The Very Unreal Tea Party

It was likely the booze I’d ingested that made me say “Yes” to the joint.

Not my smartest move.

Whether the joint was just seriously strong or something laced with something else, I started to see things.

All kinds of things.

A part of me thought I had fallen asleep and was dreaming,

And maybe I was.

But it all felt real.

Well, except for the wacky technicolor tinge to everything and the table expanding out of nowhere, fully dressed for a tea party.

And the Mad Hatter.

Wait.

What the fuck?

Yeah. I was sitting at the tea party from Alice in Wonderland. The Disney version, mind you: goofy whimsical music in the background, the dishware all sentient in a cutesy, non-threatening way.

The March Hare was trying to stuff the Dormouse into a teapot.

“What in the drug-trip Lewis Carrol is going on?”

I turned to my right to see who had spoken.

Slouching, yet incredibly awkward and uncomfortable in her brand-new jersey, jeans and sneakers, there sat a young woman who looked vaguely familiar. Like a faded memory.

She turned to look at me and recognized a comrade in confusion.

“Do you feel like you’re in the wrong story, too?”

The wrong story!

That was it!

She was exactly what I had pictured for…

“By any chance, is your name Melody? I asked.

She raised an eyebrow.

“Do I know you?”

I couldn’t contain the slightest laugh.

“Well … I know you,” I said.

Her eyes scanned me up and down.

“Have me met?”

“We haven’t,” said the Mad Hatter, butting in. “It would be common courtesy to introduce yourself to the group before partaking of tea.”

She gave him a snotty glare. “My name is Melody. I don’t drink tea. And you’re not real.”

The Hatter and March Hare gasped in unison, eyes widening like saucers. In fact, the saucers’ eyes widened as well.

“How rude!” spat the Hatter.

“Uncouth!” cried the Hare.

“And a touch hypocritical,” I added.

Melody turned to give me a sneering face.

“Excuse me?” she challenged.

“Well, I hate to break it to you, but you’re a character in a novel I haven’t finished.”

Melody scoffed, dramatically.

“That is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard!”

“But it’s true,” I said.

“I think I would know whether or not I was real,” she quipped.

“And I think we would know whether we were real,” volleyed the Hatter.

Pointing to the Hatter and then to herself, Melody declared: “You’re not real; I am.”

“None of you are real,” I clarified.

The tiny teapot nearest to me started to cry.

“I’m sorry,” I said, aiming to consol the little fellow.

The flatware looked agitated, the forks curling their tines, nervously. The butter began to curdle. The sugar liked none of this but lumped all the same.

Suddenly, the Dormouse popped his head out from the larger teapot into which he he’d been stuffed so unceremoniously.

“May I ask a question?” he tried.

“NO!” barked the Hatter and Hare as one.

“Of course you may,” I countered.

“Well,” the diminutive mouse said. “How does anyone ever really know if they’re real? I mean if the Hatter and the Hare believe they are but are not, and if this young lady believes she is but is not, then how do you, sir, know whether you are real or not?”

I sat still.

Flummoxed.

The Hatter and Hare smirked and sipped their tea, watching me squirm.

“Well,” I finally managed. “This is all my dream.”

Melody gave me a rather loud and wet Bronx cheer.

“How do you know it’s not my dream?” she argued.

“Because,” I said as I wiped her spittle from my cheek. “You’re a figment of my imagination! You can’t dream unless I write one for you!”

“Unreal!” she exclaimed, throwing up her hands.

“Indeed!” said the Hare.

“We are all unreal,” agreed the Hatter. “You as much as any of us!  Maybe more so!”

“Sorry, but when I wake up, you’ll all be gone.”

“Nonsense,” said the Hatter. “We go on forever! Our tea party never ends! Someone will always be joining us, just as you have. Just as they always have since we first began! Unlike you, my friend, who will one day be seen as the illusion you are: gone and forgotten like a whisp of a cloud on a sunny day, disappearing into nothing.”

He turned to Meldoy. A slightly softer tone.

“As will you, I’m afraid, my dear. Even sooner, since this supposed, self-proclaimed author cannot even finish your story!”

Melody looked at me, her anger subdued by her sadness. I felt it in my chest, deep and aching.

“Tut, tut,” the Hatter continued. “Do not wallow in the despair of your forgettable insignificance. Celebrate the moment! We are here, now, at this fine table, with this lovely tea all set out to enjoy. Partake! Relish the moment! Honor it with grace and gratitude and let it fill your lives! That is what to do! What say you, my most welcome guests at the table today?”

I turned to Melody.

“I wouldn’t mind a biscuit.”

She gave me a small smile.

“Me either.”

We turned to face the party and partook.

Perhaps we are all mad. All unreal.

But we are here.

Why not enjoy the party?