V: I'll Sleep When I'm Dead
"Your reading is going better?" A familiar voice, heavy with an accent that's almost English, but not quite. It's not the Australian girl, either – it's far too deep for that. The alternative is worse: Uncle Abdullah has come for a chat. It's funny how, when you're stuck in bed, everyone wants to be your best friend. Sawyer supposes that could even extend to the Arab, much as it kills him to think so.
Fantastic, Sawyer thinks. He straightens from where he's been slouched upon the bunk in the hatch, reading L'Engle for the hundredth time. Books are at a premium. He can't be choosy and, apparently, he can't have any time alone, either. Everyone's always checking up on him, making sure he needs the smallest thing. It's insulting. If he needs something, he'll get it. He can get off this bed if he wants to and make his own damn food. There has to be something left over, somewhere.
It's strange, too, how right he was about the extra supplies. They'd found them, in the hatch. There's an amazing amount down here, and he's grateful for it. He wants to investigate the rest of the place, though, but he can't do it with all these people hovering around him. Why can't they let him be? I start reading, and all of a sudden, the island turns into a damn talk show. People come down here, wanting to chat with me, and I can't leave the bed. The admission of that startles him, but he does his best not to let it show on his face. "Goin' wonderful," he tells Sayid, biting into the last word a bit more sharply than he intends. He lifts the cover to the other man, showing the book.
Sayid doesn't look impressed. "It's a very small book."
And that, Sawyer can tell, is a joke, not an actual insult of today's reading. He doesn't take offense. If nothing else, the weight of the glasses across his nose and above his ears reminds him not to. Still, a quip springs to mind quickly: "Yeah, well, so's the airline rules against terrorists, I'll bet. Didn't stop you from reading them to figure out how you could get on and make us crash, huh?"
Disappointingly, Sayid does not take the bait. "No, those rules are much longer. The American government likes to hear itself talk." The Arab pauses. Sawyer sees hesitation. "And yes, I did read all the rules that your government installed after September eleventh. I wanted to make sure that I was acting properly."
"You got nothin' to worry about, Saladin."
Sayid's voice shows that he's impressed, as does the way his eyes widen. "Salah-ad-Din. It means 'righteousness of the faith.' And it's a title, not a common name – either of a person or a province. I did not think you would be aware of it in any form, however. You are more well-read than I suspected."
"Yeah, yeah. Whatever you say, Jafar." Sawyer opens up his book, scanning a few lines. By now, Meg and Charles Wallace and the redheaded kid are on their way to Camazotz. He had to read this book in sixth grade, and reading it again, he remembers its plot, the pangs of jealousy he'd felt when the Murrays rescued their father. He should have been able to do the same for his own father.
The Iraqi hovers. He wants to chat further. Sawyer doesn't want to chat, but making a show of flipping a page, and then a next, elicits no response from the silent, still figure. "What?" he finally asks, dropping the book beside him and glancing up. That's when he sees the dog tags that are draped around the other fellow's neck, and he does his best to school his expression into something that approaches solemnity, not shock.
"I was just thinking – "
"Well, hell, congratulations."
" – that you have an odd accent."
"So do you."
At least he's not asking about the dog-tags. Sawyer squints at them for a moment, where they hang, trying to make out the numbers. There's a four to start them. He's sure of that. A four, and then an eight, and that's confirmation enough for him.
"It's Southern. Why?"
"No reason," Sayid responds. It's a lie. Sawyer knows it. He'd have used the same tone himself if asked the question, he suspects. Still, what with those dog-tags right there, he doesn't care, really. Let the other fellow lie. It's none of his business. "I was just wondering. Where in the South?" comes the follow-up question.
Fine. If Sayid isn't going to answer, he's not going to answer either. "Yeah, I'll bet you were," Sawyer replies with all due sarcasm. He stares at the little bits of metal some more, hoping the stare might escape notice but hardly expecting it to. He knows the Arab's sharper than that. "I didn't know you knew the South to care."
There's silence from the Arab again. Sawyer expects the usual question. The, 'Why do you care if I care?' line of inquiry, and he fakes a yawn to let Sayid know just how much he's looking forward to that line of inquiry, even moves to check the alarm clock positioned on the nearby table. It's strangely old-fashioned. A lot of stuff about this room is strange, a weird mix between modern and rustic. He'll have to ask about that once he can get out of the room.
He doesn't get it, though. Instead, Sayid's head tilts a little, and he glances down at the tags slung around his own neck, and then back at Sawyer. "You've seen these." Silence. "You've seen them, and you're curious about them. I'll tell you what. You tell me where you're from, and I'll tell you where I found these. Do we have a deal?"
Scoffing, Sawyer rolls his eyes. It only hits him just then that he was found out in his surveillance more easily than he had expected to be. "Tennessee. That's in between Arkansas and North Caro – "
"I know where it is. Knoxville."
What the hell is going on here!
Sawyer stares at Sayid for a moment, but can tell Sayid's not going to elaborate further on that. At least, not at first. "Where'd you get those dog-tags, Sayid? I've seen them before. I – don't know where. I thought I was hallucinating. I'm pretty sure I was. I just – " He's running off at the mouth, and he stops himself short, giving a weak grin.
It's a grin that, much to his relief, the Iraqi doesn't notice. The machines start beeping outside, and Sayid takes off for them. Whatever all that beeping is about, Sawyer doesn't know and doesn't care. It just happens every now and again, and whatever it is, he'll find out on his own, not by asking questions and having to give information in return.
When Sayid returns from whatever he was doing out there to make the beeping stop, he's chuckling over something, quietly. At least this time he decides to share: "Fifteen years later, I find someone with the same accent, one of a few dozen I find myself stranded on an island with. There's a moral in there somewhere. Tell me, do you know a Mr. Dana? Larry, if memory serves?"
"Where'd you get those dog-tags, Sayid?" Sawyer repeats himself. He's not going to let Sayid know anything before the other fellow starts to answer some of his questions. He has to find out where those things came from, or else whatever was in his hallucination – was just that, a hallucination. But there they are. Either he's dreamed them into existence, or something far stranger. God, his arm hurts, though. The pain medication is starting to wear off. He'll have to find out as much as he can as quickly as he can, before he starts to fade "Dana. Barry Dana. Yeah, I know him," he mutters. He wants to see those dog-tags further, but all he can see now is Barry Dana, an obnoxious landmass even to him at seven.
Don't worry, son. I'm from the News-Sentinel. My name's Mr. Dana. You can call me Barry. Tell me, Jimmy, how do you like it here at the Cottages? Would you like to stay here?
A shake of his head, in response to Barry Dana. No, he didn't want to stay there. That didn't make any difference to anyone, though. Nobody cared about what he wanted. Not even him, by then.
"Why, Sayid? And where'd you get those dog-tags from?"
I'm just going to do a little story on your parents' murder. It's been a few months. You're feelin' all right, aren't you? What's that you're writing? A letter, huh? Can I read it, pal? You don't mind if I call you Jimmy, do you?
He forces his eyes open, still focused on those dog-tags. But still – this is a new question. What would a hackjob reporter, local Nashville riffraff, want with an Iraqi? He tries again, finding the Iraqi still silent. Time to see if he can provoke a response out of the guy: "How do you know him, Sayid? He interview you, what with your camel for a wife and your bedsheet for a hat? I bet that was a hell of an interview."
Still nothing. It's frustrating. Not even insults can get a response tonight. Is he starting to lose his knack for sharp remarks? That would be a hell of a thing, because without them – what is he? Nothing, really, as far as he can figure. Nothing but some stupid Southern kid who couldn't even save his parents. And if people start to know…
The Arab's lack of dialogue threatens to stretch even further. Why doesn't he hurry up? It can't be that bad, can it? Sawyer drops his attention from the dog-tags to the Iraqi's hands, with fingertips pressing so hard on his knuckles that the joints are starting to pale.
A wave of pain hits him. It's hit again. Jesus. Now that he's got something he wants to find out, of course all the pain medications start to wear off and he starts to go under again. Saint-Doctor-Jackass needs to time his doses better.
And before him, he sees Barry Dana, smiling as genially as the fat man can do. It's a fake smile. Sawyer knew it was fake as a kid. He knows it's fake now. The man is wearing a press badge – fade in for a moment, and it's those dog-tags – fade out, back to the press badge with the number on it: 4815162342.
Now, don't you want to tell me about your parents' murder? How did you feel when you found your parents dead?
"Fuck off. How do you think I felt?" Sawyer may have said that aloud. He's not sure anymore of what he's really seeing and what he's dreaming. Maybe that's a hint. His last thought as he slips back to unconsciousness is, I bet Ahab is staring. I would too.