author: Nicole J. LeBoeuf

John and I were both a little high-energy and punchy last night. It was going on 2 AM and neither of us felt able to sleep, though granted neither of us were making much of an effort. The old Steven Wright gag about "go to the end of Tired, then hang a left" came up. We decided that we were heading to the end of Tired on an imaginary boat. "I don't feel like rowing," said John. "That's OK," said I, "we're drifting on the current toward Tired anyway."

We took turns telling each other about our boat, like kids playing at Let's Pretend or maybe two grown-up veteran role-playing gamers doing what we like to do best. It had a sail, but I sure as hell wasn't going to operate it because I didn't know how. John said, "It's easy, you just pull." I said, "You can pull. Me, I'll work the rudder."

"We ought to set up a trade route," John said. I babbled something about gem-running in Puzzle Pirates, but that wasn't what he meant. "No, like, when we get there, we'll trade them something for sleep. What will we trade them?"

"Oh, OK. Me, I'll trade in my stress and fidgetiness. For two big barrels of sleep."

"I have some socks," John said.

"Wait. What?"

"Socks. In case they don't want your stress and whatnot. Maybe we can trade them my socks. Can't hurt to try."

I thought about this. "Like, all your single socks we've lost the mates to?"

"Uh-huh."

"Are we trading with a one-legged person?"

"Yes." John was definite on this point. "We'll trade my socks to Peg-leg Pete, the Pirate of Sleep."

To which I made the only possible reply. "'Nice sock, matey. Be this an arrrrrrrgyle?'"

When we both finally stopped giggling after that, sleep came suspiciously easy. I think Peg-leg Pete slipped us something in our rum.