Insomnia
                          By Tom Gordon 

The Indians were restless tonight. 

For Grimm, sleep was becoming an almost satirical practice.  He knew
the futility of attempting to acquire a few conclusive letters of the
alphabet in the cacophonous chorus that ensued outside in the
Albuquerque streets, but nevertheless, he removed the heavy clothing
that had exaggerated his emaciated physique; his light, naked body a
momentary flash of moonlit silver in the thick darkness- and let
himself be swallowed up by the dingy blanket.

He listened, in spite of himself. 

The apartment was ripe with ambition.  The aural potential that
existed just outside his loft was staggering, although, Grimm thought
quietly to himself, there were few who could make use of such a
monstrous potpourri of potent sound patterns, save an industrial or
New-Age music composer or performer.  Of course, a composer or
performer of industrial or New-Age music probably would not be having
too much to do in Albuquerque!  Especially these days.  Besides, their
brains were probably too addled with lysergic acid or cannabis
derivatives (respectively) to make a really really good creation out
of the consistent rattle of semiautomatics, the distant yowling of
warcries, the skull-penetrating monotony of helicopter blades, and the
varying whumps of detonating incendiaries.  Along with Albuquerque's
usual offerings, this soup of sound fluidly flowed together to create
an acoustic discordance which forced adrenaline levels to surge and
ebb.  Such a biological aftereffect compelled Grimm to accept that his
apartment would be most ideal for a death-metal band, but sadly, that
musical trend had reached its peak in the mid-nineties and had
subsequently been trampled into extinction by the growth of mumble. 
Mumble sucked, but it was easy to compose, and Grimm's proliferation
of the form as an industry created millions of jobs, so he couldn't
have it both ways. 

Grimm's nearly-derailed train of thought usually went in directions
like this.  Almost any situation he became involved in provoked an
uncanny fit of enterprising schemes.  He would constantly ask himself,
 'How can I make the most of this?' or 'Could there be any potential
for innovative discovery and/or money?'  Perhaps it lay in his
incredible self-sufficency; ingrained by his upbringing, or lack
thereof.  He didn't know.  Grimm shrugged and fumbled for his pipe,
which, after some painful labors, he managed to get into his mouth. 
The burning match flared,  a momentary childlike warmth of orange as
he applied it to the tobacco.  With a sharp intake of breath, Grimm
felt the dank vapors rush into his lungs, while his mind tinkered away
like a mad automaton, the thoughts wandering around aimlessly and
occasionally bumping into each other.

It seemed strange how much this constant onslaught of noise was really
disturbing him.  Grimm had expected it; it was necessary.  Civil
disruption was bound to occur!  Why the faceless anxiety?  Why the
inability to sleep?  He had consulted DeGoob about how the present
situation was affecting his work on the Problem, but the only insight
DeGoob would impart was that 'it reminded him of Brooklyn' which,
naturally, segued into how much Brooklyn reminded him of Moira, his
recently estranged girlfriend, and it was precisely at that time that,
coincidentally, Grimm had to beat a hasty retreat.  It would take time
for DeGoob to recover, but Grimm was certain that what he had done was
the best thing for his friend.  Moira was too demanding an influence
for such a brilliant mind, and with her loss, DeGoob, with pure,
untainted reason as his guide, finally would reach the successful
conclusion to the technological/scientific quest he had started at the
school.  The school...  The street noise in Brooklyn was worse than
this; when they were both misguided  youths, struggling to earn
degrees in virtsci, Brooklyn had offered similar nocturnal
pleasantries, prior to and even during that chemical incident.  He
managed to sleep there.  Not here.  Why? 

Grimm yawned and switched on the vid with his remote.  The fishbowl on
the technobaroque cabinet fluttered to life, irradiating, with its
pastel illuminance, the cluttered living room and Grimm's stubbled,
youthfully rounded countenance, layered over with dark, haphazard
curls atop a broad forehead.  Stereophonic sound drowned out
Albuquerque. 

"-fessor Reinhold, could you explain what repercussions might these
new series of uprisings have upon the Arthur Administration's policy
of nonsecession?"  Koppel yielded the screen to an equally ancient
face, punctuated with unobtrusive subtitles over his tasteful bowtie. 

"Well, Ted, I sincerely doubt that John Arthur is concerned about the
Indian-" 

"Ahem," coughed an offscreen voice.  Grimm chuckled. 

"Excuse me...," the venerable voice corrected, with considerable
annoyance, "Native-American... occupation of Santa Fe, if he has taken
such a strict hard line from the beginning.  It's clear that the
President has always been ready to start a dialogue with the Apaches,
but as far as rights to territory is concerned, the UN settled that in
seventy-something.  Under these circumstances, there's no reason why
Arthur will not declare martial law and send in the Guard.  Given the
Arthur Administration's history of unconventional tactics in crises
such as this, we cannot assume that there will be any such leniency
with the Apaches.  Renewed cultural pride is one thing.  Armed
insurrection, with federal stockpiles, is a different matter
entirely."  That's what you think, Grimm pondered, his eyelids growing
heavy. 

"Mr. Miller?" 

The camera panned over to a frighteningly obese figure.  He was not
too much older than Grimm, perhaps in his early fifties, as evident by
the flares of gray in his grimy dreadlocks, and the timeworn Jane's
Addiction Reunion T-shirt, one that was probably quite valuable. 

"Everyone knows that this country has been practicing apartheid since
it began.  American apartheid, pure and simple."  The voice was
petulant, high-pitched with righteousness.  "And I find it amusing how
this show would allow a Eurocentric, patriarchal racis-" 

"Goddamn you!" The invisible Reinhold screeched, his vocal cords too
old for a suitable decibel range of fury.  Miller vanished as the
camera was knocked violently askew, to be replaced by a particularly
well done and interesting shot of the set ceiling.  Digital epithets
and screams filled Grimm's dwelling, followed by a soothing muzak
theme and an exasperated feminine voice droning every minute or so
about technical difficulties.  Grimm was, obviously, asleep by the
fourth announcement.  His smoking pipe and blanket has rolled off onto
the floor, like anxious lovers. 

The next morning, Alias DeGoob woke abruptly, his bloodshot eyes
burning as the autumn sun eagerly and naively poured through his drawn
Venetian blinds.  The screaming fire trucks that had roared by his
house and kicked him awake Dopplered away.  His alarm clock exclaimed
a recent mumble hit less loudly, and then not at all when DeGoob
gripped it with an angry hand and sent it careening towards the
nearest wall.  As transistors and shattered plastic rained down upon
him, DeGoob stumbled out of bed, and crawled past his shrine, to the
bathroom.  The bathroom mirror almost winced as DeGoob made use of it.
 It reluctantly gave him a portrait of a middle-aged black man of
medium build.  Since the attractively eye-catching boxer shorts that
Moira had given him long ago were not visible, DeGoob was forced to
focus upon his own agonized face, loose and sagging with the combined
might of the ravages of sleep, alcohol, and time.  Throw that in along
with the emotional fatigue of his recent romantic failure, and the
twenty or so years of pondering thousands of complex algorithms, and
there remained an empty, broken man. 

DeGoob buried his head in icy water and ignored the usual suicidal
urgings to inhale.  Drying off, he stepped out of the bathroom, making
a mental note to himself to buy a new alarm clock as he passed his
shrine, and entered the kitchen, sitting down to finish the remnants
of his algae sandwich, which had actually improved with age.  The pure
silence that sat contentedly upon the murky atmosphere of his house
was only occasionally shattered by the indistinct rumblings of a
nearby crowd down the street.  In fact, DeGoob reflected, it sounded
like it was taking place awfully close to Grimm's tenement, which
completely failed to surprise him.  Grimm was always getting involved
with things and people that had nothing to do with him under the guise
of good intentions, but he never failed to piss someone off, and he
had a startling talent for consistently pissing off the big,
sociopathic someones that derived sexual enjoyment from plucking wings
from flies. 

This tendency, in the past, culminated with the both of them having to
take refuge in the previously inconspicuous and unextraordinary city
of Albuquerque, in order to escape the wrath of hordes of aspiring
drug dealers and vague underworld figures, following that nasty
anthrax assault on their campus.  The New York Times and many other
media sources declared that it had been an isolated incident, a
long-suppressed outburst of violence by the local gangs upon a random
target, but DeGoob knew better.   He vowed that he would not let
himself, or Moira, or even Grimm become casualties in a similar
atrocity.  The Problem had to be solved, and DeGoob needed to be alive
to do it.  The next day, they left Brooklyn forever. 

Brooklyn.. 

Moira. 

Any remaining indications of life left his face as he recollected the
memory of the woman he loved.   He mechanically rose from his chair,
and walked precisely back into his bedroom, to face the shrine he had
created the night before in a drunken insanity.  Grimm, who had ducked
out in DeGoob's patio to escape the armed platoon of newly homeless
neighbors, watched intently from a tiny window the eerie scene that
was now taking place.  The hastily composed assemblage that sat upon
DeGoob's coffee table was interesting for it's aesthetic and
compositional qualities; but when Grimm considered the fact that it
had been created by a man of scientific, mathematical upbringing, by
an individual who had devoted a great deal of his life towards the
pursuit of rational logic, a chill ran down his back.  The shrine was
simply an old cardboard box, set with several blackened candles and
strewn with a collage of photographs, letters, lingerie and other
memorabilia of the love affair that Grimm had sabotaged.  Grimm
pressed his soot-laden face to the glass, and almost screamed in
terror.  Hanging from the worn rim of the box was a tiny crucifix, and
beside the candles was a small plastic representation of Mary and
Jesus.  And DeGoob had taken a kneeling position, like a worshiper in
a church, praying to both his recently discovered God and to his
Moira.  This was all wrong!  Frantically, Grimm pounded on the front
door. 

"Hello?" 

"You fool!  What are you doing??" Grimm squealed. 

"What happened to you?"  DeGoob inquired, noticing the slightly
charred clothing and the black ash clashing against pale skin as Grimm
forced his way into the house. 

"Never mind that," Grimm snapped.  "What the hell is this?"  He
gestured angrily towards the shrine.  "I thought you were a Goddamn
atheist!" 

"I said I was an agnostic, Grimm." 

"What's the flipping difference??  It's the same blasted thing!  You
don't believe in God!  You're a scientist!  You 'worship' science!" 

"Yes, I am a scientist.  But ever since Moira left me, these days I've
been thinking about things... about my life, you know?  About the
cosmos and what it all really means; if there really is any answer to
the Problem.  And I'm, like, starting to wonder about all the things
that are beyond the knowledge of mankind.  About God.  And the
spirit-" 

"No!  No!  NO!"  Grimm howled.  "Don't you get it?  There's no such
thing as the spirit, Alias!  No sick behind-the-scenes deities,
either-" 

"That's debatable."  DeGoob remarked. 

"OK.  Show me." 

"Show you what?" 

"God.  Or any conclusive proof that there is some omniscient bearded
guy governing the universe." 

"That's what I'm saying." 

"What?  What are you saying?  That there is no proof?" 

"That there are things that can't be proved to man.  I think there is
a God, but that His existence can't be shown because it goes beyond
the comprehension of humanity." 

"Yeah, well, you can say the same thing about Santa Claus, too." 

"Grimm, what do you want?" 

"I want you to cut this religious crap and get back to work on the
Problem."  He picked up the shrine and threw it into the trash bin.  
"And enough about Moira already!" 

"I'm not doing any more work on the Problem, Grimm.  I'm quitting." 

"You can't quit!  And you don't want to quit, so stop saying that you
do!  I know you too well, Alias!  You wouldn't throw away years of
work over a stupid girl!" 

DeGoob smiled sadly.  "That's what I mean.  What's the point in
struggling and fighting for the solution to some Problem when someone
you've loved for years walks out on you for no reason at all?  That is
the Problem, Grimm.  And if there is no answer to something like that,
then there certainly is no answer to how to save the planet, or
anything.  I've wasted my life on a foolish goose-chase for some
technological chalice.  And now, I quit.  It's time for God and
spirituality, Grimm.  Time to find some higher meaning than what
computers can or cannot do.  Time for life." 

Grimm quaked with fear.  It was over.  He had failed, just like he had
failed in Brooklyn, when he was starting out, when he tried to get the
vice lords to unite in capitalistic enterprise, twenty years ago.  He
had thought he was on a roll when he started the mumble craze.  But as
music, mumble was right up there with humpback whale babblings. 
Failure.  Failure!  All his subtle engineering of destinies, gone to
waste.  Moira lost an honorable man, over Grimm's innuendoes of
adultery and homosexuality.  DeGoob, a brilliant programmer and
computer eugenicist, was now a born-again knucklehead.  The failures
were like great metaphysical arrows, all pointing to the great abyss
that lay ahead.. "Grimm, where are you going?"  DeGoob called out, to
the dwindling figure that had bolted from his house like a terrified
deer..  "Come back!"  His pleas were not acknowledged, and,
dejectedly, DeGoob sat at his coffee table.  The laughable memory of a
fire-blackened Grimm dissipated instantly, to be replaced by a solemn
visage, much stronger.   His eyes spun towards the trash bin.  With a
deliberate slowness, he approached the bin, and removed his shrine. 

"...There he is!" 

"...kill you, Grimm, you pyro scum!" 

"...Murderer!" 

"...Lynch the son-of-a-bitch!" 

Grimm scrambled through the concrete jigsaw of Albuquerque, tactfully
dodging the murderous words and efforts of his neighbors.  If he had
the time, he would stop and express his sincere condolences over their
loss of property and loved ones, but there was a matter of much
greater urgency at hand, and if the knot was not loosened in time,
someone would surely strangle.  He watched the green signs at every
corner, twisting and weaving his way over a path he had tread so many
times before, while the words of a television interview he had heard,
and previously dismissed, lounged about the innards of his mind; 

"...Mr. Arthur, what would you do in the event of a possible
occupation?" 

"Well, they're trying to overthrow the government, correct?" 

"Well, yes..." 

"That makes them traitors.  I don't care if they're Caucasian-American
or African-American or Asian-American or Native-American.  They're
still subjugating democracy on a large scale." 

"So, what would you-" 

"Martial law.  And then the bullets would do the talking.  This nation
will be preserved.  Lincoln went through this almost two hundred years
ago.  He succeeded.  So will I, if the event arises.  They may have
been here before us, but that doesn't justify a whole, separate
country all for themselves.  We are..." 

The city yielded to adobe, the asphalt to sand.  The desert stained
the northern horizon, yellow waste against rich indigo skies.  Grimm
counted the structures that blurred past, one by one, while thin
trickles of black sweat, generated by the usual New Mexico heat,
crawled down his cheeks, intermingled with desperate tears.   He had
to prevent the greatest failure of his life.

The chief...  

A lone hut was on the outskirts of the city, a meager buffer zone
between the encroaching, golden nothingness and Albuquerque's
splendor.  In a frantic rage, Grimm violently pried back the flap, and
leapt inside.  The Chief was there, a wind-weathered, little old man,
resplendent in colorful, finely wrought cloth and ornamental animal
fixtures that contrasted nicely with his uniformly dark pink
complexion.  He was crying. 

"Call them back!  Arthur will not tolerate-"

"Too late...  Too late..."

"But you must!  I was wrong all along...  That's why... that's why..."

That was why.

Somehow, throughout all of those long nights that he schemed... and
formed his intricate blueprint for establishing an Indian state... and
how it would go about claiming its independence... he KNEW.

He knew it wouldn't work.

That was why he couldn't sleep.

Meanwhile,  Santa Fe disintegrated in a blinding flash.