3:00 a.m., and Jeffrey C.F.L. Albertson decided to become a narcoleptic. To his once grim and troubled imagination, a tunnel-vision scope trained on a dark future, the mere thought of offering as an excuse, “So sorry, I succumbed to the inexorable urge to consciouslessness,” smacked of nirvana itself.
           With much to prove and accomplish, Jeffrey, though a reasonably strong-minded fellow, was dogged by the appearance but not the actuality of indestructibility. This, despite his unfortunate pseudo-aristocratic middle initials, so reminiscent of the fighters on the football pitch whose refrigerator-forms quietly shouted tangible durability.
           Two years of driven “practice” as a corporate lawyer granted him success upon success in all but his love affair, which had not gone well. Coffee’s siren song first affected miracles, but as the months progressed, as Jeffrey graduated from drip to Americano to shot-in-the-darks, to the two-espresso-shot redeye, the effect diminished and diminished and ever diminished.
           For his nights had gone awry – determined to attain success on top of his 100 billable hours, Jeffrey had slept only in short bursts for days, weeks – de rigeur, but this particular project, blocking compensation for victims of some toxic spill or other, was so great and requiring of a nuanced and creative interpretation of law and ethics beyond the mortal lot of lawyers, that his intense work period extended far longer than intended. And as Monday and Thursday became indistinguishable once again, Jeffrey topped the 100 billables, staggered downstairs to the 24-hour coffee house, stared the barista squarely in the eyes, and asked, or perhaps pleaded, “Do you do Americanos with three shots?”
           A pause.
           “You mean, triple suicides?”
           “Pardon me?”
           “The name.”
           “Oh.”
           And in that moment – blank lawyer, blank barista, blank counter – some deep tension within Jeffrey released. His 3:00 a.m. epiphany.
           He left.
           The next day on the drive to work, seeking to develop his story, Jeffrey pulled over on the side of the highway, set his alarm for 10 minutes, rested his head on the steering wheel, and drifted into the blurry unknown.
          Heart and stroke victims rarely have blissful smiles on their faces, but to be certain the paramedics flung him from the vehicle, ripped his shirt off and readied the cardiogram in the time it took Jeffrey to rally any sense whatever of the whole situation. One minute, he was in Valhalla, being serenaded by Rhine maidens; the next, damp gravel pressed his skin while above him burly men in shiny suits discussed his survival. These burly men were not amused at his return to brimming vitality, nor were the senior partners pleased when he arrived late, tie and feathers ruffled, too embarrassed to use his bombproof excuse.
          His second experiment fared no better. A week later, again worked next to exhaustion so that the Law might spurn the mutants, Jeffrey responded to another scintillating team meeting by sliding ever so slowly under the giant oak table, overriding instinct to crumple with great relish onto the plush carpet, journeying back to be with his Rhine maidens.
          The most enthusiastic among the senior partners – balding, in his early sixties, overweight, losing a struggle with halitosis – got to him first, stooping over his somnolent and supine employee. Were there less pleasant ways to awaken from the top of Teutonic mellifluousness than a breathy and extended kiss by the man, Jeffrey couldn’t imagine one. He mumbled something about “check the pulse first,” but the fellow was so beaming in the glory of the resurrection he had effected that the instantaneous surliness of the subject went unnoticed, and quickly an attitude of proper deference for senior partners enfolded Jeffrey’s soul once more.
          Temporarily secure in his resurrection, the next week Jeffrey had a breakthrough – sub-clause 6.iv.b in Justice Sprechen’s judgement in Schoenefreud vs. Moessbauer – and the project was done; case law assured the judge would consider their case iron-clad against the disease-wracked complainants.
          And so the team threw a party and sent Jeffrey to Acapulco, Mexico, in thanks and celebration, dubbing him “Machiavellian Architect of Legalism Extraordinaire.” So Jeffrey the hero travelled off and slept, and slept, and slept, his weakness forgotten.