This is a dream I dream where I was Fred Flintstone trapped in a George Jetson world. The entire dream is here more or less with some embellishment.
The bed tilts me onto a conveyor belt that whisks me into the shower. Along the way, a vacuum sucks off my nightshirt; spigots open and shower me luxuriously. I stand naked and cold and dazed. Then a mechanical arm brushes my teeth. Afterwards a blow dryer blows me with a mechanical smile. I shave.
The conveyor conveys me to a wardrobe. “Jane!” I yell, “Where’s my orange, fur-suit? You know the one? The one with black-spotted accents?”
Hey, wait a minute! Who the heck is Jane?
Two mechanical arms select a blue, constricting garment called pants. I size myself up in the mirror, rubbing the ever-present five-o’clock shadow with my hand. Then the conveyor zips me into kitchen.
Jane sees me coming and makes breakfast with touch of a button. Coffee, eggs, and bacon poured down my throat. And after a quick kiss, the kitchen chair sends me rocketing past her.
The kitchen seat inserts me into a flying car. The cockpit is wall of green buttons. Which one to choose?
I choose the green one, and with the push of a button, I join morning traffic.
Before long, the flying car deposits me at Spacely Space Sprockets. I grab my briefcase and a conveyor zips me to the desk. I kick back, but see my desk is a mess of red buttons.
Before I can choose one, Spacely pops up on the videophone and yells, “JET-SON!”
Startled I scream a scream as shrill as a saber-toothed cat and bolt from the bed.
Wilma stands there, tapping a foot. Her tiny, pebble-like eyes form straight, black lines.
“Fred,” she says, “You’ll be late for work!”
“Sorry, Wilma.”
“What’s with you?” she says.
“Bad dream,” I say, “I lived in the future, one with flying cars, robots, and everything you want at the touch a button.”
“That’s nice, dear, but if you don’t hurry you’ll be late for work.”
“Funny thing was I wasn’t happy,” I say, “and I was married to someone named Jane. And I wore the same clothes everyday. And there was no bowling and no Loyal Order of Water Buffaloes.”
“That’s nice, dear. Breakfast is ready.”
“And you know something? The worst part there was no Wilma.”
“That’s sweet, Fred.”
©2018 Kent Gutschke
MARTIAN DEATH RAY 