I am failing at sleeping, tonight, with help from my upstairs neighbors. I suppose what I lack in vision I make up for in hearing, and the sounds of their conversations and the infernal beeping of something in their flat is preventing me from drifting off to sleep. I tried drowning out the noise–barely loud enough for most people to notice, I imagine–with the sound of crickets and cicadas in my head, but apparently there is an upper limit on the volume for imaginary insect song.
When I was a child and couldn’t sleep around this time of night, I would sometimes tiptoe into the living room, where my father would be snoozing in one of the recliners, with M*A*S*H playing on the tv. I would curl up in the other recliner, my head on one of the overstuffed arms, my feet tucked in the cranny underneath the other, and watch it next to him. Eventually, he would wake up, turn off the tv, and lumber off to bed. To this day the M*A*S*H ending theme makes me feel a little sad and lonely, because it meant that I was soon to be alone downstairs with my insomnia.
My father and I have always born a striking resemblence to Radar (front row, second from the right, next to the guy in a tartan dress).