Being a novice Private Investigator has its perks, such as attending my first Private Eye Symposium and Talent Show in New York City (where I won't be buying salsa, by the way). I left my new girlfriend, Katrina, at home because she has a phobia about fun. I had already memorized my highly anticipated Power Point presentation of "How to find fingerprints inside a vagina using duct tape, a powerful flashlight and the Jaws of Life," so I now had time to be a tourist. Wandering through Washington Square Park in iconic Greenwich Village, looking for signs of life in the counter culture (and finding none) I ran past a few troubadours butchering Dylan folk tunes.

I then rounded a corner and pretended to hear the thumping bass of "Staying Alive" as I walked jauntily down the sidewalk. I next gazed upon a frizzy-haired young hippy chick in front of a used bookstore. I introduced myself by tossing my auburn hair side to side like posing for a magazine (Mad magazine came to mind as appropriate).

"I'm Penelope Spade. I'm from out of town."

"No shit, Sherlock," she replied as only a native New Yorker can.

"Actually I'm quite regular," I replied since she seemed to imply I was constipated, although I did appreciate her compassion. "But you are close with the Sherlock quip because I am a private investigator." (Although why I thought this might impress anyone over ten does still baffle me.)

I began to notice large crowds lining the street, carrying colorful flags that looked vaguely familiar, perhaps Puerto Rican. I wasn't expecting a welcoming parade, but I suppose my reputation preceded me again. I then heard strains of "It's Raining Men," blared from afar and I suddenly remembered this is Pride week, so I took her arm and lead us further down the block in order to be heard. I was hoping the "I Heart Pussy" tee I bought from a local vendor wasn't too subtle. 

As she took in a variety of men in their Daisy Dukes, she offered her hand and, "I'm Joan Watson...Doctor Joan Watson."

"What a fitting name for my crime-fighting escapades. Like Robin to Batman or Bill to Ted or David Duke to Donald Trump." Before we could continue, we were stampeded by forty-one fleeing crossdressers in Lady Gaga attire, acting as if they were chasing Bradley Cooper. Wanting to impress Dr. Watson, I treated her to a fine meal from a street corner hot dog vendor who claimed his food was NOW 100% cat hair free. An added bonus, we still had time to kill before my Symposium, so I invited my new sidekick to my room at the luxurious Motel Six Manhattan (their colorful brochure stating, "so close to Central Park, you can see it on a map").

Leading her to my rented white cargo van, she eyed the absence of windows suspiciously. And finding the storage area full of shovels, lye and a fifty-gallon drum of ether didn't seem to allay her fears for some reason. After arriving at the motel, then squashing a rather large silverfish family reunion, I told her to get comfy.

"What kind of doctor are you?" I asked while praying for an OB/GYN with a tender touch.

"I'm not a medical doctor, I have a degree in music," she informed before breaking into song like Bette Midler belting out show tunes.

She sang with such gusto, the mirror cracked, the broken smoke detector crashed to the floor, roaches were drowning themselves in a clogged sink and management was banging on my door with an eviction notice. To bring peace to this luxurious establishment, I quickly pushed a red ball gag into her mouth (do they even come in other colors?). Peace was restored. She still appeared spooked from the ride here, so in retrospect, tossing her a small bottle of hand lotion and ordering, "Put lotion on its a body," was not my best decision.

Hoping to ease her furrowed brow, I knelt and began kissing and licking her feet. My enthusiasm waned upon discovering unlike our previous meal, Joan's toes were NOT 100% cat hair free. After coughing up a fur ball, I grabbed a bottle of Pepto and headed for the sink. For my next surprise, unknown to my new aide, I had ordered room service steaks from the nice hotel across the boulevard so I began sharpening steak knives and singing "Stuck in the Middle With You" while waiting. Even with the gag still in place, she was trying to scream. She sure was skittish for a New York gal.

After calming her long enough to choke down the crusty ribeye with another Pepto chaser, we dressed and prepared to go. It was then I sprang my next surprise. "I have two tickets for today's 'Hamilton' matinee!"

She shrieked and dropped to her knees, devouring my pussy appreciatively. (Later she admitted she was only trying to get the burnt steak taste out of her mouth.) My face flushed (something the broken toilet in the motel bathroom would never do) I dressed again and at her insistence, we hailed a cab to the theater.

Two things about the play concerned me after the tremors of my orgasm eased: First, the tickets from a scalper were only $5 each which seemed very cheap for the hugely popular musical. I was prepared to pay twice that. Second, it's so far off Broadway, it was practically in Jersey.

Living in denial, where I get my mail, I directed the cabbie to the Eddie Deezen Theater in an area of the city that resembled London during the Blitzkrieg. Luckily, both the cabbie and I were packing heat. Disembarking into chaos, I looked at the dilapidated theater. I had wondered how Deezen, the destitute man's Jerry Lewis, had the cachet to have a theater named after him... now I knew. I noticed an apparent actor by the entrance.

Walking to him, wanting to appear courteous, dispelling Dr. Watson's skittishness, I said, "Break a leg!" He promptly had me arrested for terroristic threatening. Asshole!

My assistant immediately came to my rescue by giving this alleged actor a blow job to keep me from meeting lovely ladies named Butch and Scruffy in lockup. I'm far too dainty to be a bitch's bitch behind bars. Roger Corman movies taught me that valuable life lesson.

After wiping her messy chin, we entered the crumbling theater and were handed a hard hat, first aid kit, and a dog-eared Playbill. Finding our seats in ripped and torn chairs, I chuckled, thinking the Rip Torn Theater would be more fitting. The other seven patrons didn't seem to appreciate my witty aside... Assholes! Still confused over the hype "Hamilton" has received and this pathetic turnout, I began leafing through the Playbill... at this point, I found my depressing answer. This was a knock-off. Instead of Alexander Hamilton, this snooze fest was about Margaret Hamilton, who played the wicked witch in "Wizard of Oz." Not wanting to disappoint the Doc again, I placed my arm around her and we began making out like two freshman girls in our first dorm. Our liplock was rudely interrupted by screams from the tiny, creaking stage.

A portly man wearing a monocle and a kerchief, perhaps the director, rushed on stage, breathless, shouting, "The slippers are missing! The slippers are missing!"  I mean, Hell, I know these NYC hipsters love their shoes, but let's not go overboard. He then surprised us all by bellowing, "Is there a private eye in the house?"

I quickly buried my blushing face behind the Playbill, but Dr. Watson lifted my arm and announced, "Here's one!" I heard a few gasps of astonishment but choose to ignore the much louder snickers. The director called me to the stage and filled me in on the rest of his dilemma. (Like an overacting Nicholas Cage; his voice hysterical, his arms akimbo.)

"It's not just any slipper, it's the original Ruby Red Slippers from Oz. Should you find them, I'll give you $100 and a subway pass good for an entire week." (Wow! A hundred bucks. I can live in New York for a month with that kind of crazy money.)

After accepting the case, I grabbed my sidekick and we began following a yellow brick road, the two of us skipping like Laverne and Shirley in Milwaukee.  

"Come, Watson, the game is afoot... or a-slipper."

Squeezing my hand, she asked, "When did you first decide to be a Private Eye?"

"Elementary School, my dear Watson... elementary school." For some reason I noticed she was now speaking like a Brit, even her teeth looked worse.

"I say guv'nor, should we be checking the boots of these automobiles?"

"Boots? We don't need no stinking boots. We're looking for slippers. Pay attention, Doctor, please."

So far, my only suspects were serious collectors like those two guys from "American Pickers," but I had reliable information they were home in Iowa shucking corn or whatever they do for fun in the Midwest. My only other lead was Liza Minnelli, Garland's daughter, but she appears on Netflix so my membership alone keeps her rolling in the dough. That exhausted my leads. Walking further south on the yellow bricks, we passed a table full of Shake Shack French fries and Watson now switched accents.

"Sacre bleu!" she exclaimed, now wearing a funky raspberry beret like something she picked up at a Prince estate sale. Undeterred, from the corner of my private eye, I spotted something lying in a crack between the bricks. Stooping to pick it up carefully and examining with my trusty magnifying glass, "Eureka," I proclaimed.

"What is it, a clue?" Watson asked.

"It's the broken heel of a woman's shoe," I informed and progressed the plot, holding it in one hand and pointing with the other (my decades of watching Vanna White finally paying off).

"How do you know it's the Ruby red slipper?"

Slowly manipulating it until a secret compartment popped open, displaying my discovery. "This is where Judy Garland stored her pain meds. I rest my case."

"You're a lawyer too? Impressive. You're a regular "Law & Order." I thought it best to not correct her. Our witty banter was interrupted by nearby groans. Walking around a bend, singing a CCR song for no apparent reason, we stumbled over a large woman lying on her side, whimpering in pain and grabbing her cankle. We both noticed her red slipper was missing a heel. My first thought was ...what an amazing coincidence.

"Madame, did you steal these from the set of "Hamilton?" She let out a horrendous groan so I knew she had at least seen the play... Strike one.

She sat up suddenly, her eyes bulging, her face matching the red in her shoes. "Those should have been mine, rightfully. I'm Thelma Lumberjack and I was originally cast as Dorothy, but the producers said my legs were too big, especially when standing by those fucking munchkins!" Strike two!

Gazing down at this sorrowful creature, I had to ask, "So you're a lumberjack?"

"But I'm ok," she promptly replied ending the longest set up to a punchline in Lush Stories history. (But so proud of those who identify its reference) She wasn't through. "The sad part is everyone knows Buddy Ebsen was replaced, (at the mention of Buddy's name, an elderly woman could be heard shouting "Jed" repeatedly from a distance) but my name is ignored even if the studio did offer me a role in "National Velvet."

"In Liz Taylor's role?" I asked, politely.

"As the horse," she said between sobs. 

I offered her a sugar cube, then called New York's Finest and wrapped up the case. We headed back to the theater to collect my lavish reward when I suddenly remembered my presentation at the Symposium... "Oh, fuck it, let's go back to our room and..."

"...Make zee sweet love?" The doctor said in her best Pepe Le Pew voice. I was unsure why she was suddenly so frisky until I noticed my reflection in a store window. Somehow, I had smeared white paint down my back, which apparently is an aphrodisiac to polecats.

Yanking her beret from her head and tossing in the air like Mary Tyler Moore, I screamed, "Bite it, Nancy Drew!"