Mirrors Of Home

Reflections on Insomia


I can'Â’t sleep.

The clock on my wall says 1.35am, my watch says 1.40am and I'Â’m locked someplace in-between.

I turn on my radio and listen to a talk show and wonder why all night time announcers have that same lazy, beat up languid style.

"Hi. This is Jefferson Robbins and I'm your night-time companion through this long LA night..."

“"Where would you rather be now?”", he asks in a voice that is as smooth as a crème caramel chocolate. I look out at the rain and think anyplace but this.

“"I mean you Roy".” he says, “ "yeah you! Don'’t turn me off Roy because we want to know about you".“

This geek does this all the time. He mentions a name and pretty soon, every Edith, Mike or Roy in the tri state area calls in. I guess a row of flashing lights on his monitor tells him that there are a lot of RoyÂ’s' out there and I thank the Lord that my name is Dan.

Roy from Tulsa says heÂ’'d rather be anyplace but Tulsa. Wouldn't anyone. Another Roy this time from Tupelo tells everyone that heÂ’'s the reincarnation of Elvis and heÂ’'d rather be in Vegas. I listen and think to myself that thereÂ’'s a lot of RoyÂ’s' out there and I try to recall any RoyÂ’'s that IÂ’'ve come across but I can'Â’t think of any.

I look at my face in the mirror. It doesn't get any prettier. I need a shave. My skin is loose. The mirror tells me it's too late to change my ways.

Outside the rain stops and I think of life someplace other than downtown LA. The guy on the radio plays a slow dreamy tune that sets the mood for the night. My life is held together by four walls and a dumb assed voice on a radio station that only comes alive at night. Over the road the neon light flickers every few seconds and illuminates my room. IÂ’'ve asked the landlady for new drapes and she promised to get some last July. ItÂ’'s March now. Life is slow.

I look out but there's not much to see. My reflection in the window is distorted by raindrops. It's a better sight than what the mirror gave me.

I read a book that I read last night and the night before and make a note to buy a new one. I think HemingwayÂ’s' a pretty cool writer but there'Â’s only so much of a fishing story a guy can take. I light up a cigarette and promise myself that someday soon IÂ’'ll give up another bad habit.

My life is full of those; bad habits. A half empty glass of cheap whiskey remains on the bedside cabinet from yesterday. I look at it and blow smoke rings. Another bad habit.

The guy on the radio asks if we know our neighbor. He thinks society is selfish and greedy and we'Â’ve all become our own little islands. Very profound. I can'Â’t recall if I've ever seen my neighbor although I hear them often enough. I ask myself if that'Â’s enough to call in but then I remember that I don'Â’t have a phone.

I walk over to the mirror and wonder what I'd look like with a beard. I don't have a razor so my options are halved.

Life sucks. Night in LA carries on regardless and I wait and wonder and close my eyes and hope for sleep that never comes.

I live a long night.