The End of the Dream

Chapter 15

"Hey ho!"

Wilford greeted you heartily upon noticing your arrival. Margarita in hand, he moonwalked over to you in time with music, finishing with a little flourishing spin. He appeared to have acquired a bright pink afro from somewhere.

"Just like old times, eh?" he beamed. His slur seemed a touch more pronounced than usual. "Those were the days! Can I get you a drink? The margaritas are great. Gin and tonic? Rum and coke? Ah, why not all of them!"

Bemused, you declined. "It's barely after lunch time."

Wilford waved his free hand dismissively, fingers waggling. "Pish! What does time mean anyway? Maybe it's barely after lunch time, or maybe it's just early for dinner. Or it could be very late last night, or some time that hasn't even happened yet!" He paused, having lost track of his train of thought just as much as you had. "Well, it's time for drinks somewhere, and if it's time for drinks somewhere, why not here? All timelines overlap anyway, I've found; ludicrously fragile and flexible things. Just have fun with it."

"All the same, maybe later," you said mildly.

"Suit yourself. How about some karaoke, then? We were just about to start!"

He grasped your elbow with an inescapably enthusiastic grip and pulled you across to the other side of the room, where a small crowd was gathered around a secondary cluster of speakers and a microphone stand.

You recognised some faces; the Jims were setting up—or attempting to. They were debating between themselves whether there was any difference between the karaoke mic and their usual reporting mic. Ed Edgar had an arm slung around Eric's shoulder, cajolingly encouraging him to live a little and enjoy the part, while Eric anxiously wrung a piece of blanket between his hands.

Others you did not recognise. Clearly the most eager was a greaser-styled man with slicked back hair and a tight white tee, tattoos visible on his neck and arms. Despite a tough appearance and heavy, exaggerated Brooklyn accent, he sounded disarmingly cheery as he enthused about a musical number he had written.

You were rather less enthused about the prospect of karaoke. Not immediately, at least. Wilford's attention, which fluttered about like a butterfly on a windy day, was diverted into cooing over setlist choices, allowing you the opportunity to sidle away to the relative safety of the snack and drink tables.

You weren't inclined to drink alcohol so early in the day, but there was also a vast assortment of other drinks available, juices, sodas, multiple bowls of punch.

An earnest man in a blue polo shirt and fanny pack caught you looking and offered you a bottle of water instead—"nothing more important than staying hydrated, and Stan the Water Man has got you covered! Finest bottled water you'll ever set your taste buds on."

You accepted one and thanked him, rewarded with a vigorous shake of the hand, both of his clasped around yours, in return.

The water tasted oddly metallic and of chemical residue.

Though you had no need to eat, nor the desire when you'd had your breakfast so recently, you eyed the snack table out of curiosity. A stack of fresh pizzas was being laid out by a man entirely dressed for the part. A logoed cap, letterman jacket illustrated with embroidered pizzas, and, oddly, only boxers instead of any pants.

"Pizza?" he offered, placing the last box down. "My speciality—extra... pepperoni." This was stated with significantly unnecessary emphasis and accompanied a wink so exaggerated it was comedic.

Maybe the food and drink tables weren't remotely as safe a place to stand as you had imagined. Moving on.

You drifted deeper into the centre of the room, simply taking everything in. People clustered in small groups, chatting amongst themselves, food and drink in hand. An aggressive game of Uno had gotten underway, which, after watching for a little too long, you found yourself roped into.