A Life Well Slept
Determining the right time to replace your mattress goes beyond simply counting the years. It’s a matter of individual comfort and preference. Considering humans spend a third of their lives sleeping, it shouldn’t be underestimated. The choice matters.
Just as people spend much of their lives sleeping, I spent much of my life in the display window of The Resting Place, a bedding outlet on Roosevelt Avenue in Flushing, Queens. According to the different perspectives on life, optimists see life as well-lived; realists hope for the best and expect the worst, while pessimists say, “shit happens.” I withheld prejudices but felt privileged, lucky, and a little special that my model, Tempur-Breezy, came out with brisk sales and favorable online reviews.
Lucky I was. Tempur-Breezy mattresses were known for memory foam that conformed to the body’s shape and provided excellent pressure relief. But I was seen as a product—not a living being that was an end in themselves, only a mere means to an end. The facts of the matter were that I was made of spring, foam, and latex, not flesh and blood. I lived to serve others.
But I was alive! I had little memory of the manufacturing facility in Changzhou, China. The truck I was loaded into at the Port of Los Angeles and then trucked cross-country was wet and dirty, and the ride was less than optimal. Mattresses like me gave comfort but were rarely allowed to receive it. It was a fact that we learned to adjust to, like how our springs adjust to the heaviest of weights. It might have taken me a little longer to become accustomed to the world, similar to the way parents shelter their children from the brutal reality of life. Or like the way the outlet manager, Mr. Sami, spoiled me and gave me the spotlight: the store window display on an elegant pine bedframe. The product label gave me all the attention I desired. Whenever I needed a little boost, I recalled my product motto, “Indulge in a blissful slumber—for a well-rested life!”
I cost $2,999. While it was common sales practice to give away a complimentary comforter set with the sale of the mattress, I was special.
“I’m afraid the sheets and pillowcases do not come with the sale of the queen and king-sized Tempur-Breezy,” Mr. Sami said gently to the potential customers, a newlywed couple, seated at his desk at the front of the showroom. The moment I heard this, I knew. I was special. “The model is our premium product. The lower-priced models come with the complimentary package, but not the Tempur-Breezy.”
Mr. Sami’s endorsement might have been a significant factor in the couple’s decision to purchase me. Yet my quality and subsequent high price tag didn’t disqualify me from their consideration—that’s how good I was.
After the initial negotiations, the couple, clearly of ordinary means, discussed their possible purchase by the outlet’s entrance as if they were confessing secrets to each other.
The man said, “The price. It’s more than I thought.”
“That’s what I thought,” the woman said.
“Do you think we can get the mattress with the frame? The frame looks really good.”
“Yeah, the pine is nice. The wood is from Alaska.”
“But it’s all about the mattress. In the end, a frame is just a frame.”
“I agree.”
“Hey. Let’s try out the mattress.”
“Yeah, let’s.”
Mr. Sami hardly smiled because of his marital issues. I had heard him argue in his inimitably tender voice over the phone an hour ago. I felt a little bad for him, but when my future customers came in and looked at me the way lovers do when they first meet—the little folds in their eyes curling, simulating a happiness you couldn’t fake—I forgot all about the manager’s problems and imagined my future life.
First came the man. He leaped on me, testing my spring support, and I heard him give out a little sigh of relief when he settled into my contours. Then came the woman. She was more discreet, letting herself gradually ease into my foam, not so eager to release herself into abandon. They both settled down, not moving, pressing their bodies on me, testing my cushiness.
“Really soft,” the man said.
“Too soft,” the woman responded. “We need a harder mattress.”
“Why?”
“It’s better for our backs.”
My heart sank at the thought that I—or any mattress—could be too soft. The idea burdened my mind and soul, and I wondered why anybody would not want to be as comfortable as possible. My governing lodestone was that softness equaled comfort, and comfort equaled softness. It was elementary!
After I struggled to see this line of logic, I watched the couple walk down the showroom floor. Other mattresses awaited. Their heels squeaked against the polished linoleum echoed and gradually grew softer as they walked off. Never had I felt so alone.
It seemed like forever while they tried different latex varieties, hybrids, gel, and adjustable mattresses on that Saturday afternoon. They even tried a waterbed, and at that moment, I thought I would die. They were so far away I could hardly see them, but I heard. Yes, I listened to the man’s sigh of relief so loud the entire 5,000-square-foot outlet warehouse could hear. Did the other mattresses feel like I did that day? No, mattresses weren’t alive, nor did they have souls. I suppose I was alone in that matter.
After that sigh of relief, I heard the couple again discuss the beds they tried. Except for Mr. Sami, the store was empty as usual. Their discussion in the vacant outlet seemed especially pertinent and consequential. The bedding industry was like all fields with significant stakes—happy beds end up with happy owners, or they get repurposed. In my first week at the store, the couple were the first customers I had ever seen, aside from Mr. Sami, the truck driver and delivery guy.
After their inspection, they went to Mr. Sami’s desk, and I heard them discuss the Raised Air Mattress 3000 Plus—the five most hateful words I had heard up to that point. The couple’s chatter suddenly stopped when it sounded like a done deal and that I would be alone forever. I was left wondering what had happened. Was there a disagreement?
The squeaking linoleum floor, a sound that rarely reached me until that moment, presented itself to me as a gift. In front of me was the man from before. At that point in the day, his shadow was taller than him, stretching across the floor as the sun leaked through the store window, casting a bright orange light onto the fabric. I saw him slowly read my product description. He nodded and smiled. I swore he came up to me, raised one leg, and was about to mount me. I was nearly in heaven. I would be sold! He was so close I smelled the musty grime on his sneakers—that’s how near he was. Then his head turned a swift ninety degrees to my competitor, The Ocean View—a waterbed covered in dust when I arrived last week, an unsold product for however long the outlet was in business. This was a mattress I thought was a goner and would be put back in a warehouse or, even worse, a discount outlet, a fate almost worse than being restriped and recycled part by part. Yes, he leaped up and sank his limbs into the waterbed. His wife came to his side and watched, her head tilted down and her eyes narrowed. It was hard to tell whether she scorned her husband in her mind or was tired. With her arms folded, she observed him as he floated on my foe’s unsightly, gaudy, and excessively vibrant blue topper.
“Want it?” the woman asked.
“Yeah, I do,” the man said.
And that was it. The sale that could have saved my life left the store. The couple purchased that tacky The Ocean View.
When the delivery team came the next day, I had deluded myself that the couple would come for me, having changed their minds. My merits were indisputable. Because what was more important than what you place your body on for a third of your day for years at a time? Sometimes, I suppose you see more of your bed than your spouse and kids. But that wasn’t the feeling the couple had about the merits of my brand of Aerated Memory Foam and contour support. They just wanted the cheap thrill of a waterbed.
They left my life as fast as they came into the store that Saturday afternoon.
The coming days were like what I imagined a slow death would be like. I felt every moment creep by in silence. Even Mr. Sami wouldn’t return to the shop window anymore like he used to, gazing proudly at his premium products. Actually, I hardly remembered anyone coming inside. The outlet was desolate except for the sound of bland, pipped-in music. The thought that the place would go out of business haunted me. The place was huge and filled with empty space. No doubt there were more efficient ways of running a business these days than spending rent money on furniture that nobody ever came to see, let alone buy.
Then, one day, Mr. Sami was gone, and I remember very well the rough-hewn men in executioner-attired plaid surveying the store, first with their eyes, looking over the merchandise, seeing our parts like interchangeable widgets to be broken down and picked apart, screw by screw. Or the worse fate of being unceremoniously tossed into a mattress shredder—this possibility was equally likely.
I awaited the time I knew would come, and it happened so gradually that the changes weren’t immediately noticeable. First, brawny men removed the colorful signage with producer pledges and technical matter. The signs with opaque data became more obscure the longer you read it, from the intuitively realized mattress thickness—8 inches, 10 inches, 12 inches, and firmness levels—Soft (3-4), Medium (5-6), Firm (7-8). Then, the increasing abstruse coil counts: 600 coils, 800 coils, and 1000 coils. Gradually, the references became separate from most customers’ everyday concerns. The advertisements referenced Ventilated Designs, Motion Isolated Ratings, and Edge Support Widths. Unlike the sleep we provided, the piece of datum that determined the mattress’s certifications couldn’t be taken lightly. This was serious business. The tests and certifications to meet rigorous content, emissions, and durability standards were essential.
All qualifications aside, my world was being turned over. I realized something about stress made me creative. Imagining myself floating in the starry sky, strumming a lyre, and singing songs to customers, I came up with a verse infused with practicality.
So, in the hush of midnight’s song
Amidst the stars, where dreams belong
Rest easy on foam so pure
Endorsed by industry standards, forever secure!
The men peeled off the signage from the edges of bed frames, wall mounts, and sign stands. The displays that once promised bed products of high value at outlet sale cost were only to be taken away. Without the promises from bedding copywriting slogans, the flare of the outlet vanished. Then, the men took the fake furniture away along with the shaggy carpets, bedstands, and chest of drawers with empty picture frames meant to simulate a home. Us bedding products lived in a simulacrum, a fake world meant to conform to what a customer might feel would be their life if they were more organized or industrious. The men took things that I didn’t even realize could be taken. My life was peeling away like an onion. Then, the men removed the cardboard walls of the store, leaving only the stilts. Eventually, the men pulled out the drywall, plaster, and beams. The store became a skeleton of its former self.
Next, the sale products were slowly, painfully, one by one, extracted like teeth. In one heave, the men began removing the mattresses and frames. What my world once was had been taken apart. The workers pulled out the spotlight fixtures on the warehouse ceiling, and the store’s color, light, and heat disappeared in one stroke, replaced by darkness. Suddenly, the store became cold.
The new men came wearing jackets with hard helmets with headlamps. The lights on the helmets strobed in the darkness, bouncing with the motion of men with a grim purpose. When it was my turn, though I had sworn I would never be able to sleep again, the rough fabric of Kevlar gloves scraped against my bottom rudely woke me up. I realized I was snoozing from anguish. In a state of terror, somewhere between wokeness and slumber, I suddenly jolted upright as a workman swiftly flipped me to stand upright and forcefully pulled my handle. My soft, cushioned bottom slid across the floor. The friction exuded a rhythm reminiscent of the soothing jazz beats once emanating as ambient music in the store.
Shuush... Swoosh... Shuush... Swoosh… Shuush… Swoosh…
The novel sensation of adrenaline I had initially experienced as pleasure, like the thrill I felt when I thought the couple was going to purchase me, turned against me. The stirrings became animal terror.
The man who might have returned as a savior instead came back as a reminder of harsh reality. No longer was I a spoiled child, enjoying the limelight in the display window. At that moment, I grew up. Mr. Sami, in a high-visibility utility jacket, spoke on his cell phone, his eyes roaming through the merchandise, surveying the products of what used to be his outlet and viable business.
His gentle voice, which I once took great comfort in, echoed through the outlet. “Oh, yes, that couple that came by on Saturday complained. They said the smell of The Ocean View gave them headaches. They tried to return the mattress here, but they peeled off the Do Not Remove label. If they can’t return the bed here, where does it go after an outlet? So they made another call.”
Mr. Sami didn’t leave me wondering where you go after an outlet. Because I knew where I would go.
The workmen’s identity wasn’t immediately apparent until I saw their jackets as I passed them. Embroidered on their chest pockets were the green circles with the US Environmental Protection Agency seals. Under them were sober block letters: OFFICE OF HAZARDOUS WASTE DISPOSAL OVERSIGHT.
The man pushed me across the dusty floor toward a darkened shaft. The EXIT sign flashed a concluding red color, getting bigger and bigger as I approached it. I surrendered myself to my epilogue, telling myself I would only go to sleep. So I hummed a song I had made up on the spur of the moment. Something about stress made me creative.
In the moon’s soft glow, heavy honeydew of slumber
Drift away on this premium bed, a tranquil slumber
Sleep well, live better in dreams gentle tether
A life well slept, now and forever
Michael Schulman is a writer and editor. His short fiction recently appeared in Bewildering Stories, Bulb Culture Collective, and MetaStellar. He edits popular web fiction from Korea, introducing the country's culture to English-speaking audiences. He has an insatiable appetite for reading everything from the classics to cereal box comic strips.
To get in touch with Michael, email IronSonnet@gmail.com.