On the airplane, we turn back just after liftoff. I blame the two young black men seated behind me, inexplicably and shamelessly.

Flashing back through the last thirty years of my life in five-year increments, until I vanish at the moment of birth. Then flashing forward through the rest of my life in five-year increments, until, at the great age of 85, I give up.

A red rubber ball moving through an invisible Rube Goldberg machine.

As a rookie fact-checker for the Brown alumni magazine, it takes me forty-five minutes to discover that the name of the university president has been misspelled. But I do get some respect for it.

We sneak into the rotunda to catch a few seconds of the film, which is a Victorian farce. On the way out we see dozens of keystone cops and button-down nurses preparing for their entrance. The theater manager whispers, "Some sort of a ruse." Later, after crossing a street that turns out to be a highway, I come upon a stranded tanker trailer and police car. Each are hoisted and dragged by its own swarm of half-naked partygoers who have worked their way underneath, like ants under a banana. It seems to be a movement. Not wanting to get involved, especially after seeing a real tank around the corner, I climb in a large wicker basket headed for the roof. A few moments of high-definition lucidity as I float aimlessly up, sinking from time to time, powered only by commitment to the dream, in what must be a tenement alleyway at dawn.

After I swipe my farecard in the subway, but before I can get through the turnstile, two black teens push past me coming the other direction. I am intimidated so I sneak in through the gate and ask the Arab attendant to let me pass. Since he ignores me I tell him a folktale in French, which pleases him. It's a few minutes before I realize that he doesn't want anything from me, that I am free to go.