Zolpidem

The phone rings. I glance at the clock as I reach over to answer it. 

7:00 a.m.

“Yes?” I say, angry that I was awakened so early. My chronic insomnia makes it difficult to fall asleep before three or four o’clock so being awakened—by a ringing phone nonetheless—is quite aggravating.

“I know what you did!” the male voice on the other end says, before hanging up.

I pause for a moment, cogitating on things I’ve done lately that could have pissed someone off. There were too many to count.

I didn’t stop at the crosswalk last Saturday and let the bleached blonde with the fake boobs and eagle-talon nails jog across the street in her fancy Diane von Furstenberg track suit. She tried to wrinkle her nose at me but there was too much Botox in her face to do so. She could have taken note of my license plate and told her husband—perhaps a cop, but more likely a plastic surgeon—who called me. Who was I kidding?! This bimbo probably couldn’t even remember a license plate. Even a personalized one like mine.

Then there was the Fuji apple avalanche I accidentally caused at the grocery store last evening. Everyone knows that produce handlers purposely balance round produce so precariously that if you don’t take the bruised and squishy pieces from the top—but instead go scavenging for the good items—an avalanche ensues. I grabbed my items and then darted through the express lane as the produce guy ran to my mess. He could’ve been angry enough to call. They know me there.

I honestly wasn’t sure. So I *69’ed the asshole and when he answered, I said, “Oh yeah?! Whatever I allegedly did is NOTHING compared to what I’m going to do to you for waking me up!”