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I make my way downstairs from my room to the karaoke feeling weirdly bad.
Weirdly bad because I just got off a call with my boss. I still hadn't made up my mind about whether I wanted to accept his constant nagging and move to Australia for a year or two, but in the irony of all ironies, that option has been taken off the table.
At least temporarily.
I'm needed in New York for a month of internal training that starts next week. Legal requested it apparently due to some unexpected changes in agricultural legislation, then HR decided to tack on a workplace culture refresh program, and concerns about AI have been raised, which need to be 'workshopped,' so basically, I'm in for a four-week snooze fest.
Even if I wanted to stay in Australia, I can't.
Which means, I have to leave the day after tomorrow. I have toleave Wilbythe day after tomorrow.
I'm… I'm not ready for that.
At. All.
I hear something.
A wail, followed by a howly string ofooohsandaaahs, and, oh my god, is Wilby butchering yet another Katy Perry song?
I traipse through the bar, getting closer and closer to the sound that's truly a crime against humanity. The only upside is that at least he's never forced me to sing. Karaoke is so not my thing, not even when I'm blind drunk. Nope, I am perfectly comfortable sitting over here in my judgmental chair, critiquing him harshly like I'm on the panel of a reality TV singing contest, because between you and me, my voice is ten times worse than his. I just have the good sense to not inflict it on an unsuspecting public.
I reach the karaoke area and the place is packed, just like it was last time I was here. The whole scene has a very déjà vu vibe going on. Wilby rocking out on the stage—still wearing a shirt, which I'm hoping is a temporary situation—and the crowd of locals going apeshit over him.
Is there something in the water in Scuttlebutt that affects people's hearing? How can they be enjoying this? And why has no one taken him aside and told him how bad he is?
I glance back over at the stage. Wilby's using the musical breakdown to step away from the mic and start dancing.
Badly.
So, so badly.
Arms flailing, head bopping from side to side in a way that would worry any chiropractor in the audience, hips gyrating weirdly… Oh, and none of this is matching the beat of the song because why would it?
It looks like a mess.
But he's happy.
No. Scratch that. Wilby looks like he's having the time of his life.
Amping up the crowd by raising his arms overhead, smiling widely like he's the headliner at a concert in Madison Square Garden. Just…being.
He is so fucking in the moment that heisthe moment.
That's when it hits me like a smack in the face.
All these people, why they're jumping and dancing and hollering. They're feeding off his energy. He's making them feel what he's feeling.Ifeel what he's feeling.
I feel joy.
I feel alive.
I feel connected.
Wilby may have a terrible voice, but singing doesn't come from your vocal cords, it comes from your heart. And as his ill-fated attempt at the running man morphs into an arthritic robot, it's plain to see no one's got more heart than Wilby Linfox.
The song finishes, his shirt stays on, and thunderous applause rings in my ears as Wilby makes his way through the crowd to me.
I loop my arms over his shoulders. "You were fantastic."
