Praying for Sleep

him. He looked across a field and saw a police car patrolling slowly, shining a spotlight on a darkened farmhouse. The light clicked out and the car continued east, away from Hrubek. His anxiety notched up a few degrees as he pedaled on, and he found himself thinking of his first run-in with the police.
    Michael Hrubek had been twenty years old and the arrest was for rape.
    The young man had been attending a private college in upstate New York, an area pretty enough at the height of a vibrant summer but for most of the year as bleak as the depressed economy in the small city and fields surrounding the campus.
    During his first semester Michael had been reclusive and fidgety but he’d done well in his studies, especially in his two courses in American history. Between Thanksgiving and Christmas, however, he grew increasingly anxious. His concentration was poor and he seemed unable to make even the simplest decisions—which class assignment to do first, when to go to lunch, whether it was better to brush his teeth before he urinated or after. He spent hour after hour staring out the window of his room.
    He was then nearly as large as he was now, with long curly hair, Neanderthal eyebrows grown together and a round face that paradoxically seemed kind as long as he didn’t smile or laugh. When he did, his expression—in fact usually one of bewilderment—appeared to be pure malice. He had no friends.
    Michael was therefore surprised, one gray March Sunday, to hear a knock on his door. He hadn’t showered for several weeks and had been wearing the same jeans and shirt for nearly a month. No one could remember, he least of all, when he had last cleaned the room. His roommate had long ago escaped to a girlfriend’s apartment, a desertion that delighted Michael, who was certain that the student had been taking pictures of him while he slept. On this Sunday he’d spent two hours hunched over his desk, repeatedly reading T. S. Eliot’s “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.” He found this task was like trying to read a block of wood.
    “Yo, Mike.”
    “Who is it?”
    The visitors were two students—juniors who lived in the dorm. Michael stood in the open door, gazing at them suspiciously. They smiled their clean-cut smiles and asked how he was doing. Michael stared at them and said nothing.
    “Mikey, you’re working too hard. Come on. We got a party in the rec room.”
    “Have something to eat, come on.”
    “I have to study !” he whined.
    “Naw, naw, come on. . . . Let’s party. You’re working too totally hard, man. Have something to eat.”
    Well, Michael did like to eat. He ate three big meals a day and snacked constantly. He also tended to acquiesce to people’s requests; if he didn’t—if he refused to do what they wanted—his gut erupted with fiery bursts of worry. What would they think about him? What would they say ?
    “Maybe.”
    “Hey, excellent. Party down!”
    So Michael reluctantly followed the two young men down the hall toward the dorm’s common room, where a loud party was in progress. As they passed a darkened bedroom the juniors paused to let Michael precede them. They suddenly swiveled and pushed him into the room, slamming the door shut and tying it closed.
    Michael howled in panic, tugging furiously at the knob. He stumbled, looking unsuccessfully for a light. He stormed to the window, ripped down the shade and was about to break the glass and jump forty feet to the grass lawn when he noticed the room’s other occupant. He’d seen her at one or two parties. She was an overweight freshman with a round face and curly hair cut very short. She had thick ankles and wore a dozen bracelets around her pudgy wrists. The girl was passed-out drunk, lying on the bed, skirt up to her waist. She wore no panties. Her hand held a glass that contained the dregs of orange juice and vodka. She had apparently regained consciousness long enough to vomit then passed out again.
    Michael leaned close and studied her. Instantly, the sight of her genitals (his first glimpse of female private anatomy) and the smell of liquor and puke sent him into paroxysms of fear. He screamed at the insensible girl, “What are you doing to me?” Then he flung himself into the door again and again, the huge noise resounding throughout the dormitory. In the hallway outside, laughter pealed. Michael fell back onto the bed, hyperventilating. Claustrophobia clutched him and sweat flowed from every pore. A moment later