When the world can no longer offer anything, suddenly everyone has something to offer. Those who can cook provides meal for the community. Those who can build try their best to restore what’s left. Those who aren’t particularly good at anything, offer all sorts of odd services. Once, Bee got her jacket sewn by an old lady, for the cost of listening to one song. She didn’t want to listen to the whole album, even when Bee offered it- just one song over and over and over until she finished sewing all the holes in her jacket. Bee never forgets the song- it’s Cyndi Lauper’s Girls Just Want To Have Fun.

And now, that song is playing on the wedding- as requested by the bride and her bridesmaids. This could’ve been perfect for their bachelorette night instead, but Bee’s not gonna complain for a month supply of provision.

Bee looks in the mirror, which is leaning against the only wall in the gym showers that still stands after the earthquake. The rest of the walls are gone and it’s cool enough that the party guests ‘outside’ try their best to ignore anyone ‘in’ the bathroom, or whatever’s left of it. That assures Bee, as she quickly focuses back on her reflection. Her hair is still tied into a bun up there, so that’s nice. There are no holes on her jackets, and her boots are mud-free. Overall she looks good, for someone who hasn’t showered for two weeks. But for a wedding, she needs something special. So she takes out her luxurious baby wipe from her backpack and dabs all the soots away from her face, neck and any visible part of the skin on her body.

“Are you done playin dressup?” Arny shows up on the part of the wall where the lockers used to be, “They said they want you to change the song.”

“In a sec!” Bee packs her things before immediately following Arny back to the main party hall.

If it wasn’t the post-apocalypse, this wedding could’ve been a beautiful pool-side evening party with soft lights reflected on the calm water and across the windows. But the pool has long dried and an ominous-looking crack can even be seen splitting the bottom ceramic tiles. The couple is wise enough to put their limited numbers of candles elsewhere where the view is more pleasant.

“If you’re lookin for me, I’ll be by the fish stand!” Arny waves at Bee without looking, scurrying back into the crowd around the buffet table.

Bee hauls her backpack upstairs, careful not to step too hard on the wooden plank replacements. One of the groom’s bestmen is still standing around the tiny boombox and Cyndi Lauper inside, faithfully guarding it with all his life while Bee freshened up downstairs.

“Hey, thanks. I’ll take it from here.” Bee says, sitting before the boombox as she does. The song is almost over and it’s about time for the slow dance.

To Bee’s surprise, the bestman joins her on the floor. “Do you mind?”

“Just don’t touch my bag, don’t try to steal, and I’m not open for negotiations tonight.” she recites her rules flatly while measuring the man from head to toe- it’s almost fall and he’s wearing open-toe mountain sandals. Other than the sleeveless tux and that suspiciously greasy hair, the guy looks almost completely harmless, and to some extent, even puppy-like. Bee hasn’t seen a lot of puppy-eyed humans lately. They either look scared, trying to be tough, or overly kind with a hidden motive.

“I won’t, I won’t. I know I have to at least bring something worth your CDs for a deal, no worries,” he shakes his head a little too excitedly, and Bee’s sole concern is if whatever oil he’s putting up on his head would splatter to the CD she’s opening right now.

As if reading her signals, he keeps his distance while Bee is trying to find the track for the dance. For a while the whole building is filled with the sound of chatters and murmurs downstairs, and occasional ‘thankyous’ can be heard from the bride and groom. The whirring sound from the generator gets louder and louder with the absence of a song.

“Bee? Is everything okay up there?” the bride, Jenna, can be heard from below.

“You guys better get into positions!” Bee replies before finally pressing play.

                            'Last dance… 
                            Last chance for love….’

Bee takes a peek through the handrails: one by one the guests begin to couple up downstairs. Last Dance by Donna Summer, a cute choice, and it’s actually the groom’s idea. Bee always loves how the slow ballad at the beginning is just a cover for the full-on fun disco beat for the rest of the song.

“How,” the oily bestman speaks again, “…do you, umm, how do you feel about owning your own generator?”

“Huh?”

He points to the clunky generator behind them, “I have more of them in my place. Plenty more. Some guy left them before moving out of the neighborhood to join the family program.”

“And?”

“I don’t want to own any of your collections- by all means, you’re doing a great job at taking care of them. I just need you to help me realize my dream.” he says, nervously combing his oily hair with his now oily hand.

“And what beautiful dream is that?” Bee returns to her position, flipping the back of the CD case to see if there’s any track she would like to play as a bonus.

Oily Bestman takes a deep breath before saying, “I…I want to make an album.”

Bee turns to him.

“I want to record my songs… and I want people to listen.” says Oily Bestman, as firm as he can sound.

Bee laughs. “What, you wanna be a pop star of the post-apocalypse?”

“Well… if you help me, maybe I can.” Oily says, his puppy-eyes determined.

                   ‘Oooooh-hooo, I need you… by me…
Beside meeeeee, to guide meeee’

As if blessed by Donna Summer herself, the repeated chorus of Last Dance blasts from the boombox, marking this the first time ever in her song-collecting career, that Bee gets betrayed by her own CD.