That one episode of Mad Men everyone's talking about

I have not one, but four disclaimers:

1. This is a real dream. I told it to my wife upon waking up from it at 4 am (I was awoken not by my own sit-up scream, but by a very pressing need to pee.)
2. Yeah, I know, no one likes hearing others’ crazy wacky dreams.
3. I apologize.
4. Due to various circumstances, I have not seen the last two seasons of Mad Men. At all.

It’s a bad day at the office. Something’s about to blow up. It hasn’t been going well between Don and his new superior(?), the love child of Alec Baldwin as seen on 30 Rock and Al Pacino, a hunk of shark and a twist of weasel. The guy might be a great manager, but he is fully incompatible with Don. The thing he did in that last client meeting - oh boy.

Peggy and Pete are whispering concerns and rumors to each other, hovering around a faraway desk. Their eyes never leave the sight of Don’s door, a beautiful MCM slab of cherrywood that’s about to open with either box-punch rage or decisive, attention-seeking silence. Peggy has just purchased the Beatles breakout album(?), Rubber Soul.

Mr. Cooper(?) now comes walking down from his upstairs(?) office, all paternal smiles and cocksure thumbs in vest pockets. He is amused by these office nerves; he knew that Don and the new guy wouldn’t exactly be trading golfing tips over Mai Tais right away. He expected this baptism by fire for everyone. It’s a good thing, it builds character.

Before Don’s door has a chance to open from the inside, it’s approached form the outside by Alec Pacino himself, who goes in seemingly unaware of the gravity of his act. All eyes and ears follow him, and the latter pairs are soon treated to the sounds of an argument ripe in its loudness from the very first word spoken. It goes on and excruciatingly on.

The new guy finally walks out, upright and cool, appearing to be in one piece and only slightly chewed up. Don comes out next. He walks straight over to Peggy & Pete, who bolt up and put on their best scout faces.

“Peggy, look up a good defense lawyer. I’m going to kill that guy later this afternoon. I’m kidding, don’t do it. What’s wrong with you, Pete?” Pete shrugs and attempts a grin. Don idly hits the keys on Peggy’s typewriter for a moment, then takes off. He eyefucks Cooper on his way - Cooper volleys with a knowing smile - to the new guy’s office where he pushes the door and is immediately stopped in his tracks when the scene is rather unexpected: the guy is running his fingers on what appears to be a board game box on his table. 

Don waits, but not too long.

“What the hell is that?”

The reply comes with a small and tired sigh.

“It’s a board game.”

“I can see that. Is this another account you’re going to mysteriously pull of your tight ass and then much less mysteriously screw up?”

“It’s a present from my wife." 

Beat.

"Do you want to play it?”

Don’s valve blows, releasing all the pressure from his watertight blue suit and projecting a deadly steam of I-can’t-believe-this-shit from his lovely lizard lips.

“Why the hell do I want to play a goddamn game with you of all people?”

“Because… You’re the only person I can possibly make friends with in this place.”

Don freezes, then thaws. He takes a full twenty seconds - close-up on his face replacing the redness of anger with that of guilt - before motioning for Pete & Peggy to join them in the room. They sit down and inspect the box, a Barbie-like display-coffin housing a model living room complete with TV, sofa, and reading lamp. 

{ Wavy effect indicating a dream/fantasy/teleport sequence }

It’s 1987. The room is a hideous mix of pinks, teals, and yellows all striving to look their noncommittal grayest, except where punctuated with lipstick squiggles and patterns of random geometric shapes. The furniture is pillowy and crushed in appearance. The TV is a 22" Sony. There are Floridian ceiling fans, giant empty vases, and purely decorative fitness equipment.

Peter Campbell, aged 47, father of three, enters the room. He’s wearing a Christmas sweater’s worst nightmare over a lime dress-shirt. He’s balding in that laughably unconvincing way where the baldcap makes his forehead three feet tall and the sides of his head look like Shih Tzu ears. He’s a very unhappy man. 1987 is not a good year for anyone in the family.

The family: Don (17), a graffiti-lovin’ punk kind, James Dean minus the wifebeater, plus a flock of seagulls. Peggy (15), a sexually confused/depressed/choleric hermit crab of a suburban high-schooler. Betty (10), naiveté incarnate. They’ve all been fighting with each other over pretty much everything, though in Betty’s case the fights have been reduced to fingers marching her out of various rooms and trailing JESUSCHRIST!s catching her in the hallways. Everyone hates everything. They hate the house, they hate the household, they’re not too fond of the decade.

Today, this could change. So thinks Pete as he surveys his pathetic kingdom. Today, some distant memory has poked him in the cerebral ribs, and he’s not going to take it anymore. He stands up in a room filling up with another argument about who gets what car to drive to what show with whom and how much what cost whom to buy where. Pete’s head swims above it and he booms down at those drowning:

“Things are different today! Am I crazy? We can all see it, right? We all know a better time, a time when we didn’t argue so much. I’m not saying we were always happier, but Christ - we could at least have enough self-respect to look each other in the face when we yelled. Don - Don, look at me. Can you even look at me? No, no, why would you. I’m a joke. All of this is a travesty! And do you know why?”

“It’s just that we don’t care anymore. We don’t even care to try. People just don’t put in enough effort! In anything, really - their clothing, their furniture, how they talk, what they’re upset about. It all used to be on another level back when people cared.”

Pete is triumphant but tired. Betty chimes in.

“We should all do something together. Like play a game!”

Pete smiles.

“That’s what I’m saying. DO something! As a family! That game - that game we used to love. Remember, back when that Beatles album came out?”

Betty pulls out a board game and starts setting it up on their eyesore of a glass-top table. She puts the carpet here, the sofa there, the little TV there. The room goes technicolor, surrendering its palette of faded jeans to a warm handshake of orange and newport blue. And it helps, though it’s all still a little ridiculous. It helps.

The End.