Looking back, I should’ve known he was a predator. A drug dealer posting up outside of the Sleep Disorders Center? That’s baiting. Might as well fall under the same rules as spotlighting deer to hunt them.
For years, I depended on Melatonin to put me to sleep. 1 mg, taken at 9 p.m. did the trick. But 1 milligram turned into 3, and 3 turned into 5. When I hit 10 mg, the stuff stopped working altogether. It didn’t matter that I quit blue-light after 6 p.m. It didn’t matter that I never worked in the same room I slept. No amount of sleep hygiene could fix me.
So, I switched to Benadryl. Taking 50 mg of the little pink pills worked for a spell, but not for long. I upped it to 75. Then 100. Then 150.
Once, In a desperate attempt to get some much-needed shut-eye, I downed half a bottle of the liquid. I don’t know the dosage. It was easily over 300 mg. It was nightmare fuel, and I never did it again.
I saw where all this was going, so I booked an appointment with my General Practitioner. She was horrified to hear I was depending on diphenhydramine to put myself to sleep, and she put in an order to a specialist. Shockingly, the wait list wasn’t long, so I scheduled an initial consultation.
I discussed my symptoms with an attentive, hawk-eyed man who sported salt and pepper hair that belied a sophisticated professionalism. When I walked out into the autumn air, I felt optimistic about my prognosis.
That is, until I saw him.
He was leaning against the trunk of my Honda Civic, sucking on a Parliament cigarette. Seeing that got my ire up. I’d just bought that car, for crying out loud. In hindsight, I think he was actually waiting for me.
I narrowed my eyes on the man. He was probably five foot six and couldn’t have weighed more than a buck twenty five. He had on a draping, zip-up hoodie that was open over a white t-shirt. His baggy pair of brown khakis was cinched by a belt buckle that was three sizes too large. And that belt buckle was way too close to scratching the fresh paint on my new car. I opened my mouth to cuss him out, but he spoke first.
“You want some of the dwarf wine, kiddo?” He said, not bothering to meet my eyes.
It sounded patronizing and sexist.
“Dwarf wine?” I shot back. “Is that some kind of sick innuendo, you fucking Smurf?”
As soon as I said it, I regretted it. It was immature. But the guy was smoking while practically sitting on my bumper. If he wanted to bandy words with me, I’d make them sting. To my surprise, he didn’t seem daunted in the slightest.
“They don’t got the meds you want in there, honey,” he said in a gravelly voice. “They can’t put ya to sleep. I seen people like you come outta those doors a thousand times. Bright eyed, full of hope. Any guesses on the typical solution they come up with for insomniacs, narcoleptics, and patients with sleep apnea? It’s all the same. Go ahead, guess.”
I felt my throat tighten and swallowed hard.
“I suppose they likely begin by running tests to rule out diagnoses,” I started, keeping my voice calm and collected. “Then they’re likely to start a regimen—“
The bearded man threw back his shaved head and gave a boisterous belly laugh. He grabbed at the small amount of belly he had as he shook with mirth.
“Sorry,” he stammered out when his laughter finally broke off. “I don’t mean anything by my laughin’. It’s just…there ain’t no ‘regimen’ involved. It’s a one-size-fits-all solution. They call it Modanafil. They’ll prescribe a medication. Probably Provigil, but it could be a generic. Anyway, the thing is to be taken each morning to help with wakefulness.”
I felt a line deepening between my eyes.
“Why would they prescribe a stimulant for someone who can’t sleep?” I shot back.
He pointed an arthritic finger at me and clicked his tongue.
“That’s the right question, sweetheart,” he said. “But they’ll say it’s to keep you up all day and improve your quality of life. The truth of it is…the thing is a pro-drug for amphetamines. It’ll make you wired all day. The hope is you drop from exhaustion when the drug wears off. How’s that sound?”
I stifled a shudder, unsure where this was going.
“Well, I suppose they’re the experts,” I began to say. I was interrupted by the man shaking his head in an almost comically animated way.
“They ain’t experts,” he said, decisively. “Buncha quacks. I got the real medicine. It’ll put you to sleep and it’ll heal your soul. You ever hear of Amanita Muscaria?”
I shook my head and let my hand stray to my cell phone inside my clutch, just in case I had to call the cops on this weirdo.
“Fly agaric?” He asked. “Dwarves’ Wine? Reindeer piss?”
He let out a chortle and pulled out a white paper bag. He opened it and I gazed inside. What I saw, ironically, was something I knew. The red-capped mushrooms with white spots were recognizable immediately.
“You want to sell me magic mushrooms, is that it?” I asked. “Shoot. Nothing in DARE prepared me for this. Unbelievable.”
The man extended the bag towards me.
“Magic?” he asked. “I suppose so. Sell? Nah. The first one’s free. ‘Specially for a gal as easy on the eyes as you, princess.”
I felt sick to my stomach. I clicked the button on my car’s key fob, and the door unlocked.
“I think I’ll pass, but thanks,” I said dismissively.
I opened my car door, and (thank God) he didn’t hassle me or stand in my way. I turned the car in the ignition and its engine roared to life. I saw the bearded drug dealer motion for me to roll down the window. Since he’d been more or less respectful up ‘til this point, I decided to oblige him.
“The name is Spence,” he said. “And if I haven’t put you off my ideas too much, I have just two favors to ask.”
My curiosity was piqued. He took my silence as a tacit invitation to continue.
“Number one, when they prescribe you Modafinil, remember that I was right,” he said. “And number two, research fly agaric and see if these mushrooms are hallucinogenic. Then, compare that with the legal speed they want you to have.”
I pursed my lips in a stilted, polite way.
“Will do, Spence,” I said. “And if I come to the realization that buying mushrooms from a stranger who’s smoking against my car is the answer to all of my problems, how am I supposed to seek you out?”
He smirked.
“You won’t have to,” he said. “Have a nice day, lady.”
With that, he turned on his heel and walked away.
***
For about a month, I barely thought about Spence again. I did look up the types of mushrooms he was peddling. They weren’t the typical Magic Mushroom ilk (psilocybin cubensis.) It was also true that they weren’t physically addictive. But that research was a mere curiosity, and the memory of the strange, wizened old man quickly passed.
That is, until I met with the sleep doctor again. He clicked his pen and jotted something onto a sheet of paper.
“I’m writing you a script for Modanafil,” he said in a clipped tone. “It’ll improve quality of life by making you more wakeful in the day. By proxy, your sleep will improve. Where is your preferred pharmacy?”
I blinked twice, saying nothing. My ears had perked up at the drug’s name. My mind raced back to Spence. I continued the rest of my doctor’s visit on autopilot, taking the prescription and scheduling my follow-up.
But by the time I reached my car in the parking lot, Spence was leaned against my trunk with a Devil-may-care grin on his face.
“First one’s free!” He reminded me, as he shook the white paper bag.
I swear I saw myself in third person, extending my arm, taking the bag of mushroom caps. I’m not sure I had any freewill in the matter. Regardless, I took his offering, thrust it into my coat pocket, and walked wordlessly to my car. I drove straight home.
The mushrooms stayed on my nightstand, untouched, for a couple days. I wrestled my guardian angel on the subject. After a few nights of tossing and turning, my will began to falter. The fly agarics called for me like the quotidian forbidden fruit in the garden of Eden. I grabbed the bag and picked up one of the caps, running my hands across the bumps on its head. I could almost hear Spence’s voice hissing in my ear, imploring me to take a bite.
Fuck it, I thought. I need the sleep.
I looked up the best way to prep the things. I debated straining them into a tea or baking them into muffins. In the end, probably because of a profound lack of patience, I settled on just noshing them down and chasing them with some OJ.
They tasted like death, and I started beating myself up as soon as they were down the hatch.
What the hell is wrong with you? I chastised myself. Some stranger offers you illicit drugs and you take them? Who knows what he put on or in those things.
But therein lies the rub: I couldn’t find a suitable motive for Spence, other than money. I would’ve never downed the mycelium with him nearby, lest he’d laced it with some kind of date rape drug. But since I was alone in the privacy of my own home, I could rule that possibility out. So he only stood to gain something if I was a repeat customer. And I’d only be a repeat customer if these things worked.
At least, those were the stories I told myself as I filled my electric kettle and flipped it on. I pulled a box of chamomile from my kitchen cupboard and set it on the counter. Strolling to my living room couch, I settled in with a book, draping a wide-weave apron across my shoulders. I felt warm and cozy until the caps hit my gut. Next thing I knew, I was sweating profusely, fighting nausea like my life depended on it.
The electric kettle whistled and I stood up to attend to it. The room spun and my stomach did somersaults.
Alright, maybe not, I told myself, dropping back onto the sofa. That’s okay. The kettle will shut itself off automatically. I don’t have anywhere I need to be.
My eyes roved around the living room. The visuals weren’t much to speak of, but everything—my lamp, the bookcase, the picture frames hanging on the wall—they all took on a rubbery appearance. My terrier, Jackson, perked up his ears and cocked his head at me, probably wondering if I was okay.
I can’t explain it, but Jackson looked comically small. Maybe a quarter of his usual size. I chuckled a little under my breath at that thought, and realized the nausea was subsiding.
My body sunk into the loveseat and I noticed my eyes felt as heavy as lead.
I do believe I’m a little drowsy, I told myself.
Anybody with insomnia can attest to the fact that sleepiness immediately dissipates on the short walk from a couch to a bed. I decided not to risk it. I let my eyelids drop and I drifted into slumber.
Immediately, my mind was transported to the most vivid, lucid dreamscape I’d ever witnessed. I was standing upon a red, velvet carpet, still wearing my satin nightgown and slippers. The carpet stretched down a corridor as far as the eye could see. The floor was white marble and the walls and ceiling were the same. Rose gold crown molding lined the hallway, delicately carved in ornate designs.
I took a few steps forward and craned my neck to inspect it. I saw the familiar image of “The Creation of Adam” by Michelangelo, except rather than touching Adam’s finger with his own, God was handing him an Amanita Muscaria mushroom. I rolled my eyes. It looked like the cheesy stoner artwork you’d see on a t-shirt in a headshop.
Except, this version was intricately cut from gold.
Intrigued by this, I began pacing the length of the hallway, looking at the gold crown molding to see what other scenes were depicted. I strolled past a golden Sphinx and the great Pyramids. I saw the Coliseum and the assassination of Julius Caesar. My eyes roved over images of so many architectural marvels and historic events. As I walked, I witnessed the entire march of human history play out in gold-relief. Machu Picchu and Easter Island and the Magna Carta. A few of the figures and events I didn’t recognize…which I attest to my woefully inadequate history education.
Finally, I came to the moon landing in 1976, and then a carving I didn’t recognize right away. It was a woman with long hair in loose curls. She wore a satin nightgown and slippers. I swallowed hard, knowing it was me. I squinted up at the creature on the gold carving that stood behind the carved, golden depiction of me. It was a massive minotaur, easily eight feet tall.
A jolt of cold-lightning shivered up my spine. I could feel its hot breath on my neck. I didn’t need to turn around to know what I’d see. I did anyway.
A massive, bison-like face bowed. The dumb, bovine brown eyes of what I assumed to be non-sentient creature stared back at me.
“Your knowledge of history may be lacking, but your mythology is not,” he bellowed out in a deep voice. “I want out as bad as you do.”
His massive catcher’s mitt of a hand curled around the shaft of a battle-ax. A bestial and unearthly scream loosed itself from my lips, and I sprinted down the hallway. I didn’t even take a fleeting glance at the decadent crown molding, even though I knew the images depicted as I ran past them told of events yet to happen.
My legs beat against the marble floor, as I pumped my arms and strained ahead. My heart raced and my lungs burned, but still I didn’t let up. Even as I ran, I could feel the minotaur’s breath on my neck. It was rancid with the smell of sulfur.
Chest still heaving, I realized I couldn’t outpace the beast. His gait was too wide and his legs too strong. My eyes darted around the hallway, and I saw a doorway about ten feet ahead. I hoped against hope that the thing was unlocked. I threw myself forwards, and the doorknob spun in my sweaty palm. I felt the thrill of exultation as the door swung on its hinges and opened inwards. I flew through the open door, slamming it in the minotaur’s face. I whirled around in hopes of finding something to bar the door, when I saw the sad smile of the selfsame minotaur. Inexplicably, he was on my side of the door.
“I just shut you out!” I screamed, nonsensically at the beast. “You aren’t supposed to be in here!”
He shook his massive head and looked more melancholy than terrifying.
“I want out, miss,” he said politely. “Would you take me out of this place?”
Thinking quickly, I dove headfirst between his legs, sliding across the marble and scrambling to my feet to make my escape. This hallway looked identical to the last, except there were doors lining the walls every five feet. I picked the first door on the right and bolted through it. It was identical to the second hallway. I decided to go with the same approach: I lunged at the first door on the right and threw it open.
Standing before me was an identical hallway with doors every five feet. My mind reeled.
“B-but that doesn’t make any sense,” I stammered out. “This hallway ought to intersect with the first I was in. The floorplan of this place, just doesn’t—”
“Begging your pardon, miss,” the minotaur said, somehow right beside me now. “But a labyrinthine dreamscape doesn’t need to follow the laws of Euclidean geometry. It doesn’t owe you that.”
A bloodcurdling scream rose from my throat, and I sprinted at a door at random: this one was two doors away and on the left. When I opened it, the entire frame was filled with the massive head of the minotaur.
“That’s not the way out, miss,” he said, in a sweet, if not condescending tone.
I licked my lips as my throat constricted.
“Then what is the way out?!” I screeched.
The minotaur’s massive, muscley man-chest rose once and fell with a deep sigh.
“You are the mythic Daedalus, miss,” he said. “And you’re also the labyrinth. And you’re also the giant beast. That is to say, you are me. Please. Let’s go home.”
My pupils widened and my jaw clenched.
‘No!” I barked out in disbelief. “If I’m dreaming, then I’ll just wake myself up!”
His eyes darkened and for the first time, the minotaur looked genuinely scared.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, miss,” he interjected firmly. “They say if you die in a dream, you die in real life.”
I rolled my eyes.
“If that were the case, the reciprocal would be true,” I shot back, derisively. “You live in a dream. But you don’t live in real life, now do ya?”
The beast cocked his head.
“Of course I do, miss,” he said softly. “In your life, I’m you. You are my avatar in that world just like I’m your avatar in this one. All I was hoping was that I might come with you. I hoped we might merge our realities, for once.”
My voice caught in my throat and I felt my mind slipping. I let out an unearthly, shrill laugh and shook my head.
“Nope!” I yelled. “No, no, no, no, no. I’ll tell ya what I’m going to do. I’ll crack my skull open like an egg on these marble floors. I’ll spill my brains ‘til I’m good and dead, and that will wake me up!”
I dropped to my knees and swung my head like a wrecking ball at the floor, hearing the crunch of bone on marble as I laughed maniacally.
“But you wanted so badly to finally sleep,” the minotaur said, furtively. “I would’ve thought you wanted to stay awhile.”
I wasn’t listening, but continued to bash my head mercilessly against the floor as a mix of blood and gray matter leaked from my wounds. I cackled like a witch as my life-force slowly drained from my body. The last thing I saw was the morose face of the minotaur as he crossed his arms over his chest.
“Until we meet again, miss,” he said as my vision faded to black. “You take care of yourself out there.”
I woke up with a start on my living room couch.
What the fuck? I thought to myself. And then I repeated it in my head time after time, like some backwards, bastardized mantra: What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck?
My nightgown was sticky with sweat, and it clung to my skin as I sat upright on my loveseat. My eyes strayed to the analog clock hanging on my wall. 7:54 a.m.
No way, I thought. But that would mean—
I’d slept 9 straight hours, at least. Completely uninterrupted. I hadn’t done that since…well, truthfully, I couldn’t recall the last time I’d done that.
What was even more odd was how I felt. Despite the absolute fever-dream of a night, I felt refreshed and rested. I was so wide awake that I skipped my morning coffee entirely. I took a jog through the park, tidied up my living room, and folded all of my laundry before noon. My productivity didn’t taper down until late evening.
To my immense displeasure, I realized I was out of mushrooms. As much as I dreaded going back to that place in my dreams, the refreshment I drew from the stuff was worth it. I decided I’d try to find Spence again the next day to nab some more.
Little did I know, the trajectory of my life was already set. I’d already irrevocably damned myself to a living hell. By reaching out to Spence a second time, I wasn’t changing my life for the worse. I was merely speeding up the descent. Things were already heading south. But what was about to come was utter freefall.