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Chapter 63: The Eye of the Beholden
Brenda leaned back in her seat, trying to pretend that Coach was actually as comfy as First Class. She’d ridden in worse, and for less promise at the other end.
The story was done. The story was in. Everything was up to the publisher now, and Brenda knew that that meant she was in good hands. She hoped very shortly to be in Basil’s arms—hence the hastened-up flight and the seat in Coach. As tempting as it had been to stay with Kermit and his merry band of followers to see the finished article arrive in print, even the magic of modern technology took some time to convert what she had sent digitally into a glossy periodical. Time to move on, and Brenda knew better than anyone that the siren call of the story could come at any time. Best to take the opportunity for down time now when she had it than to wait and miss the chance.
Rowlf had driven her, and Fozzie had come along, chattering happily and trying out what Brenda sortof hoped wasn’t his “A” material on her. She suspected (correctly) that Rowlf had been somewhat anxious to leave the semi-connubial celebration for Floyd and Janice. Fozzie had come along because: (a) Scooter had been reluctant to leave the dance floor where he could stand mostly uninterrupted with his arms around his girl and (b) Brenda suspected (also correctly) that Fozzie had developed a slight crush on her. She found both of these musings charming, and it had been a cheerful if somewhat hastily-executed trip to the airport.
Rowlf had opened her door and ferried her luggage to the baggage handler with just the right touch of hamminess. Give a performer a role to play and he’d rise to the occasion. “’Preciate what you’ve done for us,” the canine said solemnly. “What you’re doing for us.”
“The article is going to be a good one,” Brenda answered Rowlf in kind, and he knew she wasn’t talking about her skill as a writer. He covered her slim hand with his big furred ones.
Brenda smiled—the smile that had dazzled many—and returned the pressure of his hands. “I’m glad I could help. And I’m awfully glad that Marty called me.” She gave a little laugh. “I feel like I’ve known you—all of you--for such a long time. I’m so glad to have finally met you.”
Fozzie managed to interpose himself between them, which wasn’t easy, as Rowlf still held one of Brenda’s hands between his paws.
“Glad to have met me?” he queried hopefully. Brenda had a sudden, completely unexpected remembrance of a favored childhood toy—a worn and rather shabby light-brown teddy bear with an appealingly earnest face. The thought made her heart melt.
Brenda laughed and reclaimed her hand to cup Fozzie’s face in her soft palms and kiss him on top of the head. His ears wiggled furiously and he made a sound like a balloon slowly leaking out its air. Brenda forced her face into more serious lines.
“Especially glad to have met you,” she said solemnly. She stepped back and smiled again. A businessman three lines over dropped his briefcase and two college students stopped their banter to sigh and gaze at her. “Tell Kermit to call me once the article is out.”
“Sure thing,” said Rowlf.
“Will do,” said Fozzie.
“Until next time.” She turned—toward the plane and toward Basil, who was probably already en route to the ski lodge. He had promised to keep a cup of hot chocolate warm just for her. She hoped it wasn’t the only warm thing she’d find when she got there.
Two furry brown figures watched her slim back move toward the queue for boarding, straining to keep her copper-glorious hair in sight until it disappeared completely.
“Think she’ll come back some time?” Fozzie asked in a small voice.
“Sure!” said Rowlf, with certainty. “She said she’d come if we need her.” He put one hand on Fozzie’s back as they walked through the terminal. If the sight of a dog walking a bear through the airport was unusual, no one commented on it. They made for the car, already thinking of the night’s show ahead.
A small green figure looked around the mayhem in considerable delight.
“Gosh,” said Robin. “Gee! This place looks like fun again!”
Several cast members stopped in their headlong flight to smile and pat Robin affectionately on the head. Although he had declared himself much too big for pats on the head some weeks ago, he accepted their gentle touches with the good-natured long-suffering that only children on the verge of adolescence can exhibit.
But the little frog was not wrong. The backstage area had what could only be described as a festive air. Flushed from the excitement of the afternoon, buoyed by the reaffirmation of true love in the world and slightly frantic about the newest new schedule for the show, the cast and crew of the muppet Christmas show were practically vibrating with excitement. Even Howard seemed in a good mood, which put Gloria Jean so off her usual sassiness that she couldn’t get her shoes buckled without help.
Piggy’s blue velvet dress was pro-cessed through the backstage area like a visiting dignitary. Kermit half-expected Thoreau to insist on an escort.
“Pretty fancy entrance for something you’re going to throw on and sprint through the access tunnels in,” said Kermit snidely, but Piggy merely sniffed at him.
“I do not sprint,” Piggy said archly. “I glide.”
“Yeah?” Kermit asked, his expression wry. “Well, be sure you glide fast—I don’t want to be standing around sweating your return in a leather jacket.”
Piggy patted him on the head in a way even Robin would have objected to. “Charming,” she said dryly. “A sweaty frog wearing leather. What a lovely thought to look forward to.”
She turned toward her dressing room, but this was not to be borne without reprisal….
They only broke apart sheepishly at the small flash and whir of a camera-phone.
“Sorry,” said Sara, with a thousand-watt smile that said she was not. “I just couldn’t resist.” Scooter grinned behind her.
“Neither could I,” Kermit muttered, but Piggy had taken the moment to slip away.
Sara made herself scarce, leaving the two men staring at each other. Scooter’s face was guileless. “Last-minute instructions?” he asked cheekily.
Kermit shot him a look. “Yeah,” he said dourly. “Just tell me if I’m wearing lipstick, won’t you?”
The infectious carnival air of the performers might have been carried—by osmosis—to the audience. Or perhaps it was the holiday season itself that made everything seem so vivid and exciting. Whatever the reason, the end result was that the man in the dark suit found himself standing in the back of an auditorium that had already threatened to erupt into cheers and chants—and the show did not start for another 20 minutes.
There was a commotion as a middle-aged couple edged into the seats in front of him, filling the last two vacant seats. Technically, standing room wasn’t allowed in this theater. The Fire Marshall had been quite emphatic about that before, but if everything went according to plan, the man in the dark suit wouldn’t need long.
He was here to see the pig. More specifically, he was here to see if the pig was vulnerable—if it was possible to get to the pig. Despite the amount of rumor and buzz and just plain lying that was going on, the only thing for it had been to come down here and see for himself. He doubted a lot of what he’d read and most of what he’d heard, but there was no real substitute for eyeballing a potential contract yourself and making your own plan. And if he ran into trouble, well—that’s what lawyers were for.
His musings were cut short as a small light-green frog edged out onto the stage. The audience was unsure about whether or not it should cheer wildly or subside into eager silence. The frog waited with an open, affable, almost apologetically modest expression for the crowd to notice him.
“Um, hi-ho and welcome. Kermit the Frog here and boy, do we have a show for you!”
The applause bloomed out again, and the little amphibian all but stubbed his toe in the carpet as the cheering went on and on. The man in black found himself smiling in spite of himself. Hard not to like the little amphibian—hard, but not impossible.
Kermit held up his hands again, and this time the crowd grew hushed, watching him expectantly.
“I’m Kermit the Frog”—here he was interrupted by a short but intense burst of applause—“and I am delighted to welcome you to our Holiday Revue. We’re going to do our best to put you in a holiday mood.” Applause again, all but drowning out his next words. “But before we set the mood for Christmas, come with us—back in time—to the fabulous 50s, to the birth of rock-and-roll, to the days of poodle skirts and Presley….” He smiled, waved his hand toward the curtain and then melted back into backstage as it began to open.
The man in black pursed his lips in grudging respect. A real showman, he thought idly. Born to the stage. He checked his watch impatiently as the curtain closed, then opened again on the kid—the frog kid. Looks like his uncle, the man thought dispassionately. And nice pipes for a little guy. Still, as entertaining as the show looked to be, he was really here for one thing. He was here for the pig, and to make a judgment about whether or not he could get through the pig’s defenses long enough to do the job. He looked at his program again. Just the bear, then he’d get a good look at her. He tried to ignore the fact that his palms seemed sweaty. For pity’s sake, it was just a job. Just another job. No need to get all excited about it. But in what passed for a heart, he knew that wasn’t true. This job was going to be different—this job might be the one that put him in the big-time.
He watched keenly as Kermit the Frog came back out, puffed out with parental pride, and introduced the bear. He took a big breath and held it, trying to slow his heart as he looked Kermit over. For a moment, he felt something that might have been guilt.
It passed.
Fate is funny and also capricious. Although she is ostensibly impartial, she does not takes sides, and more than one person who felt that she was either for him or against him found to his chagrin that she was both. It is no surprise that Fate is always assumed to be female.
Across the casino, Fleet Scribbler hunkered down into his seat, congratulating himself on the fact that this was probably the least likely place in the casino—and perhaps the planet--for his boss to look for him. His resignation—if storming up to the person who signs your checks and telling them off can count as a resignation—had not been well received. There had been angry words, threats, pleas and finally bribes. To his credit, Scribbler had withstood them all, and ducked out before the confrontation could get physical. He was done. He was not doing this any more. There was a sharp pang somewhere in the vicinity of his chest, but Scribbler was stubbornly attributing it to the last cold, greasy meal he’d downed than to any attack of conscience. Scribbler was down, and he was very possible out for the count, but in this particular instance he had actually sold himself short. It wasn’t indigestion that made his chest feel tight at the thought that he might never see Piggy again. It was—what the--?
Miss Piggy glided onto the stage wearing a blue velvet dress. (Whether or not she had glided through the backstage tunnels was still up for debate.) Scribbler’s mouth gaped open and the stared—goggle-eyed—at her as she walked to the center of the stage. The three Elvises broke formation at the far end of the stage and crowded around her. One of them on her left, one of them on her right, one kneeling on one knee before her. Piggy graced all of them with a look of demure affection as they began to sing.
Scribbler wanted to flee the room, to get away. He had not counted on this. He had not counted on seeing her again, so close, so much like her old self. He squirmed in his seat, sweating. Unlike the Muppet Christmas revue, this show was not quite sold out, and he was not disturbing any neighbors to the right or left.
Of all the cruel tricks for Fate to play, Scribbler thought. You do the right thing—stand up for honor and all that carp—and temptation still strolls right in and pops you one right on the kisser.
He watched Piggy smile her million-watt smile at each of the Elvi in turn, and even though he knew well how insincere those smiles could prove, he couldn’t help but be affected. He wondered fleetingly what smile she smiled for that frog, the one who had-- It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair at all! Of all the Elvises in Las Vegas, how did she end up….
Scribbler’s heart, which had been thumping like a bass drum, suddenly transformed itself into a snare tattoo. Of all the Elvises in Las Vegas….
There was an idea brewing, an awful idea, and it beat Scribbler’s bruised conscience into submission to stand crowing its grim victory. Sure, he wasn’t going to do what his boss wanted, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t do what he wanted his way.
After all, he muttered to himself, he didn’t want to hurt Piggy. That had been the crux of the problem with his boss. The boss wanted bloodshed—anatomical or emotional. Scribbler just wanted to show Piggy the error of her ways, to show her that she hadn’t been fair, hadn’t been….
His eyes had strayed back to the stage, and they lingered on Miss Piggy the Frog a long, long time.
But that wasn’t all they saw.
Backstage, Scooter was close to apoplexy. There had been no way to test this in real time until the show, but if his calculations were off, One Fine Day was going to be a pretty dismal day indeed.
Kermit was nervous—he lived in that nervousness backstage—but Scooter overt signs of worry actually seemed to calm his down. He reached out and put a hand on Scooter’s arm.
“Don’t sweat it,” Kermit said. “She’ll be here. What could go wrong?”
Luckily, no one answered.
Brenda leaned back in her seat, trying to pretend that Coach was actually as comfy as First Class. She’d ridden in worse, and for less promise at the other end.
The story was done. The story was in. Everything was up to the publisher now, and Brenda knew that that meant she was in good hands. She hoped very shortly to be in Basil’s arms—hence the hastened-up flight and the seat in Coach. As tempting as it had been to stay with Kermit and his merry band of followers to see the finished article arrive in print, even the magic of modern technology took some time to convert what she had sent digitally into a glossy periodical. Time to move on, and Brenda knew better than anyone that the siren call of the story could come at any time. Best to take the opportunity for down time now when she had it than to wait and miss the chance.
Rowlf had driven her, and Fozzie had come along, chattering happily and trying out what Brenda sortof hoped wasn’t his “A” material on her. She suspected (correctly) that Rowlf had been somewhat anxious to leave the semi-connubial celebration for Floyd and Janice. Fozzie had come along because: (a) Scooter had been reluctant to leave the dance floor where he could stand mostly uninterrupted with his arms around his girl and (b) Brenda suspected (also correctly) that Fozzie had developed a slight crush on her. She found both of these musings charming, and it had been a cheerful if somewhat hastily-executed trip to the airport.
Rowlf had opened her door and ferried her luggage to the baggage handler with just the right touch of hamminess. Give a performer a role to play and he’d rise to the occasion. “’Preciate what you’ve done for us,” the canine said solemnly. “What you’re doing for us.”
“The article is going to be a good one,” Brenda answered Rowlf in kind, and he knew she wasn’t talking about her skill as a writer. He covered her slim hand with his big furred ones.
Brenda smiled—the smile that had dazzled many—and returned the pressure of his hands. “I’m glad I could help. And I’m awfully glad that Marty called me.” She gave a little laugh. “I feel like I’ve known you—all of you--for such a long time. I’m so glad to have finally met you.”
Fozzie managed to interpose himself between them, which wasn’t easy, as Rowlf still held one of Brenda’s hands between his paws.
“Glad to have met me?” he queried hopefully. Brenda had a sudden, completely unexpected remembrance of a favored childhood toy—a worn and rather shabby light-brown teddy bear with an appealingly earnest face. The thought made her heart melt.
Brenda laughed and reclaimed her hand to cup Fozzie’s face in her soft palms and kiss him on top of the head. His ears wiggled furiously and he made a sound like a balloon slowly leaking out its air. Brenda forced her face into more serious lines.
“Especially glad to have met you,” she said solemnly. She stepped back and smiled again. A businessman three lines over dropped his briefcase and two college students stopped their banter to sigh and gaze at her. “Tell Kermit to call me once the article is out.”
“Sure thing,” said Rowlf.
“Will do,” said Fozzie.
“Until next time.” She turned—toward the plane and toward Basil, who was probably already en route to the ski lodge. He had promised to keep a cup of hot chocolate warm just for her. She hoped it wasn’t the only warm thing she’d find when she got there.
Two furry brown figures watched her slim back move toward the queue for boarding, straining to keep her copper-glorious hair in sight until it disappeared completely.
“Think she’ll come back some time?” Fozzie asked in a small voice.
“Sure!” said Rowlf, with certainty. “She said she’d come if we need her.” He put one hand on Fozzie’s back as they walked through the terminal. If the sight of a dog walking a bear through the airport was unusual, no one commented on it. They made for the car, already thinking of the night’s show ahead.
A small green figure looked around the mayhem in considerable delight.
“Gosh,” said Robin. “Gee! This place looks like fun again!”
Several cast members stopped in their headlong flight to smile and pat Robin affectionately on the head. Although he had declared himself much too big for pats on the head some weeks ago, he accepted their gentle touches with the good-natured long-suffering that only children on the verge of adolescence can exhibit.
But the little frog was not wrong. The backstage area had what could only be described as a festive air. Flushed from the excitement of the afternoon, buoyed by the reaffirmation of true love in the world and slightly frantic about the newest new schedule for the show, the cast and crew of the muppet Christmas show were practically vibrating with excitement. Even Howard seemed in a good mood, which put Gloria Jean so off her usual sassiness that she couldn’t get her shoes buckled without help.
Piggy’s blue velvet dress was pro-cessed through the backstage area like a visiting dignitary. Kermit half-expected Thoreau to insist on an escort.
“Pretty fancy entrance for something you’re going to throw on and sprint through the access tunnels in,” said Kermit snidely, but Piggy merely sniffed at him.
“I do not sprint,” Piggy said archly. “I glide.”
“Yeah?” Kermit asked, his expression wry. “Well, be sure you glide fast—I don’t want to be standing around sweating your return in a leather jacket.”
Piggy patted him on the head in a way even Robin would have objected to. “Charming,” she said dryly. “A sweaty frog wearing leather. What a lovely thought to look forward to.”
She turned toward her dressing room, but this was not to be borne without reprisal….
They only broke apart sheepishly at the small flash and whir of a camera-phone.
“Sorry,” said Sara, with a thousand-watt smile that said she was not. “I just couldn’t resist.” Scooter grinned behind her.
“Neither could I,” Kermit muttered, but Piggy had taken the moment to slip away.
Sara made herself scarce, leaving the two men staring at each other. Scooter’s face was guileless. “Last-minute instructions?” he asked cheekily.
Kermit shot him a look. “Yeah,” he said dourly. “Just tell me if I’m wearing lipstick, won’t you?”
The infectious carnival air of the performers might have been carried—by osmosis—to the audience. Or perhaps it was the holiday season itself that made everything seem so vivid and exciting. Whatever the reason, the end result was that the man in the dark suit found himself standing in the back of an auditorium that had already threatened to erupt into cheers and chants—and the show did not start for another 20 minutes.
There was a commotion as a middle-aged couple edged into the seats in front of him, filling the last two vacant seats. Technically, standing room wasn’t allowed in this theater. The Fire Marshall had been quite emphatic about that before, but if everything went according to plan, the man in the dark suit wouldn’t need long.
He was here to see the pig. More specifically, he was here to see if the pig was vulnerable—if it was possible to get to the pig. Despite the amount of rumor and buzz and just plain lying that was going on, the only thing for it had been to come down here and see for himself. He doubted a lot of what he’d read and most of what he’d heard, but there was no real substitute for eyeballing a potential contract yourself and making your own plan. And if he ran into trouble, well—that’s what lawyers were for.
His musings were cut short as a small light-green frog edged out onto the stage. The audience was unsure about whether or not it should cheer wildly or subside into eager silence. The frog waited with an open, affable, almost apologetically modest expression for the crowd to notice him.
“Um, hi-ho and welcome. Kermit the Frog here and boy, do we have a show for you!”
The applause bloomed out again, and the little amphibian all but stubbed his toe in the carpet as the cheering went on and on. The man in black found himself smiling in spite of himself. Hard not to like the little amphibian—hard, but not impossible.
Kermit held up his hands again, and this time the crowd grew hushed, watching him expectantly.
“I’m Kermit the Frog”—here he was interrupted by a short but intense burst of applause—“and I am delighted to welcome you to our Holiday Revue. We’re going to do our best to put you in a holiday mood.” Applause again, all but drowning out his next words. “But before we set the mood for Christmas, come with us—back in time—to the fabulous 50s, to the birth of rock-and-roll, to the days of poodle skirts and Presley….” He smiled, waved his hand toward the curtain and then melted back into backstage as it began to open.
The man in black pursed his lips in grudging respect. A real showman, he thought idly. Born to the stage. He checked his watch impatiently as the curtain closed, then opened again on the kid—the frog kid. Looks like his uncle, the man thought dispassionately. And nice pipes for a little guy. Still, as entertaining as the show looked to be, he was really here for one thing. He was here for the pig, and to make a judgment about whether or not he could get through the pig’s defenses long enough to do the job. He looked at his program again. Just the bear, then he’d get a good look at her. He tried to ignore the fact that his palms seemed sweaty. For pity’s sake, it was just a job. Just another job. No need to get all excited about it. But in what passed for a heart, he knew that wasn’t true. This job was going to be different—this job might be the one that put him in the big-time.
He watched keenly as Kermit the Frog came back out, puffed out with parental pride, and introduced the bear. He took a big breath and held it, trying to slow his heart as he looked Kermit over. For a moment, he felt something that might have been guilt.
It passed.
Fate is funny and also capricious. Although she is ostensibly impartial, she does not takes sides, and more than one person who felt that she was either for him or against him found to his chagrin that she was both. It is no surprise that Fate is always assumed to be female.
Across the casino, Fleet Scribbler hunkered down into his seat, congratulating himself on the fact that this was probably the least likely place in the casino—and perhaps the planet--for his boss to look for him. His resignation—if storming up to the person who signs your checks and telling them off can count as a resignation—had not been well received. There had been angry words, threats, pleas and finally bribes. To his credit, Scribbler had withstood them all, and ducked out before the confrontation could get physical. He was done. He was not doing this any more. There was a sharp pang somewhere in the vicinity of his chest, but Scribbler was stubbornly attributing it to the last cold, greasy meal he’d downed than to any attack of conscience. Scribbler was down, and he was very possible out for the count, but in this particular instance he had actually sold himself short. It wasn’t indigestion that made his chest feel tight at the thought that he might never see Piggy again. It was—what the--?
Miss Piggy glided onto the stage wearing a blue velvet dress. (Whether or not she had glided through the backstage tunnels was still up for debate.) Scribbler’s mouth gaped open and the stared—goggle-eyed—at her as she walked to the center of the stage. The three Elvises broke formation at the far end of the stage and crowded around her. One of them on her left, one of them on her right, one kneeling on one knee before her. Piggy graced all of them with a look of demure affection as they began to sing.
Scribbler wanted to flee the room, to get away. He had not counted on this. He had not counted on seeing her again, so close, so much like her old self. He squirmed in his seat, sweating. Unlike the Muppet Christmas revue, this show was not quite sold out, and he was not disturbing any neighbors to the right or left.
Of all the cruel tricks for Fate to play, Scribbler thought. You do the right thing—stand up for honor and all that carp—and temptation still strolls right in and pops you one right on the kisser.
He watched Piggy smile her million-watt smile at each of the Elvi in turn, and even though he knew well how insincere those smiles could prove, he couldn’t help but be affected. He wondered fleetingly what smile she smiled for that frog, the one who had-- It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair at all! Of all the Elvises in Las Vegas, how did she end up….
Scribbler’s heart, which had been thumping like a bass drum, suddenly transformed itself into a snare tattoo. Of all the Elvises in Las Vegas….
There was an idea brewing, an awful idea, and it beat Scribbler’s bruised conscience into submission to stand crowing its grim victory. Sure, he wasn’t going to do what his boss wanted, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t do what he wanted his way.
After all, he muttered to himself, he didn’t want to hurt Piggy. That had been the crux of the problem with his boss. The boss wanted bloodshed—anatomical or emotional. Scribbler just wanted to show Piggy the error of her ways, to show her that she hadn’t been fair, hadn’t been….
His eyes had strayed back to the stage, and they lingered on Miss Piggy the Frog a long, long time.
But that wasn’t all they saw.
Backstage, Scooter was close to apoplexy. There had been no way to test this in real time until the show, but if his calculations were off, One Fine Day was going to be a pretty dismal day indeed.
Kermit was nervous—he lived in that nervousness backstage—but Scooter overt signs of worry actually seemed to calm his down. He reached out and put a hand on Scooter’s arm.
“Don’t sweat it,” Kermit said. “She’ll be here. What could go wrong?”
Luckily, no one answered.
