Rabbits | The Nervous Breakdown

The 21^st century kicked off with as auspicious a beginning as one might hope for, in the form of a first love inviting herself into my life with a pleasantly unexpected phone call. She was a fellow student of my creative writing program whom I’d been acquainted with since freshman year, wickedly smart and suddenly into me with an intensity I was helpless to resist. Despite this, though, we were still just a pair of dumb kids, straddling that margin of post-adolescence where our hormones organized themselves into ranks and assailed the ramparts of common sense. Inevitably, I fell for her hard, and when she broke up with me after an old boyfriend reentered the picture I hit bottom with a thud so loud it echoed for a long while afterward.

Jesse had brought a rock-hard, stained futon mattress into the marriage. It took me two years to convince him to buy a new one. In what proved to be a last attempt to save our crumbling marriage, one Saturday morning we found ourselves at one of Bushwick’s few furniture stores. Next to the elevated railroad tracks on Myrtle Avenue, across the street from where the MTA once left 50 poisoned rats to decompose on the sidewalk, royal red polyester couches competed with golden vanity tables and rococo bed frames. As we curved our way past particleboard TV stands, a beer-bellied man with a comb over approached us. The salesman swiftly led us to a mattress adorned with a royal golden pattern against a shiny black background. He praised the mattress as if it were his first-born son. There’s no better quality for the price! It’ll last ten years at least! Maybe 15, he added, sensing my doubt. A special! A real special! Just as I wondered if he was paying for the mattress to go to college, I noticed that it had inner springs.

In Germany, innersprings went out with the Kaiser, or whenever it was that they invented foam. The last time I slept on an inner spring mattress was as a child at my grandmother’s house, and the bed still reeked of mustard gas from World War I. The springs poked my back and my chest was weighed down by a two-foot thick down blanket, so heavy with feathers that I felt like Leda gang-raped by a flock of swans. My Nazi grandmother put me up in her guestroom, a large, dark, wood-paneled space cold as a morgue. After tucking me in under the suffocating blankets, she sang Guten Abend, Gute Nacht, a lullaby based on a German folk poem. Provided with roses / Covered with flowers / Studded with nails / Slip under the blanket / In the morning, God willing / You will wake again.

Despite its funereal overtones, I requested the song frequently. I felt that if I considered the possibility of never waking back up, death might spare me. Catastrophes don’t happen if cautiously considered. If I only continued obsessing about the possibility of death—my own and the death of the people around me—I might be let off the hook.

Twenty years later at the furniture store in Bushwick, Jesse and I helplessly decided on the black innerspring mattress with the golden flower pattern, the one the salesman had called his best. I can’t claim that the mattress hastened the end of my marriage, but it certainly didn’t help.

After only three months the mattress began to sag, and for the two years that followed I slept on an incline with a continuously increasing slope. At first my left leg was wedged against the wall, only one inch higher than my right leg. But over the course of the next few years, the slope’s angle gradually increased to 20 degrees. With the advancing pitch, my marriage declined.

After Jesse finally moved out, I decided to buy a new mattress, opting for a larger one this time. If I got screwed again and the mattress sagged after only a few months, at least I would have enough space to disappear into it with my future boyfriend. But disappear where, exactly? Never again between innersprings. Coils and box springs are for losers. It’s the 21st century! When I think of coils and box springs, I think of straw and fluffy little baby chicks covered with potato sacks; I think of barns and alternating sleeping shifts.

Tempurpedic™ and its Swedish, (but puzzlingly) NASA-designed memory foam technology had caught my attention long before I considered buying a new mattress. Staying up late on my saggy incline while Jesse was out getting drunk, I felt oddly reassured by Tempurpedic’s infomercials. I still felt like hanging myself, but knew that one day in the future, I would be able to rest in peace.

According to Tempurpedic™, the mattress’s visco-elastic foam completely adapts to your body contours, releasing pressure from your spine and the heavier parts of your body. “This phenomenon,” Tempurpedic™ explains, “is similar to pushing your hand into the surface of a bowl of water and feeling the water flow to fill every contour and curve of your hand, then return to its original shape once your hand is removed.” Sounded like a dream to me. Never saggy, never sore! Completely resistant to permanent change! My heavy heart floating in a bowl of water—what could be better?

I knew I couldn’t afford a $2000 Tempurpedic™ mattress, so I tried to satisfy myself by taking the announcer’s advice and calling for an information kit. The package that arrived a few days later contained a video—which I never watched—and a memory foam sample the size of a teeny-tiny pillow, just big enough for my cat to rest her teeny-tiny head on. I briefly considered ordering enough 10 square inch foam samples to build my own mattress, but abandoned the idea after Tempurpedic™ kept bombarding me with intimidating brochures. The envelopes read like little death threats: “Open this envelope right now, Sabine Heinlein! This is your last chance!” What would’ve happened if I had ordered a few hundred samples! (Or if I wouldn’t have opened the envelope.) Covered with flowers, Studded with nails, Slip under the blanket… I wanted to burn those thick brochures, but instead started to use them to line my pet rabbit’s litter box.

Mr. Rabbit has certain preferences when it comes to his litter: It mustn’t be too soft, it has to be highly absorbent, and God forbid if I don’t arrange it neatly. My rabbit and I had both come to appreciate the thickness of the Sunday Times, but we were thankful for the little extra absorbance the generous mailings from the Tempurpedic™ folks provided. That is, until he began acting a little nervous. Was it the aggressive tone of their pitches? Or dreams of drowning in space-age foam? Whatever the case, I went back to using just the Times.

Rather than purchasing the Tempurpedic™ with funds I clearly don’t have, I decided to follow a more modest route and visit Sleepy’s. I entered my first Sleepy’s in Midtown Manhattan through an elevator that took me up to the show room on the second floor. Strangely, the worst thing about buying a new mattress isn’t the wealth of choices; it is the mattress salesmen.

Of all the salesmen I encountered on my mattress crusade, I liked this first one the very best. He did the store’s name some credit for he was actually asleep when I arrived. If he had been peacefully snoozing on one of the memory foam mattresses it would have clenched my choice. Unfortunately it was his office chair he was snoring on. Being a considerate shopper, I sneaked back out of the store on tippy toes. From there I went to another Sleepy’s just a few blocks down.

“Welcome to Sleepy’s! My name is Steve,” a wide-awake young professional greeted me. He asked what I was looking for and swiftly led me to one of his cheaper memory foam mattresses. He urged me to lie down. But naptime was over when I told him that I didn’t need a foundation because I already had one. “How high is your foundation?” he wanted to know. I pointed about three feet off the ground. His eyes widened with incredulity

“Noooo! That’s too high!”

“It’s worked for me so far,” I responded.

“But how you gonna get up there?” What did he mean by that? I’m not obese, I wasn’t using crutches. My feet and hands are beautifully shaped, if I may say so.

“I jump,” I said. He shook his head in disbelief and asked what I was keeping under my bed, a question I found a bit inappropriate. Who knows what some people keep underneath their mattresses? The space under one’s bed is nobody’s business. It is reserved for nightmarish creatures, undeclared earnings, useless crap and sometimes bunny rabbits. Before I could respond he added, “Drawers?”

“No drawers,” I said. “It is a hollow wooden structure. I store things underneath. Anything I don’t need on a daily basis. Suitcases, my ironing board, a surfboard.” I lied. I don’t have an ironing board or a surfboard, but I wanted to say something that made me sound neat and athletic. I also wanted to spare him the details about a rabbit who considers that space his own kingdom and turns into a monster if anyone reaches under the bed without knocking first. I proudly added: “I built it myself,” which clearly had the opposite effect I intended. I detected pity and deep sympathy in his eyes.

I quickly realized that it was hard to endure any mattress salesman for more than 10 minutes at a time. I decided to expand my research territory. After all, like 7-11’s in the rest of the country, Sleepy’s lurks on every corner in New York.

But before I moved on I noted down the first three conclusions as follows:

1. There are numerous companies producing memory foam mattresses for less than $2000, and they all have slightly incestuous names like Posturepedic, Therapedic, Posturetemp, etc. etc.

2. What the memory foam does is always the same; what varies is its thickness and the thickness of the supporting conventional foam layer underneath.

3. Mattress salesmen are curious people, sometimes asleep, sometimes awake.

The next Sleepy’s was located only a couple of blocks west. Again, a clean-cut gentleman rushed towards. “Welcome to Sleepy’s. My name is Jerry. How can I help you?” I briefly explained my situation, and he unexpectedly informed me that it was Father’s Day. “Really?” I said wondering what that had to do with my choice of mattress. He continued, “For our Father’s Day Sale everything is 30% off.” Father’s Day Sale! Noticing my skepticism, Jerry added, “And since you are my first customer today, you can get this mattress here for—” He punched the big keys of his old-fashioned calculator. “For $750, taxes and delivery included.” He looked up from his calculations with the eagerness of a child at Christmas. His excitement lessened when he saw that I was still not completely convinced. Where was I? On a souk in Marrakech? I was once forced to buy a carpet on a street market there. What started as a friendly negotiation ended with a knife on my ex-boyfriend’s neck. Ever since then, special, special offers make me very, very suspicious. But the mattress salesman had another trick up his sleeve: “If you leave a $25 deposit today, we will hold this offer for you for 60 days. Your $25 are fully refundable if you decide not to buy the mattress.”

Every day is Father’s Day for a measly $25! Or at least for the next 60 days. And of course after that there will be Easter, then Chanukah, then Labor Day, then Christmas, then Memorial Day, then Mother’s Day, then Kwanza and then, once again, Father’s Day (not necessarily in that order, though). What it boils down to is that you could be getting your fucking mattress any day for a reasonable price; and on those rare days that celebrate no special occasion you would be paying far too much.

After some fretting from me and some reassuring talk from Jerry, I laid down the deposit and decided to sleep on it. My old coils and the mattress salesmen had worn me out, and I simply didn’t have the patience left to make a choice. The next day I returned to Sleepy’s, where I encountered yet another mattress salesman. Where did Jerry go? “I laid down a deposit for a mattress, but I have one more question…” I started. “Yeah, what is it?” the new salesman growled as he pulled up my file. “Oh, nothing.” I gave up and handed my credit card over. The man, who never introduced himself, continued to sigh and moan.

I felt appropriately sleepy when I got back home.

There was a voicemail waiting for me from Sleepy’s. “Hi!” the salesman said cheerfully. “My name is Paul. I wanted to thank you for shopping with Sleepy’s, the mattress professionals. If you have a moment give me a call back and let me know how you experienced shopping at Sleepy’s.”

I apologize for not calling you back, Paul, but your mattress professionals exhausted me. But if you must know, Paul, I really like my new mattress. It is as comfy as a bowl of water, as a cloud, as… I’m sorry, but I’ve run out of metaphors for the moment. I need to lie down and rest.

Epilogue: Paul wasn’t the only one who made an effort to keep in touch. A few days into my new mattress experience I received more mail from Tempurpedic™. Hesitantly, I opened the envelope. “I hope you’ll understand why I’m so disappointed,” Dany began despairingly. (Dany made it sound like I had promised her love but then, with no warning, kicked her out of bed.) Evidently she is so disappointed because I have not yet bought my Tempurpedic™ mattress. She helpfully lists what might be jeopardizing our once promising relationship:

1. Inadequate description of the advantages of Tempurpedic™ mattresses.

2. Misunderstanding over the money-back-guaranty.

3. Insufficient communication about Tempurpedic™’s real affordability.

A fourth possibility never occurred to her: I had been cuckolding her with some mattress salesmen.

Mattress professionals are eloquent, utterly persistent, yet vulnerable people. Dany, Paul, Jerry and Steve, this is to all of you: Live your life on or under your own mattress, be it visco-elastic, box spring or latex. As for me, I have to go find the right pillow to rest my tired head on.

When my family moved to The Free Territory of Trieste, it was a time when people did not fly across the ocean. Flying was prohibitively expensive and rare. No one really believed that airplanes made with all that heavy metal could actually fly safely when they were full of people. It was counterintuitive. I personally still have trouble believing that those enormous things get off the ground at all. (And don’t even get me started on those helicopters from the mosquito family!) Back then, everyone had the same reservations. We sailed across the ocean to FTT on the Saturnia. I suppose that if I had thought about it, I also would have questioned how a ship made out of metal that should obviously sink, could float. I’m glad I didn’t think about that at the time, or I would have worried my way all across the ocean.

We rented the bottom floor of a fabulous villa belonging to General and Mrs. Santi. My dad was a gifted Marine Engineer. He knew everything about ships and ports. With the benefit of hindsight, it is pretty clear that my dad was a spy. Dad knew all kinds of sketchy military types and nebulous characters you couldn’t really figure out. They were in and out of the house all the time. My dad was unavailable behind The Iron Curtain most of the time. I rarely saw him during those years.

While I lived there, I went to a Convent school about a mile away from the villa. I loved it there. I believed myself to be a typical little Italian girl. My father later told me that I won all sorts of awards for being super cool and the smartest of all, (and why would he lie?) Plus the class was full of kids I could play with after school.

I’m the second girl from the Nun in this photo.

In the picture below, my dad wrote I.M. next to my head. (Irene Marie.)

A stone pedestal stood in the garden. It was the ideal launching place for me to practice my flying. I was very light and had no metal on me. It made perfect sense. I was certain that I would be able to fly if I only practiced often enough and hard enough. It was simply a matter of stick-to-itiveness. I would climb up on the pedestal and leap off flapping my arms wildly, over and over and over, every day. I was convinced that I was getting incrementally better. I had so thoroughly persuaded myself in my abilities that I convinced all my friends to come over after school for flying lessons. My flying lessons were well attended. I never even considered charging for them. I thought anyone who worked that hard to fly should just have a right to it. It was a public service.

I had my first dog there. Her name was Trixie. She wasn’t allowed in the house, but then, neither was I most of the time. My mother liked her house to herself. My brother didn’t live there during the school year, since he went to school in Switzerland. My mom cleaned all the time. Nothing was ever clean enough for her. Therefore, neither my dog nor I were welcome in the house. We made things messy. I was invited in for meals and to go to bed. This was okay with me, since I was committed to polishing my flying and I had my green wooden swing hanging from ropes on our enormous horse chestnut tree and I could read outside and I had my totally fabulous dog. Why would I want to go inside?

We sailed back home on the Andrea Doria in 1955, a year before it collided with The Stockholm, and sank off the coast of Massachusetts. (And we thought airplanes were dangerous!) My dad was somewhere secret and wasn’t with us. My mom and my brother were really seasick and stayed in the cabin a lot, so I sort of had the run of the ship. I remember having a blast playing with all the kids. Michael Douglas was one of the kids with us on the Andrea Doria. He was older than I, my brother’s age. To this day it sticks in my craw that I can’t remember which boy Michael Douglas was. You probably all think of him as an old guy, and I guess he sort of is now. To me, he’s still a great actor and a handsome man, but I’m about his age. If you saw him back in the 1970s, he was acting in a TV show with Carl Malden called: The Streets of San Francisco, and even you young people would think he was hot!

This picture was taken on the Andrea Doria. Michael Douglas is one of these little boys. If you think you know which one, I’d love to know. I’m the first kid on the right holding what looks like a stuffed Tazmanian Devil. My mom is standing behind me and my brother is the second kid on the left. It is apparent from our somber faces that the photographer did not tell us to say “cheese.”

Zara just found this photo to me. I think it’s clear now which boy is little Michael Douglas.

When we sailed home to Brooklyn, my mother would not allow me to bring my dog. In retaliation, I refused to speak anything but Italian for quite awhile. My family totally ignored my plan to get sent back to Italy. Things were weird at Public School 102, what with my pretending I could only speak Italian. The teachers just assumed I was an immigrant and expected that eventually I would learn English. After about six months I realized my tactic wasn’t working, so I reverted to English. The day I switched over, it probably surprised them. Although, I remember answering English questions on tests and school work with the correct answer in Italian. When it came my turn to read aloud, I would simply translate what I was reading into Italian. I suppose that would have given them a clue, had they any knowledge of Italian.

A few years ago, in our travels, Victor and I went to Trieste to see if any place was still standing that I might remember. My brother remembered the address of the villa. He told me it was a pipe dream to expect it to be still there. He said I was going all the way to Northeastern Italy and there was probably an apartment building or a shopping mall where the villa used to be. I guess he was trying to keep me from being disappointed.

We traveled there anyway and my unwarranted optimism paid off. The villa was still there. We rang the bell at the gate at the bottom of five flights of stairs. A woman, older than I, came out. I no longer spoke Italian, but luckily this woman spoke English. She was actually the daughter of General and Mrs. Santi and remembered me. How’s that for weird? She lived in the villa alone now. It was too immense a building to live in alone. That became obvious when we went inside.

The villa was dilapidated. The walls were crumbling and damp.

The gorgeous mosaic marble was piled high with junk.

She showed us all the rooms I had recalled. She served us wine. We walked into the yard and my flying pedestal was still there. It was just a bit crooked.

I asked General Santi’s daughter what had happened to Trixie.

She told me that Trixie became their dog after we left; that she was the best dog they ever had. For decades I had assumed that my mother had arranged to have my dog killed. After all, my Easter Chicks had gone to live at the farm at “The Old Sailors’ Home” when they grew into actual chickens. My Easter Bunny, Eliot Ness, also went to live on the same farm, when he grew up to be a full-fledged rabbit. It was years before I picked up on that scam. I was already in college before my father finally owned up to the truth. My Easter Chickens and Easter Bunny became dinner for those old sailors. My dad was feeling guilty that I still believed in the deception after all those years.

Go ahead and tell me a lie. I believe everything. Ask my kids.

After leaving my old home, we walked to the Convent School with only memory as my guide. I hadn’t remembered the name of the school. When we found it, we were startled and laughed at its prophetic name.