Wilford Warfstache (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
cottoncandypink) wrote2018-03-01 08:56 pm
cottoncandypink) wrote2018-03-01 08:56 pm
You’re right. Let’s get something to eat.
Bored. That’s what Wilford was. He was bored.
He was also avoiding Nichola because she was angry at him again for some reason, but he was primarily bored. Filming was done for the day, and he’d finished going over the intern contracts, and now there was nothing else to do. The dog slept quietly on the sofa across the room, and nobody else seemed to want to come in to annoy him, so Wilford turned to his phone instead. Pool parties, nah. A couple of zombie swarms here and there, but those were only fun if he had someone to go with. There would probably be races down at the track, but Kevin would be there. The races were a hard pass.
The show had settled into a routine. The crew had figured out their roles, and didn’t really need to be babysat anymore. Even the interns were starting to figure out what they were doing. It was torture.
Wilford had to go somewhere and do something. He couldn’t just sit there staring at the dog. He got up and locked the door so he could quickly change into something that didn’t immediately point him out as a television journalist. When he was done, he opened the door and snapped his fingers at the dog.
“Come on,” he said, holding the door open so Buster could lead the way back out to the car. Once they were both in the car, the problem of what to do still existed. But the first step had been taken: they were no longer in the studio. Wilford adjusted his mirror to watch the dog chew on his own foot for a few seconds, before shaking his head and starting the car.
“You’re right. Let’s get something to eat.”
There were places in town that were pet-friendly if you sat outside, so Wilford decided to find one of those. But he didn’t want to stay in Vinewood, with all the tourists that would bug him and think they were allowed to come up and take a picture. Tourists were awful enough. Fans were even worse. Eager to avoid as many of them as possible, he drove out of Vinewood, heading gradually west toward Del Perro. The area was a bit hipstery for Wilford’s taste, but hipsters did at least value good food, even if their idea of anything Asian was rice or spaghetti with soy sauce and tofu.
He found a place that didn’t look like it was too likely to even try to offend him, and hooked the dog up to his leash before heading toward the beach side patio. The place was still filled with tourists, but they weren’t the same sort of tourists that gawped around Vinewood. The tourists in this part of town were there to spend Daddy’s money while taking a break from their start-up .com whatevers. They were the kind of tourists to at least have the decency to pretend to be taking photos of the entire patio, rather than of whatever random celebrity wandered in. It was hard to miss the the awkward selfies angled just right, but easy to ignore them. Wilford was just glad he was a news reporter, and not some A-lister people actually cared about. He never understood why anyone would become an actor just to become a recluse until he moved to the West Coast. It took about three months before he finally understood it. And boy, did he understand now.
The staff at places like this at least had their shit together. The waiter treated him like he was every bit of a nobody as the rest of the people out on the patio, barely saying a word when he brought ice water out for both Wilford, and the dog. The menu wasn’t 90% dairy, which also made for a good start. He got himself a burger, and some chicken for the dog, and set out trying to figure out what to do next.
The Universe decided that for him, about three seconds after his meal arrived, in the form of about two dozen texts in rapid succession. Wilford grumbled quietly, waved the waiter off to go take care of other people, and opened his messages with the biggest sigh he could manage. Apparently the races would be free of Kevin that night. That was a plus. Of course, it took Kevin getting stabbed with a rake to do it. Wilford spent about three second making sure Kevin would be back to work eventually, before getting to the meat of the matter with the group chat with Billy and Nichola. Losing one guy should not have messed everything up so badly, but Kevin was heading two stories a week, apparently, and that kind of work was hard to replace at a moment’s notice, apparently. Wilford should have gone back in to deal with it in person, but he didn’t want to. He wanted to eat dinner and enjoy himself alone for once.
Which wasn’t happening, apparently. Before he knew it, he’d spent two hours texting those two, and barely touching his dinner. He only noticed how much time had passed when his phone gave him a 10% battery warning, and he looked up to see a dark sky and empty patio.
How? Just… how had his night managed to go so cock-up so quickly? His food was cold, the dog had probably eaten the plate his chicken had come on, and he was sitting alone on the patio like an idiot. With another massive sigh, he locked his phone and decided to actually try to eat his dinner. Despite the food being cold, he realised he was suddenly starving, and managed to devour the entire thing in what was probably record time. When he tried to wave down a waiter so he could pay and get the hell out of there to finish dealing with Kevin trying to get himself killed, he was surprised when instead of a smartly-dressed waiter, a man in a blue t-shirt walked over.
“That looked important. Is there a nuclear strike we should be worried about?” he asked, inviting himself to sit down at Wilford’s table.
Wilford shook his head. Though, a nuclear strike would have been easier to deal with, he felt like.
“No, you’re safe for now.” He looked down to check on his dog, and then up at the patio now that it was empty. Without a bunch of people sitting around him, he could see the pier, lit up and full of all the tourists who were probably sitting over here several hours earlier.
“You the owner of this place?” he asked.
The guy nodded, and looked out at the ocean. “Yeah. I thought I’d try it. I’m thinking about selling, though.”
Ah. That sounded like a well-rehearsed line.
“How many A-listers you try that on, before working down to the D-list?” Wilford asked.
The owner laughed, either embarrassed to be caught, or just one more aspiring actor in a sea of them. “I think I gave up somewhere around Leo.”
Wilford crossed his arms over his chest and looked around the place. It wasn’t bad. A bit of a hipster infestation, but given the area, it was hardly surprising. And he was just goddamn bored literally all of the time, it seemed like. Maybe a hobby outside of the studio was exactly what he needed.
“Show me around,” he decided, already getting up.
The owner didn’t seem to have a script prepared beyond this point, and it took him a couple of long seconds before he got up as well.
“Uh. Yeah, okay.”
He was also avoiding Nichola because she was angry at him again for some reason, but he was primarily bored. Filming was done for the day, and he’d finished going over the intern contracts, and now there was nothing else to do. The dog slept quietly on the sofa across the room, and nobody else seemed to want to come in to annoy him, so Wilford turned to his phone instead. Pool parties, nah. A couple of zombie swarms here and there, but those were only fun if he had someone to go with. There would probably be races down at the track, but Kevin would be there. The races were a hard pass.
The show had settled into a routine. The crew had figured out their roles, and didn’t really need to be babysat anymore. Even the interns were starting to figure out what they were doing. It was torture.
Wilford had to go somewhere and do something. He couldn’t just sit there staring at the dog. He got up and locked the door so he could quickly change into something that didn’t immediately point him out as a television journalist. When he was done, he opened the door and snapped his fingers at the dog.
“Come on,” he said, holding the door open so Buster could lead the way back out to the car. Once they were both in the car, the problem of what to do still existed. But the first step had been taken: they were no longer in the studio. Wilford adjusted his mirror to watch the dog chew on his own foot for a few seconds, before shaking his head and starting the car.
“You’re right. Let’s get something to eat.”
There were places in town that were pet-friendly if you sat outside, so Wilford decided to find one of those. But he didn’t want to stay in Vinewood, with all the tourists that would bug him and think they were allowed to come up and take a picture. Tourists were awful enough. Fans were even worse. Eager to avoid as many of them as possible, he drove out of Vinewood, heading gradually west toward Del Perro. The area was a bit hipstery for Wilford’s taste, but hipsters did at least value good food, even if their idea of anything Asian was rice or spaghetti with soy sauce and tofu.
He found a place that didn’t look like it was too likely to even try to offend him, and hooked the dog up to his leash before heading toward the beach side patio. The place was still filled with tourists, but they weren’t the same sort of tourists that gawped around Vinewood. The tourists in this part of town were there to spend Daddy’s money while taking a break from their start-up .com whatevers. They were the kind of tourists to at least have the decency to pretend to be taking photos of the entire patio, rather than of whatever random celebrity wandered in. It was hard to miss the the awkward selfies angled just right, but easy to ignore them. Wilford was just glad he was a news reporter, and not some A-lister people actually cared about. He never understood why anyone would become an actor just to become a recluse until he moved to the West Coast. It took about three months before he finally understood it. And boy, did he understand now.
The staff at places like this at least had their shit together. The waiter treated him like he was every bit of a nobody as the rest of the people out on the patio, barely saying a word when he brought ice water out for both Wilford, and the dog. The menu wasn’t 90% dairy, which also made for a good start. He got himself a burger, and some chicken for the dog, and set out trying to figure out what to do next.
The Universe decided that for him, about three seconds after his meal arrived, in the form of about two dozen texts in rapid succession. Wilford grumbled quietly, waved the waiter off to go take care of other people, and opened his messages with the biggest sigh he could manage. Apparently the races would be free of Kevin that night. That was a plus. Of course, it took Kevin getting stabbed with a rake to do it. Wilford spent about three second making sure Kevin would be back to work eventually, before getting to the meat of the matter with the group chat with Billy and Nichola. Losing one guy should not have messed everything up so badly, but Kevin was heading two stories a week, apparently, and that kind of work was hard to replace at a moment’s notice, apparently. Wilford should have gone back in to deal with it in person, but he didn’t want to. He wanted to eat dinner and enjoy himself alone for once.
Which wasn’t happening, apparently. Before he knew it, he’d spent two hours texting those two, and barely touching his dinner. He only noticed how much time had passed when his phone gave him a 10% battery warning, and he looked up to see a dark sky and empty patio.
How? Just… how had his night managed to go so cock-up so quickly? His food was cold, the dog had probably eaten the plate his chicken had come on, and he was sitting alone on the patio like an idiot. With another massive sigh, he locked his phone and decided to actually try to eat his dinner. Despite the food being cold, he realised he was suddenly starving, and managed to devour the entire thing in what was probably record time. When he tried to wave down a waiter so he could pay and get the hell out of there to finish dealing with Kevin trying to get himself killed, he was surprised when instead of a smartly-dressed waiter, a man in a blue t-shirt walked over.
“That looked important. Is there a nuclear strike we should be worried about?” he asked, inviting himself to sit down at Wilford’s table.
Wilford shook his head. Though, a nuclear strike would have been easier to deal with, he felt like.
“No, you’re safe for now.” He looked down to check on his dog, and then up at the patio now that it was empty. Without a bunch of people sitting around him, he could see the pier, lit up and full of all the tourists who were probably sitting over here several hours earlier.
“You the owner of this place?” he asked.
The guy nodded, and looked out at the ocean. “Yeah. I thought I’d try it. I’m thinking about selling, though.”
Ah. That sounded like a well-rehearsed line.
“How many A-listers you try that on, before working down to the D-list?” Wilford asked.
The owner laughed, either embarrassed to be caught, or just one more aspiring actor in a sea of them. “I think I gave up somewhere around Leo.”
Wilford crossed his arms over his chest and looked around the place. It wasn’t bad. A bit of a hipster infestation, but given the area, it was hardly surprising. And he was just goddamn bored literally all of the time, it seemed like. Maybe a hobby outside of the studio was exactly what he needed.
“Show me around,” he decided, already getting up.
The owner didn’t seem to have a script prepared beyond this point, and it took him a couple of long seconds before he got up as well.
“Uh. Yeah, okay.”