Everything is Fine
Sleepers--Chapter 1
Someone is softly humming “Happy Birthday.” Am I dreaming? No. I’m not asleep. I blink my eyes open. I’m lying on a green velvet couch and cuddling a stuffed pig. Where am I? A tall middle-aged man with curly reddish hair sits in an armchair just a few feet away. He’s holding a red balloon and . . . smiling.
“Happy birthday,” the man says in a half-whisper, leaning forward. He’s wearing a light grey suit and his pants are two inches too short, revealing a whimsical kitten pattern on his socks. He’s still smiling. It’s giving me the creeps.
“Where am I?” I ask as I slowly push myself into a sitting position. The tiny room we’re in is empty except for the couch, the chair the man is sitting in, and a side table holding a framed photo of a woman. An acoustic guitar rests on a floor stand in the corner. There are no windows. Just a door.
He reaches toward me with the balloon.
“I know you must have lots of questions—”
“Who are you?” I ask, taking the balloon. What am I supposed to do with this?
“My name is Rafael. I’m here to help you.” Still smiling.
“What am I doing here?”
“All in good time, friend. All in good time. If you don’t mind, I need to ask you a few questions first.”
I look to the exit, back to Rafael, and back to the exit. I rush to the door and turn the knob back and forth—locked. “Why are we locked in here?”
“It’s for your safety. Please. Sit. I’ll tell you everything you need to know, I promise.” Rafael gestures toward the couch. “Please.”
I’m skeptical but I sit down again, still holding the balloon. I let it go and it gently rises to the ceiling. The stuffed pig—it’s Piglet from Winnie the Pooh— stares up at me. I add that to the queue of questions rapidly accumulating in my mind. I don’t know where I am or how I got here. But more importantly, I don’t know who I am. What’s my name? Why can’t I remember my name? I can’t remember anything.
My breath starts to pick up and I press my temples with both hands, some uninformed attempt to squeeze memories back into place, and when they don’t come, I make this groaning, whining sound and start slapping my head with both hands.
“Calm down,” Rafael says. “Breathe.”
I take a deep breath and exhale forcefully through my mouth.
“Good,” he says.
I nod and take another deep breath.
“You’re okay, Hugo. Everything is fine.”
“Hugo? Is that my name?”
“Yes.”
“Why don’t I know that? Why don’t I know my own name?”
“Do you know where you live?”
I concentrate with all my might, but can’t remember anything at all.
“No.”
“Do you know where you were just before you woke up here in this room?”
I search the floor for the answer. “No,” I say, shaking my head. “Do I have amnesia? Did I hit my head or something?”
“No, no, of course not. Let’s calm down. You’re okay. Everything is okay,” Rafael says like a paramedic trying to sooth an accident victim who hasn’t yet noticed his limbs are missing.
“I don’t think so.” I shake my head. “Something’s wrong. You’re not telling me something. Why were you singing ‘Happy Birthday?’”
“Because it’s your birthday, silly!” He’s smiling again. Does he think this is funny?
“How old am I?”
Rafael looks at his watch. “About seventeen minutes.”
“What?” He’s messing with me. “What are you talking about?”
“You were just born,” he says, still smiling.
“Stop smiling! Stop treating me like I’m an idiot!” I bark.
His smile immediately drops from his face and is replaced with a look of concern. “You’re upset. That’s totally normal. Can I get you some tea?”
“No, I don’t want any fucking tea! Why can’t I remember anything?”
“Because today is your birthday. You just got here,” Rafael says as if it should be obvious by now.
I stand and suddenly feel lightheaded so I sit back down again. “This doesn’t make any sense,” I say mostly to myself. I point to the door. “What’s behind that door?”
“You’ll have a chance to meet everyone soon.”
“Who’s everyone? Do they have amnesia, too?”
“You don’t have amnesia.”
“Where am I? What is this place?”
“I’d like to show you—what’s beyond that door. As soon as you’re ready.”
“I’m ready. Show me,” I say without hesitation.
“Oooh,” he chuckles softly. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. You were just born.”
“Stop saying that. People aren’t born as grown men.”
“What do you mean?” Rafael seems genuinely confused.
“What do you mean what do I mean? People are born as babies.”
Rafael shakes his head. “What’s a baby?”
I groan and bury my face in my hands. This guy is either completely off his rocker or he’s deliberately trying to confuse and infuriate me. I try mightily to remember anything—my mother, a friend, a single moment from my life. Every thought dissolves before it forms.
“I want you to take a look at this picture.” Rafael takes the framed photo from the side table and hands it to me. “Do you recognize this woman?”
I take the picture from him and study it. She’s gorgeous. “No,” I say, shaking my head. “Who is this?”
“Are you sure you don’t recognize her?”
I look again. “No. Should I?”
A satisfied smile spreads across Rafael’s face. “No. No, that’s perfectly fine.” He takes the picture from me and lays it face down on the table.
“Who is that?” I ask.
“It’s nobody. Where did you get that little pig?”
Piglet stares at me as if waiting for me to provide some kind of explanation. “This? It’s not mine. I just woke up and I was holding it.”
“Who does it belong to?”
“I don’t know. I don’t . . . I don’t know anybody!” I’m struck with an intense feeling of loneliness. What is happening? “Why are you doing this?” I ask weakly.
“I’m not doing anything,” he says. “I’m here to help you.”
“Help me what?”
“Discover your purpose.”
“How are you helping me do that exactly?”
“Do you like music?” This question seems to come from nowhere.
“How is that relevant?”
“You’ll see. Do you?”
“Yes. I like music.” Who doesn’t like music?
“Good. Do you know how to play?”
“Music?”
“Yes.” Rafael nods vigorously with wild eyes and that stupid fucking smile.
My brow furrows and I search the floor for an answer. Oh, shit—I do know how to play music. A wave of relief hits me like fireworks—something about myself that I know to be true. I look up at him. “Yes!”
Rafael makes a celebratory clapping gesture like a child waiting to open a Christmas present. He stands and reaches for the guitar. He’s holding it in the most awkward manner, like he’s never held a guitar before—like it might explode. “Do you think you can play this?”
I take the guitar from him. It feels natural in my hands and I place it on my knee.
“Go ahead. Anything you like.” He’s smiling again.
“Just play anything?” I ask.
“Yes, anything at all.” Rafael sits down again and rests his chin on his balled fists, elbows on his knees. He’s like the host of some children’s television show.
I cradle the neck of the guitar in my left hand and position my fingers into a G-chord. I’m thrilled to know what a G-chord is. I strum the strings once to make sure it’s in tune. Sounds good.
“Go on,” Rafael says eagerly.
I close my eyes. “Blackbird” comes to mind. I feel like I know it. I don’t know how I know it or where I learned it, but my fingers know exactly what to do. I don’t sing, but I hear every word in my mind. This is deeply satisfying. When I finish, I open my eyes.
Rafael claps enthusiastically. “That was wonderful! Just wonderful! Did you write that?”
“What?” Is he kidding?
“That song. Did you write it?”
“No. It’s The Beatles.”
“Oh, sure. I knew that. You gotta love The Beatles—big fan. So, let me ask you this. Do you know how to write songs?”
“Do I know how to write songs?” I repeat. “I don’t know.” I search my memory for any songs I may have written but every song I think of is someone else’s.
“I think so.” I feel some degree of certainty about this, but I’m not sure why.
“Excellent! That’s excellent.”
“Why?”
“You’re struggling to find yourself, right? The one thing you know about yourself is that you like music and you can play the guitar. And you can play it very well, if you ask me. I bet you can even sing. Try another one and sing this time.”
A dozen songs run through my head—songs by The Stokes, Talking Heads, Nirvana, Radiohead, Bowie, Dylan. My brain’s a damn jukebox.
“Hard to pick just one,” I say.
“Anything.” His knee is bouncing wildly in anticipation.
“Okay, here’s one.” I pick up the guitar and place it back on my knee. I strum a couple of chords and clear my throat. My fingers begin to pick a soothing, haunting melody. After the first few measures of the intro, I bump the side of the guitar twice with my fist and sing the opening verse to “Hotel California.”
I feel a sense of ease as I sing, as if connecting with something uniquely authentic within me. I don’t just play the song. I feel it course through me. It feels more me than my own name. When I finish the song, Rafael gives me a standing ovation.
“Bravo! Superb! You’re a natural! Hugo, this is what you were born to do. Don’t you agree?”
“I don’t know. How am I supposed to know something like that?”
“What did it feel like singing that song just now?”
“I mean, good. It felt good.” What I mean by that is that it felt familiar. “I don’t understand. How do I know that song but I don’t know anything about my life?”
“This is your life, Hugo. You were born knowing everything you need to know to fulfill your purpose in this life. You’re a musician, Hugo. And your life has just begun.”
He’s not telling me everything. He’s calling me Hugo, but how am I supposed to know if that’s really my name? What did he do to my memory? Whatever it is, I’m not going to find out in this little room. I have to get out of here and the only way he’s going to let me leave is if he thinks I’m ready—whatever that means. He seems committed to this nonsense, so I’ll have to go along with it until I can get more information. I have to get out of this room.
“So let me get this straight,” I say. “I was just born—right here on this couch, as a fully grown man. And that’s why I don’t have any memories. My name is Hugo and I’m a musician. And . . . that’s my life’s purpose.”
Rafael nods ecstatically. “Yes! That’s it—you got it!”
“So does that mean I’m ready? Can we get out of here now?”
A weirdly satisfied smile spreads across his face, like a proud father gives his son. “I think you’re ready. Would you like to meet the others?”
I nod. “Yes. Yes, I would.”