Sleep to Dream

On January 1st, Marcus decides more than a few resolutions are needed to turn around his life. The first few are easy: stop getting so blackout drunk at parties that you forget the entire night, stop sleeping with people who are taken, actually remember to pay his rent when it's due, and, finally, get a job.

The last one is surprisingly not so easy. Marcus has money: enough to live semi-comfortably and pay for his own living costs in New York City, one of the most ridiculously expensive places ever. But he’s bored above all, here, with nothing to pass the time except failed attempts at writing and TV re-runs of Game of Thrones.

As it turns out, people aren't lying when they say that's there's not a lot of work for English majors. He could be a teacher, but he doesn't hate himself enough for that quite yet. He's still writing novels, of course, but so far he's got nothing he feels is good enough to even try and get an editor for. He could work for a newspaper, but that seems sort of like giving up on his novelist dream, somehow. After that, all that's left is jobs you don't need an Ivy League degree for.

Out of his limited pool of 'jobs you need a college degree for but not a specific one', Marcus chooses a Sleep Hotline. It's the kind of hours he likes, because it's all overnight, and when there's not callers, he can just work on his writing, or read, or sleep, or really just do whatever the hell he wants, and he'll still get paid for it, $25 an hour.

The office is fairly close to his apartment, the boss is kind of crazy but overall decent, and his coworkers— a nerdy, skinny guy named Charlie and a ridiculously tall brunette named Ella— are really awesome. It feels kind of like the perfect job: enough to pay his rent and food costs so he doesn't have to keep dipping into the money from the sales of his last book, and also helpful in carving him out very specific time to write.

The work itself isn't so bad, either. It's not his dream job, but it's not so bad, either. Mostly, he just has to give suggestions to people who can't sleep, or sometimes listen to them talk for a bit so that they feel relaxed enough to try and sleep. Then, he'll recommend them a sleep professional, or he'll use the software that Charlie, a computer science degree-holder, has made-- it lets you type in keywords to generate suggestions to give to patients. It's pretty much an idiot-proof job, not that Marcus is anywhere close to an idiot. Or at least, his old Columbia professors would say so (he hopes).

Working at the sleep hotline is a little like being a therapist, Marcus reckons, but for people who are really, really tired. He makes files on each of his 'patients'-- although he finds the word a little ridiculous, he's not anywhere close to a medical professional-- consisting mostly of their names and the things he tells them, just so he can track what suggestions work and which don't work. Also, because his boss tells him to.

Most of his files are on middle-aged women who seem to just like to hear the sound of his voice, who Ella suspects haven't actually had trouble sleeping since the first call, but just call back because they're in a loveless marriage and want to hear a sexy young man talk in their ear at night. Marcus rolls his eyes at her when she calls them his "soccer moms", but he secretly thinks she's kind of right.

A few of his callers will be interesting, every once in a while, but for the most part, the work is mundane and relaxing. The best part is that he actually does get work done on his next novel, about a cynical young man in the aftermath of the death of his family to a fire.

When he's had his job for a month, the phone line rings at 3:00 AM. Ella has a caller already, and Charlie's asleep, so Marcus answers. "Hello, Sleep Hotline, this is Marcus speaking," he says, spinning around in his office chair. "How may I help you?"

"I can't bloody sleep, that's how you can help me," mutters a very distinctly English voice from the other end of the line.

"Um, do you have a lot of caffeine, regularly?" Marcus asks.

"Yeah, because I can't sleep at night," the guy huffs. "I'm fucking exhausted."

"Cutting down on caffeine probably isn't, um, what you want to hear, but it can have a more powerful effect than you think," Marcus tells him, very diplomatically, if he does say so himself. He's used to dealing with people who are punchy, because most people are when they're tired. "What's your name?"

"Why do you need that?" says the caller, on the defensive.

"So I can start a file on you for if you ever decide to call again," Marcus tells him. "It doesn't have to be your real name." It really doesn't. Marcus has files on some very interesting and obvious pseudonyms. Unless Bruce Wayne and Frank Underwood are actual real insomniacs. Somehow Marcus has his doubts.

"Fine," sighs Marcus's caller. "You can call me Will."

"Alright, Will," Marcus says, typing that into his computer, along with the keywords 'English' and 'standoffish'. "How long have you had problems sleeping?"

"God," Will says. "Probably since I stopped drinking?"

"Problems with drinking, or just a casual drinker?"

"Problems with drinking."

"That rules out my next suggestion of having a drink, then," Marcus mutters, mostly to himself, because he's not about to suggest alcohol to an alcoholic. To his surprise, Will laughs at this.

"Yeah, better not."

"You could try chamomile tea, then."

"I'm not a grandmother."

"A warm bath?"

"Not my sister, either."

"You could try reading something. If you've got a textbook, you could read that in bed, that always sends me nodding off."

"Not a student," Will tells him regretfully.

Marcus purses his lips. "I dunno, Melatonin? I don't really like to suggest sleeping pills, but that's just a supplement."

Will groans. "I wish it'd help. I already took 30 mg."

"Um, are you stressed out about anything, then?"

"I've been rather useless to my band," Will admits. "I'm supposed to be writing things, but I've hardly gotten anything down, and what I have is shit, frankly."

"You could meditate to relax? Or, I dunno... Think of boring things," Marcus tries. Normally this isn't that difficult.

"Think of boring things," Will hums. "Maybe."

There's a beat of silence, and then Will says, "D'you think you could just talk to me for a bit? Try and be... boring."

"I'll do my best," Marcus agrees, and starts in on a summary of the plot of Ayn Rand's Atlas Shrugged, which has to be the most boring and pointless book Marcus has ever read. He definitely wouldn't have gotten through it if it weren't for the essay he had to write for it in college.

By the end, Will is yawning, and Marcus feels strangely smug. "What story was that? Proper awful."

"It's Ayn Rand," Marcus says. "And it really is."

Will laughs quietly, then says: "Well, thank you, Marcus, for the story time. Was really quite effective."

"You're very welcome," Marcus says. "Call back anytime if you need me."

"Will do," yawns Will. "Bye Marcus." He disconnects the line and Marcus adds a few more descriptors to his file:
-hates ayn rand
-actually not all that standoffish (?)