Chapter 139: The Set-Up (Ahem)
“Fozzie—help me!” Kermit muttered, pulling on the ends of the bowtie in disgust.
Obediently, Fozzie stepped in front of his best friend and tied the bowtie. He cocked his head on one side, studying it, then untied it and tied it again. “There,” he said. “Perfect.”
Kermit heaved a sigh. “Thank you. Thanks, Fozzie. I’m a wreck, you know?”
Fozzie smiled and patted the rattled amphibian on the back.
“I know,” he said soothingly, and Kermit shot him a wry look.
“You could at least disagree with me,” he murmured.
It was Fozzie’s turn to sigh. “I could,” he said calmly, “but I’m a terrible liar.”
His honesty worked where prevarication wouldn’t have. Kermit laughed and tried to relax.
“I just want everything to go, you know, perfect.”
Fozzie patted him again. “You’ll be fine. You’ve presented before. It’s a piece of cake.”
Kermit said nothing, bumping his slender fingers together, and Fozzie turned and looked at him.
“You’re supposed to say—“ Fozzie stopped, peering at his friend. “Oh,” he said. “You’re not worried about the presentation. You’re worried about seeing Piggy.”
“I’m just worried about how it will go.”
“You mean you’re worried about what the paparazzi will say.”
Kermit grunted.
“I mean, if you look too casual, people will say you don’t care that she’s gone.”
Kermit made a rude noise.
“But if you look moony and ushy-gushy, you’ll come across as needy and desperate.”
“Fozzie,” Kermit protested.
“But if—“
“Fozzie!”
“But I was just—“
“No! Stop! No buts! No buts—please. I’m already nervous.”
Too bad he wasn’t clairvoyant.
Scribbler hoped the camera guy they sent wasn’t incompetent. He hoped it wasn’t Jonesy. He hoped he would be able to pull off what he planned to do, walking the razor’s edge in the maze of not angering his boss, not hurting Missy and not looking like a fool. He was grinning like a fool now—had been since she called him. OMGShehadcalledhim! She was safe and she had called him. That alone might carry him through what he had to do tonight.
Figuratively speaking, he was caught on the train tracks running inexorably toward the station. He was hurrying toward Piggy, but she was not waiting for him to catch up. He was running two steps in front of his boss and three steps in front of the hounds, desperate not to fall. A mistake now could cost him—a mistake on any front—and he juggled trying to protect Missy while he protected his job. The only thing that was really unprotected was…him, but he could still take a story and run with it! There was only one thing wrong with that—his boss could run faster than he could, and was closing the distance between them.
The smile slipped off his face as he thought about tonight. He did have to do it. He had to. Despite what he had told her, he had to do what he’d been hired to do—or some semblance of it—or there wasn’t going to be a job, or an apartment in New York, or…. Scribbler swallowed convulsively, remembering the feel of Fang’s enormous hands on him. …or—maybe—at him. In spite of having just emerged from a hot shower, Scribbler shivered. He did not fully know what he had gotten himself into when he’d taken this job, but at least he knew that. And he was being careful. He was going slow. And she had called him.
After tonight, it might take a while to wear her down again. She was bound to be upset—bound to be unhappy—but it had to be done. He was going to do his best (and his worst) and try to make her see what the next step was. She might not like it, but she would understand—eventually. And he would be there—a shoulder to cry on, a listening ear. He had started out waiting with Missy for all of their dreams to come true. He could wait a little longer.
The limo was waiting. Kermit saw it make the wide turn into the driveway and was glad it was coming around back to get him. The reporters were camped out in the median again—had been since this morning—and it had taken a bit of maneuvering on Marty’s part to get him out of the house and over to his office to make the phone call to Piggy. Poor Piggy—she had been so upset, so worried about him. Behind all that bluff and bravado, Piggy could be very tenderhearted. He was grateful to Marty for helping to clear the air before tonight, so that when they saw each other there would be no barriers, no secrets between them. Kermit squirmed uncomfortably. Well, almost no secrets. When the editing was done and he could cozy up to Piggy in real space as well as real time, then he would tell her everything. Everything.
Fozzie had quieted and stood ready beside him and Kermit was grateful for Fozzie’s companionship and the easy silences that could stretch between them when there wasn’t really anything to say. He was not-so-secretly glad that Gonzo and Rizzo were managing their own transportation. Gonzo had an absolute knack for being tactless, and while Kermit knew he had Gonzo’s unswerving loyalty and affection, there were times when he could cheerfully murder the little weirdo—or at least stuff him in a supply closet for a few days.
There was a discrete knock at the door.
“Mr. The Frog?” said a voice.
Kermit opened the door, remembering to smile. “Yes,” he said. “I’m ready.”
“I can’t breathe,” said Sara, fanning her warm face.
“It’s not that form-fitting,” giggled Gloria Jean. She and Sally Ann had come over to play Barbie doll with a real live Barbie—er, Sara. At the sight of his usually unflappable girl having a meltdown over which shade of blush made her look “less horrible” Scooter had run—and called in reinforcements. The girls had arrived to help wrestle Sara into the dress and its impressive undergarments and to play beauty shop. Scooter—already tuxed and as gussied up as he was going to get—was hiding in the kitchen.
“I know that,” said Sara, blushing. “I mean—I’m getting all nervy and fluttery.”
Sally Ann turned and gave Gloria Jean a comic look. “She gets thrown on stage with the likes of us and Howard and hardly misses a beat, but the thought of walking the red carpet scares her.” She stilled Sara’s nervous hands by taking them and holding them firmly in her own. “Breathe,” she said. “In—no, breathe. I didn’t say pant. Okay—that’s better. Again. In. Out. There.” She turned Sara around so that she could see herself in the full-length mirror on the bedroom closet door. At the sight of her reflection in the glass, Sara gave a little gasp and then grew still.
“Oh,” she said. “Oh.”
“More like, ‘Ooh la la!’” teased Gloria Jean. She reached out and tweaked a little curl that was trying to escape from Sara’s neat coiffure. “You look peachy, Sara. Top-drawer.”
“Speaking of drawers,” Sara muttered, trying not to fidget.
“I know,” said Sally Ann. “You may feel like you’re wearing a suit of armor underneath, but you look like a princess.”
When the frantic sounds of distress had ceased, Scooter had edged down the hallway, and he knocked nervously on the bedroom door. “Um, Sara? Sweetheart?”
Gloria Jean answered. “Come on in.”
“Is she—are you decent?” he asked.
“Never,” said Sara, and saw her face curve into a wicked smile. Scooter snorted and opened the door….
Rowlf closed his eyes and beat out the rhythm, his paws rolling over the keys. Although he could read music, he did not need a musical score to play anything he had played on this trip, and he did not need anything at all to launch into “Honky Tonk Rock ‘n’ Roll Piano Man”. Nope…nope…Jerry Lee Lewis sure had known what he was about, and it was a pleasure to share an oldie but a goodie. This little band of performers were all proficient—heck, Malachi could be downright gifted when he’d had a beer or two. Behind him, center stage, Jolalene was shredding on that banjo of hers and it took an act of will not to turn around and watch her work. She was something else—a dog of a different tenor! Rowlf wondered fleetingly what Kermit would think of Jolalene’s chops, but that immediately turned into a fond reminisce of the bossman’s lady and the way she had of draping herself all over his piano when she was in a playful mood. Rowlf grinned.
He’d known Kermit a long time before The Muppet Show, so when Miss Piggy joined the cast, she had been as much a pleasant surprise to him as she had been to Kermit. Heck, Rowlf had even toyed with the idea of asking her out in the early days, but he had noted with his usual keen observation/understanding of people (er, Muppets?) that (1) she was out of his league; and (2) Kermit had been decidedly cool to any of the fellas backstage who seemed to show more than a fleeting interest in her. He had kept his paws and his musings to himself and—sooner, rather than later—he’d been glad. Within weeks, it had become obvious to everyone that Piggy had her cute little cap set for Kermit, and Kermit had bulbous eyes for her alone. Well, it had been obvious to everyone but Kermit.
Rowlf smiled, listening to Jolalene and Slinker harmonize on the chorus. “Yes we’re a Honky Tonk Rock ‘n’ Roll Piano Band….” Point and counterpoint, he thought idly. Yin and yang. Rowlf and the rest of them had watched with interest the elaborate, messy and sometimes outright dangerous courtship rituals of a usually-buttoned-up amphibian and a high-class, high-strung, high-maintenance lady swine. Secretly, Rowlf thought it had done Kermit good to be prodded out of his comfort zone.
Kermit had good instincts as far as talent was concerned, and Piggy sure had a way of bringing his instincts out! She was difficult, capricious and so gosh-darned talented that ignoring her had not been possible. Kermit complained, fumed and shouted, but the conclusion had been pre-ordained. It was getting it ordained that had been the problem, but Kermit had managed it—pulling off a coup d’état that had turned the tables and gotten him the pig of his dreams without the wedding of his nightmares. Rowlf was no fan of weddings, but that one had been a real class act.
Of their own volition, Rowlf’s furry paws carried the song home as Jolalene brought things down to one lone, husky note. The crowd clapped and hollered, the band waved “so long” and Rowlf swiveled around on his stool and got ready to go. Jolalene picked her way over to him in her high-heeled cowboy boots, her banjo swinging gracefully at her side.
“Ready to go, Rowlfie-boy?” she asked. Rowlf noticed she had a couple of cold longnecks in the other hand.
“You know it,” said Rowlf, and they walked out together.
It was a good thing there were no other girls in the girls’ dressing room, because there wouldn’t have been enough room to maneuver.
“For goodness sake, pumpkin,” said Thoreau as soon as he had put down his packages. “What have you done to your hair?”
“Good grief,” Howard fussed, putting down the rest of Piggy’s things. “What are you—a trouble magnet? We leave you alone for one meal and—“
Thoreau reached over and put his hand on Howard’s arm, gently but pointedly. Howard looked up from his nattering and, directed by his friend’s gaze, saw his rebuke, however mild, had caused Piggy to wilt miserably into her chair. Instantly, he knelt in front of her, his careful evening dress unheeded. He took Piggy’s gloved hands in his own.
“It’s not your fault that everybody’s being so beastly,” he said. His voice was gentle, his expression earnest. “And nobody blames you for an innocent mistake. Kermit knows—“
“Kermie was very sweet about it,” Piggy said, blinking rapidly.
“Oh! You talked to him! How is the little dictator?” Thoreau teased. It was Howard’s turn to give his friend a quelling look, but the designer was unrepentant. He knew Piggy well, and knew that getting a rise out of her was frequently a cue for unleashing the diva within. They needed that diva within if they were going to pull off the diva without for this interview. “He’s not a dictator,” Piggy snapped. “At least, he wasn’t today.” Scowling, she explained about the phone calls to and from Marty’s office.
“Okay,” Thoreau said when he had heard everything. “That was a very sweet, sneaky thing to do. I take back every bad thing I ever said about the frog.”
Here, despite herself, Piggy managed a smile. “Maybe not everything,” she said, and giggled. It seemed to brighten the whole room.
“I don’t see why you’re surprised,” Howard said, unzipping hanging bags and removing hangers with dispatch. “He always was good at sneak attacks. Remember that time he thought you were getting letters from another guy?”
“Which time?” asked Piggy. She was looking through the things they’d brought for her favorite seamless undies. “The time I pretended to get letters from a sailor, or the—“
“—or the time you really were getting about six proposals a week from those Navy guys where you flew in and did the show?”
“Oh,” said Piggy absently, stepping behind the screen. “I forgot about those. I thought he meant the time I faked those love letters from a sailor named “Svim” that nearly made Kermie’s eyes pop out of his sockets.”
“It’s a good thing he’s got naturally low cholesterol,” said Howard. “Otherwise, he’d have stroked out by now.”
Piggy had changed her underpinnings behind the screen and re-emerged with her robed tied firmly shut. She had had the nurse re-bandage her knees with those new “invisible” adhesive bandages. Her little pedal pushers were, as one reporter had said, “tight enough to show the dimples in Miss Piggy's delectable knees” and she didn’t want to give fuel for any speculations except the naughty kind.
“What do you think?” said Thoreau, holding up two different pairs of silk mesh hosiery to his waist. “The sheer pair or the ultra-sheer pair?”
Piggy snatched them away. “Thank you, Thoreau,” she said briskly. “I think I can manage my own pantyhose.”
“I think the ultra-sheer are a little too—“
“Howard!” Piggy snapped, and Howard made a rude face and desisted. Piggy went behind the screen again and disappeared from view while she sat down to put on the hosiery. After much deliberation, she had chosen the sheer instead of the ultra-sheer pair. The ultra-sheer pair were so fine that they made her feel more naked than actually being naked, and she didn’t actually want to feel naked while talking to Kermit on live television. Well, actually— And here her thoughts derailed happily.
“Piggy, dear one, you need to get the lead out and get dressed. I want to be sure—“ Thoreau began, but never completed the thought.
The dressing room door banged open and Darcy shrieked.
“Oh!” she cried. “Oh, barnacles, Piggy—your friends scared the stuffing out of me.”
Piggy's face appeared over the screen. “Nope,” she said to her castmate. “Your stuffing looks just fine to me.”
Darcy made a face, but her cheeks flushed with pleasure as Howard and Thoreau nodded in agreement. “I apologize,” said Darcy, not quite mortified.
“For Moi or for you?” Piggy asked. She came out in the robe again, but the filmy little nylons made her legs gleam in the mirrored lights.
“Very funny,” she said. “Ha ha.” She flopped down into a chair and put her own duffle on the floor. “You folks need any help?”
“Moi is capable of dressing herself,” Piggy said. She reached for her pants and her little knit sweater that went with them. Once again, she disappeared behind the screen, but this time she reappeared in short order dressed in her plaid pedal-pushers and the clingy knit sweater.
“Ta da,” she said, striking a pose and waiting for their reaction. She would not have been shocked by applause, but she did not like the sight of Thoreau looking unhappy and pulling on the corners of his mouth fretfully.
“I don’t know,” said Thoreau.
“What do you mean, you don’t know?” Piggy demanded. She looked down at her outfit, then back up at her designer indignantly. “Moi looks like a biker’s dream girl!”
“Oooh!” said Darcy. “You look amazing Piggy.”
They looked at Howard, who had yet to chime in. He was looking at Thoreau cautiously. “I think…I’m going to have to side with the ladies on this one,” Howard said carefully. “She looks magnifique. What is it you don’t like?”
“I don’t know,” said Thoreau. “Last night on stage it looked…I don’t know—different! Sassier, less trashy.”
Piggy looked at him irritably, then shook her head. “Give me a second,” she said, and Howard and Darcy exchanged surprised looks. Piggy was looking down at the ground, and Thoreau was looking at Piggy and then Piggy shrugged, and straightened, and snapped back up to attention, one hip cocked and her hands on her waist.
“Yo—pretty boy,” Piggy said. “Watcha think now?”
Thoreau’s transformation was not less compelling than Piggy’s. His hands fell to his sides and his mouth fell open. “What just happened?” he said, comically bewildered.
Piggy shrugged, gave a little wriggle, and the electricity slid off her zaftig figure and faded away. “I just hadn’t put on my Rizzo yet,” she said simply. “I was saving for when I’m actually on camera or on stage.”
“Miss Piggy,” said Darcy dreamily. “When I grow up—if I ever do—I want to be just like you.”
Piggy smiled regally. “You’re off to a good start, ducky. You wanna help me with my hair? D’ese guys don’t know a spritz from a mist, you know what I’m sayin’?”
Thoreau sniffed. “Just be sure you don’t start channeling Rizzo the Rat,” he snarked, then scuttled hastily around the table in the middle of the room as she surged toward him.
“You’re not gonna wear the wig?” asked Darcy, tactfully interposing herself. “I totally agree.”
“We’re fudging a little on me ‘being ready to walk onstage’ when I do the interview. I know Kermit will want to see me au natural.”
“No question about that,” Darcy muttered.
“I meant as a blonde,” Piggy growled. “I’ll have plenty of time to become Rory’s favorite brunette after the bit.”
“Then sit,” Darcy demanded. “I’m going to do you a do that will do the trick.”
“When do the television people arrive?” Howard asked, feeling more relaxed now that Piggy was dressed and about to be coifed.
Piggy waved a lazy hand. “When they get here,” she said, then stopped suddenly and turned around, causing Darcy to scowl. “Oh—Howard! Someone better be sure Bobo knows they’re coming and to let them back here. Mr. Lowry knows, but you know how Bobo can be—“
“I know,” Howard groaned. “Let me go talk to him. You want to come, Thoreau?”
Thoreau shook his head, actually looking relaxed for the first time since they’d gotten Piggy’s pleading phone call to go and retrieve her things.
“Nope. The bear’s all yours. I’m going to run interference here,” he said cheekily, looking at Piggy's selection of shoes assessingly.
This time Piggy didn’t even turn around. “He means he’s going to be interference,” she quipped.
And that time, everyone laughed.
The rest of her shift had been bustling, and Mabel had been happy to stay busy, especially since she had so many things on her mind. Foremost on her mind were Tricia and Clifford. She had thought they would enjoy each other when Clifford visited, but she had not quite counted on how much they seemed to like each other. She had no objections to their relationship, but she was worried about what would happen now.
In a perfect world, Clifford would have gone home by the time the record contract appeared, so Tricia wouldn’t have to face the choice between the tour and getting to know Clifford better. Of course, if Clifford hadn’t come, there would be no record deal—at least not now. Mabel had thought more than once that Tricia and the Indies had plenty of what it took to be successful, but timing had a lot to do with things.
Speaking of timing…. Mabel slipped her watch out of her apron pocket and looked at it. She had about forty-five minutes to go before her shift was over, and she was ready to go. She had been eager to see Kermit and the Mrs. since they’d left Las Vegas, even more since she’d heard about Miss Piggy’s new star turn on Broadway. Things had sure conspired to make things tough on her new friends—long-distance relationships were the pits. And today, after the good news about Miss Piggy’s night out on the town, there had been bad news. Some idiot had tweeted that Miss Piggy had met with a celebrity divorce attorney at Four Seasons, but the original tweet had all but been shut down by people complaining to the contrary. The tone had changed from “She did” to “She ought to", and that was countered by those who insisted “He’d be better off” and “What a heartless hussy she turned out to be!” The twit-wars had started in earnest, and had been raging most of the afternoon. Mabel sighed and hoped things tonight would right things all around, but you never knew which way the tide of celebrity would wash.
Wash was right. Mabel wiped off the counter and looked around for something else to do. One of the other girls appeared at her elbow.
“Get out of here already,” she murmured in Mabel’s ear. “It’s slow, but I’m not. Go on home and watch your friends on television.”
“Really?” Mabel said, but she was already taking off her apron and heading for the back. “I believe I will,” she said, and went as fast as her tired feet would take her.
“It was working the other day,” insisted Honeydew. “Try it again, Beakie.”
Beaker hit the little switch and watched, but nothing happened to the tuxedo coat that he was wearing. No flashing lights. No luminescence. He looked at Bunsen and shrugged.
“Mee meep?” he asked.
“That’s so odd,” fretted the smooth-pated scientist. “And I know I checked the wires in the pockets….”
As if on cue, Beaker put his hands in the pockets of the coat and began to receive an electric shock. Smoke began to pour out of his ears and the neck of his shirt.
“I can’t imagine—oh! Oh, Beakie! I remember! There was a loose wire in one of the pockets….”
Fozzie started to get out to open the door but the chauffeur was a pro, and he was out from behind the wheel and holding the door open for Scooter and Sara with studied precision.
Sara climbed carefully into the back of the limousine. Getting into the vehicle required grace—getting out required style and, maybe, the Jaws of Life. She was not sure she could climb out with anything resembling style in these shoes, but she remembered the strict instructions she’d been given. Knees together at all times, both feet planted firmly on the ground before you stand up, and a million other things she wouldn’t remember….
“Oh, gosh, Sara,” said Kermit gallantly, forgetting his own nervousness for a moment. “You look just beautiful.”
Sara smiled and some of her nervousness leaked away. “I feel like a princess,” she confessed. “This is so exciting.”
Scooter sat with no obvious signs of discomfort beside her, perfectly at ease in a limo with a frog and a bear. Sara made a mental note to pinch herself in a moment to be sure this was really happening.
“Did you get the message about the interview?” Scooter asked.
Kermit looked alarmed. “Um, which one? I put the time into my phone earlier—“ "Oh.” Scooter hated to be the bearer of unhappy news, but this was not a big thing—not a big thing at all. “Um, Meredith can’t come,” he said. “She’s ill. She was going to try to power on through, but….”
Kermit’s initial expression of dismay was quickly masked, but Scooter saw it. Beside him, Sara squeezed his hand to let him know she had seen it too.
“Oh,” said Kermit, then smiled determinedly. “That’s a shame. But I’m sure whoever they send will be fine, you know?”
“Of course,” said Scooter. “They’ll send someone else who will do a good job.”
“I wonder who’s going to interview Miss Piggy?” Fozzie said.
“Well, whoever replaces Meredith will be asking the questions. The other end will just have a camera crew, really.”
“Gosh—I’ll bet they’re nervous. I mean, I’d be nervous about interviewing Miss Piggy on national television.”
“I’m sure Miss Piggy will be her usual charming self,” said Sara loyally. “And she’ll only have eyes for you, Kermit.”
This time, Kermit’s smile was more genuine. “I can hardly wait.”
"Not too shabby," Scribbler admitted to himself, evaluating his profile in the mirror. "I look like a real reporter." His tux was, ironically, a Thoreau knock-off, and it always seemed to hang just right on his scraggy frame. He could not remember the last time he’d needed to be this dressed up, and he felt his clean-shaven cheeks with satisfaction. His bowtie nudged the underside of his chin, reminding him to stand straight and tall, and patted his pockets to make sure he had everything. Wallet, phone, other phone, keys, breath mints. He wouldn’t have minded a flask but he’d never been able to drink with any sense of equilibrium. After the dismal events of Christmas in Vegas where he’d been forced into close proximity with his boss and tweaked constantly by Missy’s nearness, he’d sworn off anything but the occasional beer or glass of wine.
He checked for his press ID, and tried not to think too much about the years when the name of the newspaper he worked for had garnered respect instead of snickers. Still, there was a place for his kind of newspaper after all—especially tonight, and his writing could still have an impact. Missy’s star turn in New York proved that, didn’t it? It was him who’d started the ball rolling, wasn’t it? And after months of hinting that she ought to be getting offers from others, that had finally materialized. "I am a real reporter," Scribbler corrected. "And one day, I’ll work for a real newspaper again."
They practically mobbed Mabel when she walked in the door. Tricia took her purse and phone and ushered her over to her chair in front of the modest television. Clifford pressed a cool drink into her hand and pushed over the footstool for her weary feet, then sat down near her on the edge of the couch.
“What’s happening now?” Mabel asked, and took a sip of her drink. Ooh! Cranberry punch. It sure felt good on a parched throat.
“Eh, just a bunch of people doing red-carpet critique,” said Tricia from the kitchen. She came into the room in a moment with a laden tray of tailgate-style appetizers and put them down with a flourish. “Can I cook, or what?” she demanded.
“Or what,” said Clifford. She elbowed him gently, her expression comically annoyed, but he goosed her back, unrepentant. “I made the cheese ball,” he offered. Mabel scraped the spicy cheese onto a cracker and popped it into her mouth.
“Top-notch,” said Mabel, eating one of Tricia’s miniature chocolate chip cookies. “I could get used to being waited on.” She might have said more, but the commercial was over and they were looking at stars arriving and walking the red carpet. A hush fell over the room, broken only by the sounds of quiet munching.
Sara held tight to Scooter’s arm. While Kermit’s assistant was modest and self-effacing, he knew how to schmooze with the best of them and he was completely at home in this star-studded crowd. It was, in fact, almost a perfect match to Scooter’s personality. He was a familiar enough figure to be hailed fondly, but not so familiar as to attract the fawning—or the ire—of the paparazzi. Like his boss, the young man liked his share of the limelight, but did not want or need to be center stage all the time. But Scooter had never attended an event like this with a gorgeous gal on his own arm, and he was now very aware that a lot of eyes were on them as they made their way down the red carpet.
“Everyone’s staring!” Sara muttered behind a brilliant, teeth-flashing smile that Thoreau had insisted she practice. Piggy’s retooled dress fit her to within an inch of her life and her flame-colored hair had been swept up into a glorious riot of coppery curls.
“I know,” Scooter murmured back, practically airborne with pride. “I’d stare too, but then I might trip over my own two feet.” He had—grudgingly—been granted approval to escort his stunning wife in his very own classic tuxedo, but Thoreau had insisted on a shoe upgrade. The designer had found a suitable pair in his carefully-sequestered stores and loaned them with reservation. Meekly, Scooter had donned the wingtips, and now he felt as though he were literally flying.
“Don’t you dare trip,” Sara said, and her hands tightened convulsively on her fiancé’s arm. Someone in the crowd called to Scooter as they neared the end of the red carpet and he turned and raised a friendly hand. As she had been schooled, Sara turned and nodded too, smiling politely.
“Scooter! Scooter you old dog! Where’s the old frog?” said an impeccably-dressed Michael Caine. He turned and smiled so winningly that Sara found herself smiling genuinely in response. “And who do I have to bribe to be introduced to this lovely creature?”
”Mr. Caine, this is my fiancée, Sara soon-to-be-Grosse,” said Scooter, grinning cheekily, and had the distinct pleasure of watching his former co-star’s well-groomed eyebrows climb.
“How nice to meet you,” Sara said politely, holding out her hand and hoping it didn’t tremble.
“Enchanted!” Michael returned, bowing gravely over Sara’s hand as he kissed it. “And fondest wishes for a happy life together!” Michael looked over at Scooter with a comical expression. “My dear fellow—congratulations on swindling this lovely young lady into agreeing to marry you.”
“It took some fast talking,” Scooter admitted, “but I finally wore her down with begging and groveling.”
“Oh!” Sara gave a very undignified snort, realized what she had done and hoped desperately that there had been no video-cameras around to capture it. There did not appear to be any cameras pointed in her direction—all of them were pointed toward Kermit, who was inching his way down the red carpet almost blanketed by a swarm of cameras. Seeing them, Sara felt a sharp pang of longing.
There was no doubt about it, she thought irately. I’m on the wrong side of the camera! She longed to be one of the jostling crowd of camera jockey’s taking pictures, out there setting up insightful looks at famous people, not hobbling around in Gaga shoes and hoping not to be caught doing something unladylike on camera. She had tried to wheedle out, but Scooter and then Kermit had been adamant. She worked a lot, Scooter had argued. He worked a lot. This was not supposed to be work—this was supposed to be fun. Pouting had managed to get her smallest video-camera tucked into the gem-encrusted clutch, but Scooter had threatened to confiscate it if she tried to turn their date into a job assignment. Privately, Sara fumed. Kermit was working tonight, and literally if not technically, Scooter was here to help Kermit. But she was supposed to just stand around being ornamental and useless-- Just when she had made up her mind to blurt this complaint to her escort, he turned and smiled at her, beaming with pride and affection.
“Lovey’s around here somewhere,” Michael was saying. “She’ll have my head if she misses you. I know she’d love to meet you and congratulate this lucky fellow.”
“That's right—lucky me!” Scooter whispered fervently, and Sara melted—and tried to stay up on her heels.
“Hey—where you want the cranberry compote?” asked the turkey. “We putting that with the appetizers or at the end with the relish tray?”
“Der compote mursty nekky der peekly-weeklies!” came a voice from the kitchen.
“Okay, okay,” the turkey responded. “Keep your hat on, won’t you? When are the girls coming?”
In answer, the doorbell rang, and he trotted over to answer it. A bevy of fluffy white chickens bounded into the room, greeting him and the Swedish Chef sassily. He rubbed his wings together happily—the food looked to be good, but this was the smorgasbord that he’d been looking forward to all week. Sitting on the couch with his arms around some gorgeous gals…that would make your wattle take notice!
The doorbell rang again, and he opened the door. A posse of rats came chattering in and made directly for the buffet, but before he could close the door, a trio of monsters and the Linguini brothers came in. Behind him, he heard the Chef greeting everyone in mock-Swedish. The Linguini brothers had brought their cousins, the sizzling Pastrami sisters…whoa!
Man—award night was even better than tailgating!
“Wow—look at you two!” Gina said, a wide grin on her face. Sara smiled and gestured at the dream dress.
“Courtesy of Thoreau,” she said, smiling. “Piggy’s cast-offs and the pity of a brilliant mind. You look pretty amazing yourself,” she said, eyeing Gina’s multi-colored, multi-layered, scarf-tail skirt and the sheer black silk blouse worn over a black strapless sequined camisole. She had a necklace of colorful gemstones against her slim neck, and large golden hoop earrings with gemstones glistening in the curve of the hoop. Her fiery red hair had been swept back into a sleek French twist.
“Courtesy of Goodwill,” she said, smirking. “Although the stockings are new.” She flashed a pair of well-turned---and well-turned-out—ankles, shown to advantage in a pair of the new, strappy heels. Beside her, the Newsman looked very distinguished in his exceptionally conservative tux, and his broad shoulders were nicely set off by Gina’s colorful and stylish figure on his arm.
“I think we’ve officially reached ginger saturation,” Scooter said dryly, and they all grinned at each other. Four very different shades of red hair, all moussed and sleeked and curled, nodded sagely.
Kermit joined them, looking very debonair in his newest tux. Gina and Sara exclaimed and fussed over him, making him blush and stub his flippered foot into the pavement, but he seemed pleased by the attention. Fozzie wandered up, having run over to say hello to and trade jokes with Jerry Seinfeld, and his soft and shiny fur was praised and admired until he put his top hat over his face.
“Guys,” he pleaded. “You’re making me blush!”
Playfully, Gina reached out and touched his cheek. “You are warm,” she said, and he all but melted.
There’s no telling what Fozzie might have done next—Run screaming into the crowd? Hailed a taxi for home?—had Rhonda and Tommy not arrived at that precise moment. The sloth had not dressed at all for the evening’s entertainment, but luckily Rhonda had dressed well enough for both of them` Everything about her dress was wonderful, from the full fuchsia satin skirt to the matching feather boa to the purse and heels that complemented her outfit perfectly. Her hair was up, with little fuchsia feathers tucked here and there among the curls, and her little claws were tipped with a slightly darker shade than her dress.
“Hiya, Goldie! Boy, Gina, you are one hot babe tonight!” Rhonda said cheekily.
“Back at you,” Gina grinned, and Rhonda, ever the clothes horse (er, rat), turned in a showy circle, then stopped and looked at Sara’s dress.
“Nice duds,” she said admiringly. “You wear the designer look well, Honey.”
“Doesn’t she?” Scooter grinned, but Sara just blushed. Getting a fashion compliment from Rhonda was almost as surreal as wearing Thoreau and being introduced around like a semi-celebrity. She looked longingly at Tommy’s soft, broken-in jeans and plaid shirt but followed through on the social niceties.
“You look pretty awesome yourself,” Sara said truthfully. “You dating a designer on the side?”
“Eh, Buildabear,” said Rhonda. “I figured nobody else would be wearing them—or this color.”
“Not like you, darling,” said Gina. “You look awesome.” She put her hands on Newsie’s shoulders and pushed him forward. “How about my Honey?” she asked.
“He’ll do,” said Rhonda. “Hey, Goldie—whatsamatter? They didn’t have any plaid tuxes?”
“They did,” Newsie mumbled, “but I didn’t like the fit. I think it’s for a younger crowd—“
“I managed to wrestle him into this,” said Gina, “and later I’m going to—“
“Wow!” said Newsie, suddenly and loudly. “It’s got to be almost time for your interview with Piggy—right, Kermit?”
“Soon,” said Kermit. He was aware, as they all were, of the predatory press poised just outside their circle. As some of the members of the group—almost half of them, as it were—were at least kissing cousins to the legitimate entertainment press, there was no complaining, and no serious plan to. In his heart, Kermit did not hold any rancor against the fourth estate. He had once been one of them, and they were, in some fashion, only doing what he did—entertaining the masses. He had always borne up under their intense scrutiny with as much grace as he could muster. Piggy had never had to muster up grace—she had positively bloomed under the flashbulb lights…and therein lay the problem.
The paparazzi adored her, and she—in her turn, and in her own inimitable way—loved them back. Kermit tolerated the paparazzi and encouraged the legitimate media coverage. That those lines had blurred somewhat when it came to, um, reporting on his relationship with Piggy was not any one person’s fault. Kermit had seen more than one respected journalist melt into a puddle of goo at Piggy’s feet, so if some of that goo got into the story, well…he tried to be understanding. From the moment they’d started dating, reporters had hounded them—some of them actual hounds—and he had done his best to stand up under the onslaught. He and Piggy had never quite seen eye-to-eye on how much publicity was enough, but they had not agreed on a lot of things. Only in the past year had that publicity become hurtful to the point of distraction, and Kermit acknowledged that some of that was probably because he’d been so…so absent from his own life for a while, going through the motions of his life as though played by a stranger. Now that he was back to himself, well, it was noticeable. Kermit usually did a good job of keeping his demons stuffed away, but in this voracious crowd, he felt vulnerable and exposed—naked without Piggy, despite his snazzy tux.
“Wow,” said Fozzie, having finally recovered his composure. “It’s a shame Piggy isn’t here, but you ladies certainly look lovely!” Fozzie reached out and straightened Newsie’s bowtie, something Gina had been trying to do all evening without success.
“Er, thanks,” said Newsie gruffly. “That’s better. Thank you.”
Gina had favored Fozzie with a grateful smile. “Thanks, Fozzie,” she murmured. “He’s been very worried that Chet Ubetcha is going to show him up.”
“I am not!” said Newsie, mortified.
“The last time they were at a press banquet together, Chet monopolized the conversation and Newsie didn’t get to talk to Stone Phillips at all,” Gina explained.
“And he stole all my butter mints!” Newsie exclaimed. “He ate mine and his, and he knew very well those were, um, mine,” he trailed off. It was hard to hold on to his pique when he was surrounded by supportive friends.
“Eh, get Gina to put one on your pillow tonight,” Rhonda said. Surreptitiously, she checked the fit of her gown and gave her décolletage a boost before settling her boa elegantly around her shoulders. “C’mon, peeps,” she said. “We got people to do, things to see. Goldie—follow me and keep your eyes peeled. I wanna make sure we’re covering only first-string.”
“Sounds like a description of Angelina’s dress,” quipped Gina, and followed her reporter after Rhonda’s retreating back.
“Are you sure they’re on the list?” Bobo asked again. Harry gritted his teeth and tried to be patient. Bobo was a good guy and all, but maybe not the sharpest shovel in the shed.
“Yeah—Mr. Lowry cleared them. Here’s the list, and here are their names.”
“Who’s this Winston guy?”
“I think he’s the cameraman.”
“And this is the interviewer?”
“Sortof. Way I understand it, the questions are coming from Cali, but there’s a reporter here to set everything up.”
“And Mr. Lowry’s fine with it?”
“Mr. Lowry is fine with it. Miss Piggy wants it, it’s fine with Mr. Lowry.”
“Well, okay. I guess he knows what he’s doing.”
Harry laughed. “He’s doing whatever it takes to keep her happy, believe you me.”
“Gosh,” said Bobo. “That sure sounds familiar.”
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Christmas Music
Macy's Thanksgiving Parade
Jim Henson Idea Man
Back to the Rock Season 2
Bear arrives on Disney+
Sam and Friends Book
No time for that, ve have cookies to sell.
Coooookies? ! ?
Piggy's whole desperate rationalizing of accepting/using the little pink phone makes it seem more like a little black book! Young, more idealistic Fleet sharing in Piggy's triumphs and (frequent) romantic heartaches was touching and added just the right spin to his current bitterness. (Cue up "Don't You Want Me"...)
There's plenty of room in here if he wants to bunk out.
So can I try it?
and 
I think that WMG girl must've gotten Scooter to tape the whole thing.
Remember to breathe Sara! Both in and out!
Join the crowd fella. She'll sure make you wag your tail. That's some dog humor.
: Aaah, that bit with the stuffing, that's fun-ny.
has some eats already out.
nods, his hair slightly charred, as he picks up some sliced sweet potatoe fries.
scowling: Scribbler can prop himself off all he wants, but he's still headed for the same end reserved for the prideful.
Hey, the red-carpet critiquing is the best part!
Egads! It's a reunion of the Red-Haired League!
We did come up with a banana sharpener once...