I quit drinking when the shit hit the fan. It is a good thing, perhaps, for I would be drunk every night dealing with "the shit." Literally. The smell of sewage. . . a broken pipe--rotted, rather--in place since 1926. More money. Much more money. The walls are open, everything torn up inside and out. But I. . . I am dealing. Surely it will all be finished and done someday.
Meanwhile, I remember my dreams. I don't when I drink. But they are vivid now, and plentiful. Ghosts, really, things from the past in situations that make little sense.
But as I write, the workers arrive. I am not even allowed to tell you a thing. I must go and be "a man." I have no big boy pants. I must pretend.