All names, times and sketchy details are well, sketchy. This is a morphine-drip induced technicolor hallucination, after all.
The scene opens with me standing in a decrepit street around sundown, looking at the front of a dive bar/club that I have apparently just bought. The street looks almost post apocalyptic; grimy, trash strewn, broken street lamps, etc. This is a tough neighborhood and the club fits right in.
I go inside and see Dan Ackroyd, in full Blues Brother regalia sitting at a small dimly lit table. I go over to see if it’s really him and see that his companion is sitting with his jacket over his head. I peel back the jacket just enough to recognize John Belushi, who grabs the coat back and re-covers himself snarling “Leave me alone!”
There is a fracas behind me and I turn to the door to see some dude, dressed like an extra in The Warriors movie ( or the “Beat It” video) yell “The Comstock is mine! and swing a pool cue at me. I grab a cue off the crummy rack and chase him outside where he and about five similarly dressed ruffians engage me in a stylized pool cue fight, like a ritual dance and I win.
I’m now inside and Former Owner (FO) guy and his friends are now MY friends, evidently, and they take their places at the dimly lit tables among the featureless dark blobs of customers. John Candy walks by without a word and sits down.
This has to be Chicago.
My niece Julie arrives while FO is showing me the hidden door to an immaculate studio where they make MTV videos (I’m old). Julie hands me her wedding dress in one of those dry cleaner storage boxes and asks me to keep it safe. I agree and place it on a shelf somehow. She smiles and leaves.
There’s a crowd of new ruffians out side chanting “Comstock! Comstock!” and waving pool cues. FO, his boys and I all grab cues and rush outside for another ritual fight-dance. We all return as friends and I begin to look around at the club. Parts of the ceiling/roof are missing, but not in a chi-chi Beer Garden sort of way. More like urban rubble. It looks like the Boston Coconut Grove would have after a quick sweep and return to business as usual.
I turn around and there’s a boy about twelve year old in a body stocking wearing Julie’s dress, holding it up with both hands. He says that if I give him the dress to wear, he’ll make sure no one breaks into the club. Naturally, I agree and he happily skips out the door holding up the gown.
As I watch him go, a stout man dressed like Nathan Lane’s character in “The Birdcage” but without the wig walks swiftly by. I’m told that he is (some name) and works in the nearby convenience store.
The dream ends with me and all my new friends waving pool cues and walking up the middle of the street together. Another, similar crowd appears over the crest of the hill and we all begin chanting “Comstock! Comstock!” and embrace each other as some indecipherable credits roll up the screen over us. Comstock, I guess, is finally in safe hands.
Let the psychoanalyzing begin.
Oh yeah. I don’t have cancer anymore. That part is real life.