We were on some kind of bus tour of quaint little towns, perhaps upstate. We all got off to visit a sort of souvenir tchotchke shop. S. knew of it, knew the owner for some reason. Signs and messages on the building indicated that their political views might differ from ours and I hesitated, but S. said it’s OK, let’s go. After I stepped off the bus I realized I’d left my flip flops behind. Rather than going back to get them I wondered whether I could buy some at the shop, or perhaps there was a shoe store nearby. The ground did seem gravelly. There was a delay for some reason, a period during which we couldn’t enter and had to pass the time wandering the streets. My dad appeared, as though he’d been with us all along. “I took the opportunity to buy some alcoholic beverages,” he said quite uncharacteristically, with a wink. He turned to reveal that his backpack was full of ice-cold Corona Light. Not my favorite beer, I thought. But fuck it. “Great, Dad!” I said and took one. It tasted bland but refreshing. Exactly how you’d expect. We walked together, beers in hand. I held mine close to my body, knowing you couldn’t drink in public. Dad held his normally, unconcerned. “Conceal it, Dad!” I warned. Sure enough we approached some cops, a checkpoint of some kind. I was sure they’d stop us but we managed to walk straight through.

I was walking home. The Grateful Dead were playing in my head, as though I had earbuds on but I didn’t. It was one of those antic shows where they don’t play the usual tunes but transition from one weird cover to another, possibly with guest musicians onstage. They followed a calypso number with Bob Weir singing a tentative take on “Blue Christmas.” Must have been festive season, I thought. I walked up the wrong street and realized I had to go over one more. There was a steel bridge over a river, the Gowanus I guess, though that’s not near our house. In my dream it was familiar and correct. I was unable to use the sidewalk and found myself in a strange, maze-like structure adjacent to the bridge. There had to be a way out, I thought. Surely this was designed for human beings. I walked down a little ramp and saw that it gave way to nothingness, and I’d have to clamber over the railing and jump to the floor to escape. I imagined being trapped here. There’d be a viral news story, “Man gets lost and dies in weird industrial space.”

I awoke to a house full of revelers. Some people I knew, some I didn’t, some from back in high school. Our home was not our apartment but a house in the country on a hilly plot, with several satellite buildings, like T. J.’s place in Storrs. I was in a foul mood and said fuck a couple times, then felt ashamed because everyone was having a good time and who was I to interfere? Long lines formed for the bathrooms—there seemed to be two, each in a different building. I had a vintage car in the garage, an old white muscle car from the ‘60s in disrepair. T. R. was trying to get it started and had a little luck. I wondered what he’d done, fucking around with the engine to get it going. I was circulating amongst the crowd, starting to have a better time but anxious about the mess and destruction that surely would be left behind. I found myself in a room with a few people. One of them handed me a cup of liquid with little bits of paper suspended in it. I assumed it was a psychedelic, maybe blotter acid. I drank it somewhat reluctantly. What the hell, I thought.

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.