How To Fight The Sandman, Nocturnal Terror Of Children Everywhere

To a certain generation, the Sandman was a legendary comic book written by Neil Gaiman.

Other comic book fans know the Sandman as a shape-shifting enemy of Spider-man.

The heavy metal band Metallica wrote about the Sandman for their 1991 rock classic “Enter Sandman.” And, of course, there’s 1954′s pop hit “Mr. Sandman” written by Pat Ballard and sung by The Chordettes.

But as a six-year old, the Sandman was my mortal enemy.

When my little brother was born, he would cry all night; that ear-splitting wail-gargle that is a newborn commanding that it be fed, or rocked, burped or cleaned. I remember hearing him shrieking in the room next to mine and thinking “You have no idea what’s coming next.” As we grow up, we forget what a nice place oblivion was (and subsequently, what a nice place it will be to return to.)

Adults don’t remember childhood correctly. We like to think it’s a time of carefree innocence; of a world full of wonder and magic. But we forget that the real world, as it is, is full of wonder and magic and horror as it is. My head was stuffed full of fairy tales, and tall tales, and blatant lies. Even at a young age, I suspected the world wasn’t full of mermaids or toothless, fuzzy blue monsters. I needed proof.

That proof came one morning, after a long and noble battle against one of the most terrifying lies my parents ever told me. This discovery would set the stage for me concluding that, at first, my Dad was working for Santa, a puppet of a strange fat man who was keeping tabs on me. Later, I would discover that my Dad was in fact Santa. Perhaps a member of a vast Santa conspiracy, which would explain the jolly old elf at Tyson’s Corner Mall.  It would also lead me to question my Catholicism at a young age. How was it possible, after all, that Jesus could live in a cracker?

Here is a short list of lies my parents told me, and why they disturbed me:

1. My grandfather could build robots. If my grandfather could build robots, why weren’t we rich? Insanely rich? Surfing on tidal waves of gold coins rich? I wasn’t a greedy kid, I just couldn’t figure out why I never saw any evidence of grandfather’s labors? Were his robots faulty? Were they evil? Was I heir to a madman building an amry of evil robots?

2. It was the Easter Bunny who would leave giant baskets of candy at the foot of my bed. I eventually figured out that the Easter Bunny was, in fact, my mother. But before that discovery, it was never properly explained to me how a talking bunny rabbit was able to get into the house. The chimney was Santa’s route. I eventually decided that the Easter Bunny must live in the walls. With the exception of Easter Sunday, the Easter Bunny would haunt our house all year long, wiggling it’s nose behind my bedroom wall. This unnerved me.

3. The Tooth Fairy. My body parts are worth more than a quarter. I made sure to hide choice scabs from that cheap floozy.

4. Professional wrestling was real. It wasn’t until I was 8 years old or so that my dad sat me down and told me that the colorful warriors of the World Wrestling Federation were play fighting. My dad had spent time as a wrestling announcer in El Paso, Texas, and loved the violent man ballet. But he felt that I should know the truth, and even showed me some of the choreographed moves wrestlers used on television. Up until that point, I worshipped these gladiators in face-paint much the way I imagine a Roman prince might have venerated the gore-splattered heroes of the Coliseum.

But the greatest lie I was ever told was the story of The Sandman. I hated bedtime, of course. To me, sleep was a waste of time. I had plenty of it in the womb. Every minute spent snoozing was a minute taken away from the operas I was acting out in the basement with my action figures. In one particularly gripping story arc, the entire Rebel Alliance had been betrayed by Luke Skywalker, whose face had been horribly scarred by my father’s cigarette lighter. They were all carbon-frozen in Dixie cups and left to rot in the downstairs freezer. That really annoyed my mother, but sometimes toaster waffles should be left to thaw in the name of exciting drama.

So one night, my mother told me about the Sandman. He was an invisible man who flies around and throws magic sand in your eyes so you’ll fall asleep. There was so much wrong with this messed-up concept. I imagined that the Sandman as a fat head with wild eyes and a moustache and bat wings sprouting out where his ears should be. Under his chin were two long, spindly arms connected to spidery fingers. In one fist was a beach pale full of sand, in the other, a plastic shovel. His grin was like the Cheshire Cat in the Disney animated version of Alice in Wonderland.  My mother told me about the Sandman, turned off the light, and left me in a room alone with this dripping, giggling, fluttering head.

That first night, I shuddered with fear until, apparently, the Sandman threw sand in my face and forced me to sleep. The next night, however, I would fight.

I. Would. Fight.

As I nestled into bed, I made sure I was as sweet as a Ho-ho. I didn’t want to let my mom on. I had a plan. Once the lights were turned off, I rolled out of bed and collected my weapons: a flyswatter, my brother’s Aviator sunglasses, and a pair of swimming goggles. The plan was simple. I was going to thwart the invisible intruder and stay up all night long. I devised three levels of defense.

Level one: I would fan myself with the flyswatter. Right in front of my nose. Continuously flap the swatter back and forth until I felt wind on my face.

Level two: My brother’s Aviator sunglasses, which were huge and mirrored. Perhaps they would offer enough of a barrier that the Sandman would give up. But if not, there was…

Level three: My swimming goggles, which fit snugly over my eyes. I had them from that previous summer. That was the summer I had worked up enough courage to dunk my entire head under the water. I figured there was no way any magic sand could penetrate them.

So there I sat. In bed. Wearing swimming goggles, sunglasses, waving a flyswatter in my face as fast as I could. This was life-or-death work. I was determined. I figured it was a hopeless battle, but that the battle must be met.

When I woke up the next morning, I had a major realization. There was no way the Sandman could have penetrated my defenses.  Therefore… the Sandman couldn’t exist. And if the Sandman didn’t exist… then what else didn’t exist?

My dad once told me that in Mexican bordertowns in the fifties, lottery balls with the winning numbers were picked by children no older than seven. He told me that the Catholic church believed that seven is the age that children begin to learn the difference between right and wrong, and that as a result, that was the age that children learn how to lie. He was the son of a Baptist preacher, but totally respectful of my Catholicism, so I doubt he made that up. But I didn’t believe that then, and I don’t believe that now. Months away from turning seven, I learned that the whole world lies.

The next Christmas is when I discovered that my Dad was Santa. I managed to stay up all night long with the help of a flashlight and Wolverine. I heard my old man cursing some GI Joe playset that he was trying to put together, so that when I ran downstairs that morning, I would be shell-shocked with joy. I didn’t let on that I knew he had built it. I pretended to be thrilled that the cookies had been eaten by Santa. I lied right back.

That had also been the first time I had stayed up all night long. The Sandman, that deathly jack-0-lantern with bat wings, my ass.