I was at the site of the original Guinness pub, in Ireland somewhere, as if that were a thing. The place where the very brew was born. It was deceptively modest on the outside, just a plain old corner building with stucco walls. Its name was written on the outside in the original characters, not even Irish but something ancient and runic, indecipherable. I went in. It was what you might expect: a big song and dance about where you were and why it mattered. Like the Tardis, it was bigger on the inside. Tourists circulated from the bar section to the meat pie section to the elaborate, expanded downstairs with a full French bakery. Still the warped floors betrayed centuries of wear and I marveled at the cost and effort it must take to keep it up.

I was alone in a new apartment, sorting out some things before S. arrived. The Super Bowl was on, between the Cowboys and the Broncos. I suddenly felt very tired, and with some regret fell asleep at the beginning of the game. When I awoke it was late in the fourth and the Cowboys were up 75-10. Then I was at a large outdoor party where the band was playing, at the sprawling compound that belonged to our friends. We created an enormous pile of dirty dishes and I felt compelled to help with the washing. I grew aware that I’d played with another band, with a friend on drums, at the party earlier. What song had we played? I tried to remember. It was “Green Eyed Lady,” echoing a dream one of my bandmates actually had, long ago. Word came that there’d been an accident out on the road. A woman who’d just arrived had witnessed it and was shaken. Someone died, someone she knew.

I was plunged into a Don DeLillo novel, sometimes as an observer and sometimes a character. It concerned a group of people who had certain magical abilities, notably to disappear. There was also some top secret government operation going on. A person in charge, trials and tribulations. Peril. The group was somehow involved. They’d been together, or worked together, for many years. Naturally there was a history of shifting romantic entanglements. But all remained friends. There was something vaguely sinister about what they did, what they were capable of. Or maybe not. I perused a photo album of their times together. There they are seated at a banquet facility. A wedding perhaps. There were pictures of them in little groups of three or four. I thought, this is a running theme in DeLillo novels. A murky world below the one we all inhabit. Shadowy figures up to something or other. I struggled to remember the plots of his other books and reproached myself for not paying enough attention while I read. A recent one largely took place poolside at a resort or country club, that I knew. I couldn’t really remember what happened though. The phrase reread DeLillo popped into my head, as though this were something other people habitually did and I could—and should—do too. A voice in my head, someone else’s voice, declared that DeLillo’s dialog is brilliant in its depth of understanding of the voices of real people in the real world, and I thought: is that really true? The group was now gathering on a wide trail in the woods, hikers and tourists passing by. They were all to disappear one last time, one by one. It wasn’t an easy thing to do. One woman began. An object she touched, a stone maybe, disappeared first. Then slowly parts of her did too.

I was to travel to the moon. The arrangements had been made; I was a member of an astronaut crew. I worried about the takeoff, the G force. Fuck it, others had survived and I would too. What provisions are made for pissing and shitting? A system of tubes I guess. We’re all in the same boat. I was going to the moon! Zero gravity in the craft. The dutiful floating about, maybe drink a bubble or two. But on the surface there’d be enough to stand on the chalky, silty surface. I’d be on the fucking moon. I felt a stab of terror. On the moon! A big cold rock in the bleak black of space. To get back home I’d have to trust the machine, this precious tangle of rods and bolts devised by hapless man.

My dream became lucid. I was in a room full of people, maybe a party. I didn’t recognize any. I thought: this is a dream, and since I can control my dream once I know it’s a dream, what should I do? I decided to try to find my mother’s face in the faces of the strangers. She did not appear. One person slumped against a wall and slid down, sitting on the floor with their head down.

It’s the aftermath of “Apocalypse Now.” Captain Willard is back stateside and the higher ups are giving him the hero treatment: your country thanks you for what you’ve done, earnest and firm handshakes. Yet he is troubled, even angry. And the brass is on to it. He’s giving vibes he might break down, kill some people—or even worse, tell his story. He never had anything to lose, you know? Heck, that’s why he was chosen in the first place. There’s whispers of what to do. Get rid of him? Take him out before he becomes a problem? Or flatter and coddle him into complacency? This sequel is called “Contingency Plan.”

The origin of the people’s resentment of elites was the establishment of monotheism. Before then the gods belonged to the people. There were no intermediaries like bishops or priests, no one to pass down laws.

Some jazz piano was playing and I identified it as Thelonious Monk. He played a characteristically heavy-handed, off-kilter note: donk. “Monk’s playing is funny, but in a good way,” I remarked to no one in particular—or maybe someone was there, or I imagined they were there. Then I said, “Also funny in a bad way. But funny in a good way, too.” 

We got together to play like we usually do but we were seated around a dining table. I was trying so hard to remember this one tune I’d learned that I was going to play that night. It was a fun tune, interesting, somewhat unexpected; those were the contours of it in my mind but I could not grasp the title. Someone laid out a huge pile of blow. “Whitey,” I stated, remembering what those California people called it. Lines were cut and a fussy little strip of paper, not quite wide enough to roll into a proper straw, was passed around. There was sugar everywhere, too, mixed up with the coke. As I got ready to do mine I wondered if it was OK if I snorted all this sugar. Was it bad for you? For the delicate tissues of the nose and sinus? I still couldn’t remember what the song was but I remembered it after I woke up, a song I planned to play in real life: Sultans of Swing.

The plane landed after flying over some land, where it was clear and sunny, and then some sea, where it was snowing, then raining, and you could see huge waves crashing. I gathered my things, remembering to take S’s bag. We ended up in some nondescript pub. There was a dart-like game going on, where you threw things at targets arranged around the ceiling of a side room. Many of my friends from home were there, as was Mick Jagger. It appeared he’d decided this place was his local, and coming here was a way to reconnect with real people in the real world. I held the object that you threw in the game, a small, plastic thing like a die. I was to give it to Mick, who stood in line for the next game, but I was too far away. “Michael! Michael!” I called. He didn’t respond. Finally: “Mick! Mick!” He looked up just as the object I’d thrown landed stupidly beside him. Virgil Van Dijk was also playing. Someone said he was a prime candidate for Speaker of the House. It made sense to me. Great athlete, popular, tall. I wanted to get more drinks but S was concerned I wouldn’t be able to drive home. “Just one more,” I promised, and set out into a maze of bars and stalls to look for something. The place had a signature drink, a kind of lemonade thing, but I decided I wanted a Guinness.

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.