Chapter 113: The Party on the Other End of the Line
Nothing fixes everything, but hot food and lots of encouragement go a long way toward curing what ails you.
Buoyed by companionship and savory edibles, Kermit and Piggy both cheered up considerably. Dressed and powdered and nervous, Piggy accompanied her new friends to the fashionable eatery commonly known as “The Grill.” Girl talk took them through the first awkward moments after ordering, and it didn’t hurt anyone’s mood that every male eye in the place—from waiters to fellow patrons—kept straying toward their table. Piggy finally excused herself to go to the powder room and called Kermit from the little hallway outside the restrooms.
He answered on the second ring and Piggy wondered at first if he had stopped off at the grocery because the background noise was considerable.
“Hello? Kermie? Mon chere? It is Moi, star of Broadway!” she cried, trying to imbue it with as much gaiety as she could. She wanted Kermit to know that she was all right now and to comfort him in turn for having made her unhappy before.
“Piggy! Sweetheart! Hey guys, it’s Piggy!” The crowd noises behind him swelled and Piggy’s brow wrinkled attractively. Kermit was definitely not at the grocery; he would not have been advertising his phone conversation with her to strangers. “Piggy—how did it go? How was the play?”
“It was wonderful, Kermie,” said Piggy honestly. “Moi was magnificent.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Kermit said, and his voice was warm with affection and pride. He murmured something else but she couldn’t hear it over the background noise.
“What? I can’t hear you, Kermie. Where are you?”
“Oh, I’m, um, still here at the studio,” he said. “We’ve still got some things to do before we go home.”
“But what is all that noise, Sweetie?” Piggy said. At that moment, someone else came out of the gentlemen’s bathroom talking loudly on his cell phone. Ewww, thought Piggy, then, How rude!
“Yeah Callahan,” said the man loudly. “I say we run with it. There’s never going to be a better market than there is now.”
Piggy gave him a mean look and tried to concentrate on what Kermit was saying.
“—and brought food down here because Scooter couldn’t come home for Valentine’s Day. Oh! Happy Valentine’s Day! I, um, didn’t send any more chocolates because you told me you still had some from earlier in the week, but I sent you a card—did you get it?”
“Not yet,” said Piggy. “But I got a message that I had some oversized mail that I have to sign for.”
“That’s probably it,” said Kermit sheepishly.
“No,” the man said loudly. “Ignore what Marketing says. There is a market for this thing, so we just have to get it out there.”
Piggy tapped him on the elbow. “Moi is trying to have a phone conversation here.”
“Hang on,” the man said. “There’s a pig talking to me. Yeah—I’m at The Grill.” He paused, listening. “Right, right—I know it’s vegetarian. This is an actual pig.”
“Do you mind?” Piggy tried again. “Vous are making it impossible to hear the party on the other end of the phone.”
The man had yet to take his phone away from his ear. “Somethin’ about a party,” he said, squinting at Piggy in confusion. “I don’t know….” He gave Piggy a careful once-over that made her face flame with indignation. “A, um, pink dress and some sparkly little heels,’ he said into the phone.
“Get off the phone or get out of the hallway!” Piggy yelled.
“Piggy? Is everything okay? It sounds like you’re shouting,” Kermit said. Piggy heard him say, “Hey guys—can you hold it down a little? I can’t hear Piggy.”
Piggy gave a little shake and turned her back determinedly on the cad with the phone. She laughed a charming little laugh. “Everything is lovely now that I am talking to vous, Kermie,” she said. “So you and Scooter ordered some food in?”
“What? No—no, Piggy. Sara came down and brought us food. And, um, Gonzo and Fozzie and a whole bunch of people. Everybody came to help.”
Everybody came to help? thought Piggy. Kermit had said it was just a mechanical problem with the editing machine. Why did they need so much help? And why were they working so late? She had so many questions in her head that she couldn’t think which one to ask first.
“So everything was great with the show?” Kermit asked. “I can’t wait to read the reviews in the morning. Call me—remember I’m behind you by three hours.”
Oh, Piggy thought, remembering. She kept forgetting the time-change difference. Kermit was working late, but it wasn’t as late as she’d thought.
“I think she’s some sort of entertainer,” said the guy with the phone. “Yeah—blonde, nice sturdy legs—“
“Do you mind?” Piggy demanded. “I am trying to talk to California.”
“Yeah—she’s talking to California. Definitely Hollywood,” the man said. He did a double-take and almost dropped the phone. “You think?” he said, staring at Piggy again. “But I thought she was filming a new movie or something.” He listened for a moment, eyes growing wider by the second while casting startled glances at Piggy’s now furious form. “Broadway?” he asked. “Are you sure it’s her?”
Piggy trotted over to the man, sized him up quickly, and hi-yahed him into the wall at the end of the hall. He crumpled into a loose pile of limbs, the phone still nestled against his ear.
“Yep—it’s her,” he said into the phone, and passed out. Piggy eyed his now-silent form with satisfaction and turned her back on him determinedly.
“I won’t forget to call you, Mon Capitan,” Piggy said. “Moi will wait until vous have had time for a cup of coffee, first.” Her voice dropped to a teasing whisper. “Moi knows how grumpy you are before you’ve had your coffee,” she murmured.
“It’s not doing without coffee that’s making me grumpy in the mornings now,” Kermit grumbled back, and Piggy giggled.
“I miss you,” Piggy said.
“I miss you, too, Piggy,” said Kermit. “So, are you ready to leave the theater yet? Be careful on the way home, okay?”
Piggy almost said, “Moi is having dinner with some friends from the show,” but she didn’t. Poor Kermit—working so hard while she was here. Piggy felt suddenly guilty for being in a restaurant and having tasty food served to her while Kermit was still at work. Speaking of…her entrée was surely here by now.
“Moi should go,” she said enigmatically. “I am keeping you from getting done and going home.”
“I don’t mind,” said Kermit, and Piggy just melted. What a good frog Kermit was! Such a thoughtful amphibian.
“I will call you tomorrow, Mon Capitan,” Piggy said, and they said their reluctant goodbyes.
As predicted, Miss Piggy’s entrée sat steaming on the plate in front of her when she returned to her seat at the table.
“You okay?” asked Trudy. “We heard there was some jerk hanging around who finally passed out around the bathrooms.”
Piggy’s blue eyes were wide. “I didn’t notice anybody,” she said. “Moi was talking to Mon Capitan.”
Darcy giggled. “I like your little pet name for your hubby,” she said.\
Piggy’s smile was self-satisfied. “So does Kermie,” she said, and tucked in to her food.
“So—your girl’s debuting on Broadway tonight,” Harve said. Scribbler had been sitting very quietly on the edge of his bed, lost in thought, and he startled at the sound of the rat’s familiar voice.
“What? Oh. Oh—no. Not my girl,” said Scribbler hastily. “I…I don’t have a girl.” He felt his cheeks flaming and he stared at Harve a little defensively. “And what do you know about it, anyway?” he demanded. “Who told you?”
Harve shrugged, munching what Scribbler hoped was a dried prune. It is wasn’t, he definitely did not want to know. “You talk in your sleep,” said Harve casually, and Scribbler’s cheeks flamed even redder.
“Well, I think you’d have the decency not to listen,” the mortified reporter muttered.
“Okay, okay—don’t have a hernia. What do I care about your problems, okay? It’s not like we were friendly or anything.” For a big lug, Harve could have surprisingly delicate feelings.
Scribbler sighed. “C’mon—I’m—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just—it’s…complicated.”
“So I gathered,” said Harve. “So how come you didn’t stick around after the show—try to say hi and get things going again?”
“I—she…she doesn’t like me very much right now,” Scribbler admitted. “Besides—she’s, um, married.”
Harve shook his head, thoughtful but not judgmental. “Married dames are trouble,” he said.
“Tell me about it,” said Scribbler.
Harve grunted and took another bite of whatever it was. It crunched a little and Scribbler did his best not to think about it. “Of course, so are single dames,” said Harve.
There was a pause, and then they both laughed out loud, the sound racous and loud in the too-silent apartment. The moment passed, and they wiped the amusement out of their eyes.
“Can’t live with ‘em,” said Harve.
“Yeah,” said Scribbler. “I know the rest.”
“How’s Miss Piggy?” asked Fozzie, coming up behind Kermit.
“Yeah—she’s..she’s not mad at me, is she?” Scooter asked worriedly, but Kermit put his fears to rest.
“No—she’s not mad. She’s fine. The show was great and she was getting ready to go home.”
“I’m sorry your weekend didn’t work out,” Fozzie ventured. “I’m sorry you had to stay here to work on the film instead of going to see her on Broadway.”
“It’s okay,” said Kermit, a little more glumly than before. “There will be other weekends.” He looked at Scooter, who looked immensely more chipper now that he’d been properly fed—and smooched—by his finance. “What do you think, Scooter—a couple more hours?”
Scooter looked thoughtful. “A couple,” he said. “Maybe three—today.”
“Good,” said Kermit. Fortified and fed, Kermit thought he could work all night.
“Yeah,” said Scooter. “It’s going better than I thought. We can finish up and have everything to them by tomorrow afternoon. They’re going to help us out with a half-price rush order—start working on it on tomorrow and finish on Sunday.”
“That’s nice of them,” said Kermit. Just when you felt like your faith in people was unjustified, something nice always seemed to happen, Kermit thought. He took a deep breath, wondering about tomorrow’s reviews.
He wasn’t worried about what the critics would say about Piggy—although someone was bound to say something about her generous figure that was going to make Piggy indignant. Kermit felt confident that there would be nothing but positive reviews of her appearance on stage. What he worried about—and what he could do nothing about—was what the tabloids might say about her, and about him, and about the two of them. He allowed himself a few seconds of pointless worry, then shoved it firmly from mind. Wallowing was self-indulgent, and people were counting on him. Piggy was counting on him to finish this movie and come to see her. Scooter was counting on him to stay on focus while they redid their past week’s work. And Fozzie was peering at him anxiously, counting on him to set the tone for everyone else’s mood. Kermit noticed with affection that he was wearing his tie—but not the tie tack. He reached out and clasped Fozzie’s shoulder in one hand and Scooter’s shoulder in the other.
“Let go polish off those cupcakes,” Kermit said. “I want a little something to get me through the evening!”
“Dare you,” said Clifford. The little table where they sat was so small that their faces were practically touching as they sat across from each other, and they were so crowded by the press of other bodies that it was impossible to move further away. No one was complaining, but there was a dare on the table, which created enough psychological space to play in.
“Double dare you,” Tricia threw back, her green eyes narrowed down to slits. She looked enough like an exotic cat that Clifford had an almost overpowering urge to reach out and touch her soft hair to soothe her, but he managed not to act on it.
Instead, he leaned close, his forehead touching hers. “I double dog dare you,” he said.
It hung there between then, the ultimate challenge that could be thrown down.
On the tiny stage, an absurdly jovial emcee was saying, “Aren’t there any other couples who want to compete in tonight’s karaoke challenge before we tally the results and give out the grand prize package?”
“You’re on!” Tricia hissed. She ran for the stage, dragging Clifford with her. He practically had to vault the little table, but it seemed no effort at all if the end result meant that he was sticking close to Mabel’s feisty daughter.
The emcee looked—if possible—even more delighted to be taken up on his offer than he had been to make it. He surrendered the microphone to Tricia and she and Clifford consulted, heads ducked together for a moment, before waving numbers to the DJ for their selection. The DJ looked back at them uncertainly and waved the numbers back at them for confirmation. Clifford and Tricia both nodded emphatically, and the DJ gave them a thumbs up and cued up the music.
“You can’t live with ‘em!” Tricia sang, rolling her eyes.
“You can’t live without ‘em!” Clifford sang, his deep bass quieting the noisy crowd.
“There’s something irresisti-bullish about ‘em,” they sang together. “We grin and bear it ‘cause the nights are long—I hope that somethin’ better comes along.”
“It’s not good complainin’ and pointless to holler,” Tricia sang. She had a throaty, raspy voice that made you think of something tart and spicy.
“If she’s a beauty, she’ll get under your collar,” sang Clifford, pulling comically at his collar. “She made a monkey out of ol’ King Kong.”
“I hope that something better comes along!” they harmonized.
The crowd, which was comprised almost exclusively of couples, was polarizing right down the gender lines, but in a fun way. Dates nudged each other, or hugged each other teasingly.
“Aw, but what could be better than a saucy Irish singer when puppy love comes on strong?” teased Clifford, putting his arm around Tricia, who pretended to be willing to be placated. “Or a Coleen that’s classy—a laddie needs a lassie…a lover and wife gives you a new lease on life….”
There was a moment—an instant really—when their eyes met, and Clifford faltered but Tricia stepped into that moment. Her eyes were warm but the laughter in her eyes grounded him and kept the distance friendly, but comfortable.
“I don’t mean to scare you, my friend, but I betcha—come Father’s Day the litter bug’s gonna getcha—the urge is righteous but the face is wrong!” She patted his cheek fondly, then pushed him away.
“I hope that something better comes along,” Clifford sighed. “Still…it’s fun when they’re fetching and agree to see an etching that you keep at your cozy flat.” He made comically lecherous eyebrows at Tricia, who grinned back at him, willingly conned.
“There is no solution—it’s part of evolution: like when a guy starts a scat that makes your heart pitter-pat!” Tricia wriggled her own lecherous eyebrows at Clifford and the other patrons of the nightclub laughed, but whether it was at her expression—or Clifford’s—it was hard to say.
“There’s no limitation to mixin’ and matchin’,” sang Clifford.
“Some get an itchin’ for a critter they’ve been scratchin’,” Tricia crooned, turning Clifford away from her so she could scratch his back with her bright green nails. He sighed and leaned into it so that she had to push to hold him upright.
“A skunk was badgered the results were strong!” Clifford added.
“I hope that somethin’ better--
“I hope that somethin’ better—“
“I hope that something better comes along!”
The crowd roared with laughter and hilarity, glad to have a little levity in this evening of serious romance. Clifford and Tricia took bow after bow, giggling and laughing like truant teenagers.
Their exuberant host bounded back up onto the stage, looking surprised and happy. Usually these amateur karaoke contests were, well, happily over soon. This one had been a real show-stopper. He looked out at the chanting, cheering couples and put his arms around Clifford and Tricia’s shoulders.
“Folks,” he said. “I think we have a winner.”
It was hard to even think about going home. After everything that had happened this week, after everything that had changed tonight—it was impossible to even dream of sleep. Seymour Strathers had waited and waited outside on the sidewalk, knowing that the cast often came out to sign autographs or have their picture taken with starstruck fans. He hadn’t really had much hope that Piggy would come out and mingle, but when she didn’t appear—not on the sidewalk and not coming out of the door at all—he began to worry that he had missed her. A reality check (which the author would like to point out is becoming increasingly unreliable!) convinced him that she couldn’t have come past him, so she must have still been inside. Without conscious thought, Seymour calculated how many feet were likely to be separating them right at that moment and he remembered with a pleasure that was almost a pain how close she had been when they had been in Vegas together. No one had really known how many times he had been lurking in the audience or backstage or in the labyrinthine hallways and not been caught, but those had been magical moments, watching her from so close. There had times that he had feared being caught, and others when he hoped—no, he prayed that she might bump into him accidentally, might react with surprise and pleasure to find him so close, and watching. Sadly, it had never happened, but it might happen yet. It might happen any day if he was diligent, and he was patient, and he was very, very good at both of those things.
He found that he had been staring at the backstage door, which opened and shut at fairly regular intervals to belch out some other star or starlet, but never her. She must still be inside, behind that door—that unlocked…unguarded…unattended door. It was freezing outside, but Seymour felt a thrilling flush wash over him.
It might happen. It could happen. It would.
And soon.
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How refreshingly NICE to see actresses who actually close ranks around a fellow lady in need instead of using it to wound her more! So glad you chose to go that direction with your backstage story!
When Clifford and Tricia started singingI Hope that Somethin' Better comes Along, wow, I had to start playing the green album at that moment.
Man!! That guy/stalker gives me the chills! Well, I've said my peace. Cheers!!
-fying!
You called?