I was in the habit of helping V. out at the Liverpool bar after closing time. Gathering dishes and glasses, maybe doing some washing. I grew to feel this was a kind of obligation, though V. didn’t pay or reward me. I hoped he was pleased. He seemed happy to have me there I guess. Night after night I’d stay after the regulars left and do this work. A woman came in and sat at the bar. I sat next to her and asked V. if he had any ale on tap, hoping he’d at least pour me one for free. I half awoke and thought, is this really true? No, it’s a dream. It can’t be true. I tried to visualize the real bar—it didn’t look like it did in the dream, right? So it had to be a dream. Then I sort of fell back into it and realized, damn, no, of course it’s not a dream. This is real. This is what I do in real life. I stay late at the bar. I clean up in the kitchen. The dream ended with me sitting in the bar with some old friends, including M. B. I reminisced about a crazy woman he’d once dated. How fucked up was that, I asked. He seemed offended and scornful, and took his drawing notebook and bag and went to sit at a table on the other side of the room. When I awoke again it took me some time to be sure that it was a dream after all. 

We were moving into a new house we’d bought. It was still full of the ex-owners’ furniture and belongings and I wondered what we’d do with them. We were hosting a housewarming party and a turkey roasted in the oven like it was Thanksgiving. I kept finding new spaces as I explored the house, funky little bedrooms and hallways that led to more. I felt both excitement that we’d found this place and regret that we’d left our old one. I wondered what the neighborhood might be like. I walked out into a semi-urban space, a lively block with a Thai restaurant and a mix of other businesses. It felt like we were going to be OK.

I was in the cafeteria or restaurant of some city landmark, possibly a museum. I found myself chatting with a group of older men who gathered there every week. We talked about the varying quality of the food in places like this. I was flattered that they seemed amused by my repartee. It seemed as though I was being invited into the fold and I asked when they’d be there next. One of them asked me if I could buy him some pot. A fifth of a pound, he wanted.

I was participating in some kind of discussion panel at work, with the rest of the agency watching. It took place in some weird building, not our workplace, maybe an elaborate, old hotel. As the others in the group carried on I felt self-conscious and guilty for being silent. Surely I’d be scorned for not participating. I had to say something. The facilitator polled the panel on the question of whether we should continue to make use of Monty Python’s services in our work. There were twelve of us and eleven voted yes. I turned to the man who’d voted no. “What, are they not funny enough?” I asked. Somehow this seemed extremely clever, and there was chuckling from the others and the audience. “Or maybe they’re too funny?” I added. This comment was perceived as more brilliant than the first. Everyone laughed in appreciation. I was proud of having spoken up so wittily. I’m not sure how the other guy answered, or if he even did.

I went back to high school for some reason—maybe I hadn’t really ever graduated, but this was unclear. I took an art class and one assignment was putting on an art exhibit. I was nervous about this and unsure how it worked—was I supposed to set it up somewhere, should I invite the other students? I kept trying to track down my teacher to ask her but I never could. I tried to call or text her but my phone’s interface grew abstract and bizarre, not allowing me to tap or type anything to dial or send.

I was being interviewed for a desirable job at a startup that worked in natural language recognition, like my old job but current, possibly AI-related. There was another candidate with me and I understood we were competing for the same position. The interviewer wrote some things on a whiteboard and asked us to react. One word in particular was ambiguous. “We need to understand the context,” I declared. The man seemed impressed and I thought I’d gotten the better of my rival. I was shown around to various departments and asked to sit in on a meeting. The employees were classic startup types from way back when: young, attractive, privileged. One woman told me with a wink that all of this was a joke and I should get in and grab as much of the funding money as I could. Still there was a plan afoot to take over the world, like there always is. The CEO and the higher ups were discussing when they could finally get the product launched, get it into market. The end of the workday dissolved into people hanging out, a kind of party. No one told me where to go or what to do, or whether to come back tomorrow, though I felt somehow that I was in; I was now one of them.

My college grades came in. As expected I was failing two classes that I never attended but got a 93 in the third. I wondered if I should just drop out. Or might it be possible to go part time?