Summer Lake, Oregon

Nobody's in the cafe except an old fat man, who's asleep on the bar stool.

This cafe - it's somewhere north of Northeastern California; along the westernmost portion of the Great Basin desert.  Technically, I'm in Oregon, but the wet emerald kingdom of the Northwest doesn't apply here.  Like most of Oregon, the Southeastern basin and range is dry, its vegetation comes in golden and amber hues, its landscapes all deep gullies and dry lakes, its people few and far between.  Southeastern Oregon is almost the size of New England, yet holds only 40,000 people.

 I sit down.  No waitress to be found, but the sleeping man's tea is steaming, so we know somebody's in the kitchen.

When the old man starts to snore, I wonder how he doesn't fall off that little bar stool?

Some time later, the waitress bursts through the bar-doors, looking overworked.  Overworked?  As if from years of experience she intuitively knew what implied mood elicited tips..

"Look at my arm."  This is what I tell the waitress, after having contemplated my arm for the last twenty minutes in complete silence. I show her the thousand dots.  The little incisions. 

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