©2021 By Amy Haben

It was NYC twenty years in the future. Strangely, I looked exactly the same. Manhattan was a very different place. Astrophysicists and tech bros had worked together to create a true life quantum leap scenario in certain areas of the city. The actual decade of the Seventies existed in a four block radius of Times Square. No more M&M store and TGI Fridays. It was seedy, crime ridden and full of smut. Just like the old days. This wasn’t fake folks. No actors. Just genuine polyester clothed pimps complete with canes, furs and fedoras. Thugs wore natty Wrangler jeans and Members Only jackets. They had guns tucked in their socks. Feathered haired hookers were hanging on car doors in shiny mini skirts. Dealers were fighting in the streets over customers.

My friend Kat and I were bored one night so she suggested we head over to the Seventies for some action. I met up with her by the 42nd Street subway station and she had brought along her dumb boyfriend of the month. This guy was a preppy bore but he was rich, his only redeeming quality. Luckily, I benefitted from his wealth. He handed us each $500 to use at the bars, peep shows, and illegal gambling sites. We decided to stay in a hotel that night. As we approached, bullets flew feet away from our heads. If anything it was a thrill.

After we checked in, we saddled up at a nearby bar. The hairy chested bartender came over, “What are ya thirsty for?” Kat ordered a martini, douchbag got a beer and a shot and I ordered a Diet Coke. I’m a sober addict. No more booze for me. Kat made friends with some cheesy lush beside us. The only thing I liked about him were his yellow shades. He was like a broke down Hunter S. Thompson with a quarter of the brains. I wasn’t into the conversation so I took off for the live sex show next door. I always dressed boyish in the Seventies so I wouldn’t get harassed myself. I opened the huge door to a strip club with dark red velvet interior. It was dimly lit. I gagged a little bit thinking of shining a black light on the cushioned booths. I had fun but the unshaven crotches on stage were not for me.

The next afternoon, Kat called me up and asked me to return her rental vehicle. “Why can’t you do it?” I wined. “Because I’m already drunk,” Kat answered. “Why can’t your nerdy date take it back?” “ He’s at work,” she snapped back. “Alright… fine,” I was over talking about it.

She left the keys at the front desk and I took the old Cadillac back to the dealership. Before I dropped it off though, I decided to clean it. I ordered the super deluxe wash. Before I handed the car over, I opened the trunk to make sure all the bags were out. To my horror, there lay the half green, rotting corpse of the poor man’s Hunter Thompson. I was so pissed. How could she leave me with a body to dump?! See in the Seventies, you couldn’t call the cops if there was an accidental death because the cops would pin it on you and take all your money and drugs for themselves. I called Kat and asked what happened. She said they all went back to the hotel to snort cocaine and a fight broke out. The stranger pulled out a gun in a state of paranoia when he thought Kat’s boyfriend ripped him off. Kat’s dude kicked the gun out of his hand and strangled the lush to death. They panicked and threw him in the trunk. Luckily, they put him inside a suitcase so he was easy to dispose of. I just drove to the East River and threw in it the water with some heavy rocks inside. It sunk fast and nobody saw me. Ah, the days before cameras were in everyone’s pocket and littered every building.

I avoided texts from Kat for a few weeks. She’s my best friend and has fun Gemini energy so I missed her. Eventually, I gave in. She wanted to go back to the Seventies for drinks. I agreed. Again she brought along her bf. We will call him, “fuckface.” We sat down at Terminal Bar and ordered drinks. There was a funny old man at the bar making everyone around get tummy aches by laughing too hard. He had long grey hair down his back. It was a mullet shape. He dressed fabulously. Silk shirt and expensive sport coat. He even had a Gucci silk neckerchief. He bought us drinks and introduced himself as Mel Trodo. He had been a very successful comic in the 50s and 60s. At last call, everyone was wasted, so Kat invited Mel to take their adjoining suite in the hotel. So we all staggered across the street to sleep.

The next morning, Kat invited me to her room for coffee. She was acting all nervous and had the widest eyes I’d ever seen. She made an excuse that she had to go to the bodega and that she’d be right back. The door to the adjoining suite was cracked open so I peered in. There was Mel, half naked and stiff as a board. There was an empty bottle of Viagara next to his body and five penis pumps littered around the room. Turns out he had ordered up a rent boy and was nervous of performing so Fuckface gave him a bottle of boner pills from the future. His wallet was open and all the cash was stolen. This time I had enough. Steam was coming out of my ears and I screamed, “Fuck!”

I picked up the phone and dialed the cops. I turned to Kat and Fuckface in this time. It’s like the old saying, “Leave me with a corpse once, shame on me; leave me with a corpse twice, shame on you.”

There was a knock at the door. I opened it up to see the chief of the Times Square police, Kim Kardashian. She looked perfect. A sleek pony tail, a fitted grey work shirt and dark blue slacks. I told her the truth and she assured me that Kat and her bf would pay for leaving me with that mess.

You may know Kim Kardashian from her sex tape or her hit TV show, Keeping Up with the Kardashian’s. Very recently, she’s been spotted dating sexy bad boy comedian, Pete Davidson. People love to hate on Kim, but I have a friend who worked with her and said she was lovely and personable.

Back to my dream – I turn on the news and see black and white mugshots of Kat and her boy toy. They were charged with two counts of corpse misconduct. They would serve up to fifteen years if convicted.

I checked my Twitter and saw comedian Marc Maron posted a grisly article about Mel’s death. He included his regrets of not keeping in contact with his mentor and comedy idol. I was shocked by the photos included: one had an up close shot of the Viagara bottle, another the five penis pumps, and the last and most gruesome; a photo of Mel’s body. His erect penis and face blurred. This article was very bad taste. I was shocked Marc would post it. The poor old guy didn’t get his dignity in death.

I’m a huge Marc Maron fan. Check out his stand up specials on Netflix. There are also some vintage stand up videos on YouTube of him. My favorite being his cat opera bit. He had rescued some kittens from the back alley behind his apartment and they tore up his house. One kitten mournfully meowed to his mom in the alley below as she called back sadly. Poor Marc wasn’t being rewarded for trying to help these little terrors. Marc is actually sexier than Pete Davidson. The mustachioed funny man loves animals, is sober, and I suspect he may actually be a good person.

Well that’s it for this week’s insane dream. Until next time.


Pleasant Dreams!

By: Amy Haben