Day 15: 27,054 Words and the Romance Inn has really taken a turn...

There is so much happening at the Romance Inn... it is going to take days to tease it apart. I had to keep switching point of view to keep up with it all. I will share a few glimpses.

First.... from James:

 

“Lenny Porter!” he heard a voice squeal from behind him, and his heart sunk as he looked through the open conference room door and took in his former love, Lizzy Hughes, the woman who had broken both his heart and that of his good friend, Josh. Was he his good friend, though? Was he really? James wondered. It couldn’t be a coincidence that Lizzy Hughes just happened to be there…. Had Josh orchestrated this whole thing just to throw Lizzy in his face once again? It would be just like him. He watched, his stomach churning, as Josh walked through the door and offered Lizzy a hug and a kiss on the cheek, turning to leer at James. That jerk. He had been laughing behind his back this whole time. Well Josh had a hard lesson coming to him. He had messed with the wrong guy. James would show him. He would show them all. He took another sip of cocktail-themed wine and grinned maniacally, baring every single one of his perfect, white teeth.

From Gordon:

He watched as a drunken teenager took Maeve by the arm and pulled her into the conference room. When had she changed her clothing? She was now dressed as an employee, wearing a ‘Jack Kerouac Presents’ shirt and black trousers. It was a good look for her, he decided, although he would have gone in a different direction with the uniforms. He would have recommended an accompanying cape to symbolize the rhizomatic nature of the human and non-human agencies involved in the winemaking process, but of course they had not consulted an expert in postmodern thought in their uniform design, as was regrettably so often the case.

Just then he heard a voice he recognized, stating a ridiculous opinion. “This is a clear example of the Brechtian method. This cocktail-themed wine concoction is mischievous, provocative, and ironic. We are intended to remain objective and unemotional during this tasting so that we can make rational judgments about the political aspects of the Experimental Vineyardery’s work.” It couldn’t be! There, holding court in the centre of the room, surrounded by a circle of chairs was his old nemesis. Gordon felt transported in time and space- gone was the self-assured post-modern private detective, and in its place stood the quivering, self-doubting doctoral student he had once been. He looked down and was unsurprised to find he was once again wearing the red shirt, announcing to the world his affiliation with the Department of Social and Political Thought at York University. Well so be it, he thought. He was pleased to note that he was still wearing his cape, and was able to fling it over his shoulder with a flourish as he entered his own personal hell, ready to face down his greatest enemy once and for all. He didn’t notice when the door closed behind him with a soft click, nor did he notice the drunken teenager who quietly turned the lock on the door

From Maeve:

“What do you mean I am supposed to lead this support group?” Maeve hissed at the drunken employee who had pulled her into the room. “I have no experience! I have no credentials!”

The teenager smiled drunkenly. “Nobody here knows what they’re doing! The Jack Kerouac School for Experimental Vineyardery is unaccredited!” he said, taking a sip from his cup. “This is a law… “

“A lawless place, I know,” Maeve finished, rolling her eyes dramatically. The drunken teenage employee, rather than being chastened by Maeve’s contempt, smiled even more broadly. 

“Now you’re getting it,” he said, winking flirtily. “Alright everyone!” he yelled to the room, “take your seats! It’s time to get started.” Maeve looked around the room, taking in its inhabitants for the first time. It was mostly old people, like in their thirties and forties, some even in their fifties from the look of their gray hair and grizzled features, although they all appeared to be overly muscled and spry for their ages. She recognized Lizzy, of course, and thought that a couple of the other faces looked familiar- and then she noticed the large, heavily muscled man who was the first to comply with the drunk employee's request to take a seat. Could it be? Yes, it was Dwayne ‘the Rock’ Johnson, which must mean… oh dear. 

And from Josh:

“Let’s start with a cocktail tasting, shall we?” Josh heard Maeve say, quite improbably. He might have wondered why Maeve was suddenly in charge of this celebrity feud support group, were it not for the fact that all of his attention was on his friend James, who was smiling wolfishly at him from across the room. James stared at him fiercely as he took a sip from his metal wine glass, the concoction dripping down his chin as he attempted to swallow while maintaining both the eye contact and the aggressive smile. The overall effect was pleasing.

“I guess we better make room in our glasses!” Lizzy said, as she slurped from her own burnished metal glass. Josh could see that she had gone with the white ‘Mommy’s Sippy Cup’ option, and she removed the lid so she could chug the remainder of the liquid. She smiled at him, that same old lopsided grin that used to make his heart skip a beat. Suddenly it clicked- this was why James was glowering at him so fiercely. He was jealous, had always been jealous of how much Lizzy preferred him. And now, James was going to try to take her away from him, just as he had always taken everything that had ever mattered to him. Well, let the bastard try, he thought, smiling back at Lizzy, completely unaware of how unhinged he appeared. How had he ever let himself believe he was over her? He would never be over her. He would never meet anyone even remotely as beautiful or charming. He glanced back over at James, and promised himself he would kill James before he let him take Lizzy away from him again.

“This wine cocktail,” a teenage employee was explaining, “tastes like Friday at 1700 hours, when you respond to the last email of the day. You can feel the weekend in your bones.” While the teenager spoke, other drunken teenagers were circulating the room with bottles in their hands, topping up glasses. Josh could swear that he could feel the weekend in his bones. The teenager continued, ”Your colleagues propose an apéro, which goes down smooth.” He took a sip of the concoction, and as promised, it went down smooth. How could he have ever found the taste of this delightful drink harsh? The voice continued, hypnotic. “You don’t have any plans. They offer you a glass. It tastes like tequila, mango, and lime. It tastes like the weekend.” Josh took another sip and grinned. Yes, it did taste like the weekend! How had this marvelous school captured the taste? It was magical.

Just then, he heard the sound of a deep voice, breaking the spell. Josh would have recognized those dulcet tones anywhere. It was Dwayne ‘the Rock’ Johnson. And he sounded angry.

“Does this have notes of tequila? Or tequila?” The teenager looked unsettled, as would anyone in the face of the Rock’s quiet fury.

“Er… notes?”

“Notes,” The Rock replied. “Notes.”

The group was quiet, watching the exchange tensely. All of a sudden, Josh became aware of the metallic taste in his mouth, and Lizzy’s smile, which moments before had seemed so disarming, was starting to look… forced. 

“This doesn’t taste like the weekend at all,” Josh heard a man next to him mumble. The man was wearing a cowboy hat, light jeans and a red and blue plaid button up-shirt, improbably but pleasingly unbuttoned to the navel. Josh immediately recognized the man from the celebrity hockey circuit, of which Josh himself had been a member for years.

“Kitscher?” he said, reaching out to shake his hand. Taylor Kitsch returned the hand shake and leaned over. “Does any of this strike you as odd?” Kitsch whispered conspirationally, keeping his eyes on the drunk teenage employees who continued to circle the room like sharks. Now that Kitsch had mentioned it, this was a little bit strange. Josh shook his head, trying to clear it. What were they doing here?