| Humor Fiction posted November 1, 2024 | Chapters: |
...38 38 -38- 38 
|
A latecomer sneaks her way into the plot
A chapter in the book Detour
Jessica Wheeler Version
by Jessica Wheeler
When the invitation to FanStory's 2024 convention arrived, I knew there was only one way I'd be making my entrance...
Late.
Oh, "Why," you ask? Well, keep on asking, and do let me know if you ever figure it out. Sure, I could blame my kids, who are now eight and ten and, quite frankly, more responsible than most adults I know. I could blame the drive; a whopping three-and-a-half-hour trek from my home in Branford, CT, to Atlantic City, NJ. But the truth is, my tardiness usually has less to do with logistics and more to do with my knack for stumbling into the bizarre– a parade of unlikely events, if you will, that somehow only ever seem to happen to me.
Whether it's getting blocked in my driveway by the neighbor's chickens (yes, that actually happened), or waking up to find that someone has broken in and stolen all my shoes (ok, that hasn't happened... YET!), something is just bound to slow me down. On the day of the convention, that something was a fruit truck spill that caused a two-hour backup on the Jersey Turnpike.
~
Streaks of gold and orange reflected in the tall building's windows when I finally pulled into the hotel. I took a deep breath, adjusted my wrinkled dress, and tried to channel my "I totally meant to arrive now" vibe.
I walked inside, quickly grabbed my name tag from the desk, and headed toward the sound of muffled music around the corner. I opened the door to an unexpected scene.
Chaos. Complete chaos.
People were shouting, dishes were breaking, and food was flying. I stood there, blinking rapidly in disbelief. Was this some kind of weird performance art?
In the middle of it all, I spotted Rachelle Allen, looking wild, angry, and positively radiant, even with her fiery red hair streaked with what appeared to be... mashed potatoes? She was squaring off with a woman I didn't recognize, who was wearing a dress that mimicked Rachelle's, only a bit less flattering.
At that moment, Gretchen Hargis popped up from under a table, holding a bottle of wine, and flashed me the brightest, most sincere smile. She instantly calmed my nerves. Well, her and the considerable swig I took from the bottle.
"What... the hell happened?" I stammered, still trying to comprehend what I was seeing.
"Jane Babies happened," Gretchen replied with a shrug, a touch of amusement in her voice.
I dodged a meatball and looked around the room. I caught sight of Mrs. KT, Gloria, and Debi attempting to clean with stacks of napkins, while Pam, Karenina, and Sally made an effort to shield them with serving trays. One by one, I started to identify the faces of numerous writers I had come to admire over the past year and a half.
I decided this had to stop. I have often played the role of a peacemaker, someone who attempts to maintain a pleasant atmosphere or, at the very least, divert attention from chaos with some outrageous, nonsensical declaration...
"This food fight is but a metaphor for our struggle as artists!" I shouted into a breadstick like a microphone.
When that didn't work, I figured I'd try my luck reasoning with little Miss Babies herself.
"Ohhh, hey, Jane," I called, forcing a smile. "Think we could, um, tone it down a bit? Maybe even use our words?"
Oops. Apparently, I had no control over the tone of mine.
Jane's face contorted as if I had just suggested she give up sequins forever, and for a second, I thought she might actually slap me with a sirloin. Instead, she scoffed, her overly frosted lipstick catching the harsh light. "Whaaaaat!? Whoooo are yyyyeeeeww?"
I couldn't help it... I laughed. It was a loud, unapologetic, overtired, obnoxious laugh that only slips out when I'm amused beyond belief. Janey Babes didn't seem to find it as funny.
She sneered, eyes narrowing as she tried to size me up. Then her gaze shifted to my name tag.
"I never even heard of yoooou. You loooost?" Jane Babies whined.
Quite satisfied with her "zinger", she swung around, ladle in hand, just as my pal Jim Wile stepped behind her. The ladle caught him square in the nose, and he stumbled backward, arms flailing dramatically before he crashed to the floor with his lasagna.
Oh. No. She. DIDN'T.
"HEY! That's my BEST FRIEND!!!" I shouted.
The room fell silent, but that didn't stop me from removing my hoops, flipping a table (not metaphorically), and going at her Jersey style. The claws came out, and we fought like a couple of cats until Lancelot and SimianSavant finally managed to break it up.
Then, with a shriek that would've made a toddler roll their eyes, Jane Babies stormed out of the room.
~
A room full of writers eventually stopped laughing to start cleaning up. While apologizing profusely to the hotel staff, I felt a tug on my arm and turned to see Jim still sitting on the floor.
"Uhhh... best friend, huh?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.
"That's what I said, Jim," I snapped, offering him a hand.
"Don't fight it."
When the invitation to FanStory's 2024 convention arrived, I knew there was only one way I'd be making my entrance...
Late.
Oh, "Why," you ask? Well, keep on asking, and do let me know if you ever figure it out. Sure, I could blame my kids, who are now eight and ten and, quite frankly, more responsible than most adults I know. I could blame the drive; a whopping three-and-a-half-hour trek from my home in Branford, CT, to Atlantic City, NJ. But the truth is, my tardiness usually has less to do with logistics and more to do with my knack for stumbling into the bizarre– a parade of unlikely events, if you will, that somehow only ever seem to happen to me.
Whether it's getting blocked in my driveway by the neighbor's chickens (yes, that actually happened), or waking up to find that someone has broken in and stolen all my shoes (ok, that hasn't happened... YET!), something is just bound to slow me down. On the day of the convention, that something was a fruit truck spill that caused a two-hour backup on the Jersey Turnpike.
Late.
Oh, "Why," you ask? Well, keep on asking, and do let me know if you ever figure it out. Sure, I could blame my kids, who are now eight and ten and, quite frankly, more responsible than most adults I know. I could blame the drive; a whopping three-and-a-half-hour trek from my home in Branford, CT, to Atlantic City, NJ. But the truth is, my tardiness usually has less to do with logistics and more to do with my knack for stumbling into the bizarre– a parade of unlikely events, if you will, that somehow only ever seem to happen to me.
Whether it's getting blocked in my driveway by the neighbor's chickens (yes, that actually happened), or waking up to find that someone has broken in and stolen all my shoes (ok, that hasn't happened... YET!), something is just bound to slow me down. On the day of the convention, that something was a fruit truck spill that caused a two-hour backup on the Jersey Turnpike.
~
Streaks of gold and orange reflected in the tall building's windows when I finally pulled into the hotel. I took a deep breath, adjusted my wrinkled dress, and tried to channel my "I totally meant to arrive now" vibe.
I walked inside, quickly grabbed my name tag from the desk, and headed toward the sound of muffled music around the corner. I opened the door to an unexpected scene.
Chaos. Complete chaos.
People were shouting, dishes were breaking, and food was flying. I stood there, blinking rapidly in disbelief. Was this some kind of weird performance art?
In the middle of it all, I spotted Rachelle Allen, looking wild, angry, and positively radiant, even with her fiery red hair streaked with what appeared to be... mashed potatoes? She was squaring off with a woman I didn't recognize, who was wearing a dress that mimicked Rachelle's, only a bit less flattering.
At that moment, Gretchen Hargis popped up from under a table, holding a bottle of wine, and flashed me the brightest, most sincere smile. She instantly calmed my nerves. Well, her and the considerable swig I took from the bottle.
"What... the hell happened?" I stammered, still trying to comprehend what I was seeing.
"Jane Babies happened," Gretchen replied with a shrug, a touch of amusement in her voice.
Streaks of gold and orange reflected in the tall building's windows when I finally pulled into the hotel. I took a deep breath, adjusted my wrinkled dress, and tried to channel my "I totally meant to arrive now" vibe.
I walked inside, quickly grabbed my name tag from the desk, and headed toward the sound of muffled music around the corner. I opened the door to an unexpected scene.
Chaos. Complete chaos.
People were shouting, dishes were breaking, and food was flying. I stood there, blinking rapidly in disbelief. Was this some kind of weird performance art?
In the middle of it all, I spotted Rachelle Allen, looking wild, angry, and positively radiant, even with her fiery red hair streaked with what appeared to be... mashed potatoes? She was squaring off with a woman I didn't recognize, who was wearing a dress that mimicked Rachelle's, only a bit less flattering.
At that moment, Gretchen Hargis popped up from under a table, holding a bottle of wine, and flashed me the brightest, most sincere smile. She instantly calmed my nerves. Well, her and the considerable swig I took from the bottle.
"What... the hell happened?" I stammered, still trying to comprehend what I was seeing.
"Jane Babies happened," Gretchen replied with a shrug, a touch of amusement in her voice.
I dodged a meatball and looked around the room. I caught sight of Mrs. KT, Gloria, and Debi attempting to clean with stacks of napkins, while Pam, Karenina, and Sally made an effort to shield them with serving trays. One by one, I started to identify the faces of numerous writers I had come to admire over the past year and a half.
I decided this had to stop. I have often played the role of a peacemaker, someone who attempts to maintain a pleasant atmosphere or, at the very least, divert attention from chaos with some outrageous, nonsensical declaration...
"This food fight is but a metaphor for our struggle as artists!" I shouted into a breadstick like a microphone.
When that didn't work, I figured I'd try my luck reasoning with little Miss Babies herself.
"Ohhh, hey, Jane," I called, forcing a smile. "Think we could, um, tone it down a bit? Maybe even use our words?"
Oops. Apparently, I had no control over the tone of mine.
Jane's face contorted as if I had just suggested she give up sequins forever, and for a second, I thought she might actually slap me with a sirloin. Instead, she scoffed, her overly frosted lipstick catching the harsh light. "Whaaaaat!? Whoooo are yyyyeeeeww?"
I couldn't help it... I laughed. It was a loud, unapologetic, overtired, obnoxious laugh that only slips out when I'm amused beyond belief. Janey Babes didn't seem to find it as funny.
She sneered, eyes narrowing as she tried to size me up. Then her gaze shifted to my name tag.
"I never even heard of yoooou. You loooost?" Jane Babies whined.
Quite satisfied with her "zinger", she swung around, ladle in hand, just as my pal Jim Wile stepped behind her. The ladle caught him square in the nose, and he stumbled backward, arms flailing dramatically before he crashed to the floor with his lasagna.
Oh. No. She. DIDN'T.
"HEY! That's my BEST FRIEND!!!" I shouted.
The room fell silent, but that didn't stop me from removing my hoops, flipping a table (not metaphorically), and going at her Jersey style. The claws came out, and we fought like a couple of cats until Lancelot and SimianSavant finally managed to break it up.
Then, with a shriek that would've made a toddler roll their eyes, Jane Babies stormed out of the room.
~
A room full of writers eventually stopped laughing to start cleaning up. While apologizing profusely to the hotel staff, I felt a tug on my arm and turned to see Jim still sitting on the floor.
"Uhhh... best friend, huh?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.
"That's what I said, Jim," I snapped, offering him a hand.
"Don't fight it."
Multi-Author Book
You need to login or register to write reviews. It's quick! We only ask four questions to new members.
© Copyright 2024. Jessica Wheeler All rights reserved. Registered copyright with FanStory.
Jessica Wheeler has granted FanStory.com, its affiliates and its syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work.