Reg woke up on his couch, an old copy of Finnegans Wake on his chest. He didn't understand a damn thing about the book. He wasn't much of a reader but a few weeks earlier he'd found himself at Powell's combing the shelves.
Forty-five minutes later he was eating fish and chips in a dingy basement pub. The place was almost empty, awash in red neon and Van Morrison. The fortysomething bartender, dressed in a flannel shirt and old levis gave Reg a smile. Five minutes later they were testing the shocks in Reg's van.