Well, I can't tell you how much I looked forwards to seeing what Togetheragain's favorite lines were, but since I have nothing to do, and I promised, here are chapters three and four. Their not my best, and I'm pretty sure four moves WAY faster than I wanted, but...work in progress. I'm rushing to get this in by Christmas, which still looks highly unlikely. Rush is very very bad, I know, but having esteemed and seasoned critics like you guys look over this makes me feel a lot better about it. Now, for those of you who don't know what inspired this story, I have to explain Henry and Alice. They are half grateful payment for my friend Figgie's inclusion of me into her 'Under the Mistletoe' story, half just me loving her sooo much, and half an actually relevant part of the story, as we will see later. (That's three halves. Hm...) So without further ado, die Teile drei und vier:
CHAPTER THREE
As Henry watched Alison, his strong hands holding the box of props began to slip. He was caught where he was. A million show-girls came by a week: with long adjustable hair in pristine perfect colors and bright eyes, in their flashy outfits. Them he was somehow used to. But her...he had never seen her before, and now he could not make his eyes look away. He watched as her face flushed with color on the chorus, watched her gray-blue eyes light up as her angelic voiced soared through the old building. Watched her flip her auburn hair around her back and smile as she was joined for the last verse.
He hardly noticed Beauregard tap his shoulder. “Here,” The empty-headed janitor handed him a box of junk.
“What are those for?” Asked Henry, trying hard to pay attention to his boss.
“Well we need those ones your holding, but if you want some so bad--”
Henry looked down and realized his hands were clutching the box so that his knuckles had turned white. He chuckled, wondering whether Beau was trying to be funny or sincerely helpful. The latter was much more likely.
“Hey, Beau-who is that singing?”
Beauregard blinked confusedly. “Which one?”
“The girl Beau, I've never seen her before.”
“Oh—that's a girl. She sings.” Henry smiled at him hopelessly. “Thanks for the help, Beau.” “Your welcome! Want to keep those props?”
“Uhm...no, no. In fact, will you take these for me? I have to find Scooter.”
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
“We have seven cots in the prop closet,” The go-fer was saying. “But one of them Hilda cut up to make spare costumes: Gonzo volunteered to sleep on what's left though.” “Problem is, where do we put them?” Kermit asked, observing the crammed hallways with extras and Muppets and cots and suitcases clogging the works. Fozzie came up the back stairs. “The band says they'll share the basement.”
“Yeah, except with the pig. Never with the pig.” Floyd yelled up after him.
“I HEARD that you dirty tree-hugger!” Miss Piggy flounced down the stairs in an obvious huff. “Kermie! I cannot, repeat, cannot share a dressing room with Sweetums!”
“Oh boy. Piggie, we talked about this...”
“Hey Kerm, Gonzo's taking apart one of the stage lights. Says he's gonna make an electric blanket or something.”
“What?! Well stop him!”
“Kermit? How on earth am I supposed to rehearse with half of the theater sleeping in the orchestra pit?”
“Don't worry about that tonight Nigel. Just get some sleep.”
“Uhm, like Kermit? Like you know that glass nativity scene, you know? Well like, I think Animal ate one of the wise men.”
“Well...well...Have someone start making another one...Swedish chief?”
“Mir cooun meke-a oone-a veet sume-a duoogh!”
“Kermit, if I were to sleep in the cannon on stage five, do you think you could keep Crazy Harry away for the night?”
“Hey frog, the other rat's and I have decided we'll be taking the fridge tonight, considering it's probably warmer in there than the rest of the house...”
“Si, and me with jou, hokey? And don't expects there to be much food in the morning.”
A chorus of “Kermit”'s were echoing from almost every side of the theater. As the man-in-control, the poor small green leader suddenly felt like he was in the midst of an angry see of tired, cold, busy Muppets.
“Alright, that's enough!” He managed to get their attention, his voice cracking in the process. “Now listen everybody, I know it's not what we're used to, and I know it's not the easiest situation and I know it's not the best. But we can handle it if we all try pitching in and co-operating with each other instead of all serving ourselves, OK?”
There were murmured agreements. Muppets shuffling off in various directions. Kermit could placate them for now, but he knew motivational speeches weren't going to solve all off their problems: problems which were numerous and seemed to be multiplying by the minute. The drafty old theater was freezing cold, and no amount of coaxing and begging and pleading could convince Scooter's uncle to do anything about it. There wasn't enough space—people were crammed in nearly seven to a room in some places. Not to mention: the theater wasn't home. Familiar and sentimental it was: cozy and accommodating it was not. In one day they had lost their residence of more than ten years. He tried not to let that bother him, tried not to think about the randomness of it all. It wasn't the first time life had shown him it's easy come, easy go policy the hard way. And he had learned how to cope: That was half of life. The other half was learning how to enjoy yourself while you did so.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Scooter was trying hard to concentrate on his clipboard, ignoring his exhaustion, just like everyone else: when the tall, dark haired whatnot-stagehand ran up to him.
“Scooter?” He panted.
“Oh, hey...erm...”
“Henry.”
“Oh right. What can I do for you Henry? Tell me there's not another problem with the props--”
“No, no problem. Uhm...can you tell me...what the name of that girl that um, was singing just now was?” Scooter looked at him a little blankly. In reality he was thinking, but Henry suddenly felt extremely uncomfortable under his gaze. “I've just...never seen her before. And you know, I want to get to know you people...now that I'm working here.”
“The one who's booked on the show next week?” Asked Scooter consulting his clipboard. “I don't know...she has dark red hair and grey eyes, and she was singing the solo just now.” “Yeah, her name is Alice. Alice Dove. She's on the Christmas program.”
“Ok. Well—-thanks Scooter.”
Scooter gave him a knowing smile. “Your welcome. Want me to introduce you?”
“N-no, no thanks. I've...gotta get those wreathes set up. Thanks—anyway.” He hurried off, wondering why the freezing cold theater suddenly felt so hot.
CHAPTER FOUR
“Just a little higher, I need to fill that spot in the corner--”
Alice Dove shifted uncomfortably on the wobbly stepping stool under he feet. “I can't go any higher Robin, and even if I could...” She lost her balance suddenly, and trying hard to regain it, she grabbed at the tree, slipped, and tumbled to the floor in a heap with Robin safely on top.
“Ow.” She rubbed her head as an undaunted Robin admired his work. “Looks good, but I think we missed a part near the middle.” He said speculatively.
“Robin, I need sleep. And so do you: big day tomorrow.”
Robin hopped onto her lap. “Doing what?”
“Well--helping your uncle for one. He's gonna need it you know, a move like this is a lot to handle.”
“Aren't you gonna help us?”
“Of course Robin! I don't suppose I'll be much use though, I don't really know how things work around here.” Robin smiled devotedly at the disorganized backstage area of the old theater. “I don't think anyone here knows that.”
Alice smiled back him. “Well I think you guys do a pretty good job of it.”
“Aren't you one of 'us guys'?” Asked Robin.
Alice looked slightly uncomfortable.“Uhm...well, I would like to be, but I guess, I'm not really, you know, one of the family...yet...I only have a song for this week, you know.”
“But you are spending Christmas with us, right?” He asked urgently.
She shrugged. “I'm on the program.”
The wide smile on the little frog was enough to warm the drafty theater. “Then I think that makes you one of the family. It makes us all family in a way.”
Her smile of response to him had an edge of sadness to it. “Off to bed now, Robin.” She cooed, and patted him in the direction of his sleeping quarters. She sighed as she watched him hop away. “That would be nice.” She allowed herself to whisper before she wandered off through the cold theater to find a spot alone for herself.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
It was too cold to go back to sleep. Kermit rolled off his pallet and into a sitting position. It was quiet now, such a rare and wonderful thing. He was unused to seeing the theater dually so still and so filled with people. But watching them sleep was a nice thing: hearing them breathe and not worry about anything, not wonder whether he could handle it all, not wish that they could fix it themselves. Fozzie rested curled with his teddy-bear in his arms, likely having a nightmare about Statler and Waldorf, who were asleep in their own box. Gonzo on the banister with Camilla's feathered head nestled tenderly against him. Scooter where he had collapsed exhausted in a pile of pilfered blankets near the stairs. Miss Piggy—-he peered up at her dressing room door—-probably breathing softly, with her hair framing her face, and a picture of him next to the bed. He wished suddenly he was there and not the picture, but shook the thought from his mind. It was too cold to go back to sleep, and it wasn't getting any warmer. Despite Scooter's best efforts at persuasion, Kermit's heartfelt, rather un-manly begging, and a few threats from Uncle Deadly, J.P. Was refusing to fix the heating system after finding out the price. Yet again, small print on the dratted contract. He shivered a little. And that was only the least of their problems. The rest of them had to do with money they didn't own.
A sudden cold chill struck him, and he turned to find Uncle Deadly perched next to him.
“Considering sneaking out, frog?” He asked in that chilling voice of his.
“No, just enjoying the quiet for a rare minute.”
The Muppet's resident phantom sniffed “You don't have to tell me. I couldn't even haunt this evening.”
Kermit shook his head. “I'm sorry about that.” He said quietly.
Uncle Deadly looked at him significantly with his pin-point eyes. “It isn't your fault.”
“Yes it is. It's my job to look after stuff like that: we're a family and I provide for us. If I can't keep up with things, like putting a roof over their heads, who will?”
Uncle Deadly didn't answer. He made a point of doing that often, as if he were trying to remind people of how detached he was, being dead and all. Kermit suddenly hated the habit. “What's in your mind, frog?” He asked finally.
Kermit looked down at his flippers. “I don't know--it's just, times like this... they make me miss Jim, I guess.”
The phantom's eery gaze was on him again, but with a softer yellow light in his eyes. “I understand. We've all lost something. Some of us have lost much. One more large change—well it can bring back feelings from others.”
Kermit wasn't used to hearing Uncle Deadly talk that way, but his words were true: He remembered when Jim had passed on, and Kermit had suddenly realized he was the leader. He had always been the leader, but now there was no one to default to. No one to lean on who was older, and wiser, and who understood. The sense of responsibility, the fear of failure, had been overwhelming at that time. Now it was creeping back up on him.
He remembered Uncle Deadly was sitting next to him.
“I guess you would know about loss, huh?” He asked good naturedly.
The phantom nodded slowly, and meaningfully. Then he pointed towards the menagerie snoring on the floor.“You have good people there frog.....noisy, irrelivant and trespassing, but good. That is going to make the difference in the long run, not how well things turn out for you. Good people would only willfully choose a worthy leader. They chose you. The only way you could disappoint them would be to give up the job.”
Kermit gazed at his friends, a tear creeping up in his eye. He turned back to thank Uncle Deadly, but the spirit had vanished into the drafty theater walls.
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. Any way we can ignore it move on? Unforgivable?
Dealio?
Sound good to me.
And because my great-grandmother was from Austria...