The Declared War on Sleep
There is no creature in America more confident than a man who has been awake all night and has convinced himself that coffee is a substitute for the laws of nature. He will argue with his wife, his employer, his physician, and even the Almighty, but he will never argue with the steering wheel. That instrument has a peculiar talent for ending debates.
So it happened one Sunday morning on U.S. 50 near Dayton, where the Nevada desert was minding its own respectable business when a weary semi-truck arrived to conduct an unscheduled experiment in physics. The road had done nothing offensive, the sunrise had behaved itself admirably, and the other motorists had committed the grave mistake of believing everyone around them was awake.
The authorities say the driver may have fallen asleep. I admire the 'official' language because it possesses a gentleness absent from the event itself. A man does not simply "fall asleep" in such a circumstance; he resigns his office as captain of several tons of machinery and appoints unconsciousness as his replacement. It is rather like hiring a blindfolded buffalo to conduct an orchestra.
The semi found two other vehicles and introduced itself with the enthusiasm of a tax collector arriving at supper. By the time the conversation had concluded, two souls had departed this troublesome world, another had been carried away by helicopter in desperate condition, and the highway had acquired the melancholy silence that follows every loud mistake.
The Nevada Highway Patrol shut down both directions of U.S. 50 while investigators measured tire marks, examined twisted steel, and asked questions that witnesses answered differently. Motorists grumbled as they were diverted onto side roads, proving once again that Americans can endure almost any tragedy, provided it does not delay breakfast.
There is something remarkable about a traffic jam born from calamity. Every fellow trapped behind the barricades becomes an engineer, a detective, and a philosopher in the space of fifteen minutes. One insists the road should have been wider, another claims the truck should have been lighter, and a third declares the government ought to outlaw sleep altogether, provided such legislation does not interfere with his afternoon nap.
Sleep, however, remains gloriously indifferent to public opinion. It gathers farmers, bankers, senators, and truck drivers with equal enthusiasm, asking permission from none of them. It has no concern for deadlines, delivery schedules, or the confidence of men who boast they can drive "just another fifty miles."
If the tale possesses a moral, it is an inconvenient one. Nature keeps a ledger that cannot be bribed, postponed, or argued before a committee.
When she presents the bill for borrowed sleep, she has an unfortunate habit of collecting from innocent bystanders as well as the debtor, which is why she remains the most efficient tax collector ever to patrol an American highway.
