Read No Sleep till Wonderland for Free Online Page A

window, and I’m not making any goddamn sense.
    The bus hits a pothole, and I almost scream out. Wait, there is no “almost” about my scream as the two teens turn and look at me, clearly a-scared of the hairy, sweaty, screaming man on speed. At least I’m not driving.
    Okay, calm down, Genevich. I think we passed over Interstate 93 and are getting closer to Copley. I pull out my collection of side effects, and it reads like a checklist. I know some of what I’m experiencing is the placebo effect, me and my damaged gray matter simply cooperating with the list of symptoms, but it doesn’t make me feel any better.
    I curl and pass the paper between my fingers. My fingers feel big and clumsy, and that’s because they are. The “may only hide symptoms of extreme fatigue” is a particularly ominous side effect.
    Ten minutes past forever the bus stops at the Prudential. My fingers are vines, choking the seat in front of me, but I made it. I step off the bus on legs that are skittish and easily spooked. The fresh night air mixed with bus exhaust is a welcome splash of cold water on my face. Released into the expanse of the city, I relax.
    The walk is short, two blocks, and I’m feeling good, confident, focused, the near meltdown on the bus already forgotten. The Pour House is a big place with an upstairs and a downstairs. It’s early, but most of the booths are full of late diners. Graffiti and collected kitsch cover the brick walls. The staff is dressed in black, with a few wearing neon plastic leis around their necks. I hate this place: it tries to be a dive, but it’s too happy, too young. The contrived spontaneity motif rubs me all the wrong ways. I need a smoke, but if I were to light up here the kids would throw their mojitos and appletinis at the grumpy old man.
    I mosey downstairs. Here, it’s darker, and with less crap smeared on the walls. No crowd. The bar takes up most of the square footage with small tables for two tightly lined along the walls. TVs hang in the corners, each tuned to the Sox game, volume muted. Upstairs is the play room. This is the bar. I decide to lean on it.
    Ekat works alongside a male bartender who is completely uninteresting. She’s pretty in an everywoman kind of way. Her face mixes a sharp nose with rounded cheeks. No makeup and her brown hair tied up tight. She sees me, jogs to my end of the bar, and says, “What can I get you?”
    I’m doing okay, but I don’t know about mixing amphetamines, alcohol, and surveillance, oh my. I ask for a beer, Sam Adams. Can’t exactly sit at a bar and order water, now, can I?
    Ekat is a few inches shorter than I am, but moves a hell of a lot faster. She drops my full glass onto the bar without spilling and asks, “Do I know you?” She doesn’t cock her head to the side or send her voice up a few unsure octaves. She says it like she’s mad at herself for not knowing the answer to a stupid question.
    I throw a five on the bar. “Don’t think so. But I get that all the time because I look like everyone else.”
    I went into this assuming Gus wasn’t going to tell her about me. She lives in Southie, so maybe she’s seen me around, or she knows of me because the DA died in my stairwell. Everyone in Southie knows who I am even if they never see me. I’m their Sasquatch, only no one collects my footprints. It’s hard being so popular.
    She laughs—at me or with me, I don’t know. “You’re right. I get your types all night long, usually only on Wednesdays, though. You’re off a night.”
    “I’m usually off.” I retreat to one of the small square tables up against the wall. I’m going to be here for a while and don’t want to be more conspicuous than I already am. I’m the only person in the joint not wearing a tight T-shirt and tighter jeans.
    I think about calling Gus but decide against it. I poke and prod my beer through a couple of hours, then have the waitress bring me ginger ale on the rocks and without a straw. The Red Sox