Living the dream, from soup to nuts

Bob Morrissey

It was a wonderful dream until suddenly it wasn’t. By the time it was over, I was as confused as Donald Trump trying to tie his tie.

It started with a knock on my door. It was Jane, my love interest from the condo next door. I knew it was Jane because of our secret code: eight loud taps and two seconds of silence followed by 12 soft taps. Hard on the knuckles, but highly effective. I could see Jane eyeing me from head to toe, which couldn’t have been easy because she was looking through the peephole.

I opened the door and was greeted with a question instead of my usual affectionate peck.

“Coming over for supper?” she purred. “I have a can of chicken noodle soup with your name on it. It’s Bob, right? Come by in an hour. That’ll give ME time to freshen up and YOU time to shower and put on some recently laundered clothes.” With that, she handed me a bar of soap and breath mints — and left.

So now I had an hour to kill; time for a nap.

I could feel myself dozing off. Then it started. The dream.

I was on lying on my couch playing Solitaire when I heard a loud ringing. I looked for my Smartphone, but couldn’t find it. I checked under my cushions, under the TV remote and under my Howdy Doody puppet.

All I knew was that the ringing was close by — and, boy, was I right: it was in my ears.

Yes, I felt silly but not for long. Five minutes later my actual phone actually rang.

I picked up and gave my usual greeting: “Bond,” I said with authority. “James Bond.”

The caller’s response surprised me.

A man’s voice said, “Sorry, Mr. Bond. I must have the wrong number.”

I said, “Are you sure you got the last three numbers right: 007?”

“Positive.”

Then he said, “I thought I was phoning Bob Morrissey.”

I said, “Maybe you are. Tell me, does this Bob Morrissey owe you money?”

“Not a cent.”

“Is he handsome?”

“There are no words …”

“It’s your lucky day,” I said. “I’m the guy you’re looking for. How can I help?”

“I don’t need help; I’m phoning to see if you want to play golf.”

After a second’s pause, I said, “You sound vaguely familiar. You wouldn’t happen to be Jade Peters?”

“Bingo!” he said. “Your old golfing buddy.”

“Sorry, I didn’t recognize your voice.”

“That’s OK. I’m breaking in new teeth. The first big test comes Wednesday when I eat an apple.”

“Good luck.” I said. “I’m sure in no time you’ll be eating salt-water taffy.”

I was anxious to get back to Solitaire, so I said: “Look Jade, are we playing golf or not?”

“We are. But first I’ve got a question. I’ve been trying to reach you forever. It’s like you just disappeared.”

Now it gets plain weird.

“I did. I was standing beside Magic Tom when suddenly he pulled out his magic wand — and poof! — I was gone.”

“Go on,” Jade urged.

“I ended up in this huge ornate library that had only one book …”

Jade stopped me right there. “You landed at Trump’s place in Florida.”

“Are you sure?”

“Was there a mirror on the ceiling above the bed he’s got hidden in the corner?”

“Yes,” I said.

“And what did you think?”

“I thought: ‘It can’t be easy when he puts on makeup.’ ”

“What else do you remember?”

“Well, the television has only one channel: Fox.”

“Did you notice any art?”

“There was a dartboard on the wall with a Barack Obama poster nailed to it.”

“What else?”

“There was a Canadian flag.”

“What about sexual overtones?”

I had to think. “I saw a pair of size 48 underwear on his desk. At first I thought it was a parachute. Then I thought they might belong to Rosie O’Donnell.”

“Is that it?”

I hesitated. “The whole time I was there his music setup kept piping in Stormy Weather.”

Jade thought for a second before asking, “By the way, when did Magic Tom return you to the here and now?”

“About an hour before you phoned.”

“So what’s next?”

“Food. There’s a cup of chicken noodle soup with my name on it waiting for me. And maybe more.”