Things That Go Bump in the Night

A Commuter's Love Story

Marriage is a partnership between people who have agreed to enter into a delusion as they walk down the aisle. In my case, over 26 years ago. No one knows if it will workor how long it might last. My choice is a wonderful father, a devoted husband, and oftentimes a pain in the ass. Though he might deny it in the interest of peace, I bet he’d say the same for me. When I’m out of earshot, anyway.

It’s easy to be on his team. He will organize the snacks, and I’ll keep the schedule. I’ll hug everyone while he distracts them. We make a good combination. I joined this league and am happy to play on any of his fields. 

He is the kindest human being I’ve ever known, or he wants to be which, in this world is just as hard to come by. He is funny, thoughtful and reliable, well worth the complaints I’m about to drop. But still, I’m about to drop them.

1. He does not close the refrigerator. I want to repeat that so you hear it. He thinks closing a refrigerator is optional. Cabinets as well. I’ve gotten used to that, but the refrigerator, with its startling little note of despair chiming every thirty seconds until it’s shut, is a scrape against my very soul.

2. He also seems to be in cahoots with the electric company and the lightbulb factories. As my grandmother always admonished, it looks like he wants to make them rich. My house glows like a decoy for incoming bombers, electric bills shooting from the rafters.

3. As casual as he is about shutting inner doors, his perimeter is sealed tight like Fort Knox. Every door, gate and window chirps just to let him know I’ve not hermetically sealed myself inside. He gets alerts on his phone which he screenshots to me with his most passive/aggressive, “when you get a chance.”

Though we cycle through these same three fights, the trifecta happens as he leaves the house for work and his currently epic commute. What began as a 40 minute drive along California’s 118 freeway to Simi Valley late last century, has morphed. First, into four Long Island Railroad hours each day for nearly 20 years. It has since become a post pandemic, 10 hour round trip Amtrak once a week from Massachusetts. 

In order to make it to work at his self imposed time, he has to leave the house at 3:30 in the morning—an angry hour to ask anyone to do anything other than pee. He could get to work a little later, but he likes to make his way in this world with as few people as possible. A fact I have come to respect if not understand.

I feel for him, knowing that this trek is a sacrifice he makes so that we (the royal one) could move here, where the neighbors are angels and the average birds are less angry—at least in their day-to-day. 

He sets two alarms, five minutes apart. Just in case. Let’s say, for the sake of argument, he spends an unusually long time making his way to the bathroom, and remembers that contingent alarm he purposely places so very far away. In his defense, it does happen sometimes.

He turns the lights on at the top of the steps. Please remember this because he’s not using this light. He won’t even be in the hallway, but it blares in my eyes like I imagine the light at the end of the tunnel does, only I’m hoping that one’s more pleasant.

I hear the squeak of the shower faucet but pretend not to. I know what’s coming and brace myself.

“Shhh,” he loudly whispers to the dogs. “Let’s let her sleep.”

Inside the shower he continues talking about all the things he wants to say to me and admonishing himself that I’m resting. Usually these are travel plans he’s been devising and then redevising. Or things he’d like to ask but keeps forgetting. 

“I hope she makes it to the post office today…” “Do you dogs have enough food?” “Ssh!” Despite myself, it makes me laugh every time. 

When he gets out of the shower and dries himself off, he looks happily surprised to see me wide awake.  Which he then takes as a queue to begin the monologue over again, in case I hadn’t heard.

“If you leave Savannah at 4am, you’ll make it to Seattle by midnight.” Doesn’t he understand that this is the sort of algebra that turned me to writing?

He sings to the dogs and checks his email just before sleep blows at my closed eyes once more. At least I no longer have an alarmed existence. If I was physically capable of it, I might sleep until 7:30.

He kisses me on the cheek. He’ll be gone for a few days and I will miss him, but I will sleep like a baby. I switch to my own personal form of counting sheep—waiting to see what I’ll have to get out of bed to do.

He pounds down the steps. The light’s still on, but there’s a switch at the bottom, so all hope is not lost. The dogs and I listen as the refrigerator opens. Come on, I think. Close it. After all, I made you a frittata!

There is some random cacophony I don’t bother with. He’s not shy. He’ll call me if he needs me.

The night weighs down my eyelids. This is looking good, I think as the light goes off in the hallway. Even better as his headlights pull out of the driveway. 

The dogs hop into the echo of his warmth on the pillow next to me. I never mind being woken up, or, I’m ready to jump at the drop of a hat. It is one of the few mercies I can whole heartedly offer loved ones. Kids, dogs, friends, and even sometimes, him.

Then I see the high beams sweep over the bedroom again. The door bursts open for a second and then he retreats back into the night. I exhale back into sleep. I’ll get in my full night after all.

Three minutes later, a chime rings. He hasn’t shut the front door. Not all the way. I wander downstairs and give it its closing shove.

I rarely confront him with these things. Why bother? If he could change it, he would have years ago. If I was more bothered, I’d shove earplugs in and sleep through it. And aren’t I evolved? I don’t focus on the fact that he’ll be at the train soon where he’ll sleep for the next several hours. In the meantime the dogs have followed me downstairs and I’m serving breakfast.

It’ll be hours before I get back to sleep. Strangely, I wouldn’t have it any other way.