Chapter 104: “What You Don’t Know About Women” (from the musical City of Angels)
Practice was better the next day. She and Rory had reached a truce of sorts and they were currently getting curious and sometimes envious looks from the other dancers when they cut a rug in the dance numbers or threw their lines back and forth. By the end of the day, the truce had solidified, and she found she was not trying to brace herself for an all-out battle when he took her in his arms. As she began to trust him, he began to trust her, and his partnering took on a more expressive, plaintive aspect that was perfect for his character. His more earnest side brought out her smug self-confidence, and Piggy felt downright mean when she sang “Look at Me, I’m Sandra Dee” in the soda shop set. The song allowed her to vent just a little of the frustration she was feeling. The hard part was putting a lid back on all of her angst when the song was over.
“Elvis, Elvis—let me be! Keep that pelvis far from me!” Piggy sang, clutching at the front of her leotard—the purple one this time—modestly. The other ladies giggled and followed suit, clapping their hands in paroxysms of hilarity. “Just keep your cool! Now you’re starting to drool!” Piggy stopped, her body caught in a pin-up pose, but with a pugilist’s stance. “Hey you—I’m Sandra Dee!”
The actress playing Sandy—Kristen was her name—half-marched/half-minced up to her. “Are you making fun of me?” she demanded, part bravado and part mortified virtue. Piggy admired her acting chops. Out of character, Kristen had a sultry walk and a cool, appraising stare. She had not been outright unfriendly, but she had been…watchful. This was their first acting scene together, and Piggy watched her alter her entire bearing to play the shy but legitimately indignant Sandy. Kristen’s light blue eyes were tragic with betrayal, but Piggy rolled her own baby blues dramatically.
“Sheesh,” Piggy/Rizzo said, with a quick toss of her curls. “Some people are sooo touchy!”
Kirsten/Sandy dropped her jaw in anger and jumped at Piggy/Rizzo. Piggy knew this was scripted, but she had to fight the impulse to actually close with the leggy actress and take her down. They indulged in some showy (and highly inefficient) girly-fighting until their respective on-stage boyfriends arrived to separate them. Piggy found that she was actually lunging toward the other girl when Rory picked her up around her waist and carried her off to the side of the stage in his muscular arms.
“Down, girl,” he murmured in one velvety ear, clearly amused. Piggy wanted to karate chop the smug expression out of his laughing gray eyes, but when the red haze faded from her eyes, she was sheepish and grateful. She finished her lines with the right touch of indignation, and was glad her cheeks were supposed to be flaming. She hoped he was the only one who realized she had actually been on the verge of losing her cool. Intent on their lines, the others seemed oblivious.
“Thanks,” she managed as the scene closed, but Rory didn’t tease her—too much.
“Just take it as a deposit on leniency if I ever end up on the other end of one of those,” he said, and Piggy took a deep breath and went to get a drink of water.
She rejoined the cast as they waited for comments from the director.
A quick peek from under her lowered lashes showed Piggy that they were all smiling, and the expression that pre-dominated was satisfaction. If the work went well, things would undoubtedly be easier for her. No one ever wants a new cast-mate who can’t carry her load, and Piggy had been making sure to hit every mark and know every cue. The underlying tension that had marked her first day on the set had almost evaporated, and had been replaced by a polite and distant mask of unconcern. Piggy wasn’t fooled—she knew they were watching her every move—but there was no longer wide-spread disgruntlement over her presence in the show. Piggy hadn’t really been surprised at this attitude, but it was a bit of a disappointment. Kermit had been so adamant that her cast-mates would welcome her with open arms that she had almost dared to believe it.
Rory came up and stood next to her, grinning, and she was reminded once again of a big friendly dog. She smiled at him, glad to have someone inside the invisible bubble with her.
The director cleared his throat and made a couple of low comments that Piggy couldn’t hear to his assistant, then looked up from his clipboard. Thinking of Scooter, Piggy smiled. Lawrence looked around until he found Stacey, a tall, zaftig brunette who played Jan. The first time Piggy had seen her drift across the floor backstage as though her feet weren’t actually touching the floor, she couldn’t picture her as Jan, the pudgy, maladroit and awkward Pink Lady who usually got laughs with her lines, but the first time she had taken the stage in character, Piggy had been impressed.
“I liked what you did with the dance invitation,” he said. Stacey had been sitting, petticoats splayed, on the bleacher when approached by Cordell (as Roger) about the dance. Her spastic and comical attempt to look more feminine and demure while looking painfully eager to be asked had been very well played. “Let’s keep that.” Apparently, Piggy realized, this was new, or Larry wouldn’t have commented on it. They must be ramping up because I’m here.
Though Stacey’s smile was muted, her cheeks flushed with obvious pleasure.
Larry went through a couple of dance comments, asked for a little more backstage drama during one of the crown scenes and made a couple more specific suggestions or comments. Definitely ramping up, Piggy mused, and the thought made her smile.
“And, um, Piggy?” Larry searched the crowd for her and she stepped forward. Even in her trashy high heels, Piggy was petite in this crowd, and Larry’s mouth twitched into a smile as she worked her way closer to the front of the stage. “Sarcasm becomes you, but soften up just a little in the diner. You want to be able to bring a little more when you give loverboy the bad news later on.”
Piggy nodded. She could tone it down a little. The first time they’d run it, she’d still been a little bit nervous and had been more snappish than she’d meant. No need looking like a shrew.
There were a couple more comments, then Larry asked to see Greased Lightning. Piggy felt Rory stiffen beside her. Up until now, they’d only been running things that involved Piggy, scenes where she needed to interact with the other cast-members. “Greased Lightning” was female-free, and if the director wanted to run it, then there was probably something he wanted to change…or correct. When they broke, Piggy flashed Rory a look of concern, but he gave her a tight smile and went to join the other Thunderbirds for their song. Piggy blotted her face with a soft towel and went backstage, out of sight range but not out of seeing range. She found a quiet corner and turned to watch the song. Later today, they’d run the entire show. And tomorrow, the entire show at least twice, stopping to change or tweak. This might be her only real chance to observe without worrying about her next cue.
Piggy watched as the T-Birds did their songs, transforming the bondo-bomb of a car into a sleek roadster while singing and showing off their muscles.
“I don’t know what he’s fretting about,” said a voice near her shoulder, and Piggy thought she did very well not to jump out of her skin. It was Kristen, and Piggy saw her wrinkle her adorable forehead and scowl becomingly.
“Larry’s fretting about this song?” Piggy watched them for a moment—they were about to bring the thing home, and she could see the fine sheen of sweat on the faces and arms of the men as they strutted their stuff to the driving beat of the song.
“Apparently,” Kristen said. “He keeps wanting to see it. Rory’s getting a little spooked.”
There was something about the way she said that that told Piggy that his little backstage meeting was not entirely accidental. Kristen was trying to tell her something, and Piggy tried to listen but everything was still so unfamiliar and out-of-sync that she wasn’t getting it loud and clear. Was Kristen trying to tell her that Rory was already upset and not to upset him? Was that a friendly word or a warning? Or was she telling Piggy that there might be changes ahead in the cast? So far, Rory had been the only one who had tried to make Piggy’s acquaintance on more than a purely professional—and therefore superficial level. Was that the message? Was she implying that Piggy was throwing off his concentration?
Piggy considered and discarded about 36 responses in rapid succession, but since she didn’t know what she was responding to, it was hard to know what to say. She settled for cliché—the last-ditch conversational tool of the desperate.
“Eh, men and cars,” she said lazily. “Who can explain it?”
Kristen almost smiled, but stopped herself. “Ain’t that the truth,” she said, and wandered away toward the dressing rooms.
When the song was over, Larry was complimentary but vague, and Piggy could tell that nothing had been resolved. Life backstage at The Muppet Theater—for all of its zaniness—was beginning to look very uncomplicated.
Piggy said nothing to Rory, and did not reveal that she had watched the number, or her conversation (if you could even call it that) with Kristen, but she tried hard that afternoon to be an undemanding partner. Rory noticed the difference, but seemed clueless as to why.
“You okay?” he asked. “You’re not ragging on me over that last lazy lift.”
Piggy gave him a look. “I was trying to cut you a break, wolf-boy. But next time—watch where you put your hands!”
“Good thing you owe me,” Rory muttered, grinning insufferably, and they bickered away down the stage.
“You know,” Scooter said. “If you can find something to do on your own for a bit, I’m going to drop the latest stuff off to our DI editor.”
“I can find something to do,” Kermit said, thinking Piggy and sleep and caffeine in a never-ending pattern. “Are we done with the next section? I thought we still had about a third of the way to go.”
“We do,” Scooter said, “but I talked to Karl the other day. He knows our deadlines have been moved up, so he says we can send stuff in in partial batches so they can do their stuff and get it back to us. It’s no trouble to do it in smaller bundles.”
“Okay,” Kermit said. “Sounds good.” He figured they were about a fourth of the way done overall, with only about the first eighth totally in the can. Not the speed of light, exactly, but a better speed of edit than Kermit had expected. Piggy had only been gone since Sunday, but they were making pretty significant leaps forward. Kermit felt pleased—and immediately guilty. He was just assessing this rather unpleasant feeling when Fozzie came bouncing into the studio.
“Hiya, hiya, hiya!” Fozzie said. He looked as happy as Kermit had ever seen him.
“Hi Fozzie—how’re you doing?”
“Oh, hey, Fozzie,” Scooter said. He started toward the door, the package of film under his arm.
“Wait!” Fozzie begged. “Tell me if you notice anything different about me?”
Inwardly, Scooter cursed bitterly. He’s almost made his escape, and now Fozziew as probably going to go on about his old afro….
“Um, fur trim?” Kermit offered good-naturedly, though in truth Fozzie looked a little scruffy.
“Nope!”
“New tie,” Scooter said hopefully. Once, Fozzie had been crestfallen when no one had noticed his new tie (which was exactly like his old tie) for a week.
“Close!” Fozzie cried, triumphant, and Scooter heard Kermit let out a sigh of relief as well. He fought the urge to grin at Kermit.
“Um—you had your tie cleaned?” Truthfully, Kermit thought it could stand a cleaning. There was something brown stuck to the front of it.
“No, silly. I got a new tie tack!”
Oh. Oh! That wasn’t a stain—it was a tie tack. Kermit was glad he hadn’t said anything about it. He leaned forward and squinted.
“World funniest bear,” he read. “Wow, Fozzie—that’s nice. Did your Mom send it?”
“Ma? No!” Fozzie looked a little uncomfortable, and Kermit felt like he could have been a little more tactful.
“Oh—a secret admirer, then?” Kermit teased, and saw the blush creep into Fozzie’s cheeks.
“Um, a fan,” he said proudly. “Somebody who liked my show in Vegas!”
“Gee, that’s swell, Fozzie,” Scooter said, edging for the door. “They must really like funny bears! Um—see you, guys! Kermit—I’ll be right back!” He made his escape.
As it turns out, Kermit didn’t call Piggy, or nap, or get a soda or a cup of joe. He sat with his oldest friend and listened with delight to Fozzie’s enthusiastic chatter until Scooter came back—without the film but not empty-handed. He passed around oatmeal-raisin muffins (penance for his Twinkie earlier) and—when those were gone and Fozzie had been praised and teased by Scooter a little, they went back to work. As usual.
“So Mabel’s daughter Tricia’s gonna be there,” Dr. Teeth said amiably. Clifford looked up, reminded again of why he was leaving town. In this crowd, it was hard to have a private thought—much less a private life.
“Yeah,” Clifford acknowledged. “Mabel said she’s staying a coupla weeks, but I can still have the couch, so I’m still going.”
“Have a piece of that righteous pie for me,” Dr. Teeth said, and refrained from commenting on the state (or un-state) of Clifford’s love life. “You need a right to the airport? The van’s running sweet after that last tune-up….”
Clifford suppressed a shudder. The mechanic who had worked on The Mayhem’s van for the past umpty-ump years was a twitchy little weasel who was reputed to do terrific work, but still gave Clifford the creeps.
“I might,” Clifford admitted. “Can I let you know this afternoon?”
“Positlutely.”
Clifford crammed the last item into his carryon and zipped it shut. He wasn’t taking much—he didn’t need much. But he was sure looking forward to some of Mabel’s home cooking.
About the time Scribber had been listening to two rats discuss—ad nauseum—the comparative merits of the New York Times and the New York Post and wishing he was sleeping in a park under either one, his boss was hard at work. It had not occurred to him to ask what would happen after he had gone to New York—it had seemed irrelevant—but the conversation taking place now would have seemed pretty relevant—and ominous—had he been there.
“You think it will work?” Scribbler’s boss had asked. The man had shrugged, indifferent now that they’d settled on a price.
“It ought to work,” he said, sounding bored. “But you know I can’t guarantee anything that happens after delivery.” He was wearing a latex glove over one hand. This delivery was going to be fairly odd. He was used to taking packages wherever they were sent without asking a whole lot of questions, but this whole…thing had just been weird. The first conversation had sounded like something out of some old espionage movie. He had finally had to say, “Look—just tell me what kind of package I’m taking and where, okay? I don’t do bombs—“
“For pity’s sake shut up, won’t you? I don’t want to be implicated in your sordid business affairs.”
“Well maybe you don’t need my sordid services,” he had snapped back, but in truth he was hardly surprised. Amateurs often got a bad case of the heebie-jeebies before anything went down, so he was used to insults, pleading and hand-wringing. He preferred cash—and plenty of it.
“No—I—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply—“
“Just give me the dough, okay? I got plenty of things going plenty of places if you don’t need me here—“
“No! No—I—here’s the money. And the package.” Drat that stupid Scribbler anyhow. Now there was no one around to do the scut work and it was all falling back on—
“You’re short,” the man said.
“Impossible!’ The money was snatched back and counted. One hundred dollars was missing. “I know I gave you the right—oh. Oh! Oh—how stupid of me.”
“You’re telling me,” the man muttered.
“We ordered Chinese and—“
“Look! I don’t need your whole life story, okay? Just give me the money and the package—I already got the address.” He hefted the package, which felt empty, and eyed his erstwhile employee suspiciously. “What’s in here, anyway?”
“Nothing important.”
“Look—if I’m gonna deliver it, I’m gonna know what it is. So either you tell me, or I open it up and look.” He suited action to words, opening the envelope and looking. Now he really gave a look.
“This? This is what I’m delivering? What are you, a stalker or somethin’?”
But money has a way of buying things—good things and bad things. In the end he closed the little metal brad and tucked the envelope inside his jacket pocket.
“S’okay—I drop it off, I call to say the deed’s done, dump the phone and we never saw each other before in our lives—got it?”
Scribbler’s boss got it. And somebody else was going to get it soon.
“I, um, rented out the apartment,” Tim said. His voice was elaborately casual, and his agent, who knew him well enough to pick projects for him with almost unerring insight, looked up and narrowed his eyes.
“Good. Anyone I know?” He watched Tim’s reaction and clarified his question. “Anyone you know?”
“What?! What are you..what are you talking about?”
Tim’s agent had not fallen off a turnip truck into the wilds of Manhattan. He regarded his client like a mother looks at a preschooler trying to hide the remains of a broken lamp under the rug.
“I’m not going to like this, am I?” he said sourly.
“You are being completely ridiculous,” Tim snapped, a clear indication that his agent was not far off the mark. “It’s someone I worked with once. That’s all. She’s married. End of story.” He squirmed uncomfortably under his agent’s gimlet eye. “And she’s paying rent! See!” He thrust Piggy’s pretty purple check into his agent’s hands. So there! But if he had hoped to appease his handler, the sight of that check had exactly the opposite effect.
“Oh… Oh…no. This is bad, Tim. Bad, bad, bad. I know you worked with both of them but I am telling you right now that she is trouble—trouble from the get-go. Trouble with a Capital T. Trouble like you don’t need—not now, not ever.”
“You are being completely unreasonable!” Tim said, his face flushed.
“Oh—am I?” There was a sinister turn to the soft voice, and Tim turned and sighed, his face mutinous.
“What do you want me to do about it now?” he asked. “The deed’s done—literally.”
The agent was shaking his head, rubbing the bridge of his nose and praying that inspiration—or lighting—would strike one of them.
“What do I want? I want you out of the country. I want you off the planet right now—that’s what I want. Hey—you still have that western thing—it films in Italy! Don’t you want to go to Italy, Timmy? I hear it’s beautiful.”
“Oh for goodness—“
“Then give me the keys.”
“What? Why—that’s ridiculous. That’s…that’s just…you’re being stupid.”
“Stupid, am I? I’m the one that watched you moon around like a love-sick calf for a quarter of a year—and do I need to remind you about the ads we did for that Japanese company during that time?”
“Oh…oh, shut up, already,” Tim said, and crossed his arms across his chest. “I’ll take her all the keys—how’s that? Will that satisfy you?”
“I’m not complaining,” his agent said, looking slightly mollified.
“You know,” Tim almost shouted as he stormed out of the office. “We’re just friends. You’ve got a filthy mind, you know that?” He slammed the door as he left.
“Yeah, yeah,” said his agent. “Goes with the territory. Tell me something I don’t know.”
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