Instructions for Getting out of Bed

 

 

If I make up my mind to get out of bed, I have to be very careful. No dogs or children can be loose, and the furniture has to be arranged. Because getting out of bed is a dangerous proposition. The area has to be clear - the lamps, wardrobes, tables, and all those handy things people put in houses to avoid emptiness need to be removed. That’s why I give a lot of warning. I’ll say something like, ‘Tomorrow I’m going to get out of bed at five past nine. Check your watches, secure the furniture, fasten your seatbelts.’ I always add five minutes to the hour because no one is punctual without a five-minute grace period.

Before leaving bed, I get myself ready. The day before I take care of all of those little details that are vital to a successful descent. The first thing I do is have a sign hung on the door so people won’t disturb me. The sign states the precise date and time I plan to get out of bed and requests that no one disturb me because my plans can’t be upset. Getting out of bed requires concentration. But to avoid accidents, I also have to be relaxed.

Before getting up, I study the whole room carefully, trying to memorize the location of everything I’ll encounter. For example, on one of the walls, there’s a window. I tried to cover it up several times, but I wasn’t allowed to because, as I discovered, that would have been against local code. I’m very respectful when it comes to rules concerning peaceful coexistence; otherwise, there would be a lot more dangers out there than the ones that already exist. So in getting out of bed I have to take the window into account. It’s not just any window: it’s a window located near the top of the wall, in the part that slopes toward the ceiling. It lets in precisely the amount of light I can tolerate, not too much, not too little. People are very careless with light (and with everything else): they either use too much of it (maybe because they fear the ambiguity of shadows) or else (terrified that light makes it easy to see all those contours they hate) they live in semidarkness. Then in the summer they lie down anywhere (on dirty sand, in scraggly parks, next to polluted oceans) and let the sun burn their bodies, blistering and dehydrating the exposed skin (from a distance, they look like a company of crabs, a bunch of contorted limbs moving pell-mell). The window has to be closed when I get out of bed because a draft would pose a serious danger to my health. I use a map to study the location of different objects in the room. That way, I can plan my movements down to the last detail and avoid unpleasant surprises. For example, there’s a wardrobe - the usefulness of which I won’t comment on now - with a mirror on the door. Failing to avoid the mirror means I could be improperly reflected, shown someone I don’t recognize myself in. So in crossing the room I have to be careful to avoid it. The carpet represents another problem. Although it offers some protection from the cold floor, it has the perverse habit of getting bunched up, so I have to move carefully to avoid tripping. (Another concern is that ants or other little insects might make nests in the folds or try to climb up my shoes: we know so little when it comes to the desires of animals.) Electrical outlets are another hazard. As is common knowledge, accidentally sticking your finger in one can result in a potentially lethal shock. And for some inexplicable reason, outlets are put on walls, at about the level of your hands - with no protective covering whatsoever.

Even when I’ve taken every conceivable precaution, there’s nothing simple about getting out of bed. Sometimes I’m suddenly overcome with apprehension. I’m afraid of getting out of bed, of leaving the protection of the sheets, of no longer being lying down or sitting up. So I resist getting out. I know that on the floor I’ll have to stand up, greet people, talk about this or that.

If I’ve announced when I’m going to get out of bed and then the time comes and I don’t feel up to it, it’s a lot worse: my mother, my sister, my uncle, or a friend will come over and ask me what’s wrong. They’ll choose their words carefully and try to encourage me - which in itself is terrifying. Having someone try to understand my fears only reinforces them, because it proves they’re real, that the dangers exist. For instance, if someone says, ‘Honey, you can get out now, I’ve moved all the furniture out of the way,’ I panic, thinking I could have actually tripped on something (and I can never be sure they’ve gotten everything, every last thing, out of the way). If my sister comes over to the bed and tells me in a very caring voice, ‘I’ll help you get out. We’ll do it slowly, very slowly,’ I recoil, turn back, hide under the covers. There’s a certain arrogance, a terrifying attitude of superiority, in the gentle way she offers to help. The apparent ease with which other people have resolved the problem of getting out of bed (something they do every day, as if it were the most natural thing in the world) doesn’t make me respect or envy them. Since time immemorial, human beings have committed terrible acts with complete nonchalance (nonchalance is inimical to ethical judgment). Their example doesn’t help. Anyway, a man never trips over the same stone twice; the second time around, neither the man nor the stone are the same. So it doesn’t help to have my mother remind me, ‘Darling, you can come out now, don’t you remember the last time? You were afraid then, but nothing bad happened.’ Of course not: once is enough. You can be ill a lot of times, but a single illness can kill you.

When I manage to get out of bed, the first thing I feel is happiness. I’m proud of what I’ve achieved. I feel like I’ve really excelled. On those occasions, I like to have people around to celebrate with (but not a lot of people: having a crowd in the room would completely disrupt the careful planning I’ve done). It’s all right if they clap and cheer from a distance while I cautiously put one foot, then the other, onto the floor. But the happiness quickly fades.

On the ground, life is very difficult. For one thing, with everyone standing up, people feel they’re indistinguishable from one another, which leads to hostility and competition. If I’m in bed, though, no one pays attention to me: people talk to each other as if I were just another object in the room, a lamp or a wardrobe. They make decisions and act without taking me into account, which spares me their aggressiveness and hostility. I don’t affect things one way or another. If, on the other hand, I’m standing up (an uncomfortable position I never get myself into for long), I notice the way they look at me (not always fondly, to tell the truth), and I hear their quarrels, the turmoil of the house and all its disturbing echoes.

When I get out of bed I can’t help but glance at the bit of street visible through the living room window. I see the cars racing by, their signal lights flashing as they go off somewhere. They stop very obediently at red lights and then, all at the same time, set off, taking possession of the street. (In my nightmares, the enormous traffic light gives the go-ahead and the mysterious, metallic cars, with their powerful shiny jaws and no one behind the wheel, charge ahead, powered by remote control.) The people who drive the cars feel very powerful. I prefer the pedestrians, but I don’t understand where they’re going, why they cross the street without stopping, without greeting one another, as if they were ants or dolphins. I’ve also seen people in uniform - doormen, guards, elevator attendants, employees of one kind or another. Wearing their suits, they all take their roles very seriously, never making a mistake, as if it all came to them naturally. I’ve asked my mother if people don’t sometimes hesitate in elevators before pressing a button, if they always know exactly which one they’re going to push, if there isn’t a moment when they can’t make up their minds. She told me it doesn’t happen, or if it does it’s because the person has bad eyesight. For example, bus drivers. They never stray from their route. They repeat their movements exactly, without any variation. They don’t suddenly head for a park or drive to the waterfront because they want to have a look at the sea. I’m also surprised by the crane operator who repeats the same, parsimonious movements (clumps of black earth rising gradually, like guilt you can’t get rid of); he raises the huge iron shovel and then slowly lowers and buries it into the pile of debris; then he fills it up, lifts it, and finally dumps the load in the truck, never feeling the urge to play, to draw circles in the air, to pick up something he shouldn’t.

The whole spectacle of the street disturbs and terrifies me, which is why I immediately stop looking.

So my stays on the floor are brief. Even though my doctor says it’s beneficial for me to be out of bed, that it’s good for my muscles and my circulation, I know it isn’t good for my soul. Frazzled and nervous, I go straight back. I hide there, under the sheets, covered and protected. For a while, no one thinks about me, except when it’s mealtime or a question of personal hygiene, and even then they treat me like a broken doll, a machine that’s out of order. A busted mannequin. Otherwise, regardless of whether I’m lying down or standing up, the world doesn’t seem to notice my participation in it, despite desperate gestures intended to show the contrary. The world will always be a distant place.