Its one o’clock AM, time for sleep, cold compresses and sheepshanks: I never did master knot-tying or scarf-toggling, or a scout’s three-fingered salute. As much as I tried, I tied palsied knots and loose bolos. I remember the tuck of my bottom being paddled with a hard moccasin, the kind worn by reconnoitres and aging bald men with too much time on their hands and stale breath. And the assistant with the gamy leg and blunt tonsure cut, and the mint dross in the corners of his mouth that reminded me of mothballs and stucco. Sleep is never as simple as it seems, nor are memories and knots and a three-fingered salute.
