Sleep Talkin' Man Read Online Free Page B

they’re individual, then how do you think they feel about being used as a receptacle for urine?
ADAM :
Whoa, whoa, whoa, you never said I said that. You said I can’t pee without my coconut. I may need it as a security blanket. And have it next to me when I pee. And its three eyes can be looking up at me saying, “Good boy.”

    â€œI like the balloons. I want one. If I don’t get one, I’m gonna squeeze one out right here, right now!”
    Earlier, I compared my sensitivity to Adam’s sleep talking to that of a mother to her child’s cry—and it now occurs to me that STM is, in fact, very much like a child. A precocious, obnoxious, extremely foul-mouthed child. Consider his complete lack of inhibition, irrepressible playfulness, disregard for consequences, random zaniness, capacity for cruelty, and yes, those sulky tantrums.
    We sometimes find STM in typical childhood situations familiar to many of us:
    â€œDon’t pick me last. No, please. Oh, you bastard! Now I’m not going to play … I know I’m sulking. You can fucking suck my fat one.”
    (Although I don’t know how many kids could manage to face such a crushing ego blow with that combination of both self-awareness and bold retaliation.)
    Other times, STM is happily lost in a world of fanciful imaginary creatures the likes of which would impress even Dr. Seuss:
    â€œNo, I want to swim with the giant gajumba. Hold on to their shell … the ones with the spiky faces, you idiot! They’re fun.”
    Or we may happen upon him participating in one of those fiendish activities sadly common among the less compassionate of young boys:
    â€œCatch it. Catch it … use both hands … its legs are still wiggly! Now clap. Niiiiice.”
    STM gets to act on every childish impulse, without any niggling parents or pesky adult conscience trampling on his fun. Freud might call him the ultimate id.
    STM emulates a very different sort of child than Adam was himself. And what was Adam like as a kid, you ask? Let me set the scene.
    â€œWelcome to your first day at duck school.
I’ll make the lesson simple.
OK: Quack. Quack quack. Very good class.
Now go swimming.”
    England in the 1970s. There’s an alternative notion of teaching afoot. The idea is that children learn best through play. Many schools had adopted this educational theory with promising results. Adam’s first school took this premise further than Maria Montessori ever intended. It seems their approach could be summarized as “children should just play all the time; they’ll learn stuff eventually, right?” Riiiiight.
    Adam, a joyful, creative little soul, had taken the “play” aspect of this philosophy and run with it, and had consequently become a darling of the school. Throughout his early educational career,his parents received glowing (if vague) reports regarding his progress and talents. They were so pleased at how their younger son was excelling academically. At the age of six, Adam took the entrance tests for the new school to which his parents hoped to send him. Faced with this novel situation, Adam made his best guess, based on previous experience, as to what was expected of him. You can imagine the dismay of the test marker to receive an exam back that was covered in intricate, lovingly drawn doodles, but didn’t offer an actual answer to one single question. Well, what would you expect from a child that had never taken a test in his life, and—by the way—couldn’t remotely read or write? The letter the prospective new school sent to Adam’s parents suggested that perhaps their son was retarded. Adam did get accepted to the school in the end, after being sent off for a full battery of tests with a psychologist to prove that he was not, in fact, mentally challenged. Here is his father’s response to the acceptance letter, which I came across while going through Adam’s old