Slumber Party

Slumber Party

S. Hileman Iannazzo

Herb sprawled contentedly. His left arm was tucked under his head, and his right tossed lightly across his chest. Looking at him, I thought, “He looks like an angel” and then I mustered up as much force as my exhausted 110 pound frame could manage and I drove my knee into his rib cage with a primal groan.

“ROLL OVER HERB!” I shouted, “ROLL OVER!”

He only grunted, unaffected by my obviously feeble attempt to wake him. He was snoring again, the sound amplified a thousand times over by my sleep deprived mind. Rolling him was the only shot I had at getting him to hush. Desperately, with the low guttural gurgling of his deviated septum echoing through my last remaining nerve, I decided to change tactics.

“Herb...honey...baby...pleeease roll over”

I was whining for sure, but was beyond caring. Gently I took hold of his shoulder and began shaking him, repeating myself.

“Roll over Herb, Roll over Herb, Roll over Herb....”

It became a chant, all that was missing was a few well placed sacrificial chickens and maybe some scented candles. For the third night in as many days, sleep eluded me, disrupted again and again by my husband's freakishly grotesque breathing. I was sure it was getting worse. We’d been married three years, and while it had always been a bone of contention with us, it had only recently escalated to catastrophic proportions. In the past, his snoring had only prevented me from falling asleep, now it managed to wake me. The most infuriating aspect was that every night Herb would sleep soundly, ignorant to my futile pleading, and he would wake, refreshed each morning, while I spent my days in a fog of sleep deprived confusion, existing on kegs of black coffee.

Fifteen minutes of useless incantations later, I looked at the clock that I was sure was mocking me. 3:18. “Oh God I have got to get some sleep” I mumbled as I climbed to my knees and pulled the covers back. Gently, I walked my fingers over the exposed soles of Herbs' right foot. Instinctually, he pulled it back. Twice more I tickled the bottom of his foot, but while he muttered something under his breath, stubbornly, he refused to roll over. “Shit, that one usually gets him” I said to the darkened room. I resorted to yelling again. Loud. “ROLL OVER HERB! YOU SHIT HEAD! GOD DAMN IT! ROLL!” Suddenly, his eyes opened. “What?” He asked, alarmed. “Hon, you’re snoring again, couldya roll over please?” I asked so sweetly in my best singsong voice.

“OK, sure” He said, but of course, he didn’t. It was quiet for a minute, but it wasn’t long before I slid from the bed in a heap, tears streaming down my face, lighting a cigarette, even though I had quit four months ago. I caved in and shuffled into the parlor to sleep on the couch.

The next night I tried a spray bottle of icy water. Hell it worked when the cat was eating my plants. It did not, however, work for Herb. It did manage to royally piss him off though. A lot. Spitefully, he stayed firmly on his back, a small smile touching the corners of his mouth. I may have been paranoid, but I was starting to think he was enjoying himself. I was once again on my way to sofa city.

A few days later, I found out what happens when you set the alarm clock in an effort to wake a sleeping husband in the middle of the night. He hit the snooze button. Over and over and over again. This was a whole new level of entertainment for me. Nine minute intervals of on again off again snortling, peppered with the high pitched beeping of his clock.

One weekend, I built an elaborate system of pulleys. I was unable to budge Herbs 200 pounds alone, but, with a little help from Home Depot, I was able to construct a makeshift crane. In theory, it was brilliant. Operated by a single wench, all I had to do turn the crank, thereby lifting and rolling Herbs sleeping body onto his side. Simple right? The next morning, He was kind enough to cut me loose from a self-inflicted tangled web of nylon ropes and brackets.

I turned to the bottle. I couldn’t help it. Alcohol induced comas had started to have real appeal. Quick as I could, I mixed and swallowed six White Russians. I could still hear him snoring from my kneeled position over the toilet.

The next logical step was, of course, the Internet. I spent an entire day at my computer, surrounded by empty Mountain Dew cans, surfing the web. For a nominal fee, one archaic site offered relief through hypnosis (via two cd’s) and what can I say? I was hard up. Forty-nine bucks later (plus shipping) I congratulated myself for being so very clever.

Two weeks later, after writing a scathing email to the makers of “Insight Hypnosis”, I sat mixing a potion of herbal tea of honey and Tabasco sauce, a ‘guaranteed cure for the snur’, (so promised the holistic healing book on my lap) I hadn’t figured out yet how I would convince Herb to taste this, but as my hair had started to fall out in large clumps, and my vision sometimes doubled, I was willing to try anything.

Turns out, Herb is violently allergic to honey. The doctor in the emergency room suggested sewing tennis balls into the back of his pajama tops, forcing him to sleep on his side. I didn’t bother telling the good doctor that Herb didn’t wear pajamas. I wont lie, for a brief moment I considered sewing the fucking tennis balls into his skin. I did the next best thing. I used duct tape. He was now swollen and covered in hives with three brand new tennis balls duct taped to the small of his back. He still managed to snore! I did take some satisfaction watching him tear all that tape off, and I knew it would be weeks before the hair grew back.

I was starting to hear phantom snoring throughout the days.

One night, I was sitting in the dimly lit kitchen, drinking honey straight from the plastic bear and rummaging through a carton that lay at my feet. Throat sprays, tongue trainers, and anti-snore bracelets (had I really fallen for that?) I tried to concentrate on the problem at hand. What hadn’t I tried yet? I had used ear plugs, but his atomic booming permeated even my highest quality contraptions. Sleeping in the livingroom was causing a large hump forming where my left shoulder blade used to be. Dark circles accentuated the bags that had formed under my eyes. Small children ran from me. Including my own. From the bedroom, eruptions of wet phlegm moving through an aluminum can filled with marbles disrupted my thoughts.

And that’s when I decided to kill him.

“It would be so easy to rip the pillow from under his head and just snuff the life right out of him” I thought. “Just get up, walk in there, grab the biggest, heaviest pillow on the bed, and hold it. I even wondered how long it would take and scrambled for a way to make it look like an accident. It wasn’t until I was standing over him, pillow in hand that I came to my senses.

“Oh My God!” I thought, “what am I doing?” I stood, frozen, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest, the peaceful look of utter tranquility on his face, and yeah, still listening to the resounding echo of his wheezing snuffle. I don't know how long I just stood there, clutching his Breathe Ezy Allergen Pillow (24.99 ! As Seen On TV!) in my trembling fingers. I guess I knew I didn’t have it in me. When I watched him reach for me, blindly sliding his arm across the mattress, to my now empty side of the bed, I was sure I loved him enough and despite his snore, I decided to let him live. I wasn't cut out for prison anyway, orange made me look drained and I'm pretty sure you can't smoke. Dropping the pillow, I returned to my well worn spot on the couch.

Tomorrow we’d look for a two bedroom.

Fin