Chapter 59: Ho Ho Ho and a Bottle of Ink
Kermit looked out at the sea of face uncertainly, wondering if he’d explained Scooter’s hard work adequately. “So the long and the, um, short of it is that we expect him to show up again tonight.”
The assembled cast and crew rippled with excitement.
“And when he does--!” said Clifford.
“Boffo!” cried Johnny.
“Socko!” yelled Sal, then they looked at each other and laughed.
The Kermit that had stormed through that morning might have roundly seconded (or fourthed) this proposition, but Kermit the Frog—the nice, normal Kermit the Frog was not one to solve his problems with physical violence.
But the crowd had joined the battle cry with enthusiasm, and Kermit had to shout to make himself heard above the fray.
“Now,” he said earnestly. “C’mon now, guys. Violence isn’t going to solve our problems.”
“It would solve one of them,” Floyd Pepper said dryly, and Gloria Jean stomped her foot and said, “Here, here!” Rizzo gazed at her adoringly and muttered, “Oooh—tough gal,” out of the corner of his mouth. She did not acknowledge the comment with so much as a look, but the feisty rat saw her blush and try not to smile.
“If he shows up tonight,” came Howard’s strident voice, “I’ll give that man suuuch a slap!”
In spite of the day, in spite of his spent anger and his growing frustration, Kermit smiled.
“No, no, now let’s be reasonable about this,” he tried again.
“Reasonable?” said Piggy, rolling her eyes at Kermit. “Give me five seconds alone with that guy and I’ll show you—“
“—tell heem to take his sucio periódico and—“
“Like to give that guy a swift boot in the nether regions—“
“Where are the nether regions?”
“Begawk baw-bawk bawked!” said Camilla, one smartly-feathered wing cocked on her hip.
“It’s, um, not that I don’t appreciate the support, guys,” said Kermit, looking nervously toward where Piggy’s recital of damage had begun to include hand gestures for emphasis, “but I really think that—“
“Meep mee-meep!”
“-don’t think that guy oughta say those mean things! Why, Kermit was the only one who would hire me when I first started—“
“Well, it’s not perfect,” admitted Scooter, “but I crossed-referenced the names on the first list with the payee on the second list, and then—“
“Fascinating,” murmured Dr Honeydew, thoughtfully stroking his chin.
“Um, guys?” Kermit shifted uncomfortably on his flippered feet.. “Hey—let’s settle down now so we can move on to talking about the new—“
“KWIIIII! ETTTTTTTE!” bellowed Fozzie. The voices stopped rather abruptly, except for a hastily nixed, “—and I can’t go out in that no matter how artistic….”
Every eye was trained on Fozzie, who took off his hat nervously, put it back on his head because he didn’t know what else to do with it and then hauled Kermit in front of him.
“Kermit wants to tell you something,” he muttered.
Kermit smiled, looking abashed. “Um, thanks, Fozzie,” he said hastily. “I just wanted to re-iterate that—“
“What’s re-it-her-whatsit?” Sal asked Johnny.
“Beats me,” said the crooner, making a shushing motion with his hand. Sal shushed.
“—we don’t want to get ourselves in trouble with the hotel or security or anything.” He cast another nervous glance at Piggy, but she was looking at him with an expression of rapt attention which Kermit knew could mask, well, almost anything. “But if you see someone that looks like this—“ He held up a grainy photograph, obviously enlarged many times from a newspaper byline. “—then I’d like to keep and eye on him and see where he goes. Got it?” he asked. He did not really expect agreement but he looked hopeful all the same.
They surprised him, as they often did. There was a miniature murmur of discontent, then a collective sigh, and Gonzo spoke.
“Okay—we’ll just keep and eye on him,” he said morosely. “But I still think my idea about the thumb screws was—“
“Good,” Kermit said hastily. “Then it’s settled. And until that time—and unless anything else untoward happens, we’re not going to think about him any more.” He surveyed the faces looking up at him and the old familiar gleam shone in his eye. “And you know why? Because we’re going to be too busy working on our new New Year’s show! Yaaaaaay!”
The cast roared its approval, buoyed by the sight of Kermit in arm-waving hysteria that was not brought on by, well, hysteria.
“So say what’s the plan, my man!” said Dr. Teeth, his gold tooth gleaming in the middle of his thousand-watt smile.
“Yeah,” said Scooter. “When are we going to change the show?”
“When can I teach my choreography?” whined Howard. “You know how long—“
“Does the new song have a fruit theme?”
“When do we get new costumes?”
At that, Thoreau, who had been standing near the back, turned a sour look on Mabel. “The next thing you know, I’ll be tearing down the curtains like Scarlett O’Hara or the Von Trapps,” he said, but the wise little mole could see the gleam of excitement in his eyes.
“Just keep your paws of my good dish towels,” she teased. Out of the corner of her eye, Mabel saw Brenda Starr with her little camera, taking a picture of Kermit as he laughed and fended off questions. Piggy had come to stand close to him, looking at him not with the lovey-dovey eyes of a wife, but with the same trust that was mirrored on every face in the room. They would follow him anywhere, do anything he asked them simply because he believed they really could.
As a reporter, Brenda had made her mark and her fortune with words, but pictures, they say are worth thousands of same. She checked the preview on her camera—God bless technology!—and her lips parted in a delighted smile. This particular picture and the article she had so lovingly crafted these past few days ought to help make a liar out of at least one sleazy tabloid reporter—and put Kermit and Rainbow Productions back on track to their pot of gold.
Scribbler surveyed himself in the mirror. The false beard and moustache looked exactly that--false, and he didn’t think a little padding in his suit was going to fool anyone.
“You have got to be kidding,” he said. “My Grandma could pick me out of a crowd a half-mile away—and she’s blind,” he finished loudly. “And besides, I don’t like the idea of being caught wearing this get-up if something goes—“
“Oh, stop whining,” snapped his boss. “You said you wanted cover. You’ve got cover.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t mean—“
“What do you want, Scribbler? The witness protection program? Get over yourself—you’re not that important.”
That stung, and Scribbler bit back what he’d been about to say. Was his boss right? Was he over-reacting? Besides—what could they do to him? Take away his ticket? Have Security remove him? He thought uncomfortably about the big one—the one with the crazy eyes who towered over the other. Sweetcheeks, or something. Scribbler gulped and looked at himself in the mirror again.
The fake hair did look, well, fake, but it hid his own mop of hair effectively. And the suite was really pretty inconspicuous, all things considered. He had not come all this way—braved everything he’d braved so far—to quit now. Besides—he didn’t think he could stand the look of derision and scorn on his employers face if he balked now. He took a deep breath.
“Okay,” he said, trying for reluctant casual. “I’ll give this disguise a whirl tonight, but if it doesn’t work….”
He let the thought hang there and hoped his boss was filling in the blank. He had no idea what to put in that blank himself—he was running on pure bravado.
“That’s the spirit,” his boss said, and the thought must have seemed suddenly funny. Scribbler made as dignified an exit as he was able to the sound of laughter.
“How’s the choreography coming?” Thoreau asked as he passed Howard scurrying in the opposite direction backstage.
“Ghastly,” said Howard. “Just ghastly.” The laughing look in Thoreau’s eyes made him realize he was being tweaked a little, and he put his hands on his hips and sniffed.
“How are you coming with the curtains?” he asked snidely.
The dressmaker made a face, then smiled broadly. “Touché,” he said dryly. “Not so bad. Is it really ghastly?”
Howard looked around carefully, then leaned forward in a conspiratorial whisper.
“No,” he admitted. “It’s actually not too bad. That Sarah’s a quick study, and Gloria Jean can learn new steps after just a couple of times through. She’ll help bring the other along.”
“How’s Piggy?” Thoreau asked anxiously.
“Fabulous!” Howard said at once, and loudly. Again, that cautious look to be sure they weren’t overheard, then he leaned forward again. “A little behind the beat,” he confessed. “But she’s always like that when she’s learning something new.”
“What about the frog?”
“Following her lead,” said Howard.
Thoreau nodded, beginning to move toward Piggy’s dressing room and his sewing machine.
“Smart frog,” he murmured.
Kermit patted his face dry with a towel and threw it over the back of a chair. Piggy’s dressing room might be an explosion of fashion and feminine brick-a-back, but the men’s dressing room suffered from no such delusions.
“I’m going to take Robin out for a snack,” said Kermit to Rowlf. Rizzo looked up and nodded approval. “If Howard looks for me—“ He looked quickly over his shoulder to make sure there was no danger of being overheard. “—tell him I’ve gone to the office for a bit. I won’t be long.” He stopped and fidgeted uncertainly. “I don’t think I’m doing a very good job with Robin this time,” he said softly. “I wonder if I should send him back to the swamp.”
He had not really expected an answer, but Rowlf gave him one anyway.
“Don’t be silly,” Rowlf said matter-of-factly. “Kid’s having the time of his life.”
“You really think so?” asked Kermit, surprised.
“Sure thing,” said Rizzo. “What kids want most is to be included. He’s fine.”
Kermit looked hopeful. “Well, good,” he said. “I just, you know, haven’t done such a good job of the, um, Christmas-y part yet. I don’t know what we’re going to do about a tree….”
Rowlf’s ears perked a little. “I’ll keep my eyes open,” he offered. “Dogs are great at finding trees.”
Kermit smiled in spite of himself. “Thanks, Rowlf. I appreciate it.”
Rizzo shook his head and snorted. Kermit was almost out the door before he called after him.
“Hey, Kermit!” he hollered.
“What is it, Rizzo?”
“If you’re worried about Christmas, why don’t you take the kid to see Santa. They have one in the lobby.”
“Really?” asked Kermit. As a performer, he was more familiar with the behind the scenes parts of the casino. It surprised him to find a grown-up place like this so accommodating.
“Yeah—free pictures and all that.”
“Thanks—I’ll think about it,” said Kermit. He walked out to find Robin waiting with Piggy, who was still glowing from the exertion of her dancing. He leaned in, puckering, and Piggy gave him a ridiculously chaste little kiss on his froggy lips, then bent and brushed a fond kiss across her nephew-in-law’s smooth head.
“Have fun with your Uncle Kermit,” she said airily. “Aunt Piggy’s going to take a nice long shower.”
Brenda closed her little notebook and smiled at Janice warmly.
“Like, sorry I’ve been so hard to catch,” said the blond musician apologetically. “But now you, like, know what’s going on.”
Brenda nodded meaningfully. “It’s always hard, isn’t it?” she said sympathetically. “I remember once, before Nigel and I were married-- Someone was coming, and she trailed off until the voices coalesced into recognizable ones, and the familiar shapes of Clifford and Mabel rounded the corner, talking hurried. When they caught sight of Janice and Brenda, Clifford came forward hurriedly, looking at his watch, then over his shoulder.
“Ready?” he asked Janice.
“Ready,” she said solemnly. They hurried out.
Mabel stood with Brenda and watched them go. Her look was concerned, but benevolent.
“Nice guy,” said the cook casually. Brenda looked over her notes and agreed.
“Sounds like it,” she said. After just a moment more, the spell of inertia was broken and, laughing, both women scurried off to their appointed tasks.
Scribbler stood sweating in his cadged suit. Despite the season, he felt far from jolly.
“Oh, wow, Uncle Kermit,” said Robin. His eyes had lit with great excitement on
the scarlet-suited figure standing near the edge of the casino lobby. Kermit’s eyes followed Robin’s line of sight and he smiled.
“Oh,” he said. “There he is. Let’s go.”
Robin shot him a look. “Uncle Kermit,” he chided. “I want to go by myself.”
Kermit fought the urge to smile, thinking fondly of the caprices of childhood. Young enough to want to talk to Santa, but too old to have his Uncle stand by and coach—or overhear. Kermit nodded, but kept a close eye on the small green figure as he crossed the lobby and stood in front of the man with the white fluffy beard.
“Hi Santa!” Robin chirped, waving a small green hand.
Scribbler had already been sweating in his cadged Santa suit, and he felt far from jolly. At the chirping voice, he startled, looking down at the bulbous eyes with some alarm. Geez Louise! Had the kid recognized him? Had Kermit? But it only took a moment of looking into Robin’s open and trusting face for the jaded journalist to realize that he was caught in a role that he had no choice but to play.
“Ho ho ho!” he said, buying time. “What’s a nice little frog like you doing in a place like this?”
Robin looked abashed, but flushed with pleasure.
“I’m in my Uncle Kermit’s show,” he said, cheeks reddening. “I didn’t come here to gamble, Mr., um, Santa, sir.”
“Smart move, my boy,” said the reporter, trying to infuse his voice with heartiness.
“Can I—can I ask you something?”
“Why, of course,” the fake Santa Claus improvised, feeling like a heel.
“I guess I—well, I guess what I mean is, can I ask you for something?”
There was something in the earnest politeness that reached Scribbler, though he was far down the path to destruction. This was…this was a nice kid.
“Sure, Robin,” he said, remembering to use his rich St. Nick voice. “Tell ol’ Santa Claus what you want me to bring you.”
At the sound of his name, Robin’s eyes widened considerably, giving the little amphibian a slightly pop-eyed expression, and his mouth dropped open in surprise.
“Wow—oh, you know my name!” he said, then looked embarrassed. “Of course you know my name,” Robin said sheepishly. “You know everything.”
“Well, not quite,” said Scribbler, wondering what on earth he was playing at. He should flee, should tell the kid to scram, but…he couldn’t. Somehow or other, he couldn’t.
Well, sir,” said Robin, cloaking his embarrassment with formality. “It’s not for me. I wasn’t going to ask for something for me.” He hesitated, then set his lips firmly, obviously having decided something of great moment.
“Just tell Santa what you want?” said Scribbler in what he hoped was a kindly tone. “I’m sure my elves have just the—“
“Could you make that reporter whose been writing bad stories about my Uncle Kermit stop?”
Surprise made Scribbler falter. “Um….” he stammered. “Er….”
“It’s making him and my Aunt Piggy unhappy.”
“Look, kid—“ started Scribbler, forgetting his robust tone. “That’s not the sort of thing that Santa usually—“
“I know it isn’t,” Robin The Frog said earnestly. “But you can do magic—you can do stuff that no one else can do.”
“Um, sometimes,” the mortified former news writer mumbled.
“So…do you? Um, think you could do that? If you do, you don’t have to bring me that train I wanted.”
If this had been a made-for-television movie, Scribbler’s teeny heart would have grown ten sizes larger at that moment, and they would all have sat down to a feast of birdseed and shredded wheat together. But as Robin had just pointed out, some things require magic, and right now Scribbler felt about as un-magical as it was possible to feel.
He put his hand on Robin’s shoulder, thinking that—like his uncle Kermit—he seemed ready and willing to carry the weight of the world there. He looked into the little frog’s trusting eyes.
“I’ll see what I can do,” he said gently. “Maybe I can find enough magic to do some good.”
Kermit watched as Robin ignored the moss green glove that Santa proffered and reached instead to embrace the well-padded figure.
“Thanks,” Robin murmured, his voice muffled against the plushy fabric. “Thanks, Mr. Claus.”
Kermit waited until Robin had rejoined them, and then asked, with elaborate casualness.
“So—what’d Santa say about the train set?”
The train set that happened to be stored safely in the music practice room.
“What tra—oh. Oh! Er,” said Robin nervously, returning his uncle quick hug. “Um,” he said. “Yes—Santa said he’d see what he could do.”
“That sounds promising, Robin,” said Kermit fondly. “I sure hope Santa brings you what you wished for.”
He sure better, Robin thought. He’s my last hope.
Scribbler watched them go, watching until the sea of humanity had swallowed them utterly and completely. Only then did he become aware that there was a rather irate mother standing near him, tapping one high heel in a way that did not inspire holiday cheer.
“We’ve been waiting and waiting,” said the woman impatiently. “The security guard gave us some lame excuse about Santa having to find another suit, but little Mallory has been waiting for 30 minutes now to tell Santa what she wants for Christmas, and I would think, with all the money this casino makes off of tourists that you could be a little more considerate of—“
Surprise stemmed the tide of words, and she looked down in surprise at the red velvet hat in her hand. Before she could speak, it was followed by a false beard, moustache and wig.
“What are you doing?” she asked, angry and bewildered.
“What does it look like I’m doing?” Scribbler snapped irritably. He took off the coat and draped it across her outstretched hands. “I’m quitting.”
“But---but you can’t do that!” protested the mother. “Little Mallory—“
“Just watch me. Trust me, lady,” said the reporter grimly. “Little Mallory will be better off without the likes of me.”
“But, but—where are you going? Who is going to do your job?”
Scribbler shrugged out of the suspenders and stepped out of them, then toed the boots off and left them where they stood. He tramped toward the elevator in his rolled-up khakis and t-shirt.
‘Frankly, my dear,” he said without looking back. “I don’t give a care.”
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