HIS

After years of fitful sleep, he found the pillow of his dreams

PILLOWS RARELY SEEM DESIGNED FOR HUMAN NECKS. I've encountered specimens as bulky as suitcases, looming at the head of the bed, daring me to try to scale them. (Surely, I'm not the only one who's been forced, in charming European hotels, to contend with bolster pillows measuring a foot in diameter?) Even when the size is right, there's invariably the problem of composition. My most dreaded way of spending the night is trying to subdue a pillow, which, when I attempt to sink in, fights aggressively back. This quality is often touted as "resiliency," "support," even "fluffiness" -- to me, it's pure and simple disobedience.

So, what kind of pillow is the best? Something horribly expensive, such as baby down combed gently off the backs of Siberian goslings? Or one of those memory foam numbers that shapes itself to the contours of your neck? Maybe an organic buckwheat pillow, the type found in boutique stores, imported from Japan?

Actually, my prized pillow has a somewhat humbler provenance: Pittsburgh -- the Kmart in Monroe-ville, Pa., to be exact. I bought it 26 years ago, when I was still a graduate student. The rule in those days of supermarket-brand cola and generic bread was simple -- get the cheapest kind possible. This particular kind of pillow came in two varieties -- with HIS or HERS printed in a repeating pattern across the yellow material of the cover (helpfully accompanied with the matching Mars or Venus gender symbol). I chose a HIS, possibly leaving behind a HERS without a match.

I soon realized that my HIS wasn't very comfortable (perhaps HERS had been the one to get). It was stiff. It was unyielding. I started getting headaches from its strong eau-de-Kmart, air-freshener-type scent. I used it for a few weeks, then inherited a pillow from a fellow student moving away, on which I started sleeping instead. HIS became something to pull out on the rare occasions I had guests.

I GRADUATED, GOT A JOB, MOVED TO MARYLAND. For many years, HIS languished at the bottom of a suitcase. Then I started having neck problems -- stiffness in the morning when I awoke, which in time led to spasms in my left shoulder. The physical therapist sold me a cervical pillow, which helped for a while, but then made things worse.

After that, I went into pillow-buying mode -- I must have acquired a dozen of them. More cervical pillows, down-filled ones, even a special one made on a trip to India, where I supervised the cotton stuffing myself. I mail-ordered a memory foam pillow but sent it back because I couldn't get past its chloroform smell. I bought a different version later for a second try, but the fumes made me return that one, as well.

Cleaning out my closet one day, I chanced upon the Kmart purchase from so long ago. It had flattened considerably -- perhaps because of the weight of other objects pressing down, perhaps because it was simply designed to collapse. It was no longer "fluffy," I noted with approval; the scent had gone away as well. I decided to try it instead of my latest acquisition -- a doughnut version with a hole in the center and pockets for ice packs -- which I hadn't quite figured out yet. That night, I slept well. More important, I awoke the next morning without a crick in my neck.

HIS quickly became what I used every night.

It was like one of those corny love stories in which the plain girl remaining faithfully on the sidelines turns out to be the hero's true love. Before long, I started taking HIS along on trips -- vacations that were at least a week long at first, then overnight trips as well. A sabbatical in France, others in England and Finland, several trips to India -- HIS became one of the best-traveled pillows in the world.

I learned to smuggle HIS in and out of wherever I stayed, especially if I wanted to avoid the ire of relatives bristling at the suggestion that their pillows weren't good enough. Even worse were the disapproving looks of hotel clerks -- it did not do, I found, to saunter into a fancy lobby with a beat-up pillow under my arm. Once in the room, HIS had to be hidden in the closet, not left lying in plain view on the bed. Cleaning staff couldn't seem to resist stripping off the cover and dressing up HIS in a pillowcase from the hotel. I once spent my entire stay in Italy waiting for the original pillowcase to be retrieved from the albergo's laundry service.

At a Mumbai hotel last year, the watchman, convinced we were decamping with a pillow from our room, detained my mother, me and HIS at the outside gate. He kept glancing back and forth between us, ready to wrestle us down to the ground at the slightest hint of escape, while clutching my pillow (he had seen it sticking out of my bag). The front desk clerk had to come down to verify HIS was not hotel property. Only then were we released.

DESPITE ITS AGE AND ALL THE TRAVEL I'VE PUT IT THROUGH, HIS HAS HELD UP REASONABLY WELL (Kmart should consider us for an ad). Allergists might recommend replacing pillows every three years because of dust mites, but I haven't had any adverse effects sinking my face into HIS for all this time. I've washed it so many times that the lettering and symbols that once so boldly proclaimed their masculinity have begun to fade on the threadbare cloth. Disconcerting visions plague me -- of the cover tearing, of the stuffing bursting out, of the air turning thick with strands of polyester imprisoned so long. Where would I rest my head without HIS? What would happen to my neck?

My chiropractor suggests acting before it's too late -- switching HIS for one of those well-worn pillows that can be found at less pricey hotels. "A patient of mine does it all the time -- that's where the thinnest pillows are," he says. I imagine myself scoping out area motels, reclining, like a modern-day Goldilocks, in bed after bed. Deciding on the room with the most promising pillows, and checking in (under a false name, perhaps). My gloved hands start working off the pillowcases to make the exchange -- this might be the last time I undress HIS, I think to myself. Do I go through with it and leave HIS lying behind in the room -- don't I feel a stab of emotion, of regret? I steel myself with the reminder that it's absurd to feel attachment to inanimate objects. Beyond the illicitness of the intended trade, my only hesitation should be over whether the replacement will prove as good for my neck.

But I leave the hotel without committing the crime. The thought of life without my pillow is too frightening -- surely HIS and I have many more good nights left together.

Manil Suri, the author of The Death of Vishnu, is a professor of mathematics at the University of Maryland, Baltimore County. His second novel, The Age of Shiva, is scheduled to be published in February. He can be reached at 20071@washpost.com.