John Harrower 24, WM, NS, GSOH, OMG, WLTM interesting individuals that he can shamelessly use as characters in his flash fiction or put in ridiculous and often fantastical situations for embarrassing effect. Find him in Stirling, Scotland scrawling non sequiturs in underpasses.

Eight Alarms (February 20, 2011. Issue 25.)

Right that’s it, if you’re late one more time don’t bother coming back. he’d been told so that night he gathered up all the alarm clocks. It wasn’t that he loved his job, the hours were long, the bosses cruel and the customers stupid, but he had rent to pay and drugs at the weekend to buy so he knew he’d have to wake up. That night he set up eight alarm clocks, digital displays, ticking faces and novelty Batmobiles surrounding his bed.

The next morning he woke up with his flatmate kicking in his door, beeps, whistles and bells droning. He got to work on time with a growling belly and sleep crusting his eyes and brain. He knew he would have to step things up so that night he set up a wall of sound, enough alarms right next to his face that he couldn’t fail to get up. He laid his head down and watched the bright LEDs tick away the minutes. In the morning the sound was bouncing around the room, but it was his ringing phone that had woken him up. His next door neighbour (who was also his landlord) phoning him to check the house wasn’t on fire. After hanging up and killing the din, he found he had just enough time to run for the bus. Another lucky escape.

Work dragged and pulled him over broken rocks all day and then it was finally time to go home. At bedtime he set his alarms and sound-proofed his room as best he could. He couldn’t keep relying on everyone else to get him up. This was his challenge. He had borrowed all of the alarm clocks and old mobiles he could from his friends, it was going to have to be enough to get him up. He plunged his frown into his pillow and told himself he wasn’t that heavy a sleeper, he would wake up.

Three hours later he was still awake. The room was as quiet as it could be, just his lungs and heart and clocks giving a sonic backdrop. He went for a glass of water. He tried to pee away some frustration. He read some of an inappropriate novel. He was another hour closer to work time. Then, out of the Stonehenge of assembled alarm clocks, there was a chime. Scowling, he reached out a sleep-leaden arm and tried to find which one was being noisy. Must’ve set it for the wrong damn time. As he searched, the melody of the alarm (cheerful but insistent) swam around his wine dark room. The repetitive tune wormed into his head and his energy for finding where it was coming from was gone. He sank to his mattress and fell asleep with one arm stretched out from under the covers.

Instantly (to him) he woke up in a cacophony, his flatmate shaking him. He was wet and realised he’d pissed himself. There was a bowl of water by his bed. How can you be such a heavy sleeper? his flatmate asked, a smirk fighting for control of his expression with a look of concern. Am I late? He zombied his way through work, finding out how easy it was disconnecting his brain from the drudgery. His mind was tumble-drying the problem of getting up: there were two days before he had a day off.

He assembled a committee of his friends and told them the trouble. I don’t think you need more volume, his mate the engineer said, but I could rig up your bed with some hydraulics to tip you out of it in the morning. Vetoed. How about you get a dog and train it to wake you up in the morning? suggested the middle manager. Not enough time, work tomorrow. I could give you a wake up call every day when I get up for work if you like offered the baker. That’s cheating, I need to be in charge of my own sleep. Well then you’d better hope the alarms wake you up.

Bedtime crept up on him that night like a pair of stealthy pyjamas. He felt dreadful. It wasn’t even really about work anymore, it was more important to him now that he had power over when he dreamed. He brushed his teeth and turned out the light and failed to sleep. He lay in the dark, eyes closed. Eyes open. Roll over. He had set all the alarms again, what other choice did he have? The not-quite-silence roared in his ears: the sound of a yawning negative space.

And then a noise like violent crystal from outside. Half a second later he was at the window watching the street. Two unlikely pugilists were smashing each other and everything around them in a post-bar brawl between what looked like librarians. Blood shining slick black in the streetlights covered them and the broken bottles they held. He felt like maybe he should go and break them up; no part of him felt tired. They were in close, grappling, now and their combined weight crunched through Millets front window. The shops security system kicked in and alarms blanged out. He watched them roll around in the broken glass and began a sigh which ended as a yawn. Boring. He turned to slump into bed and the sound of sirens filtered into the room, getting closer. So peaceful. he thought. The last thing he heard before sliding into slumber was his crazy neighbour hanging out of a window upstairs and shouting at the fucked men to keep fighting.

His front door was shaking on its’ frame. He picked himself up from the floor, hadn’t even made it to bed, and scrambled past his clocks without looking at them. Grey light seeped into the flat, he had no idea what time it was. He put his eye to the peephole and the door tried to throw itself at him once, twice, thrice. It was the police. Was sleeping in a crime now? He opened the door, his heart sucking and beating the blood around him. The two policemen appraised him with their faces. Didn’t look good. Good morning sir, we’re here to take a statement. Still morning. Good. What time? Certainly officer, can I ask what time it is?

Once he’d told them what he’d seen through his window during his insomnia he had half an hour to get to the bus for work. It was a struggle, but one he managed. His bosses eyed him. They hadn’t expected him to be on time every day, one more night and he’d have made it through the week. He was worse for wear but wore it well. And he had a plan.

Really he was lucky that the shops were open later than usual on a Thursday night, it gave him the time he needed to get supplies. He was pretty confident he’d solved the problem, but didn’t want to get an Asbo for his solution. He’d had the right idea all along, it was just a matter of perspective.

Three hours later it was bedtime and he was surveying his work. He looked at his newly padded walls and laughed. Must be mental. Then he set his alarms – to start sounding off. One by one he added another sound to the mix, a one note beep, a simple musical scale, an atonal buzz. When they reached maximum decibels he switched out his light and fell into bed. Before sleep took him he patted the foam soundproofing he’d covered the walls with. A professional job. The alarms were set to turn off an hour and a half before work. He’d get a good night’s sleep, he was sure of it, and have plenty of time for coffee and toast and showers and internet before the bus. The cacophony bounced around his room but nowhere else. He was safe in his clamorous cocoon. A smile spread onto his pillow as he drifted into the best night’s sleep of his life.

When he woke he heard nothing. No alarms. This was his moment. He turned to face his sound system for sleep and saw the time. He hadn’t slept in. Plenty of time to get to work. He leapt out of bed and everyone he met that day was stunned by his banter. He told them he’d had the most refreshing eight hours sleep imaginable and then told them how. When they looked at him like he had brain problems he didn’t care. He was new again. Halfway through his shift he took the notion of starting a band, using his soundproofed room as a practice space. Two weeks later he was the front man in A Sleepy Racket. When they’d recorded some music he used that to lull him to sleep. He got to work on time until he got a better job. Life was good.