Chapter 48: Comings and Goings
Thankfully, Kermit was not out on stage when it happened, and it was over before he got there. The Electric Mayhem members were just beginning to gather for a quick run-thru of the encore piece, and Dr. Teeth was preparing to settle his bejeweled figure at the keyboard when there were sharp sounds of discord—but not from the musical instruments. He looked up and, sparing only a split-second loss of momentum because he was trying to shut his gaping mouth, he vaulted over the railing and ran to where Floyd Pepper and Clifford seemed on the verge of blows.
“Get offa my—“
“I wasn’t hurting your—“
“—got no right to—“ Floyd was almost shouting.
“Man, what is your problem! I was just—“
Dr. Teeth interposed his barrel chest between the two panting males. He put one hand on Floyd’s chest, and the other one on Clifford’s and pushed, slowly but inexorably, until there was space between them to move.
“Everybody calm down,” he said firmly. “No need to get un-mellow.”
“That guy was messing with my bass!” Floyd said hotly. “And I think he’s tryin’ to mess with my—“
“I wasn’t messing with your bass,” Clifford said angrily, then attempted to regain his calm with effort. “I was playing it. Seeing how we’re all part of the same show I didn’t think you’d mind if I used it.”
“Well I do!”
Clifford looked genuinely surprised. “Sorry,” he said, his face somber. “My bad.”
Dr. Teeth looked from one to the other, wondering what had compelled Floyd to take exception to Clifford’s use of his instrument. This was not like his band-mate and friend, and the good doctor know something must be behind it. He resolved to have a chat with one or both of the men when he could get them alone. In the meantime….
“Look, we’re all friends here,” he insisted. “No penalty, no foul, okay?”
“Hey, no problem,” Clifford said amiably. “We were just trying to work out the bridge for the last song and I grabbed your bass to try a coupla cords. I did not mean to get on your turf, man.”
Floyd looked at him in surprise, but Clifford’s face was completely guileless. It made him wonder if he was just being a jealous idiot after all. Or if Clifford was a better liar than Floyd would have guessed. That last made his hands tighten unconsciously into fists.
The man with the golden hands and the golden tooth watched the fine interplay of emotion and got the merest glimmer of a thought. Hmmm. Worth checking into, he thought.
Kermit poked his head around from backstage. Dr. Teeth blinked at him sleepily, but Floyd was staring at his frets with great concentration, and Clifford seemed to be intent upon adjusting the one of the amplifier hookups. Kermit picked up on the energy in the space, but not the reason for it.
“Everything okay?” he asked. Dr. Teeth grinned broadly and stepped forward to meet Kermit, effectively blocking their boss’s advance into the small circle. Floyd was glad Kermit was not looking at him. His cheeks were flushed with shame and embarrassment. As if Kermit didn’t have enough to worry about without him causing a dust-up backstage…! He sneaked a look at Clifford, whose own profile seemed taut with worry or consternation. Floyd did not know what to think anymore. He only thought—only felt that something was happening around him that he could not fathom; though none of his conclusions seemed likely, he still could not dismiss them. He was not a complicated man at heart, but there were deep eddies in his hard-rocking soul that would have challenged a poet or a theologian to explain. On some deep level, he had always counted on Janice knowing that part of him so well he did not have to express it verbally. Now that that felt threatened, Floyd wondered if any part of his life would ever make sense to him again.
Dr. Teeth was running expert interference; the little green boss-man left without being the wiser about his misbehavior. Floyd looked at Dr. Teeth’s back, wondering if it would be possible to confide in his long-time band-mate, but at just that moment, Janice appeared. She walked with Zoot, Animal walking calming at heel without straining at the leash. Janice looked up, caught sight of Floyd and—mid-sentence—handed Animal off to the saxophone player so she could walk up to Floyd and put her hand on his arm.
“Hey, Babe,” she said, then her soft hand registered the tension in his arm. “Oh!” She looked up, searching his face, but Floyd half-turned, shunning her scrutiny.
“It’s nothin’,” Floyd muttered. “Just…tense about all this, um, reporter stuff.”
Janice did not remove her hand. She put her other hand on Floyd’s cheek, turning his face back so she could see his eyes. Of their own volition, the bushy eyebrows rose, softening in response to her look of concern. Her hand on his cheek felt satiny smooth and soft, and Floyd leaned into the feel of it unconsciously. Janice stepped closer, pitched her voice for his ears only.
“Don’t worry,” she soothed. “Everything’s gonna work out okay.” Oh, how Floyd wanted to believe her!
“—don’t see her yet, do you?”
“Nope.”
“We couldn’t lose her here in the airport, could we? Are you sure you had the flight information written down correctly?”
“I’m sure! Stop being such a worry wart!”
“I’m not worrying.”
“Hmphf.”
“I’m not! Sheesh!”
In another part of the same airport, another anxious conversation was taking place.
“Wish I’d have thought to make a poster,” said Scooter worriedly. Sara had remembered to make a poster for him. “What if she doesn’t see us?”
Seeing as how he had Sweetums with him, this seemed highly unlikely, but Scooter’s worry had managed to fill the space allowed for its contemplation.
“What’s her hair like?” asked Fozzie. Kermit had been unable to meet this special guest, and he had sent Fozzie so bring the warm welcome of all of them.
“It’s red.”
“Red red? Or dark red? Or, um, strawberry blonde? Boy, I wish I had eaten breakfast!” Fozzie muttered.
“Um, red like mine.”
Fozzie and Sweetums turned to scrutinize Scooter’s flaming auburn hair. “Um, sortof,” Scooter mumbled. “Look, I don’t think we can miss her if we—“
“Hello, fellas,” came a cool, sultry voice. Two faces looked up, one down, but all were transfixed by the beauty and poise of the woman that stood before them. Nobody spoke, and the woman’s expressive mouth twisted a little in bemusement.
“I’m guessing you’re from Rainbow Productions.”
Three heads nodded mutely. The woman’s smile broadened, and her eyes crinkled pleasantly at the corners.
“And you’re here to pick me up.”
Scooter found his voice at last. “Yes ma’am,” he stammered. “Yes. We’re from the Muppets and we’re here to pick you up and take you back to the hotel.”
“Oh, good!” said the women heartily. “I was afraid I’d have to take a taxi.”
“Oh, no ma’am,” said Scooter. He shook his head to clear it and tried to but his game face on. “I’m Scooter Grosse,” he said, sticking out his hand. She took it gravely. “I’m Mr. the Frog’s Personal Assistant and, um, gopher,” he managed, smiling a little at the last.
“I believe we spoke on the phone.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Her laugh was musical, deep and throaty. “Please!” she protested. “I know I’ve put a lot of tread on my tires, but if you keep calling me ‘ma’am’ I’m gonna feel old!”
Scooter had the good grace to blush and laugh. “Oh, no ma’am—I mean, no. You do not look, um, I mean—this is Fozzie Bear. Mr. the Frog couldn’t come himself so he thought….”
Fozzie was too spellbound to put out a paw, but she took it anyway and pressed it between long, slim fingers. “A pleasure,” she intoned seriously.
“Habeda habeda whuh?” said Fozzie. Scooter gave him a sharp nudge in the ribs. “I mean, um, that it’s a very great pleasure—“ He blanched, then snatched his hat off his head and held it between his hands. “I mean, it’s so nice of you to come here. To see us. And write about, um, Kermit, er, Mr. the Frog and Miss Piggy.”
Sweetums stepped forward, towering over the slim redhead. “Ahm Sweetums,” he said with great dignity. “Ahm gonna drive you safely back to the hotel.” He proffered his arm.
Delighted, she took it, and they walked toward the waiting car. After about six steps, she turned and looked at Scooter and Fozzie over her shoulder.
“Coming, fellas?” she asked. They hastened to follow.
The other anxious patrons of the airport had also collected a stray passenger, and the three of them made their way to the parking lot talking with great animation.
“--can’t believe I’m actually here! The flight was so—“
“Just wait until you see the show! It’s so amazing! And there’s this one song where everybody—“
“—didn’t know we’d get to see it twice, but we ended up—“
At the parking lot door, there was a slight commotion, as seven intent parties all attempted to squeeze through the double doors at once. Everybody looked up. Six eyes blinked wide, Scooter made an apologetic gesture, and Fozzie stammered out “excuse us.” The lovely reporter waiting patiently, her hand resting lightly on the crook of Sweetums’ elbow, but she smiled at the look of gape-jawed amazement on the faces of the three strangers.
“Just guessing,” she said, as they started for the car, “but I’d say those three were fans.”
Scooter and Fozzie craned back the way they had come.
“You think so?”
At that moment, there was a sharp squeal of sound from inside the terminal.
“SQEEEEEEEEEE!” came the noise. It carried on the hot air, then cut off abruptly, as though the source of the sound had been clamped closed.
The four blanched, pulled up short by the wail, and gave and almost comic double take back the way they had come. All they saw were their would-be door-mates laughing out loud and hastening madly down the sidewalk toward the parking lot.
His presence had not been needed that afternoon. Though amiable at all times, Rowlf had tired of the even the laid-back companionship of his crowded room and was enjoying the relative solitude of backstage. He sat in front of the piano and played idly, switching without pattern or effort from Brahms to Basie and Bach again.
“Hey there, big fellow,” came a sultry little voice. Rowlf looked around in surprise.
“Well, hey yourself, sweet thing!” he retorted. He leaned forward and rubbed noses with Foo Foo, taking a few surreptitious sniffs in the process. Gosh—she smelled good! But then, she always smelled good.
“When’d you blow into town?” he asked, doing a flashy crescendo. “Trip okay?”
Foo Foo smiled and hopped nimbly up on the piano bench. She fluttered her eyelashes.
“Just now,” she answered with a yawn. “I just caught a greyhound and, boy--!”
“Are your legs tired.”
“—was he cute!”
“Hey!” said Rowlf, indignant, but then Foo Foo snuggled up against him in a conciliatory manner. Rowlf began to play something slow with a nice, lazy beat and Foo Foo let out a sigh and pressed her cold nose against his shoulder.
“Heard the show was a hit already,” Foo Foo said lazily. “You guys must have really wowed ‘em.”
Rowlf shrugged but looked pleased. He switched to a little ragtime, paws dancing on the keys. “It’s a great show,” he admitted. “Gotcha a backstage ticket for tonight if you’re not too tired.”
“I’d love to,” Foo Foo said, then yawned again, apologetically. “Sorry,” she murmured. “I am truly bushed.” She looked tired, Rowlf noted absently, but there was no mistaking the playful energy that she exuded like French perfume.
Rowlf stood and picked up her little suitcase, which she had leaned daintily up against the piano.
“Come on then, Sleepyhead,” he teased, placing his big paw fondly on the nape of her neck. “Let’s get you up to your room so you can catch a little shut-eye. I got rehearsal here in a few—well, half an hour, anyway. We’ll catch up after the show.”
Foo Foo looked up at him and smiled. “And I’ll be staying…?”
“Um, with Piggy and Kermit in their suite,” Rowlf said. You couldn’t see him blush, but she was aware of the rise in his body temperature. “I’m, um, rooming with the guys,” he explained. He trained hard to mask it, but the wistfulness in his voice made Foo Foo want to melt into a puddle. Silly dog, she thought. Foo Foo made a small “oh” with her mouth and nodded gently, then she smiled up at him with impish delight.
“Don’t worry, Rowlf,” she teased. “I’ll bet we manage just fine.”
Rowlf felt a slow, silly smile spreading across his face. He stretched out and rubbed noses again, then sighed contentedly. He hefted her suitcase, feeling like Hercules. To heck with grey clouds! From where he sat, life was good, and getting better all the time.
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