SATURDAY NIGHT, CONDON, ORE.

It’s very late and very dark. I’m asleep because that’s what I do often when it’s very late and dark, in our hotel room in Condon.

Off to the side of the bed I suddenly start hearing some shambling, scuffling noises. Then some exhalations of exasperation and then a timid, persistent thumping, hollowly, the sound of pummeled wallboard. Somewhere in the wilds of our room, David is tumultuously afoot.

Gruffly, me: “What are you doing?” No answer immediately. More low, impact noises. Then a clattering of hangers and a low, guttural, braying sound of despair.

“What are you doing?”

A pause. A slight crash. “The doorknob’s off…I can’t find it…did it fall out?” A confused Mr. Pencil. His voice is muffled by a bathrobe.

“David? Are you trying to get to the bathroom?”

“Mmmmm.” Patting up and down the wall, looking for a door that very much wasn’t there.

“You’re in the closet. What are you–I’m so confused.”

It seemed pretty funny the following morning. Don’t worry, he did eventually find the bathroom.