Chapter 64: Feminine Upheaval
“Ladies do not sprint—they glide,” Piggy muttered to herself. “Ladies do not sweat—they glow.” She made a decidedly unladylike snort of disgust. All this gliding was making her glow! She feared her make-up, artfully applied, would need a touch-up. But make-up wasn’t the only thing she was sweating. Piggy was watching her time nervously as she wove hurriedly through the back-stage labyrinth toward their own show.
Doing the show with the Elvi had been a real kick. She had enjoyed the surprise and the many rounds of applause her unexpected appearance had caused, but now she was wishing that she had taken, oh, two or three fewer bows and had started back a tad(pole) earlier.
She turned the last curve and then the cool metal doorknob was beneath her gloved hand. She was turning it. She was out. She was being ambushed by Thoreau and her clothes were being hastily thrown onto her mostly unresisting form. She had felt just a little scandalized traversing the back-stage route in her slip, but there had been no need to sworp the yard and yards of blue velvet back here. It could live in relative peace in the other dressing room, awaiting her return tomorrow night. Piggy’s sense of indecency was quickly reduced by the fact that everything backstage was already so chaotic that NO ONE was paying any attention to her not-quite-clothed state. She tried to decide if that was a lop-sided sort of insult and finally concluded that it was not. After all, she had certainly appeared on stage in more skimpy attire—and would do so in the eye-catching green silk pajamas in the second half of the show. But the music was starting, and the second half of the show and everything but that evaporated from her head as Thoreau settled the brown pony-tailed wig onto her head.
Piggy reached up to tweak the set of the wig but Thoreau was already there. He adjusted it expertly, clucking with concern over her, um, glowing face.
“Okay, my favorite brunette,” Thoreau muttered. “The audience is waiting, and so is that frog of yours. Get out there and wow them.”
Piggy did as she was told—but only because she meant to do it anyway.
Scooter had just begun to breathe again when Sarah breezed past him, grabbed his wrist and dragged him over the edge of the stage where she proceeded to kiss the living daylights out of him. When she finally released him, he sagged like a limp dish cloth and shook his head to clear it. Sarah just giggled.
“Geez-Louise, Sarah!” Scooter gasped. “What—what was that for?”
“For Christmas,” Sarah breathed, and sauntered away down the hall. She paused before pushing through the door and looked at him over her shoulder. “I hope you’re thinking about what you’re going to give me for Christmas…” she said coyly, and disappeared from view.
Scooter stood for a moment with his head ringing, still feeling the warm, soft press of her lips against his. I’m thinking about it, all right, he thought to himself. In fact, it seemed at times to be the only thing he was thinking about. And—golly!—that kiss had knocked him for such a loop he couldn’t think what was next on the program.
Luckily, at that moment the Electric Mayhem trundled past him to take the stage. Scooter shook his head one more time and pushed his glasses (which were slightly steamy) back up on his nose.
“Um, Shake it Up, Baby,” he said, unnecessarily, for they had already gone. “One Fine Day” had ended to thunderous applause and Kermit and Piggy were walking by talking in high-speed married, then Piggy swooped in, kissed her frog on his mouth in mid-sentence and ran off to change for Dream Girls.
Kermit shook his head to clear it and found Scooter staring at him morosely. In true turnabout fashion, Kermit read Scooter expertly, and grinned at his assistant..
“How do they do that?” he asked his boss. “I mean, how are we supposed to counter that kind of thing?”
Kermit put a leather-clad arm around the younger man’s shoulder, thinking of Christmas and Christmas surprises. “Jewelry,” he said sagely. “That usually works for me.”
Robin felt split down the middle by two conflicting emotions: the excitement of running the sound system made him swell with pride, followed immediately by the desire to not appear too awfully impressed by being allowed. Robin was at the age where preadolescent glimmers of “coolness” took on a whole new important. He listened intently through the, um, aural organ phones and adjusted the feedback on Janice’s guitar just a little. With her spirited movement while she sang and danced, keeping her sound consistent took a little effort.
Effort made him think of Christmas in general, and presents specifically. Aunt Piggy had been right: Uncle Kermit was hard to buy for. Sure—he always liked everything he got, professing himself delighted with designer duds and silk ties which, young as Robin was, held only limited appeal. He knew that his Uncle would like what Robin had made him, but it wasn’t his own gift that worried him. He was hoping very hard that Santa would not forget his request. He was also guiltily thinking that he hoped Santa would not forget to also bring him the train set he so desperately wanted, but Robin turned his face stolidly (if figuratively) away from the train, willing to give it up if it brought peace and satisfaction to his little family.
Gonzo was on now—Robin could hear the sound of his props being rolled out—and Robin smiled to himself. He would like to have seen Gonzo do his act, but then every day around Gonzo was like that—full of surprises. After that, Pepe would don the stage dressed as Elvis, and Robin looked forward to that high-energy song. Sitting in the sound booth was fun (and cool) but it did limit what you could see from backstage. Robin wished he could find some way of finagling his way into that routine, longing to be out there gyrating with the rest of the cast, but knew he’d never get past Howard.
“You—back in the wings,” Howard would say, but Robin has a split-second image of evading the choreographer’s notice and dancing wildly with Camilla. It made him giggle softly to himself, drawing a benevolent look from Doc Honeydew.
“Something funny?” asked the good doctor cheerfully, but Robin just shook his head.
“Just imaging,” Robin chirped. At that moment, the crowd let out a gasp of concern, followed after a few seconds of tense silence by a smattering of applause, and the little frog deduced correctly that Gonzo had lost his balance and regained it—all without loss of limb, or fruit. He let out a “whew” of relief himself. In a moment, Johnny would take the stage and there wouldn’t be anything to worry about for a moment or two.
Robin thought idly of the upcoming New Year’s show and hope surged to the forefront again. Perhaps he could finagle a part there.
The door to the little booth opened it and Robin found his Aunt Piggy’s friend, Miss Foo Foo, wriggling into the tiny space with them.
“Mind if I join you fellas?” she asked.
“The more the, um, merrier,” said Dr. Honeydew hospitably, trying to squash himself further against the wall. His hospitality was unnecessary, however, for Foo Foo almost instantly let out a little yip of disappointment.
“Oh!” she said, crestfallen. “You can hear great, but you can’t see from here, can you?”
“No ma’am,” said Robin, and couldn’t help but add in the most adult tone he could muster. “Occupational hazard.”
It was all the little dog could do not to laugh out loud, but she managed it and regarded Robin soberly. “I see,” she said. “So where’s a good place to spy on the stage?”
“Backstage left is usually safe,” said Dr. Honeydew thoughtfully, “but do watch out for Howard. He’s quite the tyrant.”
Foo Foo just laughed as she slipped back out the door. “Honey,” she said. “You don’t have to tell me about tyrants!”
Seeing Piggy in “One Fine Day” had been nothing less than he’d expected, but her second turn onstage had almost made his drop his hat, not to mention his jaw. The brunette wig had been a fun change, he thought, but blondes got to him every time. And seeing Piggy shakin’ the bacon with abandon in “Bop Till You Drop” had made his jaw set with determination.
If there was a way to get to her, he was going to do it. And if there wasn’t—well, they paid him pretty well to try. He had already gotten a couple of hard looks from the usher, and much as he hated to leave before the second half, he could not afford to call any more attention to himself than necessary. The man in black edged slowly toward the exit, eased around the corner slipped out into the always noisy casino, but not for long. The labyrinthine tunnels used to navigate behind the scenes were ostensibly off-limits to people who were not workers and performers, but he did not waste much energy feeling guilty. He was, after all, working here, wasn’t he? And he had come at the special request of—
“Great guns!” he exclaimed, falling back with a cry. “What in blazes are you trying to do—give me a heart attack?”
“I saw you leave,” the other said hastily. “I figured you were coming to see me so—“
“I was, so you didn’t have to come charging--”
“What’d you think? Did you see her? Do you think you can—“
The man in black reached out and put a hand over the other’s face. He looked warily up and down the tunnel. “Not here,” he said. “Your, um, office.”
The other nodded, then turned and led the way through a series of interconnecting tunnels until they arrived at a door. A key was produced, inserted into the lock, and then they were through. The man in black had barely opened his mouth when the other spoke.
“Soooo?”
The comment the man in the black had been about to make died in his throat. “For sweet pity’s sake—let me talk!’ he snapped. His companion subsided, momentarily cowed, but his cheeks were flushed with excitement.
“I saw her,” the man said shortly. “I watched the first two numbers she was in and—“
He became uncomfortably aware that the first man was hanging on his every word, and his manner became much more casual. He paused expectantly.
“And?”
“And…I think it might be worth the risk to try and take her.”
“Oh.” The sound was low, but intense, and the speaker seemed momentarily stunned. “Worth it,” he mumbled. “Yeah.” He seemed to slump for a moment, then surged to his full height again. “So…I was…I mean, I did good, huh?”
The voice that had tried so hard to sound tough now sounded definitely whiney. The other man let out a long sigh and tried to dredge up some patience.
“Look, Seymour. You’ve got a good eye—we both know that. I appreciate the call—and I came, didn’t I? Now you’ve got to back off and let me try to make the deal, but--”
“And…then?”
“And if I can make the deal, then you’ll get your finder’s fee.”
“Finder’s fee1” said Seymour Strathers scornfully. “What do I care about a finder’s fee? What I want to know is—“
“Yeeessss?” There was a sudden electrical crackle in the air. The man’s eyes were as dark as his suit, mocking and…assessing. The (very) junior partner at The Palace thought suddenly that it would not do to give too much away, would not be wise to put himself in this man’s power.
“I—I want to know if there’s, um, maneuvering room,” he said stiffly. There was a swift bark of laughter, which he bore with red-tinged cheeks.
“Maneuvering room?” the other man hooted. “Well, I’ve never heard it called that before.” He turned to go.
Desperation can compel a man to do many things. Seymour plucked at the other man’s sleeve, his demeanor abject.
“But you’ll…you’ll call, won’t you? If there’s…any hope—any hope at all?”
“Sure. If there’s any hope I’ll call you.”
Relieved, the desperate man bobbed his head in agreement. “Yes,” he said breathlessly. “Thank you. That is—thanks, I mean—“
The other man was out of earshot, pulling his earlobe and thinking hard. Poor guy, he thought ruefully. I’ll be calling him when Hades opens an ice-cream parlor.
Clifford still had the be-bop of “Bop Till You Drop” on his mind and a spring in his step when he made his way past the little kitchenette. He poked his head in and saw Mabel and Camilla just sitting down at the table with mugs of peppermint tea in front of them.
“Smells like Christmas in here,” said Clifford with a smile, draping his long rangy form around the doorframe.
“Just wait to you see what we put in our stockings,” Mabel shot back with a grin. Camilla said something in an earthy chuckle and both women laughed. Clifford held up his hands in immediate surrender.
“Have mercy on a bachelor!” he laughed, moving swiftly on after swiping an oatmeal cookie the size of his fist. The spring in his step was a little less bouncy as he munched thoughtfully on the warm, sweet morsel. Lately, the bachelor life had begun to pale.
They had fixed the partner problem in “Bop Till You Drop”—at least, they had fixed one partner’s problem in the dance. Kermit had happily shifted to his rightful place at Piggy’s side, but Fozzie had been too nervous to dance center stage with Janice.
“My paws get all sweaty,” he had whined. “Don’t make me dance in the middle!”
And Clifford, who had always relished the chance to chance partners at whim, found himself once more dancing with Janice. It had been different twirling and lifting Sarah, he thought absently. Dancing with Sarah, he had been the once who was calm, self-assured. He chuckled, remembering the tendency Sarah had of biting her lip when she concentrating. Cute girl, that—and a nice one. Scooter may have bloomed a little late, but he had bloomed all the same, and Clifford silently blessed their gofer’s all-grown-up-ness.
But dancing with Janice…he had not really felt calm, and far from self-assured.
Watching Janice and Floyd earlier that day had been…strange. He couldn’t quite shake the surprise and confusion he had felt when he realized that Floyd Pepper had actually thought that Janice—Janice!—had thought about him, Clifford, the way she obviously thought about Floyd. The way she felt about Floyd had been obvious to everyone there, and Floyd sentiments had been just as transparent. In a few moments—when Johnny stopped hogging the stage, he’d find himself dancing with Janice again, and the thought made him feel hollow and sortof shakey. He imagined—just for a second—that Janice would look up and smile at him like she had—
Clifford put it out of mind firmly. No sense it going there. No sense at all. Which was apparently what HE had. Morosely, he sighed.
What was it about Christmas that made you feel all, you know, lonely and sentimental and nostalgic for something you maybe never had had in the first place? And what was a determined purple bachelor dude supposed to do with that kind of feeling, anyway?
As if on cue, Rowlf wandered by in deep conversation with Gonzo’s spandexed figure.
“I know,” Rowlf was saying. “Can’t live with ‘em, but it’s not much of a life without ‘em.”
My kind of conversation, Clifford thought with relief. He fell into step with them, sure of his welcome.
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