Last night I dreamed that I had been born in New Jersey, and was repairing my 74 Dodge Dart in the street. (or Dodge Dartre, if you party like it’s 1969.)
A Jersey girl and her friend began to climb up the trunk to walk over the roof and hood, which I cursed them roundly for in a terrible, natural accent. “Hey, whaddya doin over there! That’s my car, not a freakin’ sidewalk.” Their gorilla-armed mancompanions lumbered out of the shadows, but backed off when, wrench in hand, I demonstrated the simultaneously manly arts of automotive repair/improvised blunt weapon combat readiness.
One of the guys invited me to join him and his friends, by way of accepting me into their shrewdness, to a tavern for a drinking game. The game had something to do with watching the cartoon “Rugrats,” and taking a shot at certain hilarious hijinks the talking babies would get into. I accepted, and got into my crappy-on-the-outside-but-from-the-future-inside 1952 Studebaker truck to follow them. Under the radio panel was a holographic 2-way timewarp communicator.
Helena Bonham Carter called me from the the year 2042 to warn me off the ape pack’s drinking game, which was a trap to get me drunk and then beaten behind a tavern in Passaic. She reminded me that my mission as a sleeper time-spy was not to cavort with the locals, but to carry out an act of technological sabotage which would save the future from a colossal war that ruined most of the world. My sacrifice of a personal life meant the salvation of millions of lives, so I had to quit screwing around. I apologized to her, not daring to look directly into her glowing cybernetic eye. Then, I drove to my job at a public radio station, where a breaking news story was just coming in that a secret descendant of the Kennedys had been discovered, and assassinated while campaigning for a close race for superintendent of a local school district. America mourned another Camelot courtier. Under the announcer’s affected British accent, soft-jazz trumpets began to lament in a minor key.