Young Groucho Marx

I dream Groucho Marx is young, not wearing his trademark greasepaint eyebrows & mustache. He's sitting in a expensive hotel room, drunk as a skunk. I think he wants the phone to ring. Harpo comes in, looking very debonair in a expensive suit, smoking a cigar. Groucho and Harpo start to talk, but this exchange evolves suddenly into an explosive, profanity-laden argument. A lamp is broken, a small table is upended, spilling silverware and china in a tinkling miniature avalanche. Harpo leaves with Groucho violently gesticulating, jumping up and down on the bed. Alone, Groucho collapses on the floor, but after holding still, and looking at the silverware from eye-level, he crawls to the window, where a bottle of booze is. While Groucho is taking a sip, Chico kicks the door open, and yells at Groucho for a few minutes. He leaves, and Groucho stays sitting on the floor with an open window right above his head. I can see a distant streetlight, as the drapes blow gently in and out. He crosses his legs, holding the bottle of whiskey wedged between his thighs. It is quiet for about 10 minutes, Groucho barely moving. Then the phone rings, thank God, the phone is ringing! It rings and rings, but he does not answer.