Okay, so what’s really pathetic is I found myself lying awake last night thinking out plots, and being all excitified about getting up in the morning and writing another episode. Which, like, only reflects what a freak I am at heart. No matter. I must heed my muse!
“Showers of Happiness”, another special Dwanollah episode.
Scene: the Peach Pit. Willie Mach II or whoever is behind the counter frying up bacon, eggs and pancakes, and two nameless PP waitresses are bustling around the joint laden with full plates. Over in the corner booth, the whole BH gang has gathered for a breakfast pow-wow. We the TV Viewers know this, because Nat and his coffeepot are making the rounds, and Nat says to the Hillsters “Hey, you guys here for a breakfast pow-wow or something?”
And hail, hail, the gang’s all here! There’s Brando, in one of his 12 Different Separates ensembles, Kelly dressed like the Politician’s Wife, but two sizes too small in an Itty Bitty (TM me... that makes me feel soooo important!) black pinstriped suit with Perfectly Matching Accessories, and Donna in one of her own creations (something out of Mylar, probably) that is too low-cut and too short and too skimpy and reveals her rather... um... abnormally long sternum. And there’s Stevie, in one of his No-Straight-Guy-Would-Ever-Wear-*That* skin-tight white turtlenecks and brown pleather jackets, and Davy “Dub” Silver in his Pretty Fly for a White Guy ultra-baggy baggies worn with a pair of baggies and a baggie over it all.
“Something like that,” Stevie confirms Nat’s observation, helping himself to another piece of toast and trying to ignore the longing in Nat’s gaze.
‘Yes, we have so much to do this week,” chimes in Kelly. “There’s Noah’s trial...” and she sighs piteously, but that’s nothing compared to Donna, who is all but crumpled on the Formica countertop, so distraught that her burgundy-gold-streaky-whatever hair is only pulled back in a ponytail instead of twisted with four hundred and sixty-two bobby pins in a monstrous construction of curls. Kelly reaches to pat Donna’s bony shoulder blade and Donna’s sticky lips separate as she manages a pathetic little “Thanks, Kel” and a bleat.
“And our custody hearing,” adds Brandon “Bran the Man” Walsh, puffing up his shoulders
“And, ah, we have a meeting with Devon Dean, ah, later this morning,” says Davy, twitching, laughing, and shifting around in his seat.
“How’s your little girlfriend holding up?” Nat asks Stevie, trying to mask his jealous rivalry with concern.
Stevie shifts into Caring Boyfriend Mode, because underneath all of his boyish capers and comic buffoonery, he’s really such a sensitive and loyal soul, isn’t he? “She’s hanging in there. She’s been going for counseling at the Rape Crisis Center, you know, the one Valerie just funded? Val’s made sure that there’s always someone there for Kara to talk to.”
“Yes, it was very *noble* of Valerie, wasn’t it,” interjects Kelly, which is not just like the pot calling the kettle black, but like the pot calling the kettle a black, cast-iron cooking instrument with a lid and handles.
Stevie scowls at Kelly. “This whole ordeal has been really hard on Kara, Kelly. Why don’t you lay off?”
And Donna snips back “Why don’t *you* lay off Noah, Steve? I told you, he didn’t do anything wrong. What happened was a mistake!”
And Brandon “Adolf” Walsh takes charge and says “Noah did a really terrible thing but nobody thinks he's a criminal, Donna. C’mon, we’re all friends here.”
And somehow this placates everyone, and the whole time Nat is just hovering with his coffee pot.
So Brandon smoothes everything over nicely with a segue into the upcoming Custody Battle, which distracts Kelly, who begins chirping about wedding things and baby things.
And the Pit’s front door opens with a merry tinkling of bells, and in swoops Devon Dean, looking like Steve Sanders at age 50, his dyed-blond cherub curls coifed, his baby-round face lightly powdered, his parrot-gold suit, print shirt and red tie suitably bright but businesslike. “Good morning, good morning” he enthuses, coming thisclose to calling them “darlings” which, of course, would be entirely inappropriate for a breakfast meeting, no? And everyone greets Devon Dean, the OPBs with particular enthusiasm, chortling about business at Peachy’s and all the moo-lah they’re raking in and Nat’s looking increasingly hurt, but it only gets worse when DD flutters a ringed hand in his direction and says “Mr . Bussichio , would you please have someone send an orange juice with club soda and a selection of fresh fruit and pastries to my office? I have business to attend to this morning.”
“Yeah, we’ve got that meeting,” say the OPBs, starting to get up from the table.
But DD says “Hold your seats, gentlemen. First, I need a few minutes to speak with Ms. Martin here.”
And Donna looks up from her prostate position on the table. “Me? Um, uh, well, *sure*” she babbles in a small attempt at Donnantics despite her inner turmoil.
And DD grandly holds out his arm in the direction of Peachy’s, and says “My office, then, dear?” smiling widely, leading Donna away and leaving Nat behind to do his bidding.
Scene: a Mexican villa, the dining room. A long trestle table with heavy, carved chairs dominates the center of the room. One entire wall is covered with frescoes, while the other walls are lined with colorful weavings, pottery, rustic artwork. Several majestic iron candelabras and sconces are ranged around the perimeter of the room, and on the table, the heavy bowls of fruit are flanked by more wrought-iron candlesticks. Tony Marchette is seated there, at the head of the table, with only Bruno to his left, as two stout Mexican women silently bring in the hot albondigas soup, the enchiladas topped with sliced black olives, the corn-husk-covered tamales, the sopas and empañadas and rice and fresh guacamole, all served in bright, heavy ceramic dishes. “Señor Marchette,” the servants say, with small bows, as they leave him to his meal. Lifelessly, Marchette shakes out his thick napkin, catching a glimpse of the empty place-setting to his right.
Bruno, seeing this, says softly “Give him time, Mr. Marchette. Just give him time.”
Marchette sighs again. “Yes, yes, you’re right,” he says, picking up his fork. But as he does, a shadow fills the doorway. Dylan McKay, in a crisp white shirt and tan jacket, hesitates on the threshold.
Marchette’s eyes come alive, and he half-rises from his seat. “Dylan,” he says. “We would be honored if you would join us.”
Bruno nods his encouragement, and Dylan crosses the room to sit at Marchette’s right.
“Maria, Consuela,” calls Marchette, “fill my son’s plate, por favor,” he instructs, trying to hide his obvious delight.
“Gracias,” rasps Dylan McKay- ah, Dylan McKay Marchette.