My strangest sleepwalking story.
Illustrations by Naomi Elliott
I stood on the stoop of a SoHo walk-up, clad only in gray boxer briefs, frantically hitting the buzzer for apartment 2A. It was roughly six a.m. and darkness had just surrendered to a gray, humid July morning. Behind me, a tall lanky figure cut across Prince Street and headed directly my way.
I was on the brink of an encounter that perhaps could have happened anywhere, but the sheer bizarreness of it smacked of something quintessentially New York.
I sleepwalk. I don’t know how often. I don’t even realize I’ve done it unless I wake up somewhere other than my bed.
This particular incident didn’t start in SoHo, but in the sludge-colored hallway of my own West Village apartment building, where I awoke a half-hour earlier. As far as sleepwalking sojourns go, a trip into the hallway of one’s apartment building is seemingly benign. Unfortunately, I had locked myself out in only my underwear, and confused the hallway for my bathroom. I awoke to the sound of my pee h…