(Author's confession: My timeline's all awhack. I'm just now getting Tuesday underway and I already posted what happened with Kermit and Scooter Tuesday afternoon. I wrote out a complicated explanation, but realized there's no reason to bore you all to death. When you get to the note in the middle of the story, insert the scene with Kermit and Scooter from the previous section, okay? C'mon--all together now....)
Chapter 150: Keep Your Friends Close
There was not much about traveling that Thoreau liked. Airports were crowded and loud, airplanes were dry and frequently bumpy and there was always the possibility that they were going to lose your luggage. There had been enough stress in the last few days—albeit most of it good—to put him right over the edge, but Howard had taken care of everything from the checkout at the hotel to the baggage check at the terminal.
Thank goodness their tickets were for first class and they had had relative privacy in the executive lounge. When a well-place fifty-dollar bill did not gain Piggy admittance to the executive-flyers-only lounge, a well-placed wiggle had, and she had gushed her thanks to the uniformed airport employee as she’d shimmied past him. They had found a quiet corner while Howard saw to their seating.
“You’re not going to be mad at me, are you Darling?” Thoreau said earnestly. They had already had this difficult conversation, but now that they were going to be on opposite coasts, Thoreau was in need of some tender reassurance.
“Moi has already inspired you, encouraged you and modeled for you. If I had planned to pitch a hissy-fit, the moment has already passed,” Piggy insisted, her face carefully composed, but Thoreau was not fooled by a mere show of composure. When he had sat down with her the other evening and imparted the bad news that he was going to be designing for…well, it didn’t bear repeating, she had sat utterly still, no expression at all on her lovely face. He thought he knew her well enough to see the hint of her real reaction behind those shocking blue eyes—shock, fury, hurt and finally, resignation—but she played it so close to the bone that he could only guess. After several moments of silence, Piggy had smiled at him wanly, patted his knee and thanked him for agreeing to help “her Kermie”. If she had gone home and thrown crockery or eaten a fudgecake, there was no one to know it.
“Yes, but…”—he plucked at her sleeve—“you will forgive me if she looks…wonderful? I—you know I’m not good at being mediocre.” This last was said with such a touching sincerity that Piggy unbent and gave him a genuine smile.
“Everyone you dress looks incredible,” Piggy said, trying to still the little stab of bright-green jealousy that shot through her in spite of her best intentions. “It’s okay if that wo—if she’s…if she’s not the exception to the rule.”
“Because I would just—I just couldn’t stand it if you—if we had a spat and you were…you were mad at me.” Despite his fierceness, Thoreau hated conflict. It was one of the reasons that he cultivated his fearsome countenance and imperious attitude. That, coupled with his talent, usually made underlings and competitors flee before him, saving him the necessity of actually becoming unpleasant. “You’ve done so much for me lately, and I’ve only—”
“You’ve only made me look beautiful—“
“Like that’s hard,” Thoreau muttered.
“—and petted me and brought me presents from Kermit and dressed me like a complete tart—“
They giggled, but “tart” made Thoreau think of what he was soon going to have to do, and become all broody again.
“But—but if—“
Piggy silenced Thoreau’s babbling, kissed him, told him how wonderful he was and had been, how amazingly popular his designs had been and how indispensable he was to the world of fashion and to her. Having been so comforted by their visit, she wanted very much to be comforting in return. When he quieted at last, she had pressed her plump cheek next to his for a long moment and let him hug her back and breathe in the scent of her expensive French perfume. After Thoreau had set her back from him, his composure restored, Howard joined them, and he and Piggy said their own goodbyes.
“Tell him,” Piggy insisted as Howard embraced her. “Tell Kermie how wonderful Moi is doing here on my own.” Her words were brave but her lips trembled. Howard leaned forward and kissed her forehead, touched her porcelain cheek with one hand.
“I will tell him how absolutely fabulous you are doing—what a sensation you are, how you’ve got the whole town at your feet.”
Piggy nodded, but her eyes searched his face uncertainly until he leaned forward and whispered “And that you miss him desperately.”
“Not desperately,” Piggy had protested, but feebly.
Howard did his best what-can-you-do-with-an-unreasonable-diva sigh, but his eyes were merry. “Fine, fine,” he muttered. “Not desperately. I’ll tell him you miss him…enough.”
“Enough?” Piggy wanted to bristle at him, but she needed to be reassured more than she needed to be proud.
“Enough to make him happy, but not enough to make you miserable. How’s that?”
“Yes,” Piggy had said, as relief leapt into her eyes. “Tell him that.” She smiled, glad to have that settled, but a sound near the doorway made them both startle and look.
Piggy’s arrival, however discreet, had not gone unnoticed. A crowd was beginning to form outside the lounge, and news vans had begun to crowd the taxi lane out front. Piggy made a rueful face, somewhere between a pout and a scowl, and sighed.
“A star’s work is never done,” she growled, and fluffed her hair.
“Lipstick,” Thoreau reminded her, joining them to stare towards the doorway. Piggy shot him a half-amused, half-annoyed look and painted her lips scarlet to match her dress. They walked her to the door of the lounge, where she made a big show of kissing them both for the crowd, leaving lipstick stains on their cheeks. While the crowd cooed and clapped their approval, she sallied forth as though she didn’t have at least 250 people all crowding in her wake.
Only the politest, most respectful reporters were even acknowledged, and Piggy answered their questions briskly and breathlessly as she strode toward the plate-glass entryway.
“Why, yes, of course Moi is going to be in the ad campaigns for Thoreau’s new line,” and “Of course Mon Capitan is coming to see me on Broadway—he is working very hard on our marvelous new movie,” and “Moi is afraid I do not know anyone by that name.” That last said with enough deadly sweetness in it to kill when someone had dared ask about the incident at the Oscars. Although her response was calculated to silence the crowd, the next comment came stinging in its wake.
“First she had designs on your frog,” barked a high, nasal voice. “And now she has designs on your designer. Do you think it’s…appropriate for Thoreau to design something extraordinary for…her?”
A hush fell over the crowd and no one seemed willing to break the silence. Piggy’s steps slowed and her temper seethed and then—like a bolt of lightning—inspiration struck. She turned grandly, to face them, her head high, her blue eyes flashing, like a warship turning for battle. Mindful of their mortality, they backed up warily, not sure if they should scatter or clump together for protection. Although Piggy didn’t go on the attack, her expression was daring and flirtatious and dangerous enough to quiet them. Although he did not speak again, her eyes found the speaker, a hawk-nosed young man with a tattoo of a dollar sign on his neck and a cocky expression on his face. Her eyes swept over him, and he felt her contempt like a tangible thing.
“I’m afraid you haven’t been keeping up,” she said archly. “While it is true that Moi has been wearing Thoreau for years—since it is sooo hard to find a designer whose clothes do as much for Moi as Moi does for them—and I have no doubt that he will continue to make me look as ravishing as I already do, he’s been branching out lately. He’s now designing clothes for…the woman on the street—the common woman, so to speak.”
It hung there in the air. Their eyes goggled, their mouths gaped, and Piggy noted with satisfaction that so much air had been gasped in that the glass double doors gave a little air-pressure burp. Even the reporter who had asked the question had eyebrows disappearing into his hairline. Whoa. She had gone there. She had really gone there, and they couldn’t even call her on it. What she’d said was indisputably true, proof against any charge of slander, and she had done it in such an old-Hollywood, ladylike way…. What a wo--pig. What a pig! Shamed, the reporter touched his cap to her as a sign of respect, but while she saw it, she did not acknowledge it, or him.
She batted her eyelashes and put an ocelot-print glove on her hip, making one fellow near the front of the pack flinch as though from longing or pain.
“I’m sure you gentlemen—and ladies—must have deadlines to meet…. Moi must be getting back to Broadway,” she said as though reluctant to part from them. “But if you need to see Moi—and who doesn’t—I will be signing autographs after the show….” She batted her eyelashes again and walked out the door into the warmth and welcome of Moishe’s waiting cab.
Moishe said nothing as she rolled down the back window and waved regally to the news corps as though they were her biggest fans. She continued to wave and throw kisses until they pulled into the maelstrom of traffic, then settled back in the depths of the seat and grew quiet and pensive.
“Your friends get off okay?” Moishe asked, hoping to draw her out.
“They will,” Piggy said. “I couldn’t stay to see them off. The press….” Her hands moved restlessly and she gripped them tight and subsided.
“You warm enough? I could turn up the heater?”
At this, Piggy smiled, genuinely, and caught his anxious eyes in the rear-view mirror. “Moi is toasty,” she said. “I’m just…I’m glad they came to see me.”
“Nice fellas,” said Moishe, giving his blessing.
“Yes. True friends.” She turned her face away as though looking out the window, but Moishe had seen the bright sheen of tears.
They were quiet for a few moments as the cab weaved in and out of traffic.
“We’ve gotta coupla news vans on our tail. You want me to lose them and take you home?”
Piggy hesitated. She did not really want to go home, but it was a little too early to go to the theater now.
“Or you want to stop for a cup of coffee? I know a guy who runs a little out-of-the-way place where they still serve homemade doughnuts?”
His wheedling made her smile and shake off her melancholy. “Moi would love a doughnut,” she said firmly. “But only if you have one too.”
“All right,” Moishe consented, grinning at her. “Just don’t tell Sylvia!”
Not everyone’s morning was hectic.
“Chad—I swear, if you don’t stop singing at this hour I am going to—“
“What?” Chad demanded, poking his head around the doorframe of the bathroom where Rory was trying to shave and rolling his eyes. “You haven’t had coffee, you’re grumpy, barefoot and still wearing your pajamas!” He snorted. “What on earth do you think you could do—?"
Rory lunged for him, but Chad only laughed and danced out of the way. Still, he’d moved pretty quick for a guy who wasn’t worried, and he left Rory to finish his toilette in relative peace. When Rory was scrubbed and brushed and dressed, he went to the kitchen and saw a fluffy waffle steaming on his plate. Okay—maybe Chad getting to be in the print ads wasn’t so bad after all. If there was a bad side, it hadn’t surfaced. Yet. He poured a restrained amount of maple syrup over the waffle and dug in. It was wonderful, and before he had finished, there was another.
“If you’re trying to fatten me up, it’s working,” Rory complained, his mouth full of waffle, but he didn’t argue much before reaching for the syrup again. Chad unplugged the waffle-maker and sat down across from him, practically radiating happiness. Rory swallowed, grinned and touched his arm. “Okay, okay—I know you’re happy, but turn down the wattage a little, alright? I’m not used to you being a morning person.”
Chad made a rude sound, looked at the remains of Rory’s waffle and quickly whisked it away. “Want it?” Rory said, seeing the look. “I could eat it but I shouldn’t eat it. You go ahead.”
“No!” Chad shot to his feet, fleeing from the table and—somewhere in Rory’s head—the other shoe dropped. Oh, great. He stabbed the rest of the waffle, crammed it into his mouth and followed Chad down the hall to their bedroom where Chad was looking anxiously in the mirror over the dresser. Rory chewed hastily and swallowed.
“You look fine,” he said. “Wonderful. You look wonderful. Do not go on some sort of carb-free, fat-free, food-free campaign on me.”
“The camera adds pounds,” Chad said doubtfully, but Rory shook his head.
“It’s a myth. Digital television is different, and—besides—don’t think about the television ads—this about that big electronic marquee over Broadway—“
Chad looked a little panicked, but Rory walked over and stood behind him, looking into his eyes in the mirror. “Can’t wait to see you up there—just like you are.”
Chad’s expression softened, and so did his posture. “Oh, you,” he said. “You did it again.”
Rory pushed a lock of red-gold hair out of his eyes. (He was going to need a haircut soon). “What did I do this time?” he asked, aggrieved, but Chad turned around to face him, and smiled. “You said exactly the right thing.”
“So…what do you think?” The man with the briefcase was now the man behind the glass, talking to the man behind the sound board.
“I think you done good,” said the technician. He was about 46—maybe a little older—and his salt-and-pepper beard was turning grey, but there was no mistaking the sharpness of his pale blue eyes, which was matched by the keenness of his ears. “The drummer is almost scary she’s so good, and the instruments are all a notch above. Brass is excellent. How long they been together?”
“About three years, Tricia said.”
“Tricia—she’s the bass player—the lead vocalist?”
“Yeah. Who’d have thought such a big sound would come out of such a little gal.”
The man shrugged. “Pat Benatar wasn’t so big. Madonna ain’t so big.”
“Not now she’s not,” said the bespectacled man, and they both chuckled. “So, you think this will go well?”
“Heck—it’s already going well,” said the sound man. “They don’t just have a good sound—they seem to know what their sound is, if you know what I mean.”
“I do. I noticed it first time they played.”
The sound man snorted. “The Bat, Bolt & Skull—can’t believe you got out of there alive.”
“C’mon, Johnny—monsters are people and all that. Don’t tell me you wouldn’t sign a group with a monster if they had the sound.”
The man—Johnny—made a disgusted sound. “Eh, maybe,” he said. “I must be getting soft in my old age.”
“As long as you aren’t getting soft on my dime,” said the first man, and they both laughed again.
“Whatdya think, Phil? You staying through the afternoon set?”
“I think I will. I was going to make a coffee run first.”
“There’s coffee in the break room—“ Johnny began, but Phil held up a hand to stop him.
“There is not. There is not any coffee in the kitchen. There is swill in the kitchen, masquerading as coffee. Coffee is brown and hot and relatively clear, unless you add milk, which I don’t. That stuff—” He gestured down the hall. “That stuff is not coffee.”
“Suit yourself,” said Johnny, pulling a drag on his mug which—in addition to being terrible, was also cold.
Phil started making retching noises and Johnny desisted and waved him away.
“Get on with you then,” Johnny complained. “And bring me a cookie when you come back!”
Dr. Teeth’s plate looked suspiciously like something Carmen Miranda might have worn on her head, and he sat down and set to with a good appetite.
“You leave anything for the rest of us?” Floyd teased.
“Oh, like, Teeth,” said Janice, “you like, rully are rocking those antioxidents! Good for you!”
“What the heck’s an antioxidant?” Lips complained. “Sounds like someone who’s against teeth whitening!”
“I do not prefer all of my teeth to be white,” said the good doctor, flashing his gleaming grin. “But to answer your question, antioxidants protect one’s body from the damage caused by free radicals.”
“I thought the ship had guards for that,” said Zoot.
“Like, get a mimosa or something,” Floyd griped. Sensing his bad mood, Janice turned and snuggled against his shoulder and he looked down into her smiling face. “Hey now,” he said, suddenly tender, and slipped his arm around her waist. Janice giggled and fed him a forkful of cantaloupe, kiwis and strawberries.
“Sweets for the sweet,” Janice murmured, and Floyd chewed and swallowed.
“How about a kiss for the sweet?” he asked, and she obliged. Almost magically, his bad mood disappeared.
“This cruise is, like, sooo relaxing,” Janice said. “Nothing to do all day but eat and play music.”
“Mu-Sic! Mu-Sic! Mu-Sic!” panted Animal.
“Oh, there’s a lot more to do if you look for it,” said Teeth.
Zoot had just returned with two mimosas, and he handed one to Lips with a look. Lips nodded, sipping his drink.
“Trying your hand at shuffleboard, are you?” Lips teased, but their band leader refused to be baited.
“Among other things,” he said airily. “And there is a most righteous demonstration of how to do your own home facial at 10:00 today on the Ledo deck.” He touched the underside of his face thoughtfully. “It’s supposed to firm up your skin.”
“Well, I’m not going,” said Floyd. “I’d rather hang loose than firm up.”
“There’s a water aerobics class for that,” said Teeth, either unmindful of his bandmate's teasing or unperturbed by it. “I think it’s at noon.”
“Twelve-Thirty,” Animal announced, and Teeth turned and smiled at him.
“I believe you are right, Animal,” he said soberly. “You coming?”
“Come-Ing! Come-Ing!” Animal said, straining against his chain.
“I’m not walking you to water aerobics after lunch-!” Floyd began, but Janice whispered something in his ear. Teeth caught the words “alone” and “coconut oil” and Floyd immediately became an enthusiastic proponent of Animal going to water aerobics.
Teeth had just finished his plate and risen to his feet when a bevy of admirers in crisp linen trousers and fashionable sandals approached.
“We were just on our way to—“
“And Dorcus thought we might just see if you were—“
“—interrupt you while you’re with your friends, but—“
“—soooo looking forward to your swing music concert this afternoon—“
Teeth turned and waggled his eyebrows at the members of the Electric Mayhem. “Excuse me,” he said, grinning broadly. “My public awaits.”
“We’ll catch you at the session,” said Lips, draining the last of his mimosa and letting out a sigh of satisfaction. He looked at Zoot and his empty glass. “Another?”
“Like, righteous,” said Zoot and they drifted off together toward the bar.
“Swimming?” said Animal hopefully. “Swim! Swim!”
“That’s later,” said Janice, taking the leash from Floyd. “But you can come with me to my yoga class right now.” She reached out and patted Animal fondly on his shaggy head. “Want to come strengthen your core?” she asked.
Animal nodded, drooling a little. “Core! Core!” he said, happy to be going with Janice. Floyd did not want to do yoga, but he did not protest. He did not protest because Janice had turned and kissed him without warning, taking his breath away with one of her casual, off-hand, everyday kisses that could make you half-crazy with longing. She leaned down to whisper in his ear, her silky hair tickling his neck.
“I’m trying to say…flexible,” Janice murmured, then turned and walked Animal down the deck.
Suddenly alone, Floyd took a moment to collect his thoughts, thinking about what he could do with his time. After a moment, he stood up and strolled out the door. A little game of blackjack wouldn’t be unpleasant right about now. He was feeling quite lucky.
“Miss Piggy!” cried Leila, running from behind the counter to embrace her. Under normal circumstances, the familiarity would have surprised them both—a month ago, it would have been unthinkable, on both sides—but there had been a lot going on since they had seen each other. Piggy returned the embrace in an appropriately regal manner, then looked at Leila appraisingly.
“You’re doing a good job with the eyeshadow,” she said thoughtfully, “but if you look up and open your mouth (she demonstrated) when you put the mascara on, it won’t clump.” Leila copied her, and when a man and a woman entered the store, they were momentarily disconcerted by Piggy and her friend looking up at the ceiling like baby birds awaiting dinner. The women giggled, and when Leila would have scurried behind the counter, Piggy caught her arm. “Slowly,” Piggy murmured. “A lady is never in a rush.” Leila put her shoulders back and flowed gracefully across the store, earning Piggy’s quick wink and nod of approval before she busied herself with the bottled waters.
Spring water or filtered water? Or filtered spring water? Or—
“Why, Miss Piggy! How delightful to see you again!”
Piggy looked up in surprise, and Leila was impressed with the way she managed to bat her lashes in a way that was flirtatious and demure at the same time. “Mr. Strathers!” she said warmly, pleasantly surprised. Having just practiced her poise, she had it warmed up and she put forth her two hands in a move that would have made any Old-Hollywood starlet sigh with admiration. Seymour took them, his gloved hands completely engulfing hers and stared down into the blue, blue depths of her eyes.
“Seymour,” he murmured, almost a chuckle, and Piggy inclined her head.
“Seymour,” she repeated, but more to humor him than out of any real sense of obedience. That distinction was not lost on Seymour, and it both beguiled and perturbed him. Such a tease. His expression was hard to read, and hers grew quizzical. “Are you still in town? I would have thought your business here was almost done.”
She was taunting him! A thrill like an electrical current licked up his spine, and he squeezed her hands a little too firmly. “Almost,” he murmured, “but then I’ve had a lot to do to get ready for the…next big thing.”
Piggy wasn’t sure how to interpret this. Honestly, fans in the business were almost worse than those outside. They seemed to feel that they had some claim on you, some because you shared a profession or a passion. They always wanted to talk about their latest project instead of yours. She honestly couldn’t conjure up any interest in what this man was up to, and she didn’t want to encourage him to give details. She smiled again, noncommittally, and tried to draw her hands away. He did not release her, but squeezed her hands again, more gently this time.
“I see that you’ve had a lot to do lately, too,” he said, leaning in. “Quite a lot in the papers this week….” His expression was kindly, and Piggy was relieved to find the conversation centered on her again. She almost growled in frustration, willing to play to a sympathetic audience.
“Oh! Moi has had more publicity than I care for,” she admitted ruefully, “and that is saying something. The paparazzi can be so…crass. Vous cannot imagine!”
He drew even closer, drawn by her petulant expression, the pout of her lips. “Perhaps I can,” he murmured. “I happen to have a very good imagination.”
Becoming uncomfortable, Piggy had tensed when he’d loomed nearer and now tried to pull her hands away. He did not allow it for a moment, but when she turned almost alarmed eyes on him, his face broke into a friendly smile and he stepped back and released her in the same gesture.
“It was…nice to see you, Mr. Strathers,” Piggy said, showing her acting chops. Nothing could be further from the truth. The man might be talent savvy and a fan, but his social skills were hopeless, Piggy thought, although her expression remained neutrally friendly. She regretted her effusive greeting earlier, but when she thought back on it, it hadn’t seemed effusive. It was his response that seemed excessive, she finally concluded, all behind the beautiful façade of a polite expression. “When are you going back to Vegas?” she asked, then added, “You must tell Frosty and Jack hello for me.”
She was watchful now, and Seymour demonstrated his own talent for showing one thing while feeling another. “I will certainly be glad to speak for you,” he said, and though the wording gave pause, the way it was conveyed was harmless itself. He managed to pull off a boyish charm that made Piggy think she was being paranoid. “I’ll be going back as soon as my business here is done. Just a few things left to arrange….” He gauged her reaction, sensed her withdrawing, and did not mention the ticket he had recently purchased—at least, not directly. “I did so hope to see you on the stage before I left.” His tone was wistful, his eyes almost mournful.
Piggy felt a surge of relief. Tickets were beyond sold out, and she had little fear that one would open up on reasonable terms. In the face of the impossible, she could be gracious. “If you manage, vous must come backstage and see Moi. Just tell them at the ticket office and they’ll bring me word.” She remembered the time in Vegas, the conviviality of performing and celebrating the holidays with her frog and her friends, and her face softened. He had made that possible, and she could be kind to an ardent fan.
Seymour saw the softening in her expression and took it as a private message. His eyes were hot on hers.
“If there is any way,” he murmured, then reached again for her hand. Despite her determination to be benevolent, she had to make herself give her hand, but he brushed it lightly with his lips and then released it almost impersonally. He flashed the boyish smile again and turned purposefully toward the back of the store. “I came in for an umbrella,” he pronounced, saying the first thing that popped into his mind, and walked briskly down the aisle.
The couple had made their purchase and the door clanged behind them. Piggy looked up to see Leila looking at her with a worried expression, and she quickly grabbed a bottle of water from the cooler—what kind she could not say—and took it to the counter. Mindful of the fact that he was still in the store, Leila and Piggy communicated largely in gestures and facial expressions.
Leila’s look said plainly, “Weirdo”.
Piggy inclined her head, not disagreeing, but rolled her eyes gently. “Harmless,” she mouthed.
Leila looked skeptical. She made the ASL sign for friend, which Piggy knew, and looked a question. The diva shook her head. “Boss,” Piggy said almost inaudibly.
Leila’s eyebrows climbed.
“Kermie and I worked for him last Christmas,” Piggy murmured sotto voce. “He’s part-owner of a casino.”
Leila looked reluctantly appeased, although still worried. Something seemed…wrong. And she was positive she’d seen that man in here—oh! Her mouth dropped open and she leaned forward anxiously. “But Miss Piggy,” Leila said, fighting the urge to pluck at the diva’s sleeve. “He bought an umbrella the last time he was in here.”
Here, Piggy smiled, relieved. Plenty of artistic types hadn’t the sense of a goose—and Piggy knew at least a handful of geese with no sense whatsoever. “Absent-minded professor type,” she said dryly, just loud enough for them. She paid for her water, patted Leila’s hand, and started down the block.
And though it almost killed him, Seymour forced himself to stay, calmly and quietly perusing the shop’s wares, until she had disappeared from sight.
“—there—right there! That’s the part I was talking about. See, I told you someone moved that lamp when the set was closed.”
Scooter nodded glumly. It wasn’t a fatal error, but it was noticeable in the cut they had done, and they would have to go back and fix it. In this age of blu-ray and dvds, fans were likely to catch on to every little mistake you made, and the next thing you knew, there was a blog post…. Still, one small spot of “glum” in the wider blanket of “good” wasn’t going to ruin his day by a long shot. Monday had gone well despite the newspapers, which Kermit had dealt with before Scooter arrived and did not refer to afterwards, and today was rocking along at a good clip. In fact, things had been going so well that Scooter totally forgot to mention Sara’s news from her interview the day before.
While he wouldn’t want to admit it, it was really nice to not have to be extra-cheery today to help keep the momentum going. It hadn’t been a picnic by any stretch, but Kermit seemed to have blown off all the chaff from their clothing malfunction at the Oscars. Yesterday, despite everything, he had been tuned in and focused while at work. If Kermit’s shoulders were slumped a little more than usual by the end of the day, Scooter was uncertain whether to be worried. It was normal for Kermit to be a little down—a frog misses his pig, right?—but since it wasn’t interfering with work, Scooter took the luxury of not mentioning it. Still, he still did his superhuman job of organizing and right-hand-manning that he had perfected some time ago, so he was offering Kermit practical support as well. What Kermit wasn’t getting was face time with his girl, but they were talking a lot on the phone.
When Kermit’s phone buzzed, Scooter excused himself and mouthed, “Lunch run", then slipped out the door to give his boss some privacy. He wanted to text Sara and see how her interview had gone, and this was as good a time as any, and he smiled to himself when he heard Kermit’s, “Hello? Honey?” before rounding the corner.
Kermit’s “Honey” was met with a flood of endearments and he leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. Listening to Piggy with his eyes closed heightened the feeling that she was close, so he relaxed and they traded little affectionate reassurances for a few moments before actually starting a real conversation.
Kermit heard (which meant Scooter heard later) all about Thoreau’s outstanding success at the buyer’s meetings, about his insistence that the garments be manufactured in the U.S. and that the prices fall along lines that would not bankrupt the average work-a-day checkbook. He had had no problem with his demands—indeed, he had hardly had to mention them before everyone seriously bidding was out-doing themselves to appear accommodating. So the dressmaker’s foray into everyday fashion (which Piggy told him they were calling “everyday fabulous”) was—by everyone’s account—a success.
The press—the inevitable press—managed to color within the lines (mostly), and Piggy actually enjoyed the coverage she got for modeling for Thoreau and lending the weight of her name to his line. She promised to email him the articles she had liked the best and Kermit grinned, knowing they would be the ones that made much over her. She had even managed to feed the trenchcoat crowd a good line, which had been widely picked up and even—in one version—tweeted. (Kermit, of course, didn’t know about the tweet, but Scooter told him later). Later, Kermit had to smile when he saw the following in more than one variation in several entertainment columns that week.
No stranger to the runway, Broadway sensation Miss Piggy said, “Mon Capitan is used to Moi looking stunning, but he knows what a pleasure it is for Moi to share some of her own personal style with so many who don’t have as much.” Mon Capitan is Miss Piggy’s husband Kermit the Frog, CEO and Chairman of Rainbow Productions.
When she was done, Piggy heard about Kermit’s day, which he strove to make sound both interesting (to him) and comforting (to her). Just like he always did, he tucked away little tidbits to tell her—the funny thing that Rizzo had said, the not-so-funny thing that Fozzie had said, the state of the repairs to Gonzo’s apartment since the fire…. He brought her news of the band, of Rowlf’s latest Facebook post (again, thanks to Scooter), the sort of thing they discussed over their table mornings and evenings at the The Frogs.
It wasn’t the same as being there—at the same place, together—but it was sure better than nothing. For the sake of each other, they tried to see the glass half-full instead of half-empty and did their best to conserve water (so to speak) when they spoke to each other. Their love and concern for each other, partnered with worry, made it almost impossible to have an honest conversation. Piggy thought she was doing pretty well keeping track of all the things she hadn’t told him, and shied away from those topics. For his part, although Kermit did a fair imitation of grumpiness about the unwanted publicity, he kept up a forced cheerfulness that did nothing but convince Piggy that he was either doing fine without her or more miserable than he could admit. It was a precarious and unhappy balance, propped up with the very best of intention, and with the worst results.
Over all of it—the chit-chat and the scuttlebutt and the mush—there was a sense of urgency. CometomeSweetieIneedyouIneedyouIneedyou!
“How’s the editing coming?” Piggy asked lightly, fooling no one. “Has Scooter charged you with slave labor yet?”
“Oh—so now I’m the bad guy,” Kermit had complained, feeling a little stung in spite of himself.
Piggy’s first impulse was to rush in to soothe and comfort, but she quashed it with an effort and responded in a lazy drawl. “Moi knows very well you are capable of being a bad boy, so don’t play innocent with me.”
She heard him grin. “Who, me? Play innocent?”
Piggy giggled, then sighed. “I have to go, Mon Capitan,” she said. “My adoring fans await.”
“This adoring fan needs to go back to work.”
“Miss you.”
“Love you.”
Scooter waited in the hallway until he heard Kermit click the phone off, then back-tracked quietly and made a noisier entrance.
“I got subs,” he said. “Philly cheese steak?”
“Sounds great,” Kermit said. He realized he was quite hungry.
Scooter delivered the pièce de résistance. “With mustard, cucumber and pickled caterpillars?”
“Even better!”
Despite Piggy’s reassurances, Thoreau had more than enough reason to be fretful about everything, especially after the tearful goodbye at the terminal. She had been very close to tears herself, but held up bravely, which made him want to boo-hoo all the more. The first leg of the flight had been long and boring, the second short and bumpy and with each transition, he had become increasingly restless. Used to the ways of divas, Howard managed not to take it personally. He liked his own way as well, so he truly understood how upsetting it could be to not have things just as you like them. He’d encouraged Thoreau to sleep, but even rest had been impossible. Howard found him a magazine, which he worried the rest of the way. Finally, they landed in LA, rumpled and out-of-sorts and clumped tiredly toward the baggage claim.
Thoreau was flustered and unhappy, in an agony of indecision as he waited for his luggage to come around on the carousel. He hoped his misery did not show, and that he didn’t appear needy or silly. He couldn’t think what to say—what he was supposed to say in a situation like this, not that he’d had much experience, goodness knows. Everything he thought of saying sounded stupid or desperate or flip. Gee, thanks for coming and putting up with my nervous breakdown before the meeting. I hope I wasn’t too much of a bother—
Howard grabbed the last of their luggage—Thoreau’s hanging bag—and hauled it over to where they stood. Thoreau opened his mouth with no idea in the world of what was going to come out—
Howard’s warm hand closed over his, and the boar smiled at him. “Am I going home with you?” he asked gently. “Or are you coming home with me?”
Thoreau tried to speak. No words came out, but he returned the pressure of Howard’s hand convulsively. Howard looked at him, surprised by the confusion on the designer’s face, and his own expression became uncertain. Perhaps he had presumed too much…. “Those are the only two choices I had…,” he began, but Thoreau suddenly found his voice.
“I—I like having my own things handy,” he said shyly. “Is that—I hope that doesn’t—“
“That’s just fine,” said Howard, smiling. His expression was innocent, but there was teasing in his voice. “I like being handy.”
For a moment, Thoreau just stared, his eyes wide with surprise, then his mouth widened into that wonderful, predatory grin that the fashion world knew so well. “Good to know,” he said dryly, but his eyes said much more. He held tight to Howard’s hand and led the way home.
Welcome to the Muppet Central Forum!
Jim Henson Idea Man
Back to the Rock Season 2
Bear arrives on Disney+
Sam and Friends Book
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Meee!
