Sleeper
When in Marfa...
“He with you?” the man asks in a gravelly tone, his boots clomping on the pavement as he steps off his motorcycle. He turns his head to my left, gesturing toward my travel companion, Morgan, who is a few paces away, FaceTiming his nieces and nephew.
“Yes,” I respond, unsure, placing my hand in a salute over my brow to shield my eyes from the bright sun. I glance toward his dog, sitting at the back of his motorcycle. The heeler mix steps gingerly to the ground. “What’s your pup’s name?” I ask.
He replies, “Her name is Tehona, but she’s not mine, and I’m not hers.” I look at Tehona and think to myself, Have I ever actually seen a dog roll its eyes before?
I look back at the man and take him in: long gray hair and beard, jeans, and a rancher hat. His eyes are a piercing blue and stand out against his tan, weathered face. He continues, “You see, I believe in the consciousness of animals. When you take ownership of them, they lose their dignity. We do this with our human babies, too, changing their diapers; we rob them of their dignity.” I picture a newborn, helpless and soggy, and try to locate the dignity in that equation. He loses me on that last line, but before I can ask for clarification, he presses on: “I’m writing a book about canine consciousness,” he muses, pulling some cellophane wrap covering a piece of sausage out of his pocket.
The man divides it into two and instructs Tehona to climb up a row of barrels. He places the meat directly in front of Tehona at each end of the barrels. “Look at her,” he instructs me. “She doesn’t eat until she energetically knows I agree.” Tehona regretfully looks back over her shoulder at me. The man nods and says “comer,” which means eat in Spanish. Tehona takes one bite and waits. She reluctantly looks back at him this time. “Comer,” he says again, and she takes the second bite.
By now, my date has returned from his call, cautiously curious about my new friend. Morgan reaches out, shakes the man’s hand, and introduces himself, and the man responds with his own name: “David Sleeper, but just call me Sleeper.”
Sleeper rolls on into the next part of his demonstration. His dog, Tehona, has now wandered across the street, where she watches us from a distance. “Watch this,” he says as he steps to the far side of the fence separating the property where we sit from the one to the left of us. Tehona looks at us, then at the fence where Sleeper just ducked behind, but keeps sniffing the dusty yard across the street, unconcerned.
Morgan and I sit in silence for at least a full minute, unsure how to proceed or if this is all part of the demonstration. Eventually, we return to our margaritas and continue our prior conversation.
Maybe 5 more minutes go by before Sleeper and Tehona are back at the side of our picnic table. “It’s never taken that long before, but she knew where I was because we share a consciousness,” he assures us.
I begin to sense Morgan’s restlessness, but I am enthralled. Maybe it’s the margarita or the microdose of mushrooms, but I am beginning to see the faint outline of a prismatic aura surrounding Sleeper’s head as he talks. He goes on about shared consciousness, man’s role in spreading the seed, women’s role as the true creator, and, frankly, who knows what else, but I’m sure it will be available to read in his upcoming book.
We drain our margaritas and begin to set ourselves back on our way. Tehona winks at me as we say our goodbyes.
Some hours later, we find ourselves walking down the empty, dimly lit streets of Marfa on the quiet Monday evening. We round a corner and walk right into Sleeper and Tehona, now on foot. “Sleeper!” Morgan warmly acknowledges the man despite prior misgivings. Sleeper instead looks to me, completely ignoring my companion. “Jordan,” he tips his hat. I nod back and smile.
