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Beauregard
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It has been years since I set pen to paper with Muppets (or rather, set fingers to keyboard) but for some reason this season, this Christmas and with the new Muppet movie, my love for them has found a new life and I wanted to share in the excitement with a little one-shot story of my own.
Christmas Stars Glow Brightest
Scotch tape.
It shouldn’t be this hard to find the end of the scotch tape, but the brown, fluffy haired creature twisted the roll of tape around and around in his paws attempting to catch the stuck-down end under a finger, to pull a little off in order to finish wrapping the one gift that he would be giving her that year.
Not that it really mattered.
She already had gifts. Goodness only knew how many. He had noticed, on his weekly trips to her apartment, that the stack of presents had been steadily growing since mid November. Vacuuming the thickly piled rug carpet had become more of a chore than usual as he had to manoeuvre around large ribboned boxes with designer labels. Marc Jacobs. Chanel. Chocolate from Ghirardelli with a signature on the box. They were all there. Her closest and dearest friends and admirers had each sent something over the months leading up to the big day.
Christmas day.
The present day.
But he had made the gift himself. As he had every year ever since he had first seen her on stage, draped across a piano, wrapped in a feather boa, singing her heart out as a dog played the piano and a chorus of chicken surrounded her, backing her voice with their vocal clucking, but never over powering her because she was the star. Oh, and what a star she was! What a bright star! The kind that you can feel bringing that warm glow of stardom even by standing near them, or clearing up after them. After all, she...the star...could never have been seen on this stage if it were littered with the feathers fallen from boas, and chickens, past. And so he swept the stage, and mopped the stage, pushing the piano back along the stage and out of the way so that he could dust and sweep and mop below it, then pulling it back into place for tomorrow’s performance. He was always clearing away, making the dull wood gleam a little brighter...a brightness that was still dull when taken against the star power that tapped, skated, chased and was chased, exploded, slithered, cart-wheeled or was cart-wheeled across this stage every night...but a brightness none the less. Still, the stage itself was just a stage and he swept it into a blank canvas every night so that every day the stars could pour themselves back upon it, creating something new and divine and glowing which he would watch from backstage as they shone like the stars that they were.
The present this year was a new photograph of the star, in a red satin dress with golden blonde girls bouncing off her glowing cheeks, her hand pressed to her face in faux surprise as the camera had clicked and photographers had sycophanted to her needs and wants and wishes and desires. He had been there at the photo shoot, carrying cables, packing up cameras, moving the lights when needed.
He’d also cleared up the mess of fountain pens and discarded envelopes from a mountain of fanmail that she had responded too from her dressing room, later that day, signing the photos and sending them to an admiring audience. He had found one of the photos left on her desk and smiled himself at the signature she had put there, “Vous are a star, like moi! – Kissy kissy, Miss Piggy.”
And so he had kept the photo and made a frame from the items he had collected over the last few years, a popsicle stick from the shoot with the shrimp for The Muppets new website, a pair of goggles that the blue weirdo had used in a scene where he was diving from an elevator, a drumstick that had been broken in rehearsals for Bohemian Rhapsody, the kind of things that were disguarded by the group, but precious to their fans because they meant something...connected to unique memories of their stars.
He had taken the best of those memories of the Muppets comeback and glued them together as a frame for the photo image of Miss Piggy which now he wrapped carefully in brown paper and stuck up with scotch tape.
Although he had keys to her house, being janitor and all, it wouldn’t feel right to just let himself in there this late at night on Christmas Eve, and so he let himself out the janitor’s exit of the high-rise in New York where the Muppets had been residing of late, out onto the fire escape where ladders zigzagged up the side of the building to the roof where he climbed carefully across the tiles towards an air-conditioning maintenance hatch that would make do in place of a chimney.
Dressed all in red, with a Santa’s hat where his white cap was usually tucked on his head, he carefully lowered himself through the entrance of the air-conditioning, crawling along maintenance tubes that he had traversed many times before on cleaning errands when the stars were too hot or too cold and needed something adjusting in order to maintain their starry prowess.
Reaching the hatch to her room, he paused and then carefully unscrewed the panel which could be lifted out as he lowered himself down to the carpeted floor beside the expansive overflow of Christmas presents that were gathered beneath her tree. He wouldn’t have been surprised to find a sable, or an out of space convertable, light blue, or even a yacht buried in there somewhere, let alone the deed to a platinum mine. All these gifts were from great men and women throughout the world of the stars. Helen Mirren had sent over a traditionally British Christmas pudding with a healthy dose of Brandy and was decorated with elegant holly leaves and red ribbon. Celine Dion had gifted what appeared to be the huge prop diamond from the movie Titanic in a glass case.
Sighing, he sat back and gazed at the presents for a minute, dressed as Santa, one of the most important men of all, but feeling a little insignificant himself. His brown paper package tied up with string seemed forlorn beside decorations bought at Tiffany’s. But still, he had made it this far, and he wasn’t about to give it up so he placed his gift carefully beside the others and crept into the hall towards the exit.
For a moment, he thought he heard a woman’s voice speaking from the bathroom, faint but stern, as if spoken to one’s self, saying, “Vous are a star, Miss Piggy. You are. Remember that. You owe it to vous fans. You owe it to vous-self. Yes, vous, are a star.”
So he paused with his hand on the door handle, about to let himself out. Certainly, he already knew she was a star, so he wondered why she would be awake so late at night, maybe looking at herself in the mirror reminding herself over and over of that fact that is so clear to see to anyone who looked at her. Not wanting to intrude any further, he left her appartment and made his way back down to his flat in the basement.
The next morning, he awoke to find that, much to his surprise, he had not been the only Santa creeping about the building that night it seemed, as there, at the foot of his bed, tucked deep into a woollen stocking with a hole in the toe, was a gift in pink paper with a huge pink bow.
Ripping it eagerly open, he stared and then blinked at the gift inside and then felt a warm glow that started in his hands and burned merrily through his whole body to his glistening eyes. As there in a sparkling, gilt silver photo frame was an autographed photo of his idol Miss Piggy and the words in her delicate sprawl stated, “Dearest Beauregard, Thank vous for all vous do for us every year, vous may be the brightest star of us all! Kissy kissy. Miss Piggy. xxx”
Christmas Stars Glow Brightest
Scotch tape.
It shouldn’t be this hard to find the end of the scotch tape, but the brown, fluffy haired creature twisted the roll of tape around and around in his paws attempting to catch the stuck-down end under a finger, to pull a little off in order to finish wrapping the one gift that he would be giving her that year.
Not that it really mattered.
She already had gifts. Goodness only knew how many. He had noticed, on his weekly trips to her apartment, that the stack of presents had been steadily growing since mid November. Vacuuming the thickly piled rug carpet had become more of a chore than usual as he had to manoeuvre around large ribboned boxes with designer labels. Marc Jacobs. Chanel. Chocolate from Ghirardelli with a signature on the box. They were all there. Her closest and dearest friends and admirers had each sent something over the months leading up to the big day.
Christmas day.
The present day.
But he had made the gift himself. As he had every year ever since he had first seen her on stage, draped across a piano, wrapped in a feather boa, singing her heart out as a dog played the piano and a chorus of chicken surrounded her, backing her voice with their vocal clucking, but never over powering her because she was the star. Oh, and what a star she was! What a bright star! The kind that you can feel bringing that warm glow of stardom even by standing near them, or clearing up after them. After all, she...the star...could never have been seen on this stage if it were littered with the feathers fallen from boas, and chickens, past. And so he swept the stage, and mopped the stage, pushing the piano back along the stage and out of the way so that he could dust and sweep and mop below it, then pulling it back into place for tomorrow’s performance. He was always clearing away, making the dull wood gleam a little brighter...a brightness that was still dull when taken against the star power that tapped, skated, chased and was chased, exploded, slithered, cart-wheeled or was cart-wheeled across this stage every night...but a brightness none the less. Still, the stage itself was just a stage and he swept it into a blank canvas every night so that every day the stars could pour themselves back upon it, creating something new and divine and glowing which he would watch from backstage as they shone like the stars that they were.
The present this year was a new photograph of the star, in a red satin dress with golden blonde girls bouncing off her glowing cheeks, her hand pressed to her face in faux surprise as the camera had clicked and photographers had sycophanted to her needs and wants and wishes and desires. He had been there at the photo shoot, carrying cables, packing up cameras, moving the lights when needed.
He’d also cleared up the mess of fountain pens and discarded envelopes from a mountain of fanmail that she had responded too from her dressing room, later that day, signing the photos and sending them to an admiring audience. He had found one of the photos left on her desk and smiled himself at the signature she had put there, “Vous are a star, like moi! – Kissy kissy, Miss Piggy.”
And so he had kept the photo and made a frame from the items he had collected over the last few years, a popsicle stick from the shoot with the shrimp for The Muppets new website, a pair of goggles that the blue weirdo had used in a scene where he was diving from an elevator, a drumstick that had been broken in rehearsals for Bohemian Rhapsody, the kind of things that were disguarded by the group, but precious to their fans because they meant something...connected to unique memories of their stars.
He had taken the best of those memories of the Muppets comeback and glued them together as a frame for the photo image of Miss Piggy which now he wrapped carefully in brown paper and stuck up with scotch tape.
Although he had keys to her house, being janitor and all, it wouldn’t feel right to just let himself in there this late at night on Christmas Eve, and so he let himself out the janitor’s exit of the high-rise in New York where the Muppets had been residing of late, out onto the fire escape where ladders zigzagged up the side of the building to the roof where he climbed carefully across the tiles towards an air-conditioning maintenance hatch that would make do in place of a chimney.
Dressed all in red, with a Santa’s hat where his white cap was usually tucked on his head, he carefully lowered himself through the entrance of the air-conditioning, crawling along maintenance tubes that he had traversed many times before on cleaning errands when the stars were too hot or too cold and needed something adjusting in order to maintain their starry prowess.
Reaching the hatch to her room, he paused and then carefully unscrewed the panel which could be lifted out as he lowered himself down to the carpeted floor beside the expansive overflow of Christmas presents that were gathered beneath her tree. He wouldn’t have been surprised to find a sable, or an out of space convertable, light blue, or even a yacht buried in there somewhere, let alone the deed to a platinum mine. All these gifts were from great men and women throughout the world of the stars. Helen Mirren had sent over a traditionally British Christmas pudding with a healthy dose of Brandy and was decorated with elegant holly leaves and red ribbon. Celine Dion had gifted what appeared to be the huge prop diamond from the movie Titanic in a glass case.
Sighing, he sat back and gazed at the presents for a minute, dressed as Santa, one of the most important men of all, but feeling a little insignificant himself. His brown paper package tied up with string seemed forlorn beside decorations bought at Tiffany’s. But still, he had made it this far, and he wasn’t about to give it up so he placed his gift carefully beside the others and crept into the hall towards the exit.
For a moment, he thought he heard a woman’s voice speaking from the bathroom, faint but stern, as if spoken to one’s self, saying, “Vous are a star, Miss Piggy. You are. Remember that. You owe it to vous fans. You owe it to vous-self. Yes, vous, are a star.”
So he paused with his hand on the door handle, about to let himself out. Certainly, he already knew she was a star, so he wondered why she would be awake so late at night, maybe looking at herself in the mirror reminding herself over and over of that fact that is so clear to see to anyone who looked at her. Not wanting to intrude any further, he left her appartment and made his way back down to his flat in the basement.
The next morning, he awoke to find that, much to his surprise, he had not been the only Santa creeping about the building that night it seemed, as there, at the foot of his bed, tucked deep into a woollen stocking with a hole in the toe, was a gift in pink paper with a huge pink bow.
Ripping it eagerly open, he stared and then blinked at the gift inside and then felt a warm glow that started in his hands and burned merrily through his whole body to his glistening eyes. As there in a sparkling, gilt silver photo frame was an autographed photo of his idol Miss Piggy and the words in her delicate sprawl stated, “Dearest Beauregard, Thank vous for all vous do for us every year, vous may be the brightest star of us all! Kissy kissy. Miss Piggy. xxx”
