Fire Alarm

Melatonin.

You’ve heard of it, I’m sure. It’s a magical substance.

I was first introduced to the good stuff when I was 17 years old. My mom and I had flown out to Alabama for my cousin’s high school graduation. I struggled to sleep the first night. I was in a new place. The sounds of the air in the vents and the house settling were different than I was used to. The light coming through the window cast shadows that mimicked gremlins and home invaders.

The next day, I was slamming one can of Coca-Cola after another, desperately hoping to fill my bloodstream with enough caffeine to make it through the commencement ceremony, because watching a sea of blue robes slowly trickle under the basketball hoop of Auburn University’s practice arena for approximately one-third of an entire eternity isn’t particularly stimulating.

So, after that first sleepless night and yawn-filled day, my mom outstretched her hand and opened it, exposing two little purple gummies, beckoning that I take them, chew them, ingest them.

“What’s this?” I asked with a life experience that understood that never in the 17 years leading up to this moment had my mom ever given me any reason not to trust her, but with a skepticism that understood that, statistically speaking, she was more likely than anyone else I interacted with to murder me.

“It’s melatonin,” she said as if my brain hadn’t just translated that new word as methamphetamine. I raised my eyebrows and tilted my head, indicating that her initial explanation was unhelpful.

“It’ll help you sleep.”

Ok, so it’s not methamphetamine, but there are a lot of narcotics still on the table here.

“Just take the damn gummies;” my words, not hers.

I popped those suckers and sure enough, I slept great! And they did not contain hard street drugs. Who would’ve thought? Not me.

My relationship with not-methamphetamine largely ended there. I never had much trouble sleeping, and when I did, I usually just took Benadryl. I know the Benadryl label specifically says not to use it as a sleep aid. But I do what I want. I don’t care. Call the police. Put me in jail. (Please don’t call the police.)

Last August, I moved into a new apartment. I’ve written here before about the critical oversight that moving here was. Well, lucky you. Today, you get to hear more about how moving to Current Residence continues to be the mistake of the year. (That statement both is and is not an exaggeration.)

My bedroom window rests just one story above and merely a few feet removed from Freedom Boulevard, one of the busiest, well-lit streets in Provo. Freedom Boulevard is also a common means of access to the Utah Valley Hospital, which is just a few blocks away from Current Residence. It didn’t take many nights interrupted by speeding cars, sirens, and unfiltered light from the street below for me to realize that I would need something to help me sleep in such a raucous environment.

I buckled my sorry self into my white sedan and drove to the nearby Target where, along with a slew of other undisclosed items I didn’t need, I purchased a small plastic container filled with red, strawberry-shaped, gummy melatonin supplements. Upon returning home, I removed the plastic seal from around the purple lid, popped two gummies, and altered the trajectory of my life forever.

A few weeks ago, I had flown out to Arizona for my cousin’s wedding (different cousin). I struggled to sleep the first night. I was in a new place. The sounds of the air in the vents and the house settling were different than I was used to. The light coming through the window cast shadows that mimicked gremlins and home invaders.

The next day, I guzzled gallons of Mountain Dew and coffee (separately, of course), desperately hoping to fill my bloodstream with enough caffeine to make it through the events of the day, because I have a reputation to uphold on the dance floor, and if I was going uphold that reputation, I was going to need something a little stronger than my own shear willpower.

So, after that first sleepless night and yawn-filled day, I laid restless, so exhausted I wanted to cry, but apparently not tired enough to lose consciousness. It was in that moment, under the looming threat that my adult-man-little-brother would collapse through the bunk bed above me, that I realized that I may have developed a slight addiction to melatonin.

Now, you may be thinking, Tyler, I’m reading a story called “Fire Alarm,” but you haven’t mentioned fire alarms once. All I see is a story about melatonin supplements. And to that I say, mind your business and don’t question my creative process.

I’m getting there.

Jeez.

Against my own wishes (but also without the recommendation of anyone else, so there’s some cognitive dissonance happening here), I’ve recently made the resolution to become less dependent on my melatonin. I started selecting days that I would force myself to fall asleep without the help of my precious little gummies.

Last Wednesday was one of those days.

I showered and got ready for bed as usual. I climbed into bed at about 10:30, when the tossing and turning commenced. I tried everything. I tried reading. I tried little yoga stretches. I tried just laying there, relaxed. Finally, at about 12:30, I fell asleep. Finally, to get some rest.

*BEEP BEEP BEEP*

[pause]

*BEEP BEEP BEEP*

[pause]

*BEEP BEE—you’ve heard a fire alarm before.

I jump out of bed, disoriented, to pick up my phone and check the time.

“Are you kidding me?” is the G-rated version of what I said when I realized that it was 1:06 am.

Half an hour. I had taken a mere power nap before I had to escape the fiery fate of Current Residence.

I stumbled out into the living room where flashing lights blinded my vision, accompanying the screeches that woke me. I opened the front door of the apartment only about 8 inches before I realized that, while I’m sure everyone would enjoy the show, my neighbors don’t strike me as ones to tip well, and I don’t work for free. I hurried back to my bedroom and threw on a hoodie, some shorts,  and flip-flops before shuffling down the stairs and out of the building to join the other hundreds of people who were also urgently forced out of our building at this ungodly hour.

I took my place on the concrete floor of the courtyard, pulled out my phone, and made sure everyone who follows me on every social media platform knew that I was *outraged*. Because if it’s not on the ‘Gram, it didn’t happen.

We had all been waiting for about 25 minutes when the alarm finally stopped. I didn’t wait for the signal that we were clear to reenter the building. Frankly, I don’t even know if the fire department showed up, if there even was a signal. But as soon as the alarm stopped, I picked myself up off the concrete, waddled up the stairs, and before doing anything else, I rummaged through my drawers to find the little plastic container with the purple lid, took out two little red gummies, chewed, ingested.

It was in that moment, as the residual adrenaline coursed my veins in the aftermath of my abrupt awakening, that I realized that I have developed a slight addiction to melatonin, and I am entirely unwilling to do anything about it.