Cons and Pros
(June 21, 2018)
6-Breakfast with Champions
After a sweet, sweet interlude on going to bed, Dipper slept much better than he'd expected. True, his REM sleep teemed with semi-nightmare figures, and at one point he was on stage with a mike in his hand before he realized he'd totally forgotten to put on any clothes, but by and large, he slept soundly. And he woke up, as he almost always did, a few minutes before five AM, swung his legs off the bed, and—this time—thought he would die.
"Arggghh!"
"What's the matter?" Wendy asked softly, making him wince.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, slumping, and holding his skull together with both hands, he replied, "I have a horrible headache. Ow!"
Wendy sat beside him, bare and warm, and nuzzled his cheek. "That's a champagne head, dork. You have a touch of hangover."
"A touch! Ow! My head's thumping!"
She nudged him. "Get up and let's hit the showers."
"Just let me die here."
Wendy chuckled. "Dude, I've got more than a twinge myself. But my Dad knows how to deal with this, and I learned his techniques. Come on—you know why we have hangovers?"
"Because we drank wine and I'm definitely not—ow! Used to it?"
"No," Wendy said seriously. "God gave us hangovers so people who live in California will know what it feels like to be in Oregon in February."
He laughed a little, though laughing hurt. He permitted himself to be rousted out of bed—he and Wendy were both dressed for the shower, her fishnets left behind in the tangled sheets—and after insisting that he take two acetaminophen tablets with a full glass of water and doing the same herself, Wendy experimented with the shower temperature controls. The warm-nearly-hot water rushed in from all sides, except none of it was aimed at the door. "In we go. I'll scrub your back, you do mine."
OK, he had to admit that despite the headache, that process was very pleasant. The shower had an array of dispensers—five kinds of shower gel, two different shampoos, three different conditioners. One of the gels had a piney scent, and with a soft washcloth and even better her hands, Wendy soaped him up and rubbed him down. Well, mostly down.
Though still too shaky and achy to be in the mood, he became definitely interested and as they rinsed, he asked, "Do I remember our session last night right? We did things, um, in new ways."
She was behind him, her wet flesh pressed against his back, her arms around him, and so she didn't bother speaking. You remember right, Dip. That's what alcohol does—drops the barriers, lowers your inhibitions. Any regrets?
—No! You?
Are you kidding, man? I want to try all that again. Maybe twice! Only not right now. I'm gonna turn off the water and we have to get out for the next stage of the cure.
When they had dried themselves, Wendy surprised him by digging his running shorts and a tee shirt from her bag. "Dress out," she said, tossing them to him. "Just 'cause we're on vacation doesn't mean you aren't going to exercise!"
"How?" he asked, though he began putting on his running togs.
"There's a workout room on the top floor. We're heading there, but first come with me. A little stop on the way."
She led him down the hall, and he began to smell breakfast aromas. He hadn't even looked at the amenities list, but halfway down their hall the Hardling offered an enhanced Continental breakfast room: cold cereals, juices, milk, coffee, pastries, and fruit, plus waffle makers and an omelet station. "We'll be back to eat later," Wendy said. "First, get this down." She handed him a tall, full glass of OJ. "You have to stay hydrated, that's rule number one. Also, champagne tends to screw with your blood sugar, so this will give you some pep." They didn't clink rims, but both downed about twelve ounces of juice.
Dressed in their running garb, they rode the express elevator all the way to the top floor, and there, handy to the elevator niche, lay a well-appointed workout room—weight machines, stationary bikes, resistance machines, and treadmills. A couple of middle-aged guys were using two of the bikes, but everything else was open.
Dipper had used a few treadmills, though he much preferred open running. He and Wendy got on side-by-side machines and started off at a comfortable jog without much incline. At first Dipper thought I can't do this, but Wendy was a good coach and a good role model, and gradually he began to think he might survive. The view was glorious, looking out over the bay—unusually clear because a cool front had slipped through in the night, blue water and greenery on Coronado on the far side of the sailboat-notched bay.
After ten minutes, Wendy asked, "How's the headache, Dip?"
"Better," he said.
"Then let's kick it up." They adjusted the incline and speed and soon were running in the long-legged lope that they favored on their morning runs. True, the hangover came back a bit—when Dipper's pulse rate rose, so did the throbbing—but it was nothing he couldn't deal with. In forty minutes they'd logged five miles, and so they slowed down, cooled down, and got off panting.
"You didn't have a headache?" Dipper asked.
"Sure I did," she said, grinning. "But I've had 'em twice before, so I know how to push through them. I'm a flippin' Corduroy, man. Back to the room. We're all hot and sweaty."
Which called for another, slower, shower, and they found out they could do delightful things standing up, with Wendy pressed against a wall and Dipper pressed against Wendy. Perhaps another few inhibitions fell by the wayside, who can tell. It was . . . well, a workout of a different kind, with a really fantastic finish line.
Which called for a little more showering.
This time they got dressed for the day. Someone tapped on the adjoining door, and since they were both decent, clothed except for a lack of shoes, Dipper opened it. Mabel zombie-trudged in. "I'm sick," she moaned. "Condition critical."
"Headache?" Wendy guessed. "Furry tongue? Nausea?"
"A virus?" Mabel asked. Man, her eyes were red.
"Nope. That's the toxic remains of wine swimming around in your blood. How's Teek?"
She shook her head in slow motion. "He's OK. He only had two glasses of wine, and they weren't even full."
"We got this," Wendy said. "Here's what you do—here, take two of these pills with a big glass of water. Right now." When she had, Wendy said, "OK, now go to your room and get showered and dressed. There's a free breakfast bar just down the hall—"
"I don't think I can eat." Mabel looked appalled even as she said those unhallowed words.
"She's right. Her condition's critical," Dipper said.
"We're gonna get fluids in you, anyway," Wendy said. "You've got to watch out for dehydration, that makes it worse. Fifteen minutes. Get ready!"
Mabel dragged out. A quarter of an hour later, with her wearing her star sweater and Teek the blue one she had made, the four of them went to the breakfast room, where, oh my gosh, Mabel jerked as though she'd stepped on a live power cable, because at the omelet bar stood Bradon Petersen and Kirsten Stephens, the two actors who were the main stars of the Dusklight series of vampire films.
The sight so bedazzled Mabel that Dipper and Teek took care of seating her—at a table next to the actors'—and brought to her a glass of water, a tall glass of orange juice, and a full cup of coffee dosed with cream and sugar, along with a bowl of Crunchy Cornies with milk and a toasted bagel with a shmear of cream cheese and on the side a tiny cup of sour cherry preserves.
Mabel gulped the juice almost all at once and then squeaked, "Do you know who that is?"
"Sure," Teek said, his own breakfast—an egg, cheese, and ham omelet and a croissant, with cranberry juice and coffee –on the table and sitting next to Mabel. He called out, "Hi, guys! My fiancée loves your movies."
The two looked resigned but smiled and both said "Thanks."
"I love your movies!" Mabel said. "Wait, somebody said that already. Hi, I'm Mabel Pines. This is Teek O'Grady. I'm gonna marry him. We're here for the Granite Rapids premiere."
Kirsten brightened up. "Really? I've seen the promos for that! I hear it's going to be fantastic. I know some of the voice actors. Are you a pro?"
"Naturally!" Mabel said. "No. Well, sort of. Oh, here's my brother. He's a writer. He writes books. His books are about Granite Rapids. I'm talking like a first grader. I'm thrilled to see you! I manage him. He's Dipper Pines, but he writes under the name of Edbert Culler."
"He uses the name of my character?" the actor asked, blinking in surprise. He wasn't nearly as pale as he appeared in the movies.
"No," Dipper said. "Hi, yes, I'm her brother, and no, she's wrong, my pen name is Stan Mason. This is my wife Wendy."
Now Petersen looked really impressed. He stood up and said, "Wendy! So great to meet you! Uh, both!"
Mabel had just stopped herself from face-planting in her cereal bowl. She took a big gulp of coffee and said, "My brain's not awake yet! I'm so sorry I'm making a fool of myself. We won't bother you. Any more, I mean. Mabel eats now."
That amused the actors, and Kirsten said, "You're not that bad, and it is way early. Hey, we have a panel at ten where we're going to show some advance scenes from the next Dusklight. Come to the green room about a half-hour early, and we can chat when you're awake."
"Autographs?" Mabel asked weakly.
"Eight by tens, personalized, in permanent marker," Stephens assured her. "On the house!"
"Normally we ask twenty dollars each for them," Kirsten said. "It goes to charity."
"We'll donate," Dipper said. "Mabel, don't sit there with your spoon dribbling cereal, eat. She'll be better. It takes her a while to wake up, and we had a busy night."
"Tell us about it," Stephens said. "We were being interviewed at midnight! I mean, just 'cause I play a vampire doesn't mean I keep vampire hours."
Both parties ate and chatted a little. Dipper nearly choked up, though, when the author of the Gooseflesh series came in, alone, for a Danish and coffee. The actors knew him and asked him over, and Dipper found himself nearly as awed as Mabel had been. S. M. Kline had at one time been his favorite author, and now he sat only three feet away, and he ate a Danish just like a person.
To his surprise, Kirsten introduced Kline to Dipper, Wendy, Mabel, and Teek. "Oh, sure," the writer said. "I've read a couple of your Granite Rapids books. You've got quite a character in that Manny! Funniest con artist I've ever read about. Kids are well-drawn, too. Congratulations."
"You're welcome," Dipper said. "Uh, I mean thank you. I mean, I'm kinda star-struck!"
Winking, Kline said, "You're young yet. But as you write more, you'll find that all us writers pull our techniques out of the same bag of tricks. Something I'll suggest to you, free of charge. I like your characters and your setting, but you can juice up the suspense in one simple way. Want to know it?"
"S-sure," Dipper said.
"OK, when you get to the last page of a chapter in your first draft, take a pen and draw a circle around the final paragraph. Then when you revise, cut that paragraph and revise it as needed to make it the first one of the next chapter. That creates a page turner!"
"Wow," Dipper said. "I'll remember that!"
That might have been true—but by the time they set out for the Brangwen Books booth, Dipper could no longer recall what he'd had for breakfast. However, he—and Mabel, he noticed—both seemed to be feeling better, so they dived into their second day at the con.
To be continued