Fight Club – Chapter 25
Chuck Palahniuk
For years now, I’ve wanted to fall asleep. The sort of slipping off, the giving up, the falling part of
sleep. Now sleeping is the last thing I want to do. I’m with Marla in room 8G at the Regent Hotel. With
all the old people and junkies shut up in their little rooms, here, somehow, my pacing desperation seems
sort of normal and expected.
“Here,” Marla says while she’s sitting cross-legged on her bed and punching a half-dozen wake-up
pills out of their plastic blister card. “I used to date a guy who had terrible nightmares. He hated to sleep,
too.”
What happened to the guy she was dating?
“Oh, he died. Heart attack. Overdose. Way too many amphetamines,” Marla says. “He was only
nineteen.”
Thanks for sharing.
When we walked into the hotel, the guy at the lobby desk had half his hair torn out at the roots. His
scalp raw and scabbed, he saluted me. The seniors watching television in the lobby all turned to see who
I was when the guy at the desk called me sir.
“Good evening, sir.”
Right now, I can imagine him calling some Project Mayhem headquarters and reporting my
whereabouts. They’ll have a wall map of the city and trace my movements with little pushpins. I feel
tagged like a migrating goose on Wild Kingdom.
They’re all spying on me, keeping tabs.
“You can take all six of these and not get sick to your stomach,” Marla says, “but you have to take
them by putting them up your butt.”
Oh, this is pleasant.
Marla says, “I’m not making this up. We can get something stronger, later. Some real drugs like
cross tops or black beauties or alligators.”
I’m not putting these pills up my ass.
“Then only take two.”
Where are we going to go?
“Bowling. It’s open all night, and they won’t let you sleep there.”
Everywhere we go, I say, guys on the street think I’m Tyler Durden.
“Is that why the bus driver let us ride for free?”
Yeah. And that’s why the two guys on the bus gave us their seats.
“So what’s your point?”
I don’t think it’s enough to just hide out. We have to do something to get rid of Tyler.
“I dated a guy once who liked to wear my clothes,” Marla says. “You know, dresses. Hats with veils.
We could dress you up and sneak you around.”
I’m not cross-dressing, and I’m not putting pills up my ass.
“It gets worse,” Marla says. “I dated a guy, once, who wanted me to fake a lesbian scene with his
blow-up doll.”
I could imagine myself becoming one of Marla’s stories.
I dated a guy once who was a split personality.
“I dated this other guy who used one of those penis enlargement systems.”
I ask what time is it?
“Four A.M.”
In another three hours, I have to be at work.
“Take your pills,” Marla says. “You being Tyler Durden and all, they’ll probably let us bowl for free.
Hey, before we get rid of Tyler, can we go shopping? We could get a nice car. Some clothes. Some
CDs. There is an upside to all this free stuff.”
Marla.
“Okay, forget it.”