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Chapter 54: The Show Goes On
Robin had been more than chipper this afternoon after talking with his father. Modern technology is a wonderful thing, but Scooter had finally managed—just barely!—with the assistance of Kermit’s old friend Sherwood and a horse-driven buggy to get a message to the swamp in time to set up a time and place for a telephone conversation with his Dad. Robin had chattered on happily for long stretches, paused without seeming to draw breath, and inquired about every single resident of the swamp before his dad had gotten a chance to say much of anything. Finally, Robin had gone to his room to get ready for the show and left his uncle and father a moment’s peace to talk.
“Yeah—he’s doing fantastic,” said Kermit proudly. “I can’t tape the show for you—it’s against the casino rules—but I’ll see if I can get you a sound recording of his songs. Rowlf would help me with that, I know.”
Kermit listened for a moment, then laughed. “You tell her I said she’d better keep her game face on until I do come home—I can still skunk her at long-jumping any day of the—huh? Oh. Oh, yeah.” Kermit squirmed uncomfortably and pulled on his collar. “No—none of it. Everything’s fine—just fine. Piggy and I are just--look, don’t tell anybody about the—what? Oh. Oh, sheesh. Well, look, tell Mom it’s just some stupid reporter and that we’re—hahaha! Jimmy! Stop already, you knucklehead. I don’t need you and Blotch to come down here and do anything. It’s fine—we’re fine, okay? Really. And we’re taking good care of Robin—I promise.”
Kermit was silent for a moment, then the tension that had begun in his shoulders relaxed and he smiled. “You, too. Merry Christmas to everybody there.” Kermit looked behind him carefully, making sure no little aural organs were anywhere nearby. “Well, I think so—I’m working on something, so Santa should find us just fine.”
There was another moment of silence, then Kermit let out a low chuckle. “Well, I’ll do my best—but I think Piggy might want a say about that, hmm? Yeah—love to everybody there. Bye.”
He closed the little phone to turn and find Piggy looking at him in bemusement.
She came over and slipped her arm through his, rested her curls on his shoulder. They tickled his neck pleasantly.
“Everybody okay at home?”
“Um hum,” Kermit said, enjoying the sweet, soapy smell of her shampoo, the scent of her skin and perfume. He slipped an arm around her waist and she looked up at him. “Some of the papers have made it down that way. Mom’s worried about us.”
Piggy’s blue eyes were troubled. “Worried about us because…?”
“Because of the rumors, Honey—not because she believes them.”
Piggy blushed, but she was grateful Kermit had correctly understood her concern.
“Good,” she said. “I don’t want her to worry.” She smiled up at her husband, her expression teasing. “And what did your brother Jimmy have to say?”
Kermit’s only answer was a blush and a stammer. “Wow,” he said. “Look at the time, won’t you? We’d better get down to the show! Robin? Robin, have you washed your face yet?” He trotted off to Robin’s room with alacrity, but the sound of Piggy’s low laughter followed.
Rowlf reached out and snagged Foo Foo protectively as Howard barreled past, hot on the heels of the chorus ladies in their sequined car-hop costumes. If they minded being herded, they gave no sign of it. Foo Foo looked up at Rowlf, her pert face mischievous.
“I know sheepdogs that don’t do so well,” she said dryly, and Rowlf laughed.
“Well, Howard herds a much more capricious animal,” he responded.
At just that moment, Scooter went running by, talking hurriedly into his headphone to someone—presumably Dr. Honeydew.
“No,” he was saying firmly. “No—I don’t want a strobe-light effect—just a flashing-light effect. Got that?” The answer must have been affirmative, because he nodded and kept going. He was wearing blue jeans with the cuffs rolled up and a crisp white t-shirt.
“Looks like Scooter has joined One Fine Day,” said the amiable canine.
Foo Foo smiled. “Does the show change every night?”
Rowlf looked thoughtful, which was easy for him; he was a reflective sort of dog. “You mean on purpose?” he asked at last.
The little white poodle just laughed and shook her head. “Oh, Rowlf,” she said softly. “It seems just like old times.”
Brenda adjusted her wisp of a wrap and settled into her seat. She had already perused the playbill beforehand, and looked forward to the scheduled show with delight and some relief. She had been a little worried—just a very little—when Marty had first called her to come and do this piece. Sometimes, when people contacted you to do “the real story,” what they really wanted was someone to sanction their own private version of reality. She had known Marty for years—who didn’t know Marty?—but anyone’s instincts can be off once in a while. On the plane trip in, Brenda had wondered if what she’d find behind the scenes of Rainbow Productions was a pot of gold or something far less…glittery.
But so far, all of Marty’s indignation and faith in his client had proven to be well-warrented. Piggy was a talented actress, but her deep affection and strong attachment to her husband did not smack of showmanship of any sort. Brenda thought about the mean-spirited articles, her brow furrowing in concentration, and tried to think if there had been anything preceding them that explained the animosity behind the not-so-subtle stabs at Mr. and Mrs. The Frog. It was a mystery, a conundrum. She came up with nothing but the beginning of a head-ache, which she banished with a ladylike wave of her hand. True, she was working—but she wasn’t working right this second and she was going to enjoy the show.
She heard the rustle of rousched silk and turned toward the aisle. Her lovely lips curved into a smile as she watched her exotic next-door-neighbor glide toward the front of the auditorium, and she wondered what—of all possible things—had brought her to Las Vegas. After a moment of watching, her eyes sparkled in amusement.
Ah, thought Brenda. No mystery there.
“How can you make such a mess, Darling?” Thoreau demanded. “You haven’t even gotten dressed for your first number?”
“I was looking for something,” Piggy sniffed, “and besides, I’m almost dressed for my first number.” She continued to look around the dressing room, but obviously wasn’t finding what she wanted. She turned to Thoreau to ask and he held out some elaborately embroidered lingerie that hung from his slim finger by a dainty strap.
“Looking for this?” he asked dryly.
Piggy snatched the garment away. “As a matter of fact!” she growled, and disappeared behind the screen. Thoreau pursed his lips in amusement and began to put things neatly away. His mind raced as he methodically sorted and folded the garments strewn around the room, but when he ran across the little number that he had sewn for Janice’s “special occasion” his eyes softened for a moment. Sweet kid, he thought fondly. That scruffy bass player is going to get his socks knocked off.
Ego was not in short supply where Thoreau was concerned (or in the room he currently occupied), but he admitted to himself that the phenomenal success of the garment owed as much to Janice’s natural attributes as to his excellent construction and attention to detail. And it had been fun, he reminded himself, which made him pause thoughtfully. If he were honest with himself, he didn’t really like some of his clients, and some of the clients he did like had ghastly taste and were entirely dependent on his judgment. It was much more fun to sew for someone like Piggy—who was talented, opinionated and gorgeous. Janice had been a pleasant break from the usual divas he dressed—very unpretentious and very secure about her physique. And why not? he smiled to himself. He wrapped the silk carefully in tissue paper and put it in a little evening bag—he could slip that to her almost any time. Fun as it had been, he was glad he had finished with several days to spare. Although he usually thrived on deadline pressure, he didn’t want to add to the air of anxiety that permeated this merry band of performers. They all had enough to think about.
Ed sat restlessly, anxious for the show to start. He slipped his fingers beneath his cuff again, confirming the time with increasing dismay. In another ten minutes, the show would start, and if Autumn wasn’t here by then, the ushers wouldn’t—
Beside him, there was the rustle of expensive silk, a faint elusive scent of perfume as someone slipped into the empty seat beside him. The fragrance teased his senses, evocative, familiar. His heart began to hammer almost painfully. He spun in his seat, but his movement was arrested when a satiny hand caught his face and two soft lips moved expertly over his. He was still trying to catch his breath a moment later when her other slim hand slipped down the inside of his leg to rest on his knee.
“Autumn,” he breathed. A diva she was not, but she could make and entrance with the best of them. She rested her head of glossy hair on his shoulder and sighed contentedly.
“Oh Edward, darling, I thought you’d never get here!” she said softly.
“Me? But—but you—?”
“Shh, darling. Plenty of time to talk later. The show is starting.”
Appeased, but far from satisfied, Ed sat back in his seat to watch the show, his arm
slipping possessively around her waist. Humph, he thought. Talk, indeed.
The show opened with its usual blast of sound, and the ladies in the chorus showed off their dancing chops with great enthusiasm. Dancing your, um, legs off was a great way to not think about things, and these young women had an awful lot to not think about.
Nevertheless, it was easy to push away any grim and dismal thoughts and dance like you were born to it once the rhythm hit your system and you succumbed to the beat like a lover.
Kick, turn, knee kick, knee kick, high kick, turn, kiss the boys and make them sigh. Laura May caught the flash of Dr. Teeth’s signature smile and grinned back at him. The man could play piano all right, and she could dance to it with a vengeance.
Backstage, Kermit looked out between the curtains.
“The ladies seem enthusiastic tonight,” said Kermit hopefully. Beside him, Howard grunting grudging approval. “And the audience is packed tonight.” How Mr. Littleton had gotten a seat for Ms. Starr, he did not want to guess, but he supposed it involved somebody giving up a firstborn child. That made him think reflexively about Robin, and he turned to check that the young frog had emerged from the sound booth and was waiting for his cue to go on.
Right on schedule, Robin appeared at Kermit’s elbow, beaming up at him.
“Dr. Honeydew has a girlfriend!” he informed Kermit with delight. “And she’s real smart and she's pretty too!”
“That’s nice,” Kermit said, more to have something to say than to comment. He was usually the last to know who was doing what and with whom, and he had given up all hope of reading the signs with any degree of accuracy. Piggy usually knew most of what was going on, and if he needed to know, she told him. Otherwise, he usually floated in happy oblivion above all of it until made aware of something by someone else.
Of course, his oblivion had even extended to his own relationship. He had not actually realized what Piggy meant to him until he’d almost lost her. If he had not acted when he did, the sudden end of the show and the wrap of the third movie might have separated him from Piggy forever. Kermit found his hands balled into fists, and carefully relaxed them, counting his good fortune.
The ladies were gliding past him now, silent but glowing with heat and satisfaction after their energetic dancing. Howard followed in their wake in not-quite-disapproving silence and Robin waited until the stage was set for his number. He grinned at Kermit and walked onto the stage.
When the rainbow bloomed across the back of the stage, the audience let out a little “ooh!” of appreciation.
“It’s amazing,” Autumn whispered to Ed. “They’ve made a rainbow appear on the stage behind Robin. It’s beautiful.”
Ed heard the reverent hush in her voice and pictured the rainbow in his own mind while Robin’s clear, bell-like voice sang the familiar tune.
“Yes,” he agreed. “Beautiful.”
“Of course she liked you, Johnny!” Sal said admiringly. “What’s not to like?”
Gloria Jean was passing by, and she muttered something under her breath, but Sal was saved the necessity of replying because he didn’t hear it.
“Yeah,” said Johnny with elaborate nonchalance. “Said she wanted to talk to me again if she could. Oh—and she wants to talk to you, too, Sal.”
Sal had been eating a banana, mindless of the cliché, and at Johnny’s words inadvertently perpetuated another one. He dropped the shiny banana skin on the polished backstage floor and stared at Johnny, mesmerized.
“Me?” he squeaked. “Ms. Starr wants to talk to me?”
“Yeah,” said Johnny. “Go figure. Maybe she just wants a little background material—you know what I’m saying?”
Sal nodded absently. His heart might be thumping a thousand beats a minute, but his mind had checked out a few minutes ago.
“Wow,” thought Sal. “Wow oh gee! She wants to talk to me!”
“Oh—I wish I had fifty more like him in choir,” said Layla rapturously.
“You mean frogs?” asked Prawnie, grinning insufferably.
Layla pinned him with her best school-teacher’s look. “Well, if the alternative is cheeky young men….” She let the comment hang in the air.
Beside them, Lisa stared at the stage with her eyes almost brimming with tears.
“Listen to that voice,” she whispered. “Oh, Robin….”
Around them, the audience made little sounds of excitement as Robin finished his song, gathered his bucket and left the stage. The applause was thunderous, and before it could even die down, Fozzie had run onto the stage.
“Hiya, hiya, hiya!” Fozzie cried. “Who’s from out of town?”
Fozzie’s routine had the predictable number of groaners, but his delivery made the most of them.
In spite of himself, Scribbler found his lips curving into a smile. You had to admit, the bear had nerve. He didn’t think he could get out there and tell decade’s-old jokes and get a laugh out of them, but the ursa comedicus didn’t seem phased at all.
I suppose, his brain prompted unbidden, there are different kinds of courage. There’s facing-adversity courage, and getting-up-on-stage courage. Scribbler grimaced. He supposed there was even standing-up-to-your-boss-courage, which he seemed to be lacking in lately. He did not like some of the tactics that his boss employed, it was true, but he couldn't actually claim to not desire a similar outcome. The thought made him squirm, despising himself and the company he currently kept.
This gloomy train of thought prompted even gloomier ones. Seeing Brenda Starr had been a real slap to the ol’ ego, reminding him of all he’d lost and the level that he’d sunk to professionally. What was she doing here?—besides making him feel like a professional parasite. He found he was gritting his teeth and tried to stop, but realized his fists were clenched as well. If he didn’t manage to relax, they were going to pry him out of his seat when the show was over. There—the ridiculous image had made him smile, and he let out a long breath.
If Brenda Starr was here to do write something about the Muppets, he knew he couldn’t flat-out contradict what she was doing. That would be the code blue on his writing career, which was already close to being over. For a moment, he actually saw the old trench-coated reporter he had once been lay down, close his eyes and slowly fade away. If he had thought to shock himself with the dismal image, he had miscalculated. The idea of walking away from all this now, of letting go of what he had become and just starting over as something else seemed all too alluring. He found he had half-risen from his chair, preparatory to walking out and going who-knows-where when the curtain opened and Piggy danced onto the stage, her dark ponytail bobbing behind her.
Quite without conscious volition, Scribbler sank down into this seat and stared as Piggy signed and swooned after Kermit as he strutted by in his leather jacket. Maybe it was the pony-tail, and maybe it was just that Scribblers imagination had already been running rampant, but she looked younger to him. In fact, she looked just like she had when they’d first met.
He’d been young—ambitious, idealistic, more than a little star struck. He had been easy picken’s for a rising star like her. But…she had seemed to care. The interest had seemed genuine, the time they’d spent together had filled him with impossible hopes for the future—hopes that had been cruelly dashed when that stupid frog had popped the question and taken her away. Scribbler sat up straighter in his seat, his teeth grinding in remembered ire.
He couldn’t change what had happened, but he could sure as heck change try to change what happened next! Then she’d see—then she’d know how wrong she had been to abandon him like that. He’d show that stupid frog a thing or two about a thing or two! So—they’d brought in the big guns to try to save the fort, had they? So what? Scribbler had been a big gun himself once, and he still knew how to hit what he aimed for, and he was currently aiming at a small green frog. He took out his little notebook and began to write, glaring at Kermit as the unsuspecting amphibian twirled Piggy across the stage. The words flews across the page, and a one point, Scribbler let out an unpleasant sound that might have been a laugh but came out rather alarming.
Luckily, Scribbler was in an aisle seat, but the person to his right gave him a dirty look as he scratched across the page with his pen. Too polite to say anything, the woman shot him one last disapproving look and turned her back firmly on him, intent on the show. She was not about to let some cretin keep her from enjoying The Electric Mayhem!
Scribbler was intent, too. And as the show progressed, his glee did too. Boy, oh, boy—the boss was going to love this!
Robin had been more than chipper this afternoon after talking with his father. Modern technology is a wonderful thing, but Scooter had finally managed—just barely!—with the assistance of Kermit’s old friend Sherwood and a horse-driven buggy to get a message to the swamp in time to set up a time and place for a telephone conversation with his Dad. Robin had chattered on happily for long stretches, paused without seeming to draw breath, and inquired about every single resident of the swamp before his dad had gotten a chance to say much of anything. Finally, Robin had gone to his room to get ready for the show and left his uncle and father a moment’s peace to talk.
“Yeah—he’s doing fantastic,” said Kermit proudly. “I can’t tape the show for you—it’s against the casino rules—but I’ll see if I can get you a sound recording of his songs. Rowlf would help me with that, I know.”
Kermit listened for a moment, then laughed. “You tell her I said she’d better keep her game face on until I do come home—I can still skunk her at long-jumping any day of the—huh? Oh. Oh, yeah.” Kermit squirmed uncomfortably and pulled on his collar. “No—none of it. Everything’s fine—just fine. Piggy and I are just--look, don’t tell anybody about the—what? Oh. Oh, sheesh. Well, look, tell Mom it’s just some stupid reporter and that we’re—hahaha! Jimmy! Stop already, you knucklehead. I don’t need you and Blotch to come down here and do anything. It’s fine—we’re fine, okay? Really. And we’re taking good care of Robin—I promise.”
Kermit was silent for a moment, then the tension that had begun in his shoulders relaxed and he smiled. “You, too. Merry Christmas to everybody there.” Kermit looked behind him carefully, making sure no little aural organs were anywhere nearby. “Well, I think so—I’m working on something, so Santa should find us just fine.”
There was another moment of silence, then Kermit let out a low chuckle. “Well, I’ll do my best—but I think Piggy might want a say about that, hmm? Yeah—love to everybody there. Bye.”
He closed the little phone to turn and find Piggy looking at him in bemusement.
She came over and slipped her arm through his, rested her curls on his shoulder. They tickled his neck pleasantly.
“Everybody okay at home?”
“Um hum,” Kermit said, enjoying the sweet, soapy smell of her shampoo, the scent of her skin and perfume. He slipped an arm around her waist and she looked up at him. “Some of the papers have made it down that way. Mom’s worried about us.”
Piggy’s blue eyes were troubled. “Worried about us because…?”
“Because of the rumors, Honey—not because she believes them.”
Piggy blushed, but she was grateful Kermit had correctly understood her concern.
“Good,” she said. “I don’t want her to worry.” She smiled up at her husband, her expression teasing. “And what did your brother Jimmy have to say?”
Kermit’s only answer was a blush and a stammer. “Wow,” he said. “Look at the time, won’t you? We’d better get down to the show! Robin? Robin, have you washed your face yet?” He trotted off to Robin’s room with alacrity, but the sound of Piggy’s low laughter followed.
Rowlf reached out and snagged Foo Foo protectively as Howard barreled past, hot on the heels of the chorus ladies in their sequined car-hop costumes. If they minded being herded, they gave no sign of it. Foo Foo looked up at Rowlf, her pert face mischievous.
“I know sheepdogs that don’t do so well,” she said dryly, and Rowlf laughed.
“Well, Howard herds a much more capricious animal,” he responded.
At just that moment, Scooter went running by, talking hurriedly into his headphone to someone—presumably Dr. Honeydew.
“No,” he was saying firmly. “No—I don’t want a strobe-light effect—just a flashing-light effect. Got that?” The answer must have been affirmative, because he nodded and kept going. He was wearing blue jeans with the cuffs rolled up and a crisp white t-shirt.
“Looks like Scooter has joined One Fine Day,” said the amiable canine.
Foo Foo smiled. “Does the show change every night?”
Rowlf looked thoughtful, which was easy for him; he was a reflective sort of dog. “You mean on purpose?” he asked at last.
The little white poodle just laughed and shook her head. “Oh, Rowlf,” she said softly. “It seems just like old times.”
Brenda adjusted her wisp of a wrap and settled into her seat. She had already perused the playbill beforehand, and looked forward to the scheduled show with delight and some relief. She had been a little worried—just a very little—when Marty had first called her to come and do this piece. Sometimes, when people contacted you to do “the real story,” what they really wanted was someone to sanction their own private version of reality. She had known Marty for years—who didn’t know Marty?—but anyone’s instincts can be off once in a while. On the plane trip in, Brenda had wondered if what she’d find behind the scenes of Rainbow Productions was a pot of gold or something far less…glittery.
But so far, all of Marty’s indignation and faith in his client had proven to be well-warrented. Piggy was a talented actress, but her deep affection and strong attachment to her husband did not smack of showmanship of any sort. Brenda thought about the mean-spirited articles, her brow furrowing in concentration, and tried to think if there had been anything preceding them that explained the animosity behind the not-so-subtle stabs at Mr. and Mrs. The Frog. It was a mystery, a conundrum. She came up with nothing but the beginning of a head-ache, which she banished with a ladylike wave of her hand. True, she was working—but she wasn’t working right this second and she was going to enjoy the show.
She heard the rustle of rousched silk and turned toward the aisle. Her lovely lips curved into a smile as she watched her exotic next-door-neighbor glide toward the front of the auditorium, and she wondered what—of all possible things—had brought her to Las Vegas. After a moment of watching, her eyes sparkled in amusement.
Ah, thought Brenda. No mystery there.
“How can you make such a mess, Darling?” Thoreau demanded. “You haven’t even gotten dressed for your first number?”
“I was looking for something,” Piggy sniffed, “and besides, I’m almost dressed for my first number.” She continued to look around the dressing room, but obviously wasn’t finding what she wanted. She turned to Thoreau to ask and he held out some elaborately embroidered lingerie that hung from his slim finger by a dainty strap.
“Looking for this?” he asked dryly.
Piggy snatched the garment away. “As a matter of fact!” she growled, and disappeared behind the screen. Thoreau pursed his lips in amusement and began to put things neatly away. His mind raced as he methodically sorted and folded the garments strewn around the room, but when he ran across the little number that he had sewn for Janice’s “special occasion” his eyes softened for a moment. Sweet kid, he thought fondly. That scruffy bass player is going to get his socks knocked off.
Ego was not in short supply where Thoreau was concerned (or in the room he currently occupied), but he admitted to himself that the phenomenal success of the garment owed as much to Janice’s natural attributes as to his excellent construction and attention to detail. And it had been fun, he reminded himself, which made him pause thoughtfully. If he were honest with himself, he didn’t really like some of his clients, and some of the clients he did like had ghastly taste and were entirely dependent on his judgment. It was much more fun to sew for someone like Piggy—who was talented, opinionated and gorgeous. Janice had been a pleasant break from the usual divas he dressed—very unpretentious and very secure about her physique. And why not? he smiled to himself. He wrapped the silk carefully in tissue paper and put it in a little evening bag—he could slip that to her almost any time. Fun as it had been, he was glad he had finished with several days to spare. Although he usually thrived on deadline pressure, he didn’t want to add to the air of anxiety that permeated this merry band of performers. They all had enough to think about.
Ed sat restlessly, anxious for the show to start. He slipped his fingers beneath his cuff again, confirming the time with increasing dismay. In another ten minutes, the show would start, and if Autumn wasn’t here by then, the ushers wouldn’t—
Beside him, there was the rustle of expensive silk, a faint elusive scent of perfume as someone slipped into the empty seat beside him. The fragrance teased his senses, evocative, familiar. His heart began to hammer almost painfully. He spun in his seat, but his movement was arrested when a satiny hand caught his face and two soft lips moved expertly over his. He was still trying to catch his breath a moment later when her other slim hand slipped down the inside of his leg to rest on his knee.
“Autumn,” he breathed. A diva she was not, but she could make and entrance with the best of them. She rested her head of glossy hair on his shoulder and sighed contentedly.
“Oh Edward, darling, I thought you’d never get here!” she said softly.
“Me? But—but you—?”
“Shh, darling. Plenty of time to talk later. The show is starting.”
Appeased, but far from satisfied, Ed sat back in his seat to watch the show, his arm
slipping possessively around her waist. Humph, he thought. Talk, indeed.
The show opened with its usual blast of sound, and the ladies in the chorus showed off their dancing chops with great enthusiasm. Dancing your, um, legs off was a great way to not think about things, and these young women had an awful lot to not think about.
Nevertheless, it was easy to push away any grim and dismal thoughts and dance like you were born to it once the rhythm hit your system and you succumbed to the beat like a lover.
Kick, turn, knee kick, knee kick, high kick, turn, kiss the boys and make them sigh. Laura May caught the flash of Dr. Teeth’s signature smile and grinned back at him. The man could play piano all right, and she could dance to it with a vengeance.
Backstage, Kermit looked out between the curtains.
“The ladies seem enthusiastic tonight,” said Kermit hopefully. Beside him, Howard grunting grudging approval. “And the audience is packed tonight.” How Mr. Littleton had gotten a seat for Ms. Starr, he did not want to guess, but he supposed it involved somebody giving up a firstborn child. That made him think reflexively about Robin, and he turned to check that the young frog had emerged from the sound booth and was waiting for his cue to go on.
Right on schedule, Robin appeared at Kermit’s elbow, beaming up at him.
“Dr. Honeydew has a girlfriend!” he informed Kermit with delight. “And she’s real smart and she's pretty too!”
“That’s nice,” Kermit said, more to have something to say than to comment. He was usually the last to know who was doing what and with whom, and he had given up all hope of reading the signs with any degree of accuracy. Piggy usually knew most of what was going on, and if he needed to know, she told him. Otherwise, he usually floated in happy oblivion above all of it until made aware of something by someone else.
Of course, his oblivion had even extended to his own relationship. He had not actually realized what Piggy meant to him until he’d almost lost her. If he had not acted when he did, the sudden end of the show and the wrap of the third movie might have separated him from Piggy forever. Kermit found his hands balled into fists, and carefully relaxed them, counting his good fortune.
The ladies were gliding past him now, silent but glowing with heat and satisfaction after their energetic dancing. Howard followed in their wake in not-quite-disapproving silence and Robin waited until the stage was set for his number. He grinned at Kermit and walked onto the stage.
When the rainbow bloomed across the back of the stage, the audience let out a little “ooh!” of appreciation.
“It’s amazing,” Autumn whispered to Ed. “They’ve made a rainbow appear on the stage behind Robin. It’s beautiful.”
Ed heard the reverent hush in her voice and pictured the rainbow in his own mind while Robin’s clear, bell-like voice sang the familiar tune.
“Yes,” he agreed. “Beautiful.”
“Of course she liked you, Johnny!” Sal said admiringly. “What’s not to like?”
Gloria Jean was passing by, and she muttered something under her breath, but Sal was saved the necessity of replying because he didn’t hear it.
“Yeah,” said Johnny with elaborate nonchalance. “Said she wanted to talk to me again if she could. Oh—and she wants to talk to you, too, Sal.”
Sal had been eating a banana, mindless of the cliché, and at Johnny’s words inadvertently perpetuated another one. He dropped the shiny banana skin on the polished backstage floor and stared at Johnny, mesmerized.
“Me?” he squeaked. “Ms. Starr wants to talk to me?”
“Yeah,” said Johnny. “Go figure. Maybe she just wants a little background material—you know what I’m saying?”
Sal nodded absently. His heart might be thumping a thousand beats a minute, but his mind had checked out a few minutes ago.
“Wow,” thought Sal. “Wow oh gee! She wants to talk to me!”
“Oh—I wish I had fifty more like him in choir,” said Layla rapturously.
“You mean frogs?” asked Prawnie, grinning insufferably.
Layla pinned him with her best school-teacher’s look. “Well, if the alternative is cheeky young men….” She let the comment hang in the air.
Beside them, Lisa stared at the stage with her eyes almost brimming with tears.
“Listen to that voice,” she whispered. “Oh, Robin….”
Around them, the audience made little sounds of excitement as Robin finished his song, gathered his bucket and left the stage. The applause was thunderous, and before it could even die down, Fozzie had run onto the stage.
“Hiya, hiya, hiya!” Fozzie cried. “Who’s from out of town?”
Fozzie’s routine had the predictable number of groaners, but his delivery made the most of them.
In spite of himself, Scribbler found his lips curving into a smile. You had to admit, the bear had nerve. He didn’t think he could get out there and tell decade’s-old jokes and get a laugh out of them, but the ursa comedicus didn’t seem phased at all.
I suppose, his brain prompted unbidden, there are different kinds of courage. There’s facing-adversity courage, and getting-up-on-stage courage. Scribbler grimaced. He supposed there was even standing-up-to-your-boss-courage, which he seemed to be lacking in lately. He did not like some of the tactics that his boss employed, it was true, but he couldn't actually claim to not desire a similar outcome. The thought made him squirm, despising himself and the company he currently kept.
This gloomy train of thought prompted even gloomier ones. Seeing Brenda Starr had been a real slap to the ol’ ego, reminding him of all he’d lost and the level that he’d sunk to professionally. What was she doing here?—besides making him feel like a professional parasite. He found he was gritting his teeth and tried to stop, but realized his fists were clenched as well. If he didn’t manage to relax, they were going to pry him out of his seat when the show was over. There—the ridiculous image had made him smile, and he let out a long breath.
If Brenda Starr was here to do write something about the Muppets, he knew he couldn’t flat-out contradict what she was doing. That would be the code blue on his writing career, which was already close to being over. For a moment, he actually saw the old trench-coated reporter he had once been lay down, close his eyes and slowly fade away. If he had thought to shock himself with the dismal image, he had miscalculated. The idea of walking away from all this now, of letting go of what he had become and just starting over as something else seemed all too alluring. He found he had half-risen from his chair, preparatory to walking out and going who-knows-where when the curtain opened and Piggy danced onto the stage, her dark ponytail bobbing behind her.
Quite without conscious volition, Scribbler sank down into this seat and stared as Piggy signed and swooned after Kermit as he strutted by in his leather jacket. Maybe it was the pony-tail, and maybe it was just that Scribblers imagination had already been running rampant, but she looked younger to him. In fact, she looked just like she had when they’d first met.
He’d been young—ambitious, idealistic, more than a little star struck. He had been easy picken’s for a rising star like her. But…she had seemed to care. The interest had seemed genuine, the time they’d spent together had filled him with impossible hopes for the future—hopes that had been cruelly dashed when that stupid frog had popped the question and taken her away. Scribbler sat up straighter in his seat, his teeth grinding in remembered ire.
He couldn’t change what had happened, but he could sure as heck change try to change what happened next! Then she’d see—then she’d know how wrong she had been to abandon him like that. He’d show that stupid frog a thing or two about a thing or two! So—they’d brought in the big guns to try to save the fort, had they? So what? Scribbler had been a big gun himself once, and he still knew how to hit what he aimed for, and he was currently aiming at a small green frog. He took out his little notebook and began to write, glaring at Kermit as the unsuspecting amphibian twirled Piggy across the stage. The words flews across the page, and a one point, Scribbler let out an unpleasant sound that might have been a laugh but came out rather alarming.
Luckily, Scribbler was in an aisle seat, but the person to his right gave him a dirty look as he scratched across the page with his pen. Too polite to say anything, the woman shot him one last disapproving look and turned her back firmly on him, intent on the show. She was not about to let some cretin keep her from enjoying The Electric Mayhem!
Scribbler was intent, too. And as the show progressed, his glee did too. Boy, oh, boy—the boss was going to love this!
