I was working construction in some tall building, showing up late every day. I also had my regular job in the same building and was doing them both somehow.

I looked up on a map where Guinness was brewed, and it came up in Belfast, not Dublin. Belfast looked tiny, just a few neighborhoods with a park in the middle, the brewery down at one end. Then I was there, on a tour. Gathered at tables outside at the end of it I guess. A homeless man started harassing a group of black guys—he too was black. He sprayed gold paint in the face of one man. I wondered if anyone would call the police, an ambulance—and finally one came. I assisted in getting the injured person on a stretcher, though he now was a white man dressed in women’s clothes.

We were late one morning. Sara sent me and Jackie off in a Lyft so I could drop her off quicker at school. I realized during the trip that it was a driverless car and pointed it out excitedly to Jackie, who didn’t really seem to care. Then I noticed the driver and felt embarrassed that I’d said aloud that we were in a driverless car. He’d now driven way past where he should have turned. I called out to him. He couldn’t hear me because he was wearing headphones. Finally he did, and responded in French. I explained to him in French what he’d done and where he now needed to go.

I was on a winter vacation with a group of friends. They were going to do some climbing, of a steep hill or a rock wall in the woods. One, who reminded me of my high school classmate D. C., warned that it was going to be a bit difficult. I wouldn’t join them, then, I said.

The scene outside the lodge we all were sharing was surreal. Cars full of people, like open-air limousines, came and went from weird theme bars. I took some pictures. My sister Lis handed me a phone, said it was our cousin Jen. I said hello but she did not recognize me. I said my name and still she did not recognize me. Finally she did. By way of an excuse she told me she’d been napping, and I told her I’d just woken up too.

S. K. convened us all and presented us with checks. Apparently some part of the company had just been sold and we were all entitled to payouts. At first I misread mine, thinking it was just over $1,000. I was vaguely disappointed. Then I realized it was for $174,000. J. P. asked how much it was and I showed him. He said that it made sense; I was supposed to get the biggest share. I felt guilty, thinking I didn’t really deserve it. Still, I began to fantasize about what this might mean for my family—we could afford some luxuries, go on more vacations, maybe even buy a better home. S. then led us to a bar for a celebratory drink. I wondered if it should be on me but I let it be on him.

I explained rules of Formula One to J. T. I suggested that maybe they should go back to tires that last the race, so drivers could just go flat out more.

I was at this place that sold Paris St Germain soccer team souvenir wine dolls. The red wine was black players, the white wine white ones. Thank God they have black players, I thought.

I was playing basketball with Kobe Bryant and Jackie and J. L.

There was a party for me at a bar, for my birthday, or maybe because I was going away. H. C. and P. C. were there, and others. When it came time to pay the tab I found that we had collected hundreds of dollars. I had a devil of a time counting it. Finally I paid up with one dollar to spare.

The studio was crowded with people. M. R. was setting up mics, getting ready to record. We were going to sing something with a huge ensemble, like “Give Peace a Chance.” I peered around the room at the many happy, enthusiastic men and women and remarked at what a great vibe there was.

We were driving somewhere up north, for the second time in two weeks. I wondered if we had enough gas. A quarter tank. That should be fine. S. wondered how long the car would hold up. I said a while, even though it was old. Before it died it would start to break down and eventually something would happen we didn’t want to pay for—the transmission or something.

The last part of the trip was on foot. There were lots of bags to carry but they were light, so we managed. We stopped somewhere for food but I wasn’t hungry. There was a strawberry milkshake on the menu and I asked S. if she’d order it.

I had a little cut on my wrist, like a paper cut, and it itched like the Devil. There was something afoot at work; my boss’s door was closed.

We were all waiting at my brother-in-law’s parents’ house. There was going to be some sort of service honoring the father’s military career, followed by a party. He soon arrived in a parade of Marines in ceremonial garb. I thought we should abandon our preparations go downstairs and greet them. S. thought otherwise.

I was enlisted to play keyboards in C. W.’s band. I didn’t really know how to play but if I knew the tunes I could bang out some of the right notes in the chords here and there.