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This hotel has four restaurants. Pick one
Aug. 26th, 2017 09:23 amWilford hated that this was what his life had become. He didn’t even know how things had spiralled so far out of control, or even who to blame for it happening.
Actually, he blamed Jess. It was her big mouth that started the whole damn thing.
It was actually worse than it had been last time. Last time, he was the guy who stopped getting invited, because he kept showing up drunk and pulling a gun on someone. Now…
Now he just wanted to die.
His ‘date’ for the event was some twinky, barely-even-twenty-something who probably expected to have to give the blowjob of his life to get through the doors. But one point in Jess’ favour was that she did do a good job at telling all these gung-ho interns exactly what to expect, and what was expected of them. All Wilford wanted was an excuse to leave early, and for someone else to pay for his drinks and dinner once they had gone. Though even he had to admit that the reputation he’d picked up amongst certain circles was pretty damn agreeable for his position within the industry. Being the guy with a different date every time he showed up somewhere meant he’d avoided being the weird closeted guy with hangups everyone was starting to peg him as.
Hangups, sure. But he’d never been in the closet for a day in his life. If they were going to spread rumours, they could at least get it right.
There was a certain dance to this specific sort of con he found himself running, and like most of the kids before him, Donovan was so far doing everything right. He spent the first twenty minutes hanging off of Wilford’s shoulder and looking completely out of his element, while Wilford drank an obscene amount of free booze and pointed out everyone important. That guy over there with the red-head on his arm owns a tabloid newspaper. That woman over there in blue runs the local CBN offices. That asshole in the stupid Buddy Holly glasses will hire anybody who blows him.
Once Wilford got bored with being helpful, he found a quiet place near the bar to park himself and released Donovan out into the wild. He didn’t keep much of an eye on the kid, but he did notice occasional glances coming his way as Donovan did his part. He introduced himself to people, dropping Wilford’s name and getting the conversation to come round to him. ‘Yeah, he broke that one.’ ‘Yep, that was his story.’ Mention all the dangerous monsters and un-containable mayhem that crossed his path, while riding his coattails and taking a little bit of credit for some of the recent ones. It didn’t matter that Wilford had never seen Donovan before that afternoon; that wasn’t the point. The point was making sure important people understood Wilford knew what he was doing, while getting rumours out there amongst all the new talent coming in that he was the guy you wanted to work for.
He gave Donovan about an hour to move around, making contacts and getting his name out there before deciding he was done. There were too many people there with the sort of personality that made Wilford want to punch someone in the face. He could say it was because they were in it for the wrong reasons, chasing prizes and big paycheques, or because the current state of journalism as a whole was on a slow and steady decline as more and more people took to reading blogs and independent media, but it was all bullshit and he knew it. Wilford just hated them for no reason other than they existed. He hated them because they were all just as psychopathic and self-serving as he knew he was, but they tried to hide it and pretend to be some shining pillar in society; a figure everyone could look to and trust.
The tabloid peddlers were the only honest people in the whole lot. Not that it stopped Wilford from hating them as well.
He finished off his drink and went to go find Donovan. He’d apparently made his rounds through everyone he wanted to get through, and was currently chatting with some nobody anchor .
“Time to scram,” Wilford said, grabbing him by the elbow.
For a brief moment, Donovan looked surprised at this. But they’d made a deal, and this was part of it. When Wilford said it was time to go, it was time to go. Donovan made his quick goodbyes, and the two of them quickly vanished through a side door in the event hall.
“This hotel has four restaurants. Pick one,” Wilford said, not caring where they went, as long as they served food.
“Hey, I just wanna-”
“I don’t want to hear it,” Wilford said abruptly.
“Wow, I heard you’re a real prick, so thanks for confirming that.” Donovan nodded and looked around to find a sign that might lead them to somewhere with food.
Only two of the restaurants were open at that time of night, and somehow they wound up gravitating toward the Thai one. Wilford wasn’t super in the mood for Thai, but it was better than the Italian alternative that everyone else seemed to favour during these things. As they ate, Wilford complained about the whole damn event, and spilled as much dirt as he could on everyone who was there. He had a few more drinks, beyond everything he’d already had that night, and while the waitstaff were all off the floor and out of sight, Wilford pulled his spectacle case out of his inventory and pulled out a small bag of coke. There wasn’t time to take it properly, so he dipped his finger into the powder and rubbed some on his gums before offering the bag to Donovan. The scandalised look he got in return was almost worth it.
Keeping up his side of the deal, Donovan picked up the bill and didn’t even try to convince Wilford to cover the tip. He paid, and was all too eager to get out.
“You seem like you probably want to be alone, so I’ll call a cab,” Donovan said nervously as they left the restaurant and headed toward valet.
Wilford shrugged. “Suit yourself,” he said. He watched the kid head off toward the street to try to hail a cab on his own, and went to go fetch his car.
He did want to be alone, so there was at least that. But the problem was that now that he was alone, he had no idea what to do with himself. He could go try to find a fight club or something, but he didn’t want to fuck up his face and risk not being able to get on camera for a while. There was the gym, but he was too drunk and too full to do anything other than make himself sick. In a habit he still hadn’t managed to break, he pulled out his phone before remembering that downloadable apps were still years out, and finding local games was more on a word of mouth sort of deal.
Eventually, Wilford found his way back home. He tossed his keys down on the kitchen table that still didn’t have any chairs to go with it, and collapsed on the sofa. The 24” CRT television was the same one he’d had since college, and still only got the same few stations, because he’d never bothered to call the cable company. At that time of night, broadcast was all paid programming, but watching anything else would have required getting up and finding a tape to pop into the player. So he stayed on the sofa, watching some bullshit about some sort of magic blender that may or may not have been actually magic, and waited until it was an acceptable hour to start getting ready to head back into the station.
Actually, he blamed Jess. It was her big mouth that started the whole damn thing.
It was actually worse than it had been last time. Last time, he was the guy who stopped getting invited, because he kept showing up drunk and pulling a gun on someone. Now…
Now he just wanted to die.
His ‘date’ for the event was some twinky, barely-even-twenty-something who probably expected to have to give the blowjob of his life to get through the doors. But one point in Jess’ favour was that she did do a good job at telling all these gung-ho interns exactly what to expect, and what was expected of them. All Wilford wanted was an excuse to leave early, and for someone else to pay for his drinks and dinner once they had gone. Though even he had to admit that the reputation he’d picked up amongst certain circles was pretty damn agreeable for his position within the industry. Being the guy with a different date every time he showed up somewhere meant he’d avoided being the weird closeted guy with hangups everyone was starting to peg him as.
Hangups, sure. But he’d never been in the closet for a day in his life. If they were going to spread rumours, they could at least get it right.
There was a certain dance to this specific sort of con he found himself running, and like most of the kids before him, Donovan was so far doing everything right. He spent the first twenty minutes hanging off of Wilford’s shoulder and looking completely out of his element, while Wilford drank an obscene amount of free booze and pointed out everyone important. That guy over there with the red-head on his arm owns a tabloid newspaper. That woman over there in blue runs the local CBN offices. That asshole in the stupid Buddy Holly glasses will hire anybody who blows him.
Once Wilford got bored with being helpful, he found a quiet place near the bar to park himself and released Donovan out into the wild. He didn’t keep much of an eye on the kid, but he did notice occasional glances coming his way as Donovan did his part. He introduced himself to people, dropping Wilford’s name and getting the conversation to come round to him. ‘Yeah, he broke that one.’ ‘Yep, that was his story.’ Mention all the dangerous monsters and un-containable mayhem that crossed his path, while riding his coattails and taking a little bit of credit for some of the recent ones. It didn’t matter that Wilford had never seen Donovan before that afternoon; that wasn’t the point. The point was making sure important people understood Wilford knew what he was doing, while getting rumours out there amongst all the new talent coming in that he was the guy you wanted to work for.
He gave Donovan about an hour to move around, making contacts and getting his name out there before deciding he was done. There were too many people there with the sort of personality that made Wilford want to punch someone in the face. He could say it was because they were in it for the wrong reasons, chasing prizes and big paycheques, or because the current state of journalism as a whole was on a slow and steady decline as more and more people took to reading blogs and independent media, but it was all bullshit and he knew it. Wilford just hated them for no reason other than they existed. He hated them because they were all just as psychopathic and self-serving as he knew he was, but they tried to hide it and pretend to be some shining pillar in society; a figure everyone could look to and trust.
The tabloid peddlers were the only honest people in the whole lot. Not that it stopped Wilford from hating them as well.
He finished off his drink and went to go find Donovan. He’d apparently made his rounds through everyone he wanted to get through, and was currently chatting with some nobody anchor .
“Time to scram,” Wilford said, grabbing him by the elbow.
For a brief moment, Donovan looked surprised at this. But they’d made a deal, and this was part of it. When Wilford said it was time to go, it was time to go. Donovan made his quick goodbyes, and the two of them quickly vanished through a side door in the event hall.
“This hotel has four restaurants. Pick one,” Wilford said, not caring where they went, as long as they served food.
“Hey, I just wanna-”
“I don’t want to hear it,” Wilford said abruptly.
“Wow, I heard you’re a real prick, so thanks for confirming that.” Donovan nodded and looked around to find a sign that might lead them to somewhere with food.
Only two of the restaurants were open at that time of night, and somehow they wound up gravitating toward the Thai one. Wilford wasn’t super in the mood for Thai, but it was better than the Italian alternative that everyone else seemed to favour during these things. As they ate, Wilford complained about the whole damn event, and spilled as much dirt as he could on everyone who was there. He had a few more drinks, beyond everything he’d already had that night, and while the waitstaff were all off the floor and out of sight, Wilford pulled his spectacle case out of his inventory and pulled out a small bag of coke. There wasn’t time to take it properly, so he dipped his finger into the powder and rubbed some on his gums before offering the bag to Donovan. The scandalised look he got in return was almost worth it.
Keeping up his side of the deal, Donovan picked up the bill and didn’t even try to convince Wilford to cover the tip. He paid, and was all too eager to get out.
“You seem like you probably want to be alone, so I’ll call a cab,” Donovan said nervously as they left the restaurant and headed toward valet.
Wilford shrugged. “Suit yourself,” he said. He watched the kid head off toward the street to try to hail a cab on his own, and went to go fetch his car.
He did want to be alone, so there was at least that. But the problem was that now that he was alone, he had no idea what to do with himself. He could go try to find a fight club or something, but he didn’t want to fuck up his face and risk not being able to get on camera for a while. There was the gym, but he was too drunk and too full to do anything other than make himself sick. In a habit he still hadn’t managed to break, he pulled out his phone before remembering that downloadable apps were still years out, and finding local games was more on a word of mouth sort of deal.
Eventually, Wilford found his way back home. He tossed his keys down on the kitchen table that still didn’t have any chairs to go with it, and collapsed on the sofa. The 24” CRT television was the same one he’d had since college, and still only got the same few stations, because he’d never bothered to call the cable company. At that time of night, broadcast was all paid programming, but watching anything else would have required getting up and finding a tape to pop into the player. So he stayed on the sofa, watching some bullshit about some sort of magic blender that may or may not have been actually magic, and waited until it was an acceptable hour to start getting ready to head back into the station.
