Read No Sleep till Wonderland for Free Online

to, though, and it’s the want that scares me.

Eight
     
    The next day comes like it was supposed to, though I suspect it won’t one of these days. I sleep in, cash the check at the bank across the street, and hit the office late—1:00 p.m. late. No one visits or calls.
    There’s no real work to do until this evening, so I try verifying Financier CEO Wilkie Barrack’s Commonwealth Avenue apartment address by calling the building’s rental agency. No go there. Then I call the Boston Herald ’s Inside Track pretending I’ve just spotted Madison and her lacrosse accessory coming out of a building, and I give Madison’s address. The wonderfully helpful intern with the asthmatic voice tells me that it’s covered; they already have a freelance photographer stationed outside that address.
    So I had the right apartment, anyway. Not sure if that’s good or bad, but after experiencing a modicum of success I celebrate by sleeping.
    It’s 7:00 p.m., and I wake up thinking about how I’m getting to the Pour House. Transportation is always an issue, an incident waiting to happen. Instead of a cab, I could pick up the number 9 bus at the stop right across from my building, and ride the 9 all the way in to the Prudential. It’d be easy and much cheaper than a cab, but I don’t do well on buses.
    I take out Gus’s gift bag and dry swallow an amphetamine. Yeah, just like that. There is no soul-searching or deliberation. I summarily dismiss the nagging question, What if these aren’t amphetamines? because I can. Swallowing the pill is a complete what’s-the-worst-that-could-happen gesture on my part. Amphetamines are essentially the same stuff I tried before, and probably only have a little extra hot sauce. So why am I clutching the edge of my desk, expecting a Wolfman soft dissolve and transformation?
    While waiting for the fangs to sprout, I do a Web search on amphetamines, which is something I should’ve done first. Apparently amphetamines are habit forming with both physical and psychological dependence. That’s nice. The drug has an impressive and familiar list of side effects that I jot down in my handy-dandy palm-sized notebook. I might need this list later. If I start freaking out, I’ll know why.
    The list:

     
    I wonder if diarrhea or constipation is user’s choice.
    I close up the office and step outside. It’s another scalding-hot night, but lower humidity and there’s a coastal breeze. I limp across the street to the bus stop and light up a cigarette as the 9 bus surfaces and beaches itself on the corner. I make my first and only drag count before grinding it under my heel. What a waste.
    Inside the bus, the lights flicker with the sputtering AC. It’s cooler in the tin can, but no one feels cool. I lay claim to a seat in the back, behind a couple of giggly teenage boys wearing crooked baseball hats, listening to iPods, and carrying on a loud semiverbal conversation. They’ll annoy me enough to keep me awake.
    The bus rolls away from the curb, and we’re off. Should be a ten-minute trip. Fifteen tops. I’m growing more nervous that I’m too trusting of Gus’s little green pill. Is it too late to change my mind? I have a second pill in my pocket just in case I rechange it later. Gus never did tell me the recommended dosage. As a bike messenger/bartender, he makes a lousy pharmacist.
    It’s a slow ride down Broadway with too many stops. I look out the bus window, but the interior lights reflect my mug on the glass. I’m having trouble focusing, a sentiment I should have tattooed on my tongue. My heart beats louder, knocking its Morse code against my chest. I check my pulse, and it feels quicker than normal, and seems to be gaining momentum, but I don’t usually check my pulse so I don’t really know what is normal.
    I’m multiple-shots-of-espresso wired, but I’m also withdrawn, a step back from reality, whatever that is. My field of vision has a frame on it. I’m in a window. No, I am my own