Chapter Seventy
At the young frog’s request, the Muppets made sure that Robin was thoroughly photographed as he added today’s link to the paper chain, as today’s paper link was for St. Patrick’s Day. They wanted to e-mail a picture to Kermit because he would sometimes joke that this was his favorite holiday. The paper link itself, of course, was green.
They all knew that St. Patrick’s Day was not really Kermit’s favorite holiday. Their leading frog preferred holidays that focused on bringing everyone together and being a family.
Now, with their fearless leader so far away,
every day brought all of them together as a family, but without the joyous festivities and gluttony that marked a holiday. They no longer dared to be anything less than an entirely solidified unit. No one was allowed to go anywhere alone. A minimum of eight Muppets were required for any foray into the public, even for something as simple as a coffee run—the beloved morning routine of chasing the escaped coffee three times around the block.
They weren’t sure if Robin completely understood the reasons they had raised their chaperoning protocol. In fact, they hoped he didn’t. But he was very good at enforcing it. No one could announce that they were leaving without the Frog Scout hopping into their view and asking where they were going and who was going with them. If they did not have the correct minimum to exit the house, he would shake his finger at them—and, well, it was hard to disobey an adorable little frog, particularly when the rule he was enforcing had been instituted in part for his own safety. The only thing that might have deterred Robin from laying down the law was when Sam praised him for his vigilance, but even that didn’t slow him down for long.
Fozzie was the one who made sure no one used even one drop more gasoline than was absolutely essential, hounding the Muppets more than even a real hound could have. At first, it was partly out of his own ignorance, innocently asking if every single action required gas. But he made them think about it. They already practically had a farm living in their house, but now they put it to use—growing vegetables that were more food-oriented than performance-driven, milking the cows… There was even talk that they would find a way to grow and make their own clothing, which marked the first time in memory that Hilda the wardrobe lady was working together with Muppet Labs.
They meant it all as support for the war, but many of their neighbors had a simpler reason for taking similar—if less drastic—energy-related measures.
Gas was now upwards of twenty dollars per gallon. The smoke from all of the oil refineries that had been attacked still blackened the air across the country. Taxi companies were shutting down. Car dealerships were closing their doors. Schools were desperately trying to find some means other than buses to transport students. The trucking industry was dead on its feet. Airlines were making drastic cutbacks, many of them canceling all flights “until further notice.” And in a hopeless attempt to pick up the slack in the shipping industry, the railroad system was found to be pitifully lacking.
Countless small, remote towns that had only been accessible by car now found themselves living in fear of claustrophobia, if not starvation. Some people in those towns had packed up what they could carry and started walking. Of those who had started walking, some would never be seen or heard from again.
Withdrawing from the War wouldn’t undo anything. It wouldn’t bring back any of the lives that had been lost. But most of the country seemed to think that it would at least lower the cost of gasoline, and that could save lives, couldn’t it? And it would help the economy, wouldn’t it?
Congress and the President urged energy efficiency, urged the scientists to develop new forms of energy that should have been developed years ago. Protestors filled the streets, demanding change in something—
anything.
And many of those who supported the War—like the Muppets—were afraid to go outside. Some of the most vocal supporters were under constant police protection.
The Muppets had also been offered police protection, but had decided against it. It would have required too much gasoline for the police officers to come to and from the house, rotating shifts as they would have to. Besides, the Muppets had monsters, and monsters made excellent bodyguards.
But that didn’t mean they were inclined to go anywhere alone.
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No one in the unit quite understood why Kermit was doubled over with laughter.
They were approaching a town that was in a considerable amount of danger—yet another battlefield filled with houses and families and innocent by-standers. And while a town meant water, they still had to strictly ration their food. Their situation was plenty grim.
It wasn’t hard to figure out that any sort of joy on any face right now was directly related to the latest batch of letters, which they were somehow—miraculously—still receiving. But the frog was laughing too hard to pass along any hints about what was so ridiculously funny, no matter how much they stared at him.
So Emerson picked him up and shook him. “TELL US WHAT THE JOKE IS!” he shouted.
“Put him down, Emerson.
I’m the only one allowed to be intimidating around here,” Major D. said with a feigned sort of sternness.
“Yes sir.” Emerson put the frog back on his flippers and shook his head, pushing his fingers through his curly red hair. “I just don’t get it.”
“
None of us get it,” Geraldson moaned.
“Alright, Frog. Spill it,” Major D. ordered.
Kermit had clamped a hand over his mouth. Now he pried his fingers away, mostly in attempt to breathe. “April … Fools,” he choked out, and he fell to the ground laughing again. “April Fools letters! Everyone…”
Geraldson shook his head and strode over to stand beside him. “
How is it that funny?” he asked, and he picked up one of Kermit’s letters. He glanced at it, and then he, too, burst into laughter. The rest of the unit groaned.
“Which one…” Kermit made a half-hearted attempt to reach for the letter.
“Piggy,” Geraldson snickered.
And Kermit’s laughter doubled in strength.
“Someone just
read the darn thing to all of us!” Plank demanded.
“Yeah, read it!” Emerson eagerly sat down like a kindergartener waiting for story time.
Geraldson was laughing too hard, so he handed the letter to Larsen, who raised an eyebrow at Kermit. “May I?”
Kermit nodded and gestured for him to read before clamping a hand over his mouth again to stifle his snickers.
It didn’t do any good. Larsen tried to imitate Miss Piggy’s voice as he read, which meant he had the entire unit in stitches as soon as he read “Dearest Kermie.” He got a full paragraph in before he was laughing too hard to keep up the horrible imitation. At that point, he had to revert to his own voice, though he kept interrupting himself to laugh. The letter was pitching the most far-fetched, ridiculous ideas to plan their wedding that anyone had ever heard of, not the least of which included asking Lady Gaga to design her wedding dress. “I do hope she incorporates a few flame-throwers. They do wonders to bring out moi’s eyes. But if she makes it another dress made out of stuffed dolls of vous, Kermie, it could be a teensy bit awkward.”
Kermit had mostly recovered by the time Larsen finished reading. “They’re all like that,” he said, wiping a stray laugh tear. “Robin’s lists all the reasons he’s quitting Frog Scouts. He’s out of room for new badges. And Maggie, my sister … the one who asked if you’re single, Larsen … hers says—she’s gonna—” His laughter got the best of him again. “She’s gonna elope! And Fo—Fozzie…” Laughing too hard now, he simply pointed to the letter.
Major D. picked it up and snickered. They didn’t have to read a single word to laugh at this one. The letter had been written on a whoopee cushion. The words gave an in-depth, convoluted explanation about why there wasn’t any paper in the house, and how the next letter would probably be written on an old pillowcase.
“How would you write on a pillowcase?” Plank wondered. “
Why would you write on a pillowcase?”
“Ask Gonzo,” Kermit said, and he held up his latest letter from the Whatever—which had been written on a scrap of fabric that had undoubtedly once been part of a pillowcase. This April Fool’s note detailed how the daredevil artiste was exploring a new avenue of performance: sitting on a stool and reciting poetry in a monotone voice. “The hard part,” Gonzo had written, “is getting through one rehearsal without putting myself to sleep. But it’s all in the name of Great Art.”
“See, Frog, here’s what I can’t figure out,” Geraldson said. “With the house you live in, how can you figure out how much of this is a joke and how much is real?”
“Because I know my family,” Kermit said, beaming. “On April Fool’s Day, we pretend to be normal.” And he burst out laughing again.
“Normal,” Geraldson repeated, and he shook his head. “So, that time I heard about when you tangoed down the stairs with a rose in your mouth and a suit jacket on backwards … that wasn’t April Fool’s Day?”
That had everyone laughing again—except for Kermit, who looked sheepish. “Alright, so
some of us pretend to be normal. And it wasn’t a tango. It was a mambo.”
“Isn’t that a kind of snake?” Plank asked.
“No, that’s a frog,” Major D. said dryly.
All of it was caught on camera, though it was hard to say how much of the footage would be at all useful. Holt could only hold the camera so steady when he was shaking with laughter.
The morale boost was desperately needed, but it didn’t last long. A short forty-eight hours later, they had forgotten what laughter was.
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