Cinnamon Slumber
By Maxine Wally

       I can’t sleep. I just can’t. I’ve tried everything.
No, everything. Suggest what you’d like, but I’ve
probably tried it. A shot of whiskey before bed, warm
milk, pills, even a series of drugs that I tried, so
that when I came down from them I could sleep, but all
I ended up with was an ongoing conversation with my
cat, Oregano, 167 paces around my living room, (I
counted,) and dark circles under my eyes.
       I don’t know why I can’t sleep. For once in my life,
things are out of my control. There is no plan, no
list of things to do. All I do is sit around watching
late- night t.v. with Oregano.
       This is the usual routine: I change into my pajamas
first, the ones mom made me when I was twelve. They
are black and white pinstriped, and make me look like
a prisoner. If it is especially cold, I wear socks to
bed, but not usually. I brush my teeth, make sure
Oregano is fed, and sit in front of the t.v., not
really watching anything, just flipping through
channels. Television is a barren wasteland anyways, I
have no idea why I even attempt to watch it.
       Anyways, after that, I give Oregano a kiss goodnight,
and then climb into bed. I have an enormous bed. It is
the size known as “California King” and I end up
getting utterly lost in the endless pillows,
comforters, and odd knitted blankets mom has given me.
I kick off the covers because I’m too hot, I burrow
myself in the quilts because I’m too cold, I lie
awake, blinking, staring at the ceiling. It never
ends. By three a.m., I’m back at the television with
Oregano.
       Oregano is a good cat to have. He doesn’t meow unless
I pull his tail, and sometimes I do, just to check and
see if he’s still alive.  He always eats his fancy
feast when I give it to him. I hate pets that don’t
eat when I want them to. When I was younger I used to
have a fish named Paprika, and he wouldn’t eat the
fish food I gave him. I must have tapped that cylinder
of brightly colored flakes about seven times a day,
but his round mouth never floated to the surface. He
just wouldn’t eat. I started to cry and flushed him
down the toilet. I instantly regretted that decision.
       Oregano is also a good cat to have because he watches
me re-arrange the spice rack. I love re-arranging the
spice rack. It is one of my favorite things to do
besides going on walks with Oregano, or filling out
forms. My favorite spice is bay leaf. If I could be
any spice, I’d be a bay leaf; no question. They’re
strong and delicious, yet everyone knows you can’t eat
them so people always do that thing where they hold
the leaf between their teeth and scrape their tongue
on the bottom it. It’s just one of those things that
everyone does.
       When I’m feeling lonely, I like to walk down to the
corner store and buy a quart of orange juice. I have
been feeling especially lonesome this week, so I have
twelve quarts of o-j sitting in my fridge. But anyway,
I don’t go to the corner store to buy the orange juice
to drink, I don’t care very much about the orange
juice itself, I don’t even like orange juice all that
much. I only buy it so I can get lost amongst the
crowds of people, immerse myself in their
conversations, their lives...because God knows mine
isn’t worth a word.
       I work for a company that makes three-hole punches,
and it’s a pretty nice job. I sit in a cubicle next to
an older woman named Rayshawn who is tolerable at
best. I once asked her to come and get drinks with me
after work. Her jowls jiggled like fresh jello as she
shook her head violently.       “I can't, I cannot, I am
very sorry,” she said in her fairly broken English. I
should have known she was a debbie-downer. She didn't
want a friend, or even someone to get a drink with
after work. I was momentarily disappointed, but in a
couple hours, my cares were lifted when I remembered
that my new Netflix had come in the mail. I spent a
lovely evening with Oregano instead –  we watched all
of the PBS Linley Mysteries on DVD.
             Today was a big day at work. I was given
the task of making the order forms for Office Max,
Office Depot, and Staples, who are the main clients
for three-hole punches. It was tiring, but I got it
done. I think the boss felt like I had done an
efficient job, but he didn't say any words of approval
when I handed him the completed forms- he just kind of
grunted and walked away. But then again, he doesn't
give much praise to many.
       So I'm tired and I think tonight is the night I will
finally be able to go to sleep. I do the usual routine
after a microwave dinner and a couple hours of petting
Oregano in front of the T.V. I climb into bed, and
tuck myself in underneath the covers, holding them up
to my chin, my knuckles turning white with
anticipation. I close my eyes and will myself to
sleep. As I start to drift, I wonder when the last
time I slept was. I realize it was over a week ago;
and it was only for about 2 hours. My heart beats
faster as I think to myself, I'm actually going to
sleep! Soon I will be in the arms of Morpheus, the God
of Sleep. Oregano, you gotta see this...
       I wake up 25 minutes later, disoriented, my fists
still clutching the covers. Shit, shit shit. I sit up,
defeated. I am disappointed, to say the least. I
thought I would be able to sleep the entire night
through. I am so frustrated with my insomnia that it
drives me to tears. I have not cried in eleven years,
and yet, at this moment, at forty two years old, I
find myself with my knees bent up to my face, tears
streaking my cheeks and blurring my sight. The room is
completely black, and I have no idea where Oregano is.
I reach my arms out and blindly, flustered, flap in
the dark for my kitty cat. I finally make connection
with his tail, and he mews. I hold him close, and he
licks the tears from my face.
       I wander into the living room and turn on the
television once more. I notice I received a free
newspaper in the mail. The Daily News, it's called. It
appears to be some shitty newspaper- you know, the
ones that are written and printed locally and inform
you of upcoming clam bakes and sock hops. I flip
through it and am about the put it back on the coffee
table when a center fold falls out, and flutters to
the floor. I pick it up, and stop when I see bare
breasts. Bare, sweating, breasts adorned with hard,
pink nipples. Some are covered in a mysterious white,
creamy substance, others are being held by false
nailed hands, others still are being caressed by...oh
dear. I drop the newspaper in surprise. This is dirty,
this is raunchy, this is disgusting, this is....a
phone number. A 24-hour phone number. I bite my bottom
lip and wonder if I should. Am I into phone sex? Not
in the least bit. But if it is, in fact, a 24-hour,
round the clock opportunity for conversation, then I
am intrigued. I look at Oregano for a yay or nay. He
bats his whiskers with his paw and I take it as a sign
of approval.
       I dial 1800-THKBTCH and anxiously await an answer.
       “Hi, baby,” a woman says. Oh my God, I can just see
her now, crossing her fishnetted leg, pouting her
seductive lips. It gives me an odd feeling.
       “Hel- hello. Hmm hmm!” I clear my throat as my voice
cracks.
       “How can I help you?”
       “I’d like to...talk...” I shift my seat on my couch
uncomfortably. This was a bad idea.
       “Sure, honey, who can I connect you with?”
       “Are you the operator?” I ask quizically.
       “I am, sugar, and I can connect you with anyone you
want. Who do you want? What race, what color hair,
what height, what weight? Anything, baby, anything.”
       “Erm...the most talkative one, I guess.” This is
awkward.
       “Sure, of course. I’ll connect you right away. Don’t
forget to have your credit card out and ready for
payment at the beginning of your session.” She says
the last part very quickly.
       “Okay, thank you.” The line beeps, and suddenly,
another voice comes on; a distinct voice – one unlike
any I’ve ever heard before. It sounds like water being
poured from a glass decanter.
       “Hello, my name is Cinnamon, baby, and I’m here to
talk to you.”
       “Excellent!” I say crisply. I feel so comfortable
around this voice, this voice that is so smooth and
fluid, that I feel like I could say anything. I
finally begin to relax, leaning back slightly onto my
couch. “Cinnamon....that’s an interesting name. Did
you choose that name yourself?”
       “No, I didn’t sugar, the name was given to me.”
       I get off the couch and begin to walk slowly around
the room. “Well, lucky for you, I am an expert on
spices.” When I say the word expert, I bounce once on
the balls of my feet. “Did you know cinnamon was first
brought to the United States in the 1600's from
India?”
       She pauses, and I can feel her bewilderment cracking
down the phone line. “I did not know that...That sure
is interesting.”
       “I know, spices are fascinating. They are so
individual and interesting. And everyone thinks that
spices need to be hot and spicy, you know? But not all
of them are, no sir, not all of them.”
       “Yes, that is true.” I hear a Southern lilt in her
voice, and am comforted further. I hear her sigh.
She’s perfect. A perfect companion. I look at Oregano.
       “Tell me, why are you sighing?” I sit back down on
the couch.
       “Do you really want to know?”
       “Yes, of course, that’s why I asked.”
       “Because I want you to put your hands in your pants,
baby. And I want to put my hands in mine. What are you
wearing?”
       “Cinnamon, please! So crass!”
       “Do you even want to have phone sex, here, Mister?”
       “No! Of course not!”
       “Then why on earth did you call?”
       I stop suddenly, and bite my bottom lip. “I can’t
sleep. I’ve become an insomniac.”
       She says nothing. “So you called just to...talk?”
       “Yes.”
       She giggles a bit, then says. “I can go for that.”
       Cinnamon and I become great friends. We talk on the
phone almost every night for two hours, and I learn
everything about her. She is a student from
Tallahassee, Florida, who is studying at the community
college here. She does the whole phone sex thing to
keep up with her rent. She grew up in a tiny house
with her three brothers and two sisters, the youngest
of them all, and she considers herself a real baby. Up
until a year ago, when she moved here, she counted on
her parents for everything, “every cotton-pickin’
thing,” she likes to say. So she claims this
independence is well-needed.
       I, in turn, tell her everything. How my day is going,
how I’ve recently discovered a new line of Lean
Cuisine that I have stocked my freezer with, how
Oregano has begun blinking in 4-second intervals. We
become close friends, and I am satisfied. Despite
having little to no sleep, being able to talk to
someone – even if it is a phone sex operator- is
comforting.
       I come home one night with exciting news – I got
promoted! It’s not like I’m at a managerial stage in
my career or anything, but I have gotten upped in pay,
and I’m so happy. I can’t wait to tell Cinnamon, and
come 10 o’clock pm, when her shift starts, I call. As
it rings I catch sight of my face in the mirror. I
look pale, paler than I’ve ever looked; my skin is
almost see-through. I poke and prod at my cheeks. I
look like a ghost. The line clicks, and someone picks
up. Before the person on the other line can even say
anything, I say, “Please connect me to Cinnamon!”
       “I’m sorry, Cinnamon is out for the night.”
       I stop breathing. “What?”
       “Cinnamon couldn’t come in to work tonight, I’m sorry
honey. I can connect you to any other of our sexy
ladies-”
       “No, no. No, I want Cinnamon. Where is she? Do you
know where she is?”
       “No, I don’t know.”
       “Oh my God.” I hang up the phone and begin to freak.
Oh no, oh God, no Cinnamon? How will I complete my
night? Oh my GOD! I reach for my inhaler. I can’t
breathe, oh God, oh God. I look around my apartment,
trying to calm down. I gotta get out of here.
       I run down to the street and look around wildly, like
a madman. I hightail it to the corner, the sleeves of
my coat blowing behind me.
       I’m at the store and I’m sifting through the orange
juices, tears streaking my cheeks. I’m fucking
flipping out, I’m FLIPPING OUT, and I need an orange
juice to calm me QUICKLY. All the orange juices are
past date, though, way past date. My pale fingers look
even more ghostly under the blue florescent light that
floods the refrigerated area. My hands shake as I
shove one orange juice into the previous, looking
desperately for one that has not gone past date.
December 1st, December 3rd, November 25th, November
30th; it’s January 4th. This is awful, my face is
turning red, and I’m going to cry even more if this
doesn’t happen, and I unscrew the cap on one carton,
and smell it and it’s fermented and I breathe harder.
I rush to the front, desperate to have the woman
sitting at the front help me, perhaps she has some
fresh ones in the back. I start to speed walk to the
plexi-glass covered square she is sitting languidly
in. She’s fat; not just chubby, but FAT. And being as
thin as I am, I am a good judge of what is obese and
what is not. I am repulsed by her, but she has to help
me find a fresh orange juice. She smells slightly like
those cheap Longs Drugs brand perfumes that they sell
for $9.99 and she has an enormous mole on her chin,
and it’s terrible. She is reading a gossip magazine
and takes a moment away from it to scratch her crotch.
Disgusting. I hardly want to go near this woman. She
is drinking an orange juice herself; one of the oldest
orange juices in the bunch. I can’t believe it; those
orange juices smelled like death. How could she ever
drink something so vile? Just as I’m about to ask her
where the un-fermented orange juice is, she burps
loudly. She is awful, just awful. I go up to the
window anyways, and shakily say, “Miss? Do you have
any fresh orange juice?”
       “Excuse me?”
       Oh. My. God.
       “Do...do you have- do you have any fresh...?”
       “What are you trying to say?”
       Oh my fucking God, Oh my God.
       “I- all the orange juice is... has gone bad.”
       She shrugs, and I think of a bowl of pudding shaking
on mom’s kitchen table. “So? What’s your point?”
       I feel crazier and wilder than ever. What the hell? I
stare at her with my mouth open, not saying anything.
I can’t say anything. I just can’t.
       “Fucking- Oh...” I’m frustrated with my lack of
articulation. My lack of planning. My lack of ability.
       “Did you just curse at me? How dare you! Please leave
the store.” I don’t move, rooted to the spot. “ Leave
now, you freak!”
       I run out, I run quickly. I am out on the sidewalk
now, panting, and I can’t stand up. My tears blind me.
That was Cinnamon. That was Cinnamon, there, sitting
behind that plexi-glass, that rude, that fat, that
smelly, tired looking woman. That was Cinnamon. That
was my friend. That was the woman I put all my trust
in, the woman I believed in, the woman I thought I
could tell anything, the woman I thought I loved.
       That’s when the wind starts blowing, the little
fallen leaves floating all around me; a sea of bay
leaves. The wind blows the sleeves of my coat forward,
leading me down the street. The wind blows so hard, I
almost trip on my loose pant leg that, like my sleeve,
billows before me. I try to pick up a leaf, and I want
so badly to scrape my tongue across it, feel its
lively spice and bittersweet veins. But then I see it,
I finally see: it’s just a leaf.
       And suddenly it occurs to me: I don’t need an
artificial friend that I don’t know. I don’t need to
force some sort of excitement into my life with some
voice that floats sweetly from a phone to my ear. What
is that? Some intangible nothing that swallows my life
whole, makes me a complete hermit? I’ve got to get out
more, I’ve got to get out more. I can be in love! I
can talk to people! I can do all those exciting things
that people sing songs about and make movies about and
name spices after! I rub the back of my balding head.
I’m surprised at the satisfied bounce in my step, and
I touch my face, and see that I am not only real, not
only am I a real guy, not only do I have the prospect
of being a guy that is liked, a guy that can be among
others, a guy that can mingle at the bar, a real
fucking guy, but the tears that Oregano once had to
lick from my face have dried.
       And that night, I go home and have the best night of
sleep of my life.