Chapter 114: An Embarrassment of Riches
Scribbler ranted. He raved. He pleaded. He begged. He insisted. He demanded. Finally, he sighed, staring down at the little phone.
“You’re boss sure sounds mad,” said Harve. He was an unrepentant little eavesdropper, but Scribbler was used to it by now.
“That’s not my boss. I’m still trying to get through the emergency contact secretary. Apparently, she doesn’t think I have an emergency, but—boy!—when my boss finds out she didn’t put me through to the home number, it will be an emergency—trust me.”
“So why’re you calling the emergency number? I thought you had a direct line to the boss.”
“I did. I do. The voicemail is full. So I’m stuck going through channels to get my okay to go forward.”
“Whatcha need permission for?” Harve had asked. “You got this, right? You know what to write. From what you say, you know this little piggy like the back of your hand.”
“Used to,” Scribbler murmured, not sure Harve heard him.
“You don’t need nobody’s permission to put down what you know, do you?”
Scribbler stared at the phone in his hand. He hated being on hold, and it suddenly occurred to him that his entire life had felt like it was on hold until…until this. Until she came to Broadway and anything was possible, everything was possible again. The jaded journalist looked from the phone, which was blaring annoying musack and then to Harve’s earnest expression. With a flourish, punched the power button and ended the call. To heck with permission. He didn’t need anybody’s permission to write what he knew, and he knew a lot. He sat down, pulled out his battered laptop and set it up on the rickety little nightstand that he’d moved out into the middle of the floor to use as an erstwhile desk. He began to type, trying to adjust for the rocking motion of the table as his fingers flew over the keyboard. After a moment, the table stopped rocking, and he looked down in surprise to see Harve shoving a small stack of cardboard scraps under the short leg, stabilizing the writing surface. He gave Scribbler a thumb’s up and grinned.
“Thanks, Harve,” said Scribbler, genuinely touched.
“Attaboy!” said Harve. “The pen—er, the laptop, is mightier than the phone!”
For the first time in a really long time, Scribbler grinned.
Piggy made a point of ignoring everything—anything—that might smack of news on her way to the theater the next morning. Mr. Finkel was taking the morning off, but he had sent ‘round a friend of his, a guy by the name of Sparky, to take her right to the door. Sparky had made a compliment of opening the door for her, and Piggy smiled to herself in the back of the cab, amused by the seriousness with which he was taking this charge.
Mr. and Mrs. Finkel had come to the play last night and she had gone out to meet her charioteer’s lady, a short, slightly frumpy but very proper little lady in what was very obviously her best going-to-Sabbath dress and sensible shoes. Mr. Finkel had been stiff and slicked-back in what was evidently his best suit.
“Sylvia, this is Miss Piggy, Mrs. Kermit the Frog,” Moisha Finkel said, exhibiting lovely manners for a New York taxi driver. “Miss Piggy, this is my wife, Sylvia Finkel.” Piggy held out her satin-gloved hand and waited until Mrs. Finkel had recovered enough to take it.
“Moi is so glad you could come,” Piggy had murmured, smiling a sweet smile. “Did you like the show?” She preened a little, brushing her hair back from her face.
“Did I? Well I never saw anything like that,” Sylvia said, clutching her purse and staring. “You were really something else on stage tonight, but…but wow, Miss Piggy, you look like a real movie star now!”
Piggy giggled, spoiling the diva air just a bit. She knew what Sylvia meant, for she had changed out of her bobby-sox and saddle-oxfords and slightly trashy Pink Lady clothes and into something that could be worn to the Academy Awards. In fact, this dress had been worn to the Academy Awards a couple of years ago, and Piggy liked to haul it out to make an entrance in once in a while. With her blond hair spilling around her shoulders instead of hidden beneath Rizzo’s sassy wig, Piggy looked every inch the movie star.
“I like this one, too,” Piggy had murmured. “My wardrobe is better than Rizzo’s.”
“But not as much fun,” Sylvia blurted, and they both laughed. “When Moisha told me we were going to a show, well, I never,” Sylvia said, still holding Piggy’s hand. “When he asked me to guess who he picked up in his cab I never even imagined!”
“Well, vous should imagine, once in a while!” Piggy teased. She turned and gave her cabbie the evil eye. “You are taking her somewhere lovely to eat?”
“Oh, yes ma’am,” said Finkel, proud and proprietary. He turned and gazed down at his wife’s head, beaming at Piggy. “I’m gonna take my bride out somewhere special. First class all the way.”
“Wonderful,” Piggy insisted.
“And Sparky’ll be round for you in the morning,” he’d said earnestly. “He’s a good kid. He’ll keep you safe.” He put his big arm around his little wife and walked her toward the door. The sight of it made Piggy tear up just a little, thinking of Kermit. She knew what it was like to feel that firm, proprietary hand on the small of her back, guiding her safely through a crowd.
Piggy had seen them off as far as the lobby, though of course it had been impossible to show herself outside the theater. Even showing herself again in the atrium had caused a hue and cry at the door that had made security call nervously for reinforcements. Piggy had shot them an apologetic look and slipped out of sight again to go back to her dressing room and face the long night ahead. Little could she have known how different her night would be from the one she had planned, or the one she had anticipated spending alone.
Sparky pulled up to the door. He opened the door for her with such energy that Piggy was half-afraid he might try to carry her inside, then stopped and saluted. Piggy made a valiant effort to hide her amusement, but she leaned forward and straightened his collar gently.
“Thank you, Sparky,” Piggy said. She reached for her packages but he shook his head firmly.
“It’d be even bets who’d tan my hide worse—Moisha for letting you lift a finger, or my mother for making a lady carry her own packages.”
Over Piggy’s protests, or at least despite them, Sparky carried the bundle of papers to the front door. To be fair, it was a big bundle—okay, a huge one—and Sparky opened the door for Piggy with difficulty. At the door, security gave Sparky the gimlet eye while he gave them one in return.
“This is Sparky,” Piggy said to the big, burly redhead in the tailored security uniform. She smiled sweetly at her substitute cabbie. “Could Moi have your ID for a moment, mon ami?”
Sparky nodded, taking the chain over his neck and laying it in her tiger-striped gloves. They matched her velvet heels today, and complimented her little black day dress to perfection. Piggy handed the chain and tag to the guard with a flourish.
“Put…” She paused, reading the little ID tag. “…Myron on the list, please,” Piggy said, and though her voice was sweet and she said “please” there was no hint at all that it was a suggestion and not a command. She had found it necessary to be a bit…determined with security in order to have some freedom of choice.
The redheaded guard grunted, but made the mistake of meeting those electrifying cobalt blue eyes. “Um, yes ma’am, um, Ma’am,” he stammered, six-foot-two and two-fifteen worth of bashful schoolboy.
Piggy waited while he copied the information, then returned the chain and tag to its owner and wrestled her papers away from him.
“Thank you, Sparky,” Piggy said.
Sparky saluted again. “Moisha, um, Mr. Finkel will be around for you this afternoon. Same time unless you call him, okay?”
“Okay.” He edged out the door and the guard shut the door firmly behind him. “Thank you Harry,” Piggy said, breezing past him with her arms full of newsprint.
Harry watched her trot down the hall, thinking later that he should have offered to carry her things, but at the moment he could only think of one thing: She had actually remembered his name.
The phone rang at the The Frog house at an unprecedented hour.
No one I know would call me at this hour—except Piggy or Scooter, Kermit thought, rolling over and grabbing for the phone. It took a couple of tries but he finally managed to corner it and wrench it from its holder.
“Piggy? Scooter?” he blurted, still too bleary to think well.
“Naw, it’s me,” said Marty, no hint of apology in his voice. “I know you’re not up yet, but she is and I thought I’d give you a call and tell you the papers were fine, just fine.”
Kermit felt adrenaline surge into his bloodstream. “The…the reviews were good?”
“Good. Great. Fantastic. Astounding. Tony-worthy,” Marty said off-handedly. “No surprises there.”
“Where are the surprises?” Kermit asked, reading between the lines. He felt his whole body clench while he waited for Marty to answer.
“Not too many of them, either,” Marty said. He proceeded to educate Kermit, chapter and verse, on the tabloid twaddle that had inevitably followed Piggy to Broadway and was now trying to capitalize on her debut. Kermit listened, making mental notes that he hoped wouldn’t evaporate when Marty hung up.
“Don’t worry,” Marty interrupted his thoughts with the annoying appearance of clairvoyance that he had. “I’ll send you an email with the highlights of our conversation.”
Kermit wanted to be churlish but he was too tired—and too grateful. “Thanks, Marty. So…you think the worst thing is from The Stripe?”
“Yeah—there’s was the meanest. Nothing bad about the show, but some real hateful stuff about her—about what a Jezebel she is, leaving her poor faithful frog at home. And then they had to go and say something about her hair, which is really gonna tick her off.”
“Her hair, or Rizzo’s hair?” Kermit asked, parsing to be sure he was not caught off guard.
“Her hair,” Marty said, and Kermit let out a low whistle.
“Brave or stupid,” Kermit said. “They’ve got offices in New York, don’t they?”
“They do for the moment,” Marty growled, and they left it.
Ten minutes with Piggy’s agent and Kermit was ready to hear the news from Piggy without being blind-sided or shocked by anything, so his entire reaction could be for her, ready to soothe and comfort her without having to deal with his own surprise and disappointment.
“And you don’t come off looking too bad,” Marty said. “A little control freaky and a little ‘unwilling to share her magnificence with the world,’” he deadpanned, quoting one of the more flamboyant blogs. “But no matter how they try to paint it, you sent her to Broadway to fulfill her dream and you’re roughing it at home without her. Hard to make you out to be a big monster with that.”
“Hard, but not impossible,” Kermit said lightly, but there was an edge of bitterness to his voice.
“No,” Marty answered honestly. “But we’re gonna do our best to keep you guys as fireproof as possible.” There was a hesitation on the other end of the line. Kermit actually felt Marty debating the wisdom of what he was about to say.
“Go ahead,” Kermit sighed. “Tell me.”
“Look—I talked to Scooter. I know what happened wasn’t your fault, but this can’t happen again. Only a couple of the papers hinted at you not being there for opening, but Broadway debut the public understands—post-production, not so much. We gotta get you up there!”
“I know, I know,” Kermit moaned, guilt dogging him like Floyd on payday.
“Next time you plan to go, you gotta make sure you get there, okay?”
Kermit’s answer was terse. “I know.” He felt defensive and angry and hurt and…lonely and put upon. It wasn’t his fault he didn’t get to go! He hadn’t even over-promised! That had been Scooter! Immediately, Kermit felt guilty again. Scooter had only been trying to do something nice, something wonderful, and here he was being ungrateful and snarky and indignant. He felt a sharp pain in his gut and wondered if frogs could get ulcers.
“Kermit….” Marty said, sensing the coldness on the other end of the line, but Kermit dredged up his company manners with an effort.
“Okay. No problem. And we’re going to touch base later in the week about the Oscars, right?”
“Right,” Marty said. He wished there was something more to say, but there really wasn’t. He was doing his job, just like Kermit was doing his. “I’ll catch up with you about mid-week for sure.”
“Thanks, Marty,” said Kermit, and managed a smile, a real smile. “Thanks for letting me know. Piggy did good, huh?”
“Your girl did fantastic,” Marty said. “She took the big town by storm.”
They said their good-byes and hung up.
Later today, Piggy would call, and he would get to congratulate her, and praise her and tell her how amazing she was, and how proud he was of her. That was a good thing to look forward to, but what Kermit was really thinking about, what was making his day bright in spite of everything, was thinking about what Marty had said. His girl. His girl did fantastic. It made everything better just to know it.
For the first time since she’d been coming into the theater every morning, Piggy was greeted by friends. Darcy came running up and hugged her as soon as she cleared the hallway, squealing with delight and upsetting half of her newspapers, which tumbled to the floor.
“Did you see? Did you see them?” Darcy cried.
Piggy shook her head. “No. Moi brought everything with her.” She did not try to explain that the muppets had always faced reviews and congratulations together the morning after. She did not think she could explain why it was important to her to do it here, with friends, instead of alone in her apartment, but she knew that’s what she needed to do. If the news was bad, they would face it together. If the news was good, they would celebrate as a family. Piggy was doubtful that the tenuous holds of friendship that she had been forging here would survive some of the things she had survived with Kermie and her friends, but this is the way she had always done it, and this was the way she was going to do it now.
With Darcy’s help, she gathered up her papers and carried them toward the dressing room, but before she could get there, Rory came running up and picked her up, twirling her in a circle. The man had amazing biceps, Piggy had to concede.
“They loved you! They loved us! They loved everything about it!”
“Everything?” Piggy asked. “They liked everything.”
“Well,” said Darcy, “um, there was one nasty little shrew who didn’t like your hair.”
“It’s a wig,” Piggy said, nonplussed. “And I can’t be blond because Sandy is blond,” she explained, “so I have to wear a wig.”
“Oh, no, honey,” said Kristen, coming up with a cup of coffee in her hands. “They weren’t talking about the wig. She was dissing your real do.” She reached out and stroked Piggy’s satiny-soft hair. “They must be crazy—this stuff is like silk.”
“They dissed my hair,” Piggy growled, and the heat emanating from her made her friends back up a step.
“Whoa—just some gripey old biddy at The Stripe,” sniffed Jan. “What does she know?”
“And even she liked your wardrobe—said you certainly had the chops to pull it off,” Harrison said. Harrison played Danny, and although they had played off each other well, they had played off each other warily. Piggy wasn’t sure she liked him, and was even less sure he liked her.
“My chops?” Piggy said, hands crossed across her heaving bosom. “Is that supposed to be some sort of pig joke?”
But Harrison merely stepped back, gave her a scorching once-over and grinned cheekily. “I don’t know,” he said blithely, “but your chops look just fine to me.”
In spite of herself, Piggy blushed and giggled, and the rest of the crowd laughed with her. “So…they like me? They really liked me?” she asked, her blue eyes wide with wonder.
Rory rolled his eyes. “On stop fishing,” he demanded. “What’s not to like?” He bent and gathered up an armful of newspapers. “Let’s get these papers down to the kitchenette and we’ll show you who said what.”
Carried on a tide of enthusiasm and excitement, Piggy was swept along with the others as they sat and pored over the reviews, each and everyone one of them. It was not the communal activity that it usually was with the muppets, with everyone looking to Kermit for guidance. This was more of a free-for-all, with people calling out things and reading lines they liked aloud with no thought of who was already talking.
Things did get a little more subdued when Mr. Lowery stopped by and poked his head in. While Lowery was well-liked, he was still the boss, and still the man with the power of life or death for their characterization. He looked at them all gathered around the table, newspaper spread everywhere, coffee and a contraband strudel in plain sight. He took in the sense of camaraderie thoughtfully, then smiled his wry smile.
“Nice work, everybody. Piggy—a sterling debut.”
Piggy pouted prettily. “I was going for the gold,” she teased, and felt as much as saw several of the others quick, surprised intake of breath. You usually didn’t josh around with Lowery—at least, not much. But Lawrence merely smiled benevolently. “Go for the Tony gold,” he quipped. “I hear it’s up for grabs this year.”
Piggy laughed as he walked away, then stared at her friends’ surprised and startled expressions.
“That was—he doesn’t usually kid around much,” said Trudy thoughtfully. “He must be in a really good mood.”
“I’d be in a good mood if these were my reviews,” said Rory.
“They are your reviews,” Piggy insisted. “ I may be the new face on the block, but vous are the block party.”
“Did someone say party?” said Cordell, slipping in the door conspicuously late.
“Get your fanny over here and see what they say about it in the newspapers,” said Kristen coolly. Cordell grinned and made a kissy face at her, then patted his rump.
“In your dreams,” Kristen called indignantly, then burst out laughing, and everybody laughed with them. Piggy sat in the middle of it, thinking how different this was than what she was used to, and how different things might have been if she hadn’t done well, or she hadn’t finally turned her co-workers into friends. She thought about Kermit, and how wonderful it would be to call him later and tell him that she had done her very best to make him proud of her, that she had done her very best to shine on Broadway. The day was starting well, and she still had something to look forward to.
Sometimes, in cartoons, a character will get so mad that steam will come out of their ears. Scribbler’s boss could probably have been called “animated” that morning while reading his copy, but Scribbler could talk almost as fast as he could type.
“I had to do it!” he insisted, shouting to be heard. “I had to. There’s not a bad review in the lot, and if we had panned it—or her—we’d have looked like idiots. I’ve explained this and explained this a million—“
“—think you’re going to go up there on my dime and write…love letters to that pig’s talent, you’ve got another think coming.”
“I do have another think coming,” Scribbler snapped, “which is a definite improvement over the one think that you’ve been thinking for the past four months. I’ve told you over and over and over again—the way to get her away from him is obvious. If that frog has always put work first, Piggy hasn’t put it far behind. There was a time when she wanted fame more than she wanted him, and that could happen again.”
“I want him miserable! And I want him miserable now!”
“If she’s here and he’s there, you’ve probably got your wish,” he countered, taken aback by the venom spewing from the other end of the line.
“You’re not getting it,” growled his boss. “I don’t want him unhappy. I want him crushed, devastated, defeated! I want him writhing in a little frog puddle of unhappiness on the floor!”
Scribbler thought, not for the first time, that those who couldn’t write often tried to edit, and he was glad he wasn’t editing the purple prose that he was hearing. Yeesh!
“Trust me, if she leaves him, he’ll be a, um,…” He could not bring himself to say, “frog puddle of unhappiness.” “…one lonely, miserable frog. When she leaves, she’ll take everything he’s living for right out the door with him.”
If there hadn’t been smoke on the other end of the line, Scribbler’s boss might have heard the confessional tone in his voice and made him writhe later, but hatred for the frog seemed to be deafening as well as blinding.
“Just do whatever it takes, you miserable excuse for a journalist!” And the phone banged down in Scribbler’s ear.
“There now,” said Harve. “Aren’t you glad you didn’t ask permission?”
Scribbler had to laugh, but it was grim and mirthless. “I’m glad I don’t have to ask for anything right now,” he admitted. He set the little phone down on the table, wondering if it might burst into flame like a letter in a Harry Potter movie. “But I am glad I wrote what I wanted.”
Harve looked at him, his beady eyes bright. “You think she liked it?”
And Scribbler smiled a slow, satisfied smile.
“I’m sure she liked it,” he said firmly. “Trust me—I know what she likes to hear.”
“—and my favorite was, “Miss Piggy a Natural for Grease!” said Kermit. “They really liked your portrayal of Rizzo, Honey.”
“They really like selling papers,” Piggy retorted, but she had liked that one, too. In fact, it had been her favorite review of all the papers, save one, but she couldn’t exactly talk about that one to Kermit. Although they had talked earlier in the day to share their enthusiasm for the positive reviews, there was too much going on where Piggy was for her to have a long conversation, and Kermit sounded distracted anyway. They had agreed to talk after the show, and Piggy had practically sprinted out of the theater, hair and snout swathed in scarves in an attempt to hide her identity, and dived into the back seat of Mr. Finkel’s taxi.
“Another fantastic show?” he’d asked. “I assume you’re trying to outrun the adoring mob?”
Piggy had laughed a little breathlessly. “Just some of them,” she said, then narrowed her eyes solemnly. “Tell me about dinner last night,” she insisted, and was regaled all the way home by tales of Bleecker Street and dancing the polka till dawn.
Now, showered, moisturized and snuggled into the folds of her pink plush dressing gown with the roses on it, Piggy leaned back into the cushioned softness of her bed and talked to Kermit as long as she wanted.
“So,your cast-mates are nice,” Kermit said. They had run out of anything new to say about the reviews, which were phenomenal, and they had almost run out of mushy things to say that didn’t make them both feel miserable and lonely. Kermit felt so disconnected from her. He was here, surrounded by everything familiar, but nothing felt the same. She was there, where everything must be new and strange. He couldn’t decide if he felt sorrier for her or for himself.
“Everybody has been nice to me,” Piggy gushed. Today.
“And I heard a lot about your costumes in the reviews,” Kermit said dryly. “You having fun with them?”
Piggy smiled. How well he knew her! “Lots of fun,” she admitted, “although I still think I ought to get to wear the pink wig instead of Frenchy.”
“Hmm,” Kermit said. “Pink hair and pink satin. Sounds like a Victoria’s secret ad.“
“Hush,” Piggy admonished him. Kermit swore he could feel her blushing through the phone. She let out a soft sigh. “If you want to check out my cool new duds, you’ll have to come up and see me sometime.” That last said with a Mae West accent.
Kermit smiled and lay back on their bed with his eyes closed. “I will, Sweetheart—just as soon as I can. I promise.”
“Kermie?” Her voice was very small and drowsy.
“Yes, Piggy?”
“Tell me about your day.”
“My day hasn’t been very interesting.” It had been murderous getting the film finished for the second time and off to the editor, but it had not been interesting.
“Moi is interested.”
“Piggy—“
“Tell me what you had for breakfast.”
“Piggy, you don’t—“
“Tell me what you had for lunch.”
“Piggy, you don’t really want to know what—“
“Tell me what Gonzo was wearing today.”
Kermit started to laugh. He closed his eyes again, beginning to relax. Gonzo had come by the studio that morning to check to see if there was anything he could do and his outfit had been eye-popping. “Um, some green and orange plaid pants with cuffs, turquoise suspenders with ladybugs on them—“
“Ladybugs?” Piggy interrupted.
“Ladybugs, I swear,” Kermit said back. “Made me hungry all day. And he had this shirt with all different buttons on it and….”
If he was still and quiet, Kermit could almost imagine that Piggy was here, lying beside him in the big bed while they giggled over one of Gonzo’s fashion escapades. For the first time in a long time, Kermit felt the tension begin to leak out of his frame.
“You’re kidding,” Piggy interjected, giggling a little. She lay back on the enormous bed and put one hand over her eyes, blocking out the light. If she was still and quiet, she could almost imagine that Kermit was here, lying beside her.
The long hand on the clock moved slowly, but it had covered significant ground by the time Piggy closed the little silver phone and turned her face into the pillow. She fought her way toward sleep, wanting to keep the drowsy sense of closeness they had shared. On an opposite coast, Kermit fluffed his pillow determinedly and closed his eyes.
The day had given them an embarrassment of riches—good reviews, film in the can and a contented good-night wrapped in each other’s loving words.
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