The Sleepers
Akari was on the couch, scrolling Instagram.
Her body was small, but she was very toned and lean from yoga and pilates classes, so she appeared longer than she was. And though her eyes were cast down, she was aware that Dan was staring at her, studying her very intently.
“You look like someone, actually, who really needs to talk,” she said, without looking up (she was on the couch, he was on the floor).
“Well, sure I do, yeah.”
Dan laid down on the rug in the small common area, groaning slightly because his back was stiff; exhausted, he didn’t think he could or would get up. He didn’t want to move. He smelled a little sour; his pits were damp from the humidity trapped in the apartment—and from the general stress of the day. He needed a shower, but he just wanted to lay there.
Akari cracked her knuckles and took a sip of beer from the can she had on the end table. It was a nice, quiet night in Greenpoint, and she planned to enjoy it; it was clear that her almost-brother-in-law wanted sympathy or conversation, but she wasn’t going to offer it merely to appease him or make the moment more comfortable. That wasn’t her game. She wasn’t going to let his mood affect hers. She had taken a nap after getting back and felt refreshed; she’d even mustered the willpower to turn off her phone.
She felt deliciously disconnected from responsibility. “What are you thinking about?” he asked.
“Nada.”
“Are you still with that—”
“We broke up,” Akari interjected curtly.
“Oh that sucks, I’m sorry.”
“It’s whatever.” Akari took another sip of beer and burped. “I mean, it tore me up for a while—um. I’m not someone who really . . . I sort of experience my emotions objectively, like they’re someone else’s. I know what I’m feeling but I’m able to analyze it and compartmentalize it and get on with my life.”
“That seems dangerous.”
“How is it dangerous?”
“Because there’s no such thing as actual objectivity in regard to . . . to the um, self. I’m kinda realizing that—that’s what I realized today. You can’t lie to yourself forever. It catches up to you. You think you understand why you’re engaging in a certain behavior, but the behavior’s tricking you.”
“I’m surprised you’re not watching the debate tonight,” Akari said, ignoring his little rant. “We don’t have a TV.”
“But it’s not like you couldn’t find a way to watch it.”
“Sure—but uh—I find it all so fucking depressing; I can’t bring myself to care.”
“Huh. I thought that was your thing.”
“I guess . . .” he mumbled, lamely. “But—not lately. I feel remarkably apathetic.”
“Interesting.”
“I need to go to bed.” Dan stretched out on the floor, yawning.
“Then go to bed.”
“I’m physically tired, but my mind is very not tired.” He sat up as if to prove his point, making uncomfortably direct eye-contact.
“What is going on, my dude?”
He laughed bitterly. “You have no idea.”
Akari, for her part, thought that she did have an idea. She had snuck around before; she had cheated before; she knew all the symptoms. What happened was that you started to feel bad for yourself for letting things get so complicated and absurd; you started to feel like a victim of your own impulses; you felt kind of divided in two: into the person who did the doing and the person who had to deal with the consequences. Besides, she was pretty sure she could smell the sex on Dan; there was a faint, but distinct odor.
“Do you wanna tell me about it?”
“Do I?”
“Are we gonna be all high school about this or can you just spit straight facts?”
“I think it’s better that some things are left unsaid.”
“You’re not leaving anything said though; you’re just being a weirdo.”
“Akari, I literally cannot tell you what’s on my mind—ok? It’s just not something . . . like—I mean, you probably can guess. I’m guessing you’re guessing—”
“I mean I have an idea based on the way you’re acting and looking at me.”
“So why not leave it there.”
“Because you want to tell me.”
“Yeah, I do.”
“But you won’t. You want to but you can’t bring yourself to at the same time.”
“Correct.”
“Because a part of you doesn’t know whether it’s a brag or a confession.”
“Correct.”
“Do you think I’m judging you—that I’ll judge you?”
Dan took a moment to think about this before asking, “What do you think of the whole situation?”
“Your relationship? I really don’t want to comment.”
“I’m just like dying for an objective perspective.”
“I’m not objective.”
Akari laid back on the couch, sighing, breaking eye contact with him. Sometimes, she was down, or in the mood or whatever, to indulge Dan’s little games, but tonight, there was just something depressing about him; he was actively making her depressed. If she kept engaging him, she’d end up just like him: an emotional grifter.
Besides, she had her own issues, to say the least, and getting involved in the politics of Dan and Mariko’s relationship was only a distraction. They were fucked up—in increasingly obvious ways—but there was only so much pleasure to be gained from comparing her thing with Suzanne to what Mariko had with Dan; the comparison, in fact, offered diminishing returns: after a while, all she could feel was pity.
“Okay . . .” Dan said after a moment, “I don’t even need an objective perspective. Honestly, I’ll take any perspective.”
“My perspective is uh—” Akari, studying Dan’s body language, sensed that he was trapped between self-loathing and self-pity; he didn’t know which posture to choose, and he didn’t really know what was appropriate. He didn’t really know who he was or what he was becoming. He had, furthermore, no interest in ever really knowing. Dan wanted to remain suspended between self-knowing and unknowing forever. “My perspective is that you can’t ever really resurrect the intensity of the beginning of a relationship, so you sure as hell better have mutual respect and trust . . .”
“Easier said than done.”
“Then maybe it should be done.”
“Oof.”
“I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but . . .”
“I’m not in a great headspace,” Dan admitted blandly.
“I can see that.”
“I think I’m having a panic attack.”
Akari sat up a little, not really interested, but willing to at least feign baseline concern. “Is that so? Are you ok?”
“I don’t know. I feel like I’m going to die.”
“Take deep breaths into your belly.”
“Okay.”
“Do you want to talk about it now?”
“Fuck no . . .”
The poor guy was really suffering (for whatever reason).
“Dan . . .”
“I really messed up, I think.”
“In what way?”
“Just dumb choices. I’ve made some really dumb choices.”
“It happens man . . .”
Akari studied her almost brother-in-law, whose body language was almost wholly discounted from the things he was saying. He seemed so weak, almost like a little boy. She almost felt like his mother, or more specifically his aunt: a somewhat more distant, but still maternal figure. The cool aunt.
She didn’t want to be unkind to Dan, but she struggled to take him seriously; though the possibility existed, as well, that engaging with his feelings, and inner turmoil, would instigate, or spark, her own process of self-evaluation, which was not exactly what she wanted. If she could keep Dan at an emotional and psychological distance with understatement and implied scorn, then she could minimize the expectation that it would be her turn to share. She wanted to punish his attempts at vulnerability to demonstrate that vulnerability had no place in the conversation or the room.
“How’s your panic attack going?”
“I’m not sure if it’s a panic attack; I’m not sure I’ve ever had one, so I don’t know if this is one.”
“Is your chest tingling?”
“A little, yeah.”
“Are you having trouble breathing?”
“A little, yeah.”
“Probably a panic attack, yeah.”
“Oh great, great.”
“I’ll just hang with you ‘til you’re feeling better.”
“A part of me is like, too exhausted to even panic. I barely slept.”
“Yeah, I took a little nap when I got in, but otherwise the red eye kinda fucked me up.”
“I forget—are you here for a gig or just to visit?”
“I’m shooting a commercial tomorrow not far from here; I should go to sleep soon.”
“I thought maybe Mariko called you in for emotional reinforcement.”
“I mean that’s what she expects of me in exchange for putting me up, but . . .”
“I think you’re a calming presence . . . and obviously a part of you relishes the role you play—advisor, referee—whatever—”
“I mean, I’m not going to deny that,” Akari responded, “but I think the whole question of roles is pretty complex like . . . I think it’s very easy to start enjoying what other people have conditioned you to be or pushed you into like . . . with my sister I’ve had to do the moral support thing for so long that like . . . obviously my own self-esteem is bound up in it in certain very fundamental ways, like . . .”
“I think like Mariko . . .” Dan started, relishing the opportunity to analyze, and indeed, talk shit, “is charming enough that her default assumption is always that she’s going to get her way . . . which is not to say that she’s literally manipulative but like that uh—that uh—well I think we’re both taken for granted in certain ways.”
Akari raised her eyebrows skeptically. “That’s a conveniently self- serving interpretation, but also not wrong.”
“Did you ever cheat on Suzanne?”
“Suzanne and I were non-monog, so not really, no. I guess I lied in certain circumstances . . . um . . .”
“I had the realization today that I started watching a lot of lesbian porn after I met you and her.”
Akari whistled. “Whoo eee. That’s uh—that’s total TMI.”
“Sorry,” Dan said like a little boy.
“It’s cool; it’s dope being a fetish object for my sister’s boyfriend.”
“We flirt—admit we flirt—”
“In our own strange way, sure.”
“Are we flirting right now?”
Akari whistled again. “Well, I understand now that you’re trying to.”
“I’m self-destructing; I’m not sure if that’s the same thing.”
“Flirting with the wrong people is definitely a tool of self-destruction.”
“Are you a wrong person?”
“Of course, Dan.”
“Yeah. I think—honestly—what’s happening right now . . . what I’m realizing . . . is that I’m reacting to the possibility that Mariko actually really doesn’t love me anymore . . . I’m just flailing . . .”
“I believe that’s called a self-fulfilling prophecy.”
“I know . . .”
“I masturbated on your couch today,” Akari found herself saying.
“Is that supposed to mean or indicate something?”
“I figured I needed to share something embarrassing to bail you out a little bit.”
“Is that embarrassing—it’s kinda hot?”
“Daniel—”
“Sorry . . .”
“I do think it’s embarrassing or like in poor taste.”
“No one was home or harmed by it—why is it embarrassing?”
“I find uncontrolled desire or lust slightly shameful; doesn’t everyone?” Akari asked.
“At the moment, I certainly do.”
“What happened tonight, Dan? I’m very curious.”
“I absolutely cannot say.”
“I won’t tell her . . .”
“It’s just that I’m not spiritually ready to confess. Somehow not saying it preserves it . . . from I dunno . . . just preserves it . . .”
“I guess I understand that.”
Dan stretched out, wiggling his toes, his increasingly expressive face in profile. “I’ve felt frozen for so long—frozen in so many ways and now I’m worried I thawed out too fast—like frozen salmon or something . . .” Dan started doing crunches on the couch. “I need to get in shape.”
“Feeling old?”
“So old.”
“Poor Dan.”
Dan jumped up from the floor and punched at the air, shadowboxing. “Why wasn’t I an artist or revolutionary? I think about that all the time— like, man—why did I choose to be me and not someone?”
“Did you choose?”
“I made the choices that led me to being me—the me that I am—”
“Did you?”
“I hope so.”
“Choosing is weird.” Akari made a funny face. “I’m not sure it’s what humans really do.”
“No, I’m not sure either,” Dan said forlornly. “I’m not sure that that’s what I’ve been doing the last thirty-six hours.”
“What would you call it then, if not choosing?”
“Just reacting reacting reacting reacting reacting,” Dan chanted, punching the air with each word.
Akari thought of her text exchange with Suzanne from the morning. “I empathize.”
“Last night,” Dan began, sitting back down on the couch, “I felt like Mari and I were really connecting again . . . really getting somewhere . . . in this conversation we were having . . . and it’s like I just pressed explode on all that—”
“Not necessarily . . .”
“You think I can just like—I dunno—?”
“Is total fidelity to truth for its own sake your goal or having a harmonious relationship?”
“The latter.”
“Then hope that you got out of your system what you needed to get
out—and you can return to your relationship . . . like . . .”
“I’m worried that it’s not so simple.”
“Well, control what you can control.”
“I guess. I’m still anxious.”
“Anxiety is human nature, human destiny bro.”
“No. I don’t think so. Anxiety is mostly a function of a petty bourgeoisie mentality,” Dan explained, “which, if I’m being honest with myself, I embody: the obsessive desire to preserve small comforts and routines . . .”
“Um, yeah.”
“Sorry.”
“Do your thing, Dan. Be you. Talk the way you talk.”
“I saw a Twitter ‘thread’ today about how Millennials will be lonely if they give up on childrearing into their forties—and a part of me doesn’t disagree. But I can’t help but wonder if the reason parenthood is the only way forward is because an urban single’s range of experience has become curtailed, predictable, Yuppified, and, um, boring. Like. Maybe the problem with urban Millennials is not that they’ve, or um, we’ve, not settled down, but because we’ve never grown up—”
“Honestly, probably.”
Excerpted from The Sleepers. Reprinted with the permission of the publisher, Arcade Publishing.
Matthew Gasda grew up in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania. A dramatist, novelist, and poet, he is the author of fifteen plays and counting, including the acclaimed underground hit Dimes Square. He lives in New York City.
