Nine thirty. I had a nightmare about making a midnight run for beer. I was backing out of my driveway in my old Nissan truck. The clock on the dash said 1:05am and I couldn’t get the gear into drive. The engine stalled—and I woke up. So the store was already closed. My truck was stuck in the middle of the street and everyone would know what I was up to. Like a little crime I was trying to get away with. Busted! The guilt was the worst part. And the apprehension everybody used to feel because of my addiction. The nightmare was bad, but also good in an instructive way. No one would want to see me drink again. It seems that alcoholism is a terrible lizard that never completely dies, though it can be reduced down to a cute baby alligator. Just don’t feed him, particularly after midnight.