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Chapter 152: Conflicted Schedules
“But, Beakie, I’m sure if you hold it far enough away while I pour it won’t—“
Honeydew’s admonition was cut short as someone rapped smartly on the laboratory door. They turned to look at it, then back to each other.
“Me me mee Meep!” said Beaker firmly, and put the glass container full of viscous fluid down on the table.
“Oh, very well,” said Honeydew. “Since we have company.”
Company was a relative term. Gonzo and Rizzo stood in the doorway looking deceptively normal, although Rizzo’s inquisitive nose was twitching.
“What’s that smell?” he muttered under his breath.
“I told you I bought the ointment already,” Gonzo groused back, sotto voce. “These things don’t clear up overnight—“
“Well, hellooo, gentlemen. What brings you to Muppet Labs?”
Gentlemen was apparently a relative term also, but the boys came in and made themselves nervously at home. After a couple of false starts, Rizzo finally gave up looking nervously behind him and simply held on to his tail when he couldn’t shake the idea that something, somewhere in the lab was watching it hungrily. If Bunsen noticed, he didn’t comment, but Rizzo was pretty certain that Beaker winked at him in approval.
They talked about the positive media campaign, and Honeydew took them around the lab. After about 20 minutes, when the first real conversational lull hit, Gonzo and Rizzo looked at each other. Rizzo nodded and Gonzo cleared his throat nervously, then turned back to Honeydew.
“Um…,” the whatever began.
Honeydew looked at their company, edging closer to Beaker. “Beakie,” he said out of the corner of his mouth. “I don’t think this is just a social visit.”
“Um, no,” said Gonzo. “Look—we want your help with something.”
“Me mee mee mee,” said Beaker.
“Beakie’s right,” said Honeydew. “We aim to serve. What can we do for you?”
“That must be the food,” said Scooter. They had already downed a pot of bad coffee and a stale danish between them, but they were restless. The work had been good, but slow—painstakingly slow—and they were antsy and ready for pretty much any change of pace.
Pretty much.
Scooter came back into the kitchen with the look of a traitor on his face, followed by a group of somber-suited men and one woman in a blue serge suit dress. They stood around awkwardly, not making the right kind of small talk. Eventually, the pod of blue wool sent forth a pseudopod in the form of a spokesman—form only, substance lacking. He looked—not at Kermit—but at a point just over the amphibian’s left shoulder.
“Um, hello Kermit. Nice to…um…see you again.”
Kermit sat up straighter in his chair, and Scooter looked at him, wide-eyed and uncertain. "I don’t know," his eyes said plainly. Kermit lifted one finger, letting Scooter know not to sweat it.
It took Kermit a minute, but he finally put all the faces together with names in his head, cursing the interruption. He knew that sifting through his memory for the name of his financial backers was going to cause him to forget something that might actually be important.
“Can I help you?” Kermit asked. His voice was puzzled, polite, but not-quite-friendly. Visits from the money people rarely boded well, and Kermit was in a bit of a mood, but at least he made an effort. The man in charge—that is, the man in front—started to look over his shoulder at his compatriots, wanting guidance, but stopped himself with a visible effort. He’d obviously drawn the short straw.
“We…well, we’d like to talk to you about the movie,” he said, then stopped, not sure how to proceed.
“Of course,” said Kermit. He folded his hands together over his abdomen and waiting, offering nothing.
When it became evident that Kermit wasn’t going to say anything, the other man shifted uncomfortably and tried again. “Um, well, there have been some, um, items in the news lately—“
“About the movie,” Kermit said. His expression was agreeable, but his voice was most decidedly not.
“Um, well…um, not—that is, not about the movie exactly.”
Again, Kermit waited, saying nothing, and Scooter didn’t know if he wanted to run and hide in the break room or break out cheering. They had picked a bad day to come and try to call Kermit to accounting, and while Kermit’s assistant didn’t want to burn any bridges today, he wouldn’t have minded seeing a few of them rock a little.
“If you’d like a few…days to figure out—“
“Um,” the man began, startling a little. Scooter could almost swear the man had been prodded from behind. “It’s just….”
Kermit had learned a long time ago that, sometimes, if someone was determined to have a hissy fit or start an argument, it was better just to let them get good and started before weighing in. Once you had a few more facts on the table, it became easier to know if you should apologize, run, or start yelling. Those who had worked with Kermit had learned a long time ago that you could do almost anything you wanted until you pushed the frog (or the pig) into arm-waving hysteria, and then all bets were off. Unfortunately (for them), their erstwhile callers had not actually worked with Kermit. If they had—if any of them had—they would have known that Kermit could out-wait them and would have gotten right to the point.
Getting right to the point seemed to be a difficult thing, or at least an uncomfortable one. The man hemmed and hawed to the point that Scooter almost felt sorry for him. Almost. But Scooter, while he didn’t know what this was about—exactly—felt fairly certain that it had something to do with the budget and the publicity and Miss Piggy. He was also fairly certain that Kermit, if pushed too far, might say or do something that would make things worse. Scooter would have followed the little amphibian into Hades if it came to it, but he had sort of hoped it wouldn’t come to it right now. He groped around for something useful to do and found he was gripping his phone a little too tight. It beeped discreetly and the last phone number called came up. Scooter’s eyes widened in surprise, then he fought back a grin. Subtly, his thumbs moved over the buttons, his message short and sweet. He hit "Send" and hoped for the best.
Side mirrors on cars usually have a little disclaimer that says, “Objects in mirror are closer than they appear". While things seemed to be getting back to normal the next morning, there probably should have been a sign that said, “Objects appear more normal than they are". Everyone would have been happy to adjust to the new normal if they could simply get to it, but the dust was still settling all around.
The show had gone well last night, the fans unusually loud, and Piggy’s blue mood had evaporated. Fan attention—the adoring kind—had always been a panacea for what she really wanted: the steady, long-burning love of a good amphibian. Well, one particular amphibian. But the crowds and the attention and the visit from her friends had all conspired to bolster her flagging spirits and Piggy was feeling pretty sassy as she shopped for hosiery at a fancy boutique. She had always been a fast healer, and her scraped knees were looking amazingly whole, but she was hoping for a slightly darker shade of hosiery to take her through the final stages, keeping her injuries and her ordeal a secret.
You could tell Kermit now, her mind prompted, but she brushed it away. This pair had little crystals on them, making your legs shimmer. She thought about them, but decided her legs were fetching enough without further embellishment and passed them by. There were textured pair, hosiery and tights, and she looked at a cute pair of deep purple cable-knit tights. Those would be adorable with her black miniskirt and lilac off-the-shoulder sweater. She put them in her basket, still looking. There were fishnets in every color, but she already had fishnets in every color. She finally found a table with samples of the different colors. Nude? Or Almost Nude? Suntan? Too dark in winter. She needed Black and Almost Black, but not Very Black. Very Black was okay for mascara and tights, but not hose. She put a few more items in her basket and then picked up two color samples, looking for a sales clerk. One appeared as though conjured out of thin air.
“May I help you?” asked the young man. Inside, he was wildly excited to recognize his client, but outwardly he was the picture of professionalism.
“Moi is trying to decide between Nude and Almost Nude,” she said, then giggled when it came out sounding naughty. The sales clerk smiled and bit his lip. It was impossible not to.
“Well,” he said, his eyes impish. “I’ve heard from clients that there are some situations where Almost Nude is the same as Nude.”
“But other situations where Almost Nude just won’t do?” Piggy asked.
“So I’ve been told, Ma’am,” the young man said. “What would you prefer?”
Piggy started to say “Nude", but thought better of it. “The second one,” she murmured, blushing prettily. “Moi would like a dozen pair.”
“Excellent,” said the young man. “I’ll have them at the counter when you’re ready.”
Piggy looked around, then smiled. “Moi is ready now,” she said.
“Splendid,” said the sales associate. “I’ll meet you as soon as I’ve fetched them.” He disappeared into the back and Piggy wandered to the front of the store, looking out the glass onto the busy sidewalk.
He was quick, but not quick enough. Piggy saw the flash of his coat as he darted around the corner, and her mouth dropped open in surprise. She ran toward the door—through the alarm—and stopped and dropped her purchases on the floor. It took her a moment to disentangle her purse, then she was out the door like a shot, standing on the sidewalk glaring the way he had come.
“I saw you, you little cretin!” she cried. No one on the sidewalk so much as paused. This was New York, and nobody gave a tinker’s darn or a rat’s patootie about someone shouting—even a famous lady pig. “Don’t you—don’t you dare show your face!”
She waited, not sure if he’d moved out of range or not. Piggy was about to give up and return to the store and her purchases when she heard him.
“If I don’t show my face, can I talk to you?”
She whirled around, looking for him. He was nowhere in sight.
“You may not!” she cried. “You can fall into the nearest volcano and burn to a crisp! You can be attacked by a thousand little lap dogs!” She thought of Foo-Foo and her sharp little teeth, the image making her feel better. “You can—“
“Then can I tell you something?”
Good grief, the little louse had nerve. “If you told me the time of day, I’d check my watch!”
“You don’t wear a watch.”
Piggy huffed, looking around for Fleet’s distinctive mop of silver hair, a flash of purple skin. He was nowhere she could see. “Well, I’d check my phone!”
“Speaking of phones. I guess you chucked mine?”
“You and your stupid phone can drop—“
“Dead. Yeah. I heard.”
Piggy felt like her head was going to explode. If she could lay eyes on him, she’d rip him limb from limb, starting with his writing arm. Her heart was racing, her chest heaving. “Well, hear this!” she shouted. On the sidewalk, people moved around her like she was a rock in a stream, mostly uninterested and uninvolved. “You are the vilest, most miserable—“
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t you—“
“I’m sorry, Missy—geez I’m sorry. I can’t—it was too good to pass up. I had to.” He wanted to say, “My boss made me", but it wouldn’t give him any brownie points.
“You promised,” Piggy said. “You said you wouldn’t hurt him!”
It is entirely possible that the tide of humanity on the sidewalk, watching a famous lady pig shouting at an invisible conversational partner was beginning to attract notice. Walking slowed slightly near her, and there were a few people lingering at the light poles, pretending to talk on their phones.
Scribbler blinked. Had he hurt the frog? As far as he could tell, she was brand-loyal-Kermit more than ever, so the damage had been fleeting, at best. “I knew you wouldn’t believe it. Not for a minute.” He had known. Huh—this telling the truth stuff was easier and easier.
“You ruined our interview!”
“I did not. I saw your interview, and you were marvelous.”
Piggy blinked. It was hard to know what to say. He turned everything back on her, made everything seem so…reasonable. “You made him unhappy!” Good grief, she was losing her touch. If she’d been on top of her game, she’d have thought of something suitably scathing to say, something that would make him writhe in—oh. Oh. She took a deep breath, and when she spoke, her voice was unsteady. “You hurt Moi,” she said, making her voice carry like she was in a thousand-seat theater.
The silence was so deep she thought at first she’d scored a lethal hit. Good, she thought. Let the miserable excuse for a journalist bleed to death from a thousand paper cuts! Let him—
“I know.” That was better. He sounded like he was dying, like he wished the earth would swallow him whole. Good. Let it. “Missy, I’m sorry. Please….” He did not know what to say.
The door of the boutique opened and there was her young man again, looking worried at seeing her wild-eyed and vibrating with fury.
“Miss Piggy? I have your purchases—“
“Yeah, yeah. Keep your shirt on. I’m coming.” She stomped back into the store. Scribbler waited a full ten minutes after she left before coming out of hiding. He’d been wedged into an architectural kink in the side of a building, a tall spindly plant blocking him from her view. His face burned and he slouched down the sidewalk, needing to get somewhere where he felt safe for a while.
Although he’d taken a taxi over, he walked back, enjoying the discomfort of the long trek on his tired limbs and feet. When he finally pushed open the door of his apartment, he was exhausted, and Gladys and Harve looked at him in concern.
“Fleet, honey--?” said Gladys.
“How’d it go?” said Harve, desperate for details.
Scribbler’s weary face broke into a bleak smile. “Well,” he said, “she talked to me.”
“What the dickens do you think he’s still doing in New York?” ask Frosty.
Jack pushed his hand through his thick hair, then smoothed it when he realized what he’d just done. “There’s no telling with Seymour,” he said. The thought didn’t cheer them.
“Well, it’s not really like we need him in his office,” said Frosty, but he sounded doubtful.
“No,” said Jack. “Spring’s covered, but Summer’s only partially filled. I’d like to know what’s coming up, wouldn’t you?”
“Of course,” said Frosty. He frowned. “You know, I was talking to Mabel the other day.”
“Did you tell the wife about your pie indiscretion?”
“I tell my wife about all my indiscretions,” said Frosty, grinning. There wasn’t a soul who knew him who doubted that he was—still—head over heels in love with his wife of 35 years.
“That’s because all of your indiscretions involve pie.”
Frosty clutched his heart like he’d been shot. “Ouch—you got me.”
“So what did Mabel think Junior was up to up there in the Big Apple?”
“Well, we figured he’s probably mooning around after Miss Piggy, trying to get in to see her show.”
Jack snorted. “Good luck with that. They’ve been sold out for weeks. You think he’ll get in?”
Frosty was quiet, pulling at his lower lip thoughtfully. “I think,” he said slowly, “that, despite the fact that he’s a poser and a bit of a whiner, Seymour usually manages to get what he wants. So my best guess is—yes, he’ll find a way to get to her.”
Jack sighed. “Well, maybe if he gets to see the show, he’ll give up and come home.”
Frosty laughed and clapped him on the back. “Maybe,” he said. “But giving up isn’t his strong suit.”
Scooter had to give it to him. The man was still plugging away, still trying to get to the point without inciting a riot in waiting companions and still manage not to end up on the blistering end of an angry amphibian client.
“I think it’s best,” he said. He’d used that particular phrase several times, and Kermit was ready to blow up at him. Best? Best for whom?"
“I’m not sure you—or your associates—are in any positions to know what’s best for the movie.”
“Well, we’ve all decided—“
“I don’t actually answer to you,” Kermit said mildly. Kermit was usually low-key, polite, urbane. Yes, he occasionally erupted into arm-waving hysteria backstage, but in the boardroom and the ballroom he was typically pleasant and collected, easy-going almost to a fault. The fact that the temperature of this room, the barometer of this meeting had suddenly shifted went unnoticed by no one. "That is, no one but Scooter."
Scooter’s eyes grew wide behind his glasses and the collar of his polo felt tight and pinched. He opened his mouth to take in more air—to warn them or Kermit or…whoever. Did he need to warn Kermit of exploding into a diatribe that might bring the budget crashing to its knees, or should he be trying to warn the backers not to push a frog who was already pushed past the hurting point.
“Well, no,” one of the men admitted, “but you do realize we have a vested interest—“
“In the movie. Yes, I know that.”
Scooter felt am unreasonable urge to fling himself down on the table, hurling his body between these two factions as though covering a grenade. He felt like hiding under the table and covering his ears, waiting to see what the fallout had been rather than suffering through it, but Scooter was an honorable man, and honorable men do what honor requires.
“Gentlemen,” he said firmly, glad his voice didn’t quaver. “I think we all have a common goal here, but not all of our goals are the same.”
The men frowned and looked at him, not sure whether to cede the floor or try to fight for it. They rustled, looking uncomfortable, then a new one opened his mouth—
“Hey, look! A party!” said Marty, trundling in the door. “And you didn’t invite little ol’ me? Good thing I happened by—huh?”
Scooter tried to look innocent, biting the inside of his lip to hide his grin. The cavalry had arrived.
Dr. Teeth had a bit of a dilemma on his hands. He’d been offered two very gracious invitations, but he was one musician, and—magic fingers or no—he could not be in two places at one time. And the lovely ladies seemed inseparable. If he demurred to one, he would have to demur to the other. His afternoon schedule suddenly opened up.
“I am afraid,” he said, letting regret cloud his words, “that I cannot accept an afternoon engagement. My schedule seems rather full.”
Both of the women looked crestfallen, one pouting on each arm.
“Oh, phooey,” said Harriet.
“What a shame!” said Dorothy. She looked at her roommate and her pout became more pronounced. “And we were so hoping you’d take us up on our offer.”
We? Our offer? He looked from one of them to the other.
“Um…," he began. “Do you mean—?”
They smiled at each other, and him. “We do,” they said, and giggled.
“Well, ladies,” he said, grinning his Cheshire grin. “I seem to have an opening in my schedule after all….”
By the time the bureaucrats had been ushered out the door, tails between their legs, the food was cold, and Kermit still hadn’t talked to Piggy yet today. Scooter made a fresh pot of joe while Marty rummaged around in the fridge for cream and sugar and they waved him off as he wandered out to make his call. He was still seething, but he determined to push all thoughts, all irritations aside and make this just what it was, a check-in call with his wonderful, beautiful wife where nothing more important than mush was discussed. He could do that. At least, he thought he could. He punched the button, held the phone to his aural organ.
Piggy saw Kermit’s picture flash up on her phone and groaned. She couldn’t talk to Kermit now. She was too angry, and she might blurt out something about Fleet and their encounter on the street. She hadn’t told him about the pig-napping, her injuries, the phone and Fleet and—she couldn’t think of one safe topic. Not one. She couldn’t think of anything that wasn’t—
“Hellooo, Mon Capitan,” Piggy said. “How is my wonderful, handsome frog today?”
“He’s great,” said Kermit, then grinned. “He’s busy. And lonely. How are you holding up?”
“Moi is busy. And lonely for a certain frog of the amphibious persuasion.” It was teasing though, not a complaint—well, not much of one.
“Howard and Thoreau made it home. He called and said you looked radiant.” He smiled, his expression softening. “Everybody always says that—“
“—so it must be so.” This was fine, Piggy thought. Small talk. Nothing to it.
“So….”
“So, um, well.”
“Show go okay last night?”
“Yes. Moi was wonderful. Everybody else was great.”
“Good.”
“How’s the editing going?”
“Good, good. Scooter and I are working hard.”
“Moi is glad.”
“Yeah, me too.”
I had a huge argument with Scribbler today. He tried to talk to me, even though I’m mad at him, even though I’m not supposed to be talking to him because…and, and some awful man tried to grab me, and I scraped my knees and that awful Kardashian woman was making moves on you and the reporters were all mean to me today and Marty says I’m starting a PR war and I ripped a pair of my brand-new hose!
“The days are so boring without you. I miss you.”
“My days aren’t boring, but my nights are long,” Kermit admitted. The financial backers are terrified by rumors that you’re divorcing me because you’ve got a hot new job and a hunky new co-star and you’re mad because I got photographed by about sixty-thousand people with my hand on some starlet’s backside and my presentation at the Academy Awards fell flat because you weren’t with me and my lunch is cold and I’m lonely and miserable without you. “Have you been shopping lately?” Piggy always loved to talk about shopping.
“Moi went to a hosiery shop today,” Piggy said. That was all she thought she could manage. “Is everybody there okay?”
“Well, Gonzo has some sort of rash.”
“Of course he does.”
“And—"
“Oh!” She had some happy news, something she could share. “Kermie! You’ll never guess who I ran into yesterday!”
A dozen hunky actor-types swam in front of his vision, making him see green. “I’ll bet I can’t,” he said, trying to sound enthusiastic.
“I ran into Mr. Strathers,” she said. “Isn’t that funny? He’s here scouting talent for the casino.”
Thank goodness—a neutral topic. Nothing bad about running into Mr. Strathers! “Wow, that’s great, Sweetheart. Is he going to come to the show?”
“I don’t think so,” said Piggy. “The tickets are all sold out.”
“Except for mine,” said Kermit. She could hear him smiling.
“Yes. Vous will always have a seat when you come. When are you coming?” Oh! She had not meant to ask. She had tried so hard not to ask. She hoped she didn’t sound whiny, or demanding, or mad….
Kermit closed his eyes, feeling like a heel. Here, he’d been worried she was angry with him for not being there, and she was being a total brick about it. She’d been sad the other day when everything was going wrong, but today she didn’t even sound like she missed him much. She’d certainly acclimated well.
“Soon,” Kermit said. “Scooter’s looking for a ticket in the near future.”
“Oh—I’m so glad!”
“Well, it’s a shame Mr. Strathers can’t come to see you while he’s up there.”
“Yes,” said Piggy, feeling suddenly uncomfortable. She covered it with chatter. “But maybe he will get a ticket. And I can tell him you said hello.”
“That would be great. It sure was great working on the Christmas show, wasn’t it? Doing live theater again—oh, well, I guess it’s not that big a deal to you, now that you’re on Broadway.” There was an edge to his voice and he hated it, but it was a done deal, now. You can’t snatch words back.
“Working with you is always a big deal,” said Piggy. “Especially working with your wardrobe budgets!” Oh! That had sounded catty. She put her hand over her lips.
“You make everything look wonderful,” said Kermit, contrite.
“You make everything wonderful,” said Piggy.
They were subdued as they said their goodbyes.
“Love you.”
“Miss you.”
“Talk to you soon.”
Kermit walked back to the kitchen, cursing his lapse. Both men looked up quickly (and guiltily) when he walked in. They’d obviously been discussing him, or them, or both.
“How’s our girl?” said Marty. “Everything okay?”
“Oh, sure,” said Kermit, forcing a smile. “Everything’s just great.”
Welcome to the Muppet Central Forum!
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and the dogs would probably be playing at in one of those Southern states that start with an M or other letter of the alphabet."
Wow, she knows my song!
Life's a bowl of cherries allright... And it's got lots of pits in it, heh heh heh.
Isn't there a Walgreens there?
More like a 'Wrong-greens'.
And if that hadn't vorked?
