advise you to drive yourself.”

As if Adrienne could afford a car. She used them when clients, like Mr. DeForest, had them. The air conditioning and smell of oiled leather and nothing else was bliss compared to subway funk or steaming grates on summer streets. “I’ll walk, thanks.”

“The heat index for Tuesday is 125 degrees. Car service within the metro is a Diamond benefit. Why don’t I book one for you?”

“Car?” Adrienne’s voice had dried to a croak. As a Silver member, she’d had some perks, but never the good stuff. Those, she’d heard, but couldn’t remember from whom, were reserved for corporate tools and lawyers.

“Would you like an overview of your new benefits?”

“Yes. No. Wait. Maybe.”

For the first time since they’d begun the call, Brittney waited in silence. After a few moments, she gave a gentle ahem, which jerked Adrienne’s attention back from sleep fog. 

“Yes, please, to the car, no thanks to the… talky talk,” is what Adrienne finally managed.

“I’ll order that car for you, then. This is a smart choice given your… um, ah…”

Adrienne grimaced. Her um ah. That was one way of putting it. 

“… current state of depletion. In the meantime, I suggest you get some natural sleep.”

“From your lips to God’s ears.” It was a phrase her grandmother used to say, the kind of thing her subconscious burped up when Adrienne walked that thin line between sanity and sleep.

As Brittney reeled off the rest of the corporate legalese, Adrienne could still feel a faint pulse of a question in her words: who are you, that the president of this billion-dollar company is taking a personal interest in? 

Adrienne pinched her lips to keep from responding. Discretion was another thing her clients valued. Dane DeForest did.

“Ms. Martino… hello?”

She must’ve gotten lost in the fog again. “Sorry about that, Brittney.”

“Are you going to be all right until next Tuesday?”

“I’ll be fine. I always am.”

“Yes, but…” Brittney’s voice dropped to a whisper, a useless precaution. Calls were recorded and stored in perpetuity. Because lawsuits. Lawyers were one of the top clients of UBOS. “I have an idea.” Taps, clicks then an excited noise. “I can fit you in at 4:30 today at your preferred location, the Ferber Center. I shouldn’t tell you this,” Brittney went on anyway. Was she new, or just chatty and oblivious to life in near-constant surveillance? “The bed is booked for someone else, but they’re… unreliable. If you are onsite at 4:30, and they’re not, the bed is yours.”

“An eight-week bed at Ferber?” 

Brittney’s voice took on a firmer edge. “Ten. And I advise twelve.” 

“I only need eight.”

“Ten. I’m doing you a favor.” The unspoken words hung. Who are you, that you rate this special treatment?

“OK, OK.” Adrienne checked the time. It was just past 2 pm. She had two hours to kill till the car came. 

Who was she? The hospice nurse who’d taken care of Mr. Deforest’s mother round the clock. It was supposed to be a short job. The doctor had sworn she wouldn’t last a week. But Mrs. DeForest held on for eight weeks, freaking out her children and grandchildren, who flew in on private jets. They wrung their hands and checked their phones. None of them had ever been talked to with pity by someone like Brittney. 

“Brittney, is there a way could you send a car now?”

A small snort of satisfaction. More efficient tapping. “Hannah will meet you outside in ten minutes. Thank you for sleeping with us, Ms. Martino. It’s been a pleasure to help.”

“Likewise, Brittney.” 

Adrienne picked up the duffel bag she hadn’t bothered to unpack and shuffled to the elevator. There would be snacks and lemon-cucumber water at Ferber. 

And pretty, shiny magazines, to distract her while she waited for her bed.

Kristin Boldon has punched the clock in a tanning salon, coffee shop, corporate America, comic book stores, and the wedding chapel at the Mall of America. She reads and writes in Minnesota.