Fun Times At The Silver Swan [open]

[WILBUR HICKS]

Wilbur just wanted toe at something fancy for once in his life so he could write hom to his fri great time he was having in N THEM ALL ABOUT THE GREAT TIME HE WAS HAVING IN NYC and how he had really shaped up and gotten his act together and all that jazz and how he was there in the city eating fancy things all day ever day because that's what people in the city did. He had set his sights on the fabled Eggs Benedict made with holly days sauce. He was sure that he would hate it, but he'd stomach it anyway because he was a man and would eat anything any day because that'd how manly he was. Nothing would stand in his way!

It had all started out innocent enough. He could hardly be blamed for how things ended up. He'd gone to the fanciest joint in the city, The Silver Swan, which was where ALL the famous people went to get fancy dinners and, Wilbur presumed, breakfast because anyone who was anyone had to eat fancy breakfast to start their day off with the best possible level of class and fanciness right?

He supposed that he probably ought to have put on something a bit nicer than the mud-stained cutoff jeans and the gross t-shirt he'd dug up somewhere, but that hadn't occurred to him when he began the adventure. Why couldn't he just get his fancy eggs and be on his way!?

Wilbur had confidently marched straight up to the head waiter and asked to be seated. Nevermind the fact that it was 1:30 in the afternoon on a Saturday and that all the tables were full! He was gonna get his eggs, by God!

It had come as an utter shock when the head waiter merely shook his head at him and, with a most SNOOTALICIOUS expression told Wilbur that he'd have to join the others in the waiting area for upwards of an hour.

It was an outrage!

Rather than waiting around with the rest of the sad sacks that had been stuck into the room to wait for their food or die trying, Wilbur busted out. He was no animal to be locked in a room! Running through the restaurant, Wilbur really didn't have a plan to work with, or even any sort of idea about what he was doing. It was just natural for him, running from the law and whatnot. This was what he was made for.

Snapping food up off the tables as he ran, Wilbur was like the wind, whipping through before anyone knew what hit them. A hunk of bread found its way into his hand and he gobbled it happily, shrilly cackling as he made his way through the restaurant, startling all the snootypants at their snooty tables.

Wilbur saw a door and immediately knew he had found the perfect getaway exit. He'd be home free! Dashing through, he immediately found himself trapped in a blazing hot room of flashing flames dancing on stainless steel and filled with steam.

Damnit! The Kitchen!

It wasn't long after that that Wilbur was captured by the conniving villains who called themselves waiters. Escorted back out of the restaurant, Wilbur felt he was unjustly manhandled. As they reached the main entrance, Wilbur muttered, mostly for his own benefit, "Jeez, the bread wasn't even that good." This little stunt, however, apparently warranted a rough shove from one of the strapping lads, sending him tumbling down the stairs and onto the sidewalk, tangled up in a heap.

[TANYA NIEBIESKI]

LALA CLOTHES

Ordinarily, Saturday afternoons at 1:30 meant nothing more or less than work. The maddeningly consistent lunchtime rush at the Fishbowl meant an almost guaranteed shift once a week, ten to six, followed by a nasty subway ride home either with or without Jonie back to their apartment. Or, well, technically his apartment, but God knew she spent enough time cleaning it that it might as well have been hers. Or theirs. But probably hers.

On this particular Saturday, however, 1:30 in the afternoon meant nothing more or less than a pizza run. She didn’t mind, though she could have used the money. She could always use the money. For things like…pizza. And coffee. And those fun little neon rubber bands that were shaped like animals that she’d secretly wanted for a long time but hadn’t had the inclination or time or thirty-five cents to actually purchase at the Walgreens check-out counter. Though really, she’d just been staving off buying those for as long as possible so as to keep herself from becoming addicted. Because she would. Easily. And no doubt Jonie would mock her for wearing them, and then she’d roll her eyes at him for being addicted to something far worse, and he would know exactly what she’d meant although she hadn’t said it and then eventually, all that would come of the purchase would be a bunch of broken, animal-shaped rubber bands and several welts on her best friend’s face from where she’d snapped them against his skin in the sort of spitfire burst of rage that would leave cartoon characters’ hair standing on end. And then, no doubt, he’d get upset.

Yes, pizza was probably a much safer option for everyone involved. Besides, going for pizza meant walking, enjoying the crispness of spring in the city (or well, the imagined crispness of it—there was nothing particularly refreshing about New York City air) as the sounds of incessant car horns and cell-phone absorbed people and chatting prepubescents marched their way by her in a disorderly mob. She liked the city, really. It was fun. When she wasn’t working.

Taking an unusually long route that involved passing by some of the fancier restaurants this side of town, Tanya’s hands found their way comfortably into her pockets as she strolled, vibrant blue hair earning her several disapproving stares from some of the more snot-nosed shoppers on this particular street. No one was staring at her quite so much, however, as they were someone else; a boy, sprawled on the sidewalk as though he’d just tumbled there mere seconds before. Tanya blinked, stopping dead in her tracks for a moment to stare in mixed disbelief and, dare she admit it, slight amusement. It was a bit funny, honestly, in the same sort of way as any instance to laugh at another person’s misery was slightly funny. And then there was his dirtiness. The messy, slightly ginger hair (poor kid was already doomed), the ripped jeans and clearly disheveled t-shirt only added to the picture of misery and ironic hilarity that was probably this child’s life. So she couldn’t just stand there. And it was her day off, after all. Pizza could wait. Taking the ten steps forward, Tanya crouched down about a foot away from the stranger, brow knit slightly as she spoke, concerned voice contrasting quite wildly with both her bright hair and slightly off-kilter outfit. “Hey, Kid. You alright?”