I had a dream the other night. At least I hope it was a dream. I was sitting across the table from a twenty-one-year-old version of myself.

For starters, I couldn’t get past the good-looking head of hair I had. What happened? What I wouldn’t trade now for that head of hair.

Interestingly, I could clearly see the man on both sides of the table.

From present-me, I was looking at a young, baby-faced punk version of myself with only vodka and women on my mind. If you cut my younger head open, all that would pour out would be Stoli vodka and young women.

From then-me’s side of the table, looking at old-me brought on a nagging feeling that I’d better show up for work the next day or incur the wrath of Khan, also known as my father. He seemed to never let up on that point.

Younger me was looking at an old, slightly bitter man who had absolutely no right to be bitter. Old, yes. Bitter, no. What the hell, I thought. He has lots of stuff and doesn’t work very hard anymore.

And so it went, back and forth, back and forth:

Old Al – “Damn kid, parties a lot harder than he works.”

Young Al – “Cry me a river, old man. You’re just jealous you can’t party like I do anymore.”

Old Al, muttering to himself – “Kid takes no responsibility at all, shows up for work late and leaves early.”

Young Al – “Leaves early! What planet are you living on? You wouldn’t know what time I leave because you are rarely in the office. All you do is play golf!”

Old Al – “I earned that, kid, from over fifty years of putting my nose to the grindstone every day.”

Young Al – “What’s a grindstone?”

Old Al – “I give up. Dawn, talk to your husband.”

Young Al – “Who the hell is Dawn?”

Old Al – “Your wife.”

Young Al – “I’m married? Did you arrange that too?”

Old Al – “I guess it could be said I arranged it after forty-six years.”

Young Al – “To the same woman!”

Old Al – “Watch it, kid.”

Dawn – “Can you two knock it off? You’re giving me a headache.”

Old Al – “What…again?”

Dawn – “$%^&(&^%!” which was immediately followed by “$%^&*^%!”

Old Al, shaking his head – “I can’t believe I said that out loud. Where did she go?”

Young Al – “What kind of comment was that to make to her?”

Old Al – “The kind of comment you can make when you’ve been married this long. How long have you been married? Oh, that’s right, you’re not yet!”

Young Al, beaming – “Jealous?”

Old Al – “Not a bit, son. I don’t regret one day of being married to that old gal. She’s the strawberry in my rhubarb, the ice in my gin…”

Young Al – “OK, I get your point.”

Old Al – “Do you?”

Young Al – “So, if you could go back in time and be me again, would you?”

Old Al – “Not a chance.”

Young Al – “Bull!”

Old Al – “Let me put it this way, kid. I wish I didn’t know now what I didn’t know then.”

Young Al – “What the hell does that mean?”

Old Al – “Give it fifty years.”

Then Old Al disappeared from the dream.

Young Al was still sitting at the table with a major case of the munchies, nearly halfway through a cake, lost in thought about his encounter with his older self. Something was nagging at him.

Then it hit him.

He had heard all this before, from his father.

Show up on time. Work harder. Quit screwing around and take some responsibility.

Those weren’t the words of the seventy-year-old version of himself he thought he’d been having a conversation with.

Those were the words of his father.

He stopped chewing and stared at the empty chair across from him, where Old Al had been sitting.

And then he smiled.

He didn’t know it yet, but it would take him another fifty years to fully comprehend what had just happened across that table.

But the man he needed to tell would be gone.