Over at Dawson's, the little red light on the machine blinks and blinks.
The Party That Would Not End. Jen sits outside, alone. Drinking. She's knocking one back when a cute scruffy guy approaches her. It's Tristan from Gilmore Girls, only grungier, and, you know, not in prep school. Jen won't even let him speak. "No, not interested," she says, cutting him off at the pass. So to speak. "'No, not interested' in what?" Tristan asks. How does Jen know he's not coming over to ask her what time it is, or if she's seen a redheaded girl on a unicycle, or because she's sitting on his hat? "In whatever you're selling, pal," Jen says. "Okay, I didn't even say anything," Tristan points out, grinning. "You were about to give me your best opening line, like, 'hey girl,' which, word to the wise, is neither interesting nor charming," Jen responds. "Then you could follow it up with the perennial classic, 'You know what would look really good on you? Me.'" Tristan laughs, amazed that people actually say such awkward and silly things. He also claims he's "not that guy." Ah, but he is the kind of guy who thinks he's not a certain kind of guy, which is and of itself a kind of guy. Jen keeps yapping about…I don't know, guys who take advantage of drunken girls or something? She lost me around "pal." "Okay. You're crazy," Tristan says. "Which is not entirely unappealing. But I'm not that guy either." Jen wonders, if he's not that guy, and he's not that other guy, why he's at the party at all. Tristan informs her grungily that he's in the band. Oh, he's that guy, the guy in the band! "We got paid fifty bucks to play! And fifty bucks is fifty bucks, lady," he points out. What's with all the "pals" and "ladies" in here? It's like I fell into a Damon Runyon story or something. Without, naturally, the snappy writing. Whatever. Jen twitters that the band was good, and Tristan thanks her, and wonders what, "pray tell," she's doing at the party besides "scowling into her beer." Jen grins up at him. "Scowling can be fun," she says. I'm going to embroider that onto a series of pillows and distribute them to my fellow recappers for the upcoming holidays. Tristan nods and turns to take off, then turns back and looks at her for a moment. "Alls [sic] I was going to say was 'Hi, my name's Charlie, what's yours?'" And then he says some shit about how frat boys are creeps, and the girls are worse, and she's really cute, and he hopes the fratty folks don't procreate, and the non-fratty folks are going to have to "fight the good fight" to make sure the fratty don't take over the world. Or something. He's pretty. At this, Jen grins. "Charlie? Jen. My name's Jen." Charlie looks back at her, and nods and then leaves. As he goes, Jack approacheth. "What are you smiling about?" he asks. Jen blushes. "Shut up," she says.
West Coast. The Song Of The Lowly Intern Who Managed To Get Fired On His First Day plays as Dawson plods through the lot and out into the cold hard world. He can't escape without a little chit-chat with Folksy Security Guard, of course. Folksy wants to know how Dawson's first day went. Dawson breaks the bad news. "There are worse things," Folksy muses. Not at the moment, Dawson whines. More painfully dull chatter with Folksy, during the course of which Folksy reveals that he's from Boston himself, and offers to call Dawson a cab. Also, Dawson whines about the death of his great dream of a glorious career in cinema, but I think I'm correct when I say that no one cares about that little speech, correct? All righty, then. We'll just wrap this scene up by saying that Dawson stares mournfully into space and waits for one of Los Angeles's three taxis to come and fetch him and take him home, where he can attempt to reassemble the shattered pieces of his shallow life.