Quiet Mountain Essays
| Copyright © 2010 |
| Bed Bye by Michelle Fillipini |
Bed is good. For the most part, the connotations associated with it are positive (sex and sleep). We
come away from it singing praises for its restorative properties. Couples fighting shouldn't take to it
mad, because going to bed mad is a bad thing. Bad bed karma. Once that shit seeps into the box
spring it's all over. Only happy things should happen on the bed, like eating and reading and
cuddling, in addition to the sexy time and the resting time. Going to bed drunk is also not advised; it
causes the bed to do bad things, like spin. One must also not abuse bed. Reveling in its rejuvenating
qualities can lead to unhealthy behaviors, like taking to bed and never leaving. It should be taken in
small doses, like the Cirque de Soleil and Xanax. It should always leave you wanting more.
Your sister had a canopy bed, like for a princess. A circus lived on top of your bed. You called the
performing tiger splashed on the bedspread Tony the Tiger, even though he was nothing like the
outsized figure on the cereal box and in the commercials. Every night you took a new animal to bed.
One night it might be Pluto the Dog, a few nights later it could be Rex the Owl or Dino the Dinosaur
or Roly the Dalmatian. The important thing was to rotate them so no one could accuse you of
favoritism. If a fire broke out in your house, you would grab the drawer that your stuffed animals
lived in and use it to break your bedroom window, then you and the animals would jump out.
Your mother would come to tuck you in each night, and the two of you would recite to each other:
At some point your mom told you that you were a big girl now and it was time for a big-girl bed.
Away went the Big Top on your bed, but not before you whispered to Tony the Tiger that you would
never forget him. In its place came what was called a trundle bed. It was like the bed was a
kangaroo, and a smaller kangaroo-bed lived in its pouch underneath. When your friends came to
sleep over, out would come the baby kangaroo, which would miraculously morph into a full-sized
bed with the turn of a lever. There was no space to walk around in the room when both beds were
out, so you went out to the living room to watch "Land of the Lost." Then the doctors told you that
you couldn't sleep with your animal friends anymore because of your allergies, so back in the drawer
they went and stayed.
You slept in the same small twin bed until you went away to college. A bigger bed wouldn't have fit
in your new room in the new house. Your sister got the bigger room because she was bigger, older.
She actually had two beds, what was called a corner unit. They were covered in a heavy fabric of
fluorescent yellows and lime-greens. Since the other bed never got slept in, it was used to store things
on. Your bed no longer felt like a big-girl bed, even though you lost your virginity on it on the eve of
your 17th birthday. The two of you kept hitting the wall that the bed was pushed up against and
your feet dangled off it. He had been married and had two children and probably hadn't been in a
twin bed since he was a boy, and you were ashamed.
When you were gone at college, you turned 21 and came home for a visit to find that your parents
felt it was time for an adult bed. They had moved into a bigger house while you were away, and this
bed, an Oyster Bed, a double, barely filled half the room. It had sliding drawers underneath for
storing underwear and socks and pillows. You wished you had it up at the college but it would have
been too cumbersome to move. You had to wait until you graduated from college and got your own
place, a studio apartment. It didn't have a separate bedroom, so the living room blended right into
the bedroom. You could walk a few steps from the living room sofa to the bed and be seated again.
It was this bed you were in when the Loma Prieta earthquake happened in 1989, halfway watching
the World Series on TV, which where you lived was called the "Bay Series" because both teams were
from the Bay Area. You noticed the drawers from your dresser across the room had all rolled out,
and a lamp had fallen off a table. You worried about something crashing on Peabody, your pet
rabbit, who was running loose in the apartment. The next day, your future husband came home and
asked you to marry him. The earthquake had closed the freeway between San Jose, where he
worked, and the Peninsula, where you lived, and he couldn't get back over the hill to Santa Cruz
where his father lived.
You moved to Sacramento, and then your husband was offered a job in Hawaii, so you had to get rid
of the possessions you didn't want to ship, which was most of them. The condominium you were
leasing over there was already furnished. Now you just needed to get rid of your furniture in a week.
Someone at your work belonged to a church and they knew a family of Russian immigrants who
needed furniture but had no money. They came to your place and took everything you were
offering, including the grown-up bed. They were grateful and had very bad body odor that lingered
in the apartment after they left. And then you were off to Hawaii, to sleep in a stranger's bed.
You never got attached to another bed again. They came and went throughout the years, a series of
resting places upon which nothing momentous happened. You got attached to bed, though. It
became your friend, your sanctuary, your confidante, your tomb. Others drank or smoked or
snorted or gambled or overate or shopped. You slept. You find it difficult to shake off the night,
because bed increasingly contains all that is real and alive. Outside it's a film noir. People speak in
stilted dialogue and a cloak of dread hovers over the set. Your head grows heavy; the sweet siren call
of bed beckons. Bed wraps you in its crazy-quilt bedspread and you are snug as a baby in a
straitjacket. You've missed your friends all these long years. They've known always that all roads
lead back to here. They are nothing if not patient.
Every night, another three-ring circus. The dancing bedazzled horses, the maniacal clowns, the
disturbing acrobats, and Tony the Tiger - all warmly welcome you home. ("One of us.") Bed opens,
yawns; like a womb or a mouth, swallows. The ringmaster addresses his captive audience. "Ladies
and Gentlemen, welcome to the Greatest Show on Earth." You hate to leave.
come away from it singing praises for its restorative properties. Couples fighting shouldn't take to it
mad, because going to bed mad is a bad thing. Bad bed karma. Once that shit seeps into the box
spring it's all over. Only happy things should happen on the bed, like eating and reading and
cuddling, in addition to the sexy time and the resting time. Going to bed drunk is also not advised; it
causes the bed to do bad things, like spin. One must also not abuse bed. Reveling in its rejuvenating
qualities can lead to unhealthy behaviors, like taking to bed and never leaving. It should be taken in
small doses, like the Cirque de Soleil and Xanax. It should always leave you wanting more.
Your sister had a canopy bed, like for a princess. A circus lived on top of your bed. You called the
performing tiger splashed on the bedspread Tony the Tiger, even though he was nothing like the
outsized figure on the cereal box and in the commercials. Every night you took a new animal to bed.
One night it might be Pluto the Dog, a few nights later it could be Rex the Owl or Dino the Dinosaur
or Roly the Dalmatian. The important thing was to rotate them so no one could accuse you of
favoritism. If a fire broke out in your house, you would grab the drawer that your stuffed animals
lived in and use it to break your bedroom window, then you and the animals would jump out.
Your mother would come to tuck you in each night, and the two of you would recite to each other:
At some point your mom told you that you were a big girl now and it was time for a big-girl bed.
Away went the Big Top on your bed, but not before you whispered to Tony the Tiger that you would
never forget him. In its place came what was called a trundle bed. It was like the bed was a
kangaroo, and a smaller kangaroo-bed lived in its pouch underneath. When your friends came to
sleep over, out would come the baby kangaroo, which would miraculously morph into a full-sized
bed with the turn of a lever. There was no space to walk around in the room when both beds were
out, so you went out to the living room to watch "Land of the Lost." Then the doctors told you that
you couldn't sleep with your animal friends anymore because of your allergies, so back in the drawer
they went and stayed.
You slept in the same small twin bed until you went away to college. A bigger bed wouldn't have fit
in your new room in the new house. Your sister got the bigger room because she was bigger, older.
She actually had two beds, what was called a corner unit. They were covered in a heavy fabric of
fluorescent yellows and lime-greens. Since the other bed never got slept in, it was used to store things
on. Your bed no longer felt like a big-girl bed, even though you lost your virginity on it on the eve of
your 17th birthday. The two of you kept hitting the wall that the bed was pushed up against and
your feet dangled off it. He had been married and had two children and probably hadn't been in a
twin bed since he was a boy, and you were ashamed.
When you were gone at college, you turned 21 and came home for a visit to find that your parents
felt it was time for an adult bed. They had moved into a bigger house while you were away, and this
bed, an Oyster Bed, a double, barely filled half the room. It had sliding drawers underneath for
storing underwear and socks and pillows. You wished you had it up at the college but it would have
been too cumbersome to move. You had to wait until you graduated from college and got your own
place, a studio apartment. It didn't have a separate bedroom, so the living room blended right into
the bedroom. You could walk a few steps from the living room sofa to the bed and be seated again.
It was this bed you were in when the Loma Prieta earthquake happened in 1989, halfway watching
the World Series on TV, which where you lived was called the "Bay Series" because both teams were
from the Bay Area. You noticed the drawers from your dresser across the room had all rolled out,
and a lamp had fallen off a table. You worried about something crashing on Peabody, your pet
rabbit, who was running loose in the apartment. The next day, your future husband came home and
asked you to marry him. The earthquake had closed the freeway between San Jose, where he
worked, and the Peninsula, where you lived, and he couldn't get back over the hill to Santa Cruz
where his father lived.
You moved to Sacramento, and then your husband was offered a job in Hawaii, so you had to get rid
of the possessions you didn't want to ship, which was most of them. The condominium you were
leasing over there was already furnished. Now you just needed to get rid of your furniture in a week.
Someone at your work belonged to a church and they knew a family of Russian immigrants who
needed furniture but had no money. They came to your place and took everything you were
offering, including the grown-up bed. They were grateful and had very bad body odor that lingered
in the apartment after they left. And then you were off to Hawaii, to sleep in a stranger's bed.
You never got attached to another bed again. They came and went throughout the years, a series of
resting places upon which nothing momentous happened. You got attached to bed, though. It
became your friend, your sanctuary, your confidante, your tomb. Others drank or smoked or
snorted or gambled or overate or shopped. You slept. You find it difficult to shake off the night,
because bed increasingly contains all that is real and alive. Outside it's a film noir. People speak in
stilted dialogue and a cloak of dread hovers over the set. Your head grows heavy; the sweet siren call
of bed beckons. Bed wraps you in its crazy-quilt bedspread and you are snug as a baby in a
straitjacket. You've missed your friends all these long years. They've known always that all roads
lead back to here. They are nothing if not patient.
Every night, another three-ring circus. The dancing bedazzled horses, the maniacal clowns, the
disturbing acrobats, and Tony the Tiger - all warmly welcome you home. ("One of us.") Bed opens,
yawns; like a womb or a mouth, swallows. The ringmaster addresses his captive audience. "Ladies
and Gentlemen, welcome to the Greatest Show on Earth." You hate to leave.
| Contributor's Notes... |
Ms. Filippini is the Senior Development Writer at Sierra Nevada College in Incline Village, Nevada. Previously
she was a project editor at the University of Nevada Press. Since graduating from California State University,
Chico, with a B.A. in English (focus on creative writing), she’s worked in scholarly and textbook publishing as a
production editor, freelance project manager, and copy editor. Her poetry and nonfiction have been published in
Kanilehua, The Sierra Nevada Review, Two Hawks Quarterly, Language and Culture, Suss, Eclectic
Flash, and Glint Literary Journal.
she was a project editor at the University of Nevada Press. Since graduating from California State University,
Chico, with a B.A. in English (focus on creative writing), she’s worked in scholarly and textbook publishing as a
production editor, freelance project manager, and copy editor. Her poetry and nonfiction have been published in
Kanilehua, The Sierra Nevada Review, Two Hawks Quarterly, Language and Culture, Suss, Eclectic
Flash, and Glint Literary Journal.
| See you in the morning, see you later, see you tomorrow. I'll call you if I need you. Sleep tight, don't let the bedbugs bite. Have pleasant dreams. Good night. |