Somnolence in the City

I love my balcony.

In an apartment that can best be described as spatially spartan, my balcony is a saving grace: a gateway to the fresh air and a sliver of sky. I take deep breaths there. It’s a great place to just sit, and since I have very relaxing lounge chairs—they lean back so that it’s almost like you’re in the cockpit of a spaceship—it is also a good place to nap.

Generally, my naps have taken place on lazy Saturdays or Sundays, when a book just can’t keep my eyelids aloft. It’s generally a brief one too, since there are built-in alarms outside. Birds, planes overhead, the occasional honking horn.

The other night, however, I had come home from happy hour. As is the custom, the ‘hour’ stretched into several, over which time I had a few drinks. When I came home, I went out on the balcony to just look up at the glare-muzzled stars above.

Instead, I fell asleep.

About 50 windows have a clear view of my balcony. There are spread symmetrically, like white-paned dominoes, over the back of an apartment building that faces the back of mine. There’s no reason to believe that anyone be looking down at me from these glassy perches. But if they did, they would see a sprawled body in his Friday clothes, mouth open in a muted snore, bared before the world in alfresco slumber until about 6:30am.

But hey, if they want to watch, let them watch. I’ll take regular outdoor naps, and spend nights under the stars if that’s what the people want. It’ll be the latest reality TV extravaganza—and we’ll call it “Somnolence in the City.” Can’t be any worse than all the other reality shows, and I’d get paid to sleep. Win-win.