The Dream World Collective

107. Lay Down the Law

By 10:00 the keg was empty, a second boombox in the living room was blasting cheap R&B against the dance beats shaking the sitting room, and a few dozen beery students had wandered in to take the place of the half-dozen who had straggled out early. Zen leaned listlessly against a couple making out on the crowded spiral stairs, dragging a finger along the carpet.

"What do we do, Otto?"

"What?" shouted Otto over the competing beats.

"What do we—I said, what—Never mind." He waved a hand irritably and slouched back against the anonymous girl, who remained oblivious to his presence. Zen had finally conceded within himself that there was no salvaging the party. For someone who lived in a world of perpetual potential, it was a depressing conclusion.

Zen found joy in most of his experiences, and even when things started to go wrong, his endless hopes for a positive redirection usually kept him buoyant long past the point where others gave up. But on those rare occasions where things went completely, finally, undeniably wrong, it hit him much harder than it did the realists around him. He snatched a nearby half-bottle of beer and took a despondent swig.

The front door opened, and Zen's head dropped back in despair. People had been trickling in for hours, and the house had grown more drunk and disorderly with every arrival. Otto flapped a hand against his shin. He swung his head around.

"What?"

It was Alex.

Zen leapt to his feet. Alex's eyes were shadowy with exhaustion.

"Alex! What kept you?"

Alex took in the dancers, drunks, and drowsy make-outs with a swift, sweeping gaze, and ran a hand over his face. "What's all this?"

"It got out of hand," said Zen. "I can't get them to—"

"Right. I need to sleep. Let's just—Here." Alex stalked into the kitchen and emerged after a few moments carrying a small bucket. He plunged into the slow-dancing living room crowd and yanked the boombox plug out of the wall, which drew a sloppy roar of protest. He flicked the lights a few times to get peoples' attention.

"Hope you've all had a good time," he shouted, "but the party is over. All we're asking for is a few bucks in the bucket to cover the booze. Bundle up, don't drive, stay safe, but get out. Everyone got it?" He started passing the bucket. A few college students began blearily fishing wads of bills out of their pockets and purses. The doorbell rang. Alex yanked it open.

"Yes?" he snapped. Zen drifted to his side, while Otto cowered behind them. A broad-shouldered man with a thick red beard stood before them, arms crossed, forehead creased in an angry frown.

"My kids are trying to sleep," he growled. "Please turn down the noise."

"Are you—" Alex pointed vaguely next door, toward Jen's house.

"Cliff Staten. I think you've met my wife."

Zen slipped past Alex and offered his hand.

"Zen. And this is Alex and Otto."

Cliff gave his hand a single firm shake, but he remained silent and his expression did not soften.

"Jen says you seem like good kids," he rumbled. "I don't want to make things hard on you, but this is not acceptable. Ok?"

Zen was just about to respond when, with a piercing chirp and an ominous flicker of lights, a police car pulled up in front of the house. Alex swore.