Wilford Warfstache (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
cottoncandypink) wrote2018-12-01 08:35 pm
cottoncandypink) wrote2018-12-01 08:35 pm
Entry tags:
Tess
The door opens to Wilford's dressing room. The blue walls are decorated with framed vintage movie posters, opening up for a vanity that doesn't look like it's been used since Wilford moved into the building. Along the exterior brick wall is where Wilford's set up his office, with a few shelves and filing cabinets behind the massive desk. The other side of the room is more of a lounge, with a black leather sofa and matching chair, and a smudged up glass coffee table that shows evidence of small, sticky hands.
Wilford closes the door behind them, only to open it again to reveal the large closet where he keeps several other guns. He stores the rifle in with the rest, making sure the door is locked so the nosy little toddler can't find his way in.
Beyond the door leading to the hall, people are obviously coming and going. Someone's having a heated argument, but the soundproofing in the building is heavy enough that nothing specific can be made out.
Now that there's signal, Wilford pulls out his phone to check the traffic report. Wilford sighs. "Someone dropped a yacht on the beltway," he says.
His phone isn't buzzing with missed texts though, so he's hoping it happened after Andy got past that point.
Wilford closes the door behind them, only to open it again to reveal the large closet where he keeps several other guns. He stores the rifle in with the rest, making sure the door is locked so the nosy little toddler can't find his way in.
Beyond the door leading to the hall, people are obviously coming and going. Someone's having a heated argument, but the soundproofing in the building is heavy enough that nothing specific can be made out.
Now that there's signal, Wilford pulls out his phone to check the traffic report. Wilford sighs. "Someone dropped a yacht on the beltway," he says.
His phone isn't buzzing with missed texts though, so he's hoping it happened after Andy got past that point.
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"Not every day. But I go stir crazy hanging around the house all the time."
She's friends with Jim. She's probably heard it before. He's got to keep himself busy if he doesn't want to get himself into trouble he might not be able to get himself out of.
"I'll have to be here all week for that damn show, so he's gonna stay with a buddy of mine. He's got an eight year old that he spoils rotten, and they get along pretty well."
He doesn't want Michael on TV. That would be the easiest way for his mother to track him down.
While he talks, Wilford starts going through the bills. He's already paid off the place's substantial debts, but that hasn't stopped new ones from coming in. While he does that, Michael mumbles to himself, scribbling wildly with whichever colour seems to catch his eye. If he misses the page and gets it on the table, Wilford doesn't seem to care. He's engaged and ostensibly learning some skills, which can only be a good thing.
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Like she's one to talk, but at least she's taking time off right now to be here.
"So you're just going to leave him with someone else for a week? He needs stability."
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So he's going to get the stupid reality show cancelled instead.
The door opens, and one of the servers brings a tray with several plates and bowls holding various things. Wilford moves onto the floor across the table from Michael, moving everything out of the way so they have room for dinner.
"His mom," he starts, but shakes his head. "He can't be here when they're filming."
Along with various fish cakes and gimbap and beef, the server hands Wilford a bottle of beer and a glass of orange juice, both of which get set well out of the way up on his desk. Michael immediately forgets all about his colouring and grabs one of the fish cakes from the plate.
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"So don't film. You've got to have enough clout to get it tossed out." And if he doesn't, then he needs to work on it.
"I get that he can't be found, but he still needs you."
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Not to him, at least.
Michael's got much better about eating over the last few months, which has been good news for both of him. After those first few weeks of tantrums, Wilford had thought his head was going to explode.
As it is, he makes sure Michael doesn't stuff the whole fish cake into his mouth all at once by distracting him with his crayons again.
"Which one's the blue one?" he asks. Michael picks up a red crayon. "Nope, that's red," Wilford corrects, taking it and putting it back down. "Blue." Michael picks up a brown crayon. Again, Wilford takes it, this time handing him the blue crayon. "Blue," he repeats.
Michael looks at the crayon, and very deliberately puts it down so he can pick the brown one up again.
"You're doing that on purpose, aren't you?" Wilford says. He gives up for the moment and picks up some of the gimbap, motioning to Tess to help herself if she wants.
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She picks a little at the food, but doesn't take anything substantial.
"What's the plan once we're done here?"
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Normal toddler stuff.
Settling down and getting some food in him is starting to make the excitement of the day catch up with him, and Michael starts to fade fast. He manages to eat one more fish cake before he starts falling asleep at the table. Usually the nap comes before dinner, but he decided to stay awake for the entire ride out to the beach, but Wilford expected this. He gets Michael settled on the couch for his nap, and cleans up the crayons, putting them into his inventory along with the book.
"Let's step outside," he says, grabbing his beer off the desk. "Get some air."
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Almost like she knows what she's talking about.
She moves to allow for Michael to get comfortable, and then nods at Wilford's suggestion.
"He seems pretty gone."
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"He'll be out for a while," he says.
On their way out of the office, he waves to get the bartender's attention, and points back at the door. She nods and waves at them as he leads the way toward the beach. Normally he comes out to the patio to smoke, but people are actually dining out there today. There are a few groups with umbrellas and picnic blankets scattered out on the sand just beyond the boardwalk as well. They shouldn't have anyone out on blankets if they're short-staffed, so he stops by one of the groups to briefly make sure they don't need anything.
Once they're far enough away from paying customers, Wilford stops and lights a cigarette, offering one to Tess.
"I complain, but you should have seen him when I got him," he says, watching a group of jet skiers out in the surf, riding the waves and throwing grenades at one another. "I actually thought he was deaf."
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Waving off the cigarette, "I can only imagine with how he was treated. He's young enough that he may not remember most of it."
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"Here's hoping," Wilford says. "But kids are off-limits. How fucked up do you have to be?"
Wilford knows he's a selfish prick. He never does anything unless it benefits him somehow. But there are lines you do not cross.
"She better hope she doesn't get parole, because she's not going to live long enough to enjoy it." There isn't even a hint of exaggeration to his voice. He's probably never not going to be angry about this.
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"I never got to kill my dad, but I sure as hell thought about it." She glances over at him. "You've got the money, keep her in jail."
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The irony is not lost on him.
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She lifts her chin a little, looking out toward the water again.
"Why weren't you in hers?"
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"Didn't know about her. I was fourteen, and kind of a shithead."
'Kind of' is an understatement.
"She doesn't know who her father is, and I'm having the kid's name changed so she can't track him down when she figures out he's not where he's supposed to be."
He shrugs. There's no changing it now, so he's just going to do what he can.
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She can't imagine ever being able to have looked after a child at that age.
"Have you got him legally?" Above board or otherwise, she means.
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The problem with jet skis and grenades (and what may or may not be a rocket launcher?) is that it's hard to hear much else that's going on further down the beach. They're close enough to the pier that they should be able to hear the roller coaster, but it's all blending into the same continuous noise.
"They don't tend to let violent felons keep many rights. The state took him, and put him with his grandmother, but she didn't want him either and was going to put him in the system."
So now Wilford has him, and has no idea what to do with him.
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She nods.
"Are you going to tell him when he's older?"
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He nods. "He needs to know as soon as he's able to understand what the words mean. I never got any good at lying and keeping secrets. I'm better at exposing them."
One of the jet skiers gets obliterated by a grenade, but it doesn't seem to faze his pals. Right up until his machine explodes and takes a few more of them out with it.
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The skiers are watched with a sense of morbid fascination.
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Wilford figures that if it's out in the open to begin with, there will be no awkward conversations later.
What's left of the jet skiers abandon their machines in the water and start swimming toward shore. Except for one guy, who didn't get the memo, and runs over one of his friends. The guy that got run over surfaces eventually and rushes to catch up with the group as they head up toward the boardwalk.
Somehow, the beach doesn't seem much quieter with them gone.
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Then again, Tess' opinions and experiences with family are rather unusual.
"This chaos is all completely normal to you, isn't it?"
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Her question brings him out of his own head. He got kind of lost there for a minute. The beach is awfully noisy, even for a Saturday evening. Lots of people screaming.
A lot of people are screaming. It might have something to do with the dozen or so ATVs painted a rainbow of colours tearing down the beach.
"Fucking shit!" Wilford throws his beer at the one heading straight for him, as if it will help.
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Unfortunately, she's always been more fight than flight.
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Wilford checks his inventory for anything that would help, but it's crammed full of crayons and toys and a box of crackers. It's a rather alarming thing to realise in a moment where he'd really like to have a gun.
He remembers all too late that he locked everything up in his dressing room. Luckily (unluckily?) the jet ski guys come back with their grenades, and decide to start flinging everything they have at the rampaging ATVs.
"Time to run," he says, turning to try to run away from the pack of speeding death machines that are already starting to make the path back to the boardwalk a little scary.
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