Chapter 105: “4Rms Rvr View”
(It's actually "6 Rms Rvr View"--artistic license)
“Hey—I want to commend you on the job you did in the bathroom,” said a portly rat in a service-station attendant’s shirt that said, “Harve.”
Scribbler looked up from his cold pizza and warm ale wearily, his eyes heavy with fatigue. “Thanks,” he muttered. The rats’ party had gone on late into the night, and he had not slept well. Of course, that could have to do with the cantaloupe-sized lumps in the mattress, but he didn’t have the energy to do anything about that today.
Today…today had not been a good one. Somebody had obviously tipped off the theater to the presence of a camera-jockey, and he’d had to spend some time dodging the constabulary and a charge of vagrancy—or worse. He’d also been chased by a couple of young guys built like tanks who had poked their heads into the alley and given him a run for his money—or his life. He’d skipped out the end of the alley and over the fence before they were close, but the adrenaline had not quite made up for the charley horses that had seized both legs a half-hour later. He’d limped home, been splashed by a wildly-careening cab and—he was certain—avoided being mugged only because he looked so bedraggled and forlorn in this forsaken part of the city that they had assumed him almost destitute.
“No, no—I mean it. You could eat off the floor.”
“I thought you did that anyway,” Scribbler said, wondering what anyone else on the planet would think of this conversation. Yeah, Ma—I’m having a good time in New York. I made some new friends today—they’re New York natives.”
“True,” said Harve philosophically. “But it’s still nice to see the original color of the linoleum again.”
Unexpectedly, this pleased Scribbler. He had had a rotten day, and his life had not been rife with compliments lately.
“Thanks,” he said, then shrugged to show it was no big deal. He looked down at the slice of pizza, suddenly too tired to chew. “Hey, Harve,” he said. “You want the rest of this?”
The little rat hopped up on the table and sniffed. “That’s not pepperoni, is it? Cause my cholesterol’s out the wazoo, and my old lady—“
“Trust me,” said Scribbler. “This is a pepperoni-free establishment.” He held the soggy piece of pizza out and Harve took it, hefting it with ease. Scribbler considered asking Harve to help him move the mattress—or the furniture. When he got some. “It’s sun-dried tomato, pepper and mushroom.”
“Nice,” said Harve. “You a vegetarian?” he asked. “My buddy Elonzo—he’s become a vegetarian, and he can even see his toes, now.”
Scribbler actually smiled. “No,” he said. “I’m not really a vegetarian. I’m just…an educated omnivore.”
Harve gave him a look which suggested he was not quite certain what “omnivore” meant, then shrugged. “I’m not much for politics,” he said. “But, hey—thanks for the pizza. You…you gonna work on the kitchen any time soon?”
“Maybe tomorrow,” Scribbler sighed. “I think I need to get a tetanus shot first.”
Harve nodded sagely, chewing a corner of the pizza. “Couldn’t hurt.”
Where had she gone—where in all of Manhattan had she disappeared to? Seymour Strathers fumed. She’d zipped out of the hotel while he’d been covering some work necessities—he still needed this to at least appear to be a working trip if he wanted the reimbursement—and he’d not seen hide nor glorious hair of her since. His contact at the hotel had been sacked—something about a security breach—so he had no more in into the management. Mail had all been forwarded to Marty—and he wasn’t about to tangle with Marty—and the hotel was no longer taking calls for her. He’d tried finagling her cell number, but all he’d gotten was a house number, and that he already had. A fat lot of good it would do him to talk to Kermit, he thought dismally. The idea hung there for a moment, coalescing into something almost solid. Hmmm. Maybe. He worried the problem like a dog with a chew toy. He could…hmm, he could do a congratulatory sort of schmooze call, ask about the possibility of them doing a show next year, blah, blah, blah….get the frog talking. He’s probably lonely now that she’s gone—he might be more voluble—or more suspicious.
Piggy would see through it in a heartbeat, but the dratted amphibian was a little more trusting. Still….it was worth a try. But if he talked to the frog, Kermit would undoubtedly tell Piggy he’d called and spoil the element of surprise. If only there was some way to find out what he wanted to know without worrying one or the other of them until it was too late! he fretted. But it seemed impossible. As far as he could tell, they told each other everything.
Well, almost.
There was a knock at the door, and Piggy looked up, startled. She did not expect any company—practically no one knew she was here—but it might be her little Asian neighbor from down the hall. Piggy hesitated. She was in her big fluffy robe and her hair was wrapped, turban-style, in a plush towel. Piggy walked over and looked out the peephole, then squealed and threw the door open wide.
“Timothy!” she gushed. “Come in, come in. Moi didn’t know you were coming by.” There had been no one actually in her little apartment since she’d moved in, and it was wonderful to see a familiar face. She took his hand and pulled him over the threshold.
Tim Curry came reluctantly into the room, obviously taken aback a little by the sight of her not really dressed. He hesitated for a moment, but Piggy seemed oblivious to his discomfort. She sat down on one end of the couch and tucked her slippered feet up under her. Tim perched on the edge of the other end of the couch and looked awkwardly at the coffee table, only occasionally darting quick glances at her swaddled form. She had obviously not been out of the shower long because her skin smelled warm and damp.
“I, um, see you’re settling in,” Tim said, his eyes wandering the room. He looked at the poufy pillows she had added to his utilitarian couch, the silk zebra-print throw over the back of the one armchair.
Languidly, Piggy waved a hand. “Moi has added a few touches.” She caressed the pillow nearest her with an expression of satisfaction. “After working all day, it is nice to come home to familiar things.” She looked up suddenly and caught Tim looking on, mesmerized as her hand smoothed the plump pillow. Piggy giggled, amused, and Tim bolted to his feet. He reached in his jacket pocket and handed over a keychain with several keys on it.
“I, um, thought I’d bring ‘round those extra keys,” Tim blurted. “I’m obviously imposing on your unwinding time.” Piggy followed him as he trotted toward the door, and proffered her cheek to be kissed. He hesitated, then smiled and tried to look casual as he leaned forward and let his lips graze her rosy skin. “Love to Kermit and all that,” he said. “Sorry to have bothered you.” He fled down the hall.
Bewildered, Piggy watched him go. He was obviously keyed up about something—probably still debating that studio offer to film a western thriller in Italy. She forgave him his abrupt manners. Under normal circumstances, she would have told Kermit about it, and asked for his insights into their friend’s odd behavior, but this was not normal circumstances. She still hadn’t told Kermit that she was renting a room from a former co-star of theirs, although she couldn’t exactly say why she hadn’t volunteered this information. Piggy blushed a little, wondering what Kermit would say if she told him. He wouldn’t like it, Piggy thought, but could not put her finger on exactly why she thought this would bother him. Kermit had worked with Tim—had liked him enormously—and all of that silliness about the kissing scene had been long forgotten. Still…she ought to tell him, but she didn’t want to. He might be angry, or hurt or jealous…. Piggy took a deep breath and steeled her resolve. She knew Kermit. He would be jealous, no matter how ridiculous the reason. Still, she ought to tell him. She ought to get it out in the open and let him pitch a fit about it, and then calm down and tell her that he was being silly, and over-reacting, and missed her. Piggy squared her shoulders and took a deep breath. She would tell him—tonight. Maybe.
Tim Curry took the stairs down to the ground floor slowly, his mind elsewhere. Several times, he paused on a landing and looked back up the way he had come, but each time he turned resolvedly and kept descending the stairs. When he was three floors from the ground floor, he stopped and fished his phone out of his pocket, hitting speed dial and talking almost before the phone was up to his ear.
“Look—it’s me. I need to talk to you about…about something.”
There was a surprised silence on the other end of the phone call.
“It’s—it’s about the apartment. You were right. This isn’t a good idea.”
There was still surprise, but no longer silence. Tim listened and nodded, grunting in unhappy acknowledgement at irregular intervals.
“Yes,” he said. “I think it’s for the best.”
The person on the other end of the phone call asked a question—a simple question—although the reasoning behind it was rather complex. Tim nodded, then remembered that no one could see him nod.
“Yes,” he said firmly. “Call them back. Tell them I will take the job in Italy.”
Rory took the subway home. He might be starring on Broadway, but outside of his leather jacket and slicked-back do, he was just one more face in the crowd. And one more voice, one more set of legs. He heaved a sighed and pushed through the turnstile, unhappy and worried.
Something wasn’t…right. They kept looking at that one durned song—kept tweaking and fiddling without any idea what they wanted, except…except…maybe, not him. He’d been on enough auditions to know when they liked you, but…. Suddenly, the February afternoon seemed frigid, the tall building surrounding him unfriendly and watchful. This had been his great chance, his shot at the big-time. Lots of actors never got this far, he knew, but it could all disappear like a soap bubble in no time. And now, with Piggy here, things were complicated. Mr. Lowry liked them together—they could both feel the eyes and the attention on them, and it wasn’t just the newness. They looked good together. They were good together. That part had been a relief.
The news of Piggy’s addition to the cast had been a bit of a shock. Yes, from time to time big names did “drop in” on currently running Broadway shows, but sometimes this was little more than mutually beneficial publicity. Drop a big name into a flagging show and—Hey! Presto! Chango! You had a hit again. This…wasn’t like that.
Lowry was known for his insight into the public consciousness; his ability to gauge what the next big thing was going to be was legend. If big-name stars had been bandied about, Piggy hadn’t been mentioned, mainly because she would have been one of the truly unattainable. She worked with Kermit and she worked in Kermit’s productions. Finite. End of story. Only the story was being edited now, and Rory didn’t know where the chips were going to land. He didn’t know for sure where he was going to land, but he hoped it was onstage holding a talented pig.
She…she wasn’t what he expected. All he really knew about her he’d heard through the grapevine, which meant that it was at least 90% crap. Heck—his bio said he was born in the state of New York. His agent thought it might conjure up a farm-boy sort of image, but the truth was that he’d grown up right here in The City. He’d never run barefoot through anything, and he couldn’t even keep a sad little potted plant alive. So much for his image, and so much for hers.
The tabloids said she was on the way out with Mr. the Frog, but Rory had not heard her say one single, solitary bad thing about her husband. That alone was remarkable, in this catty town with its catty tone. In fact, he’d gotten the distinct image that she was about to knock his block off when he’d suggested it the first day, so he’d gone out of his way to not suggest it anymore, and she had seemed relieved. She was hitting the marks, the notes, the steps, but when he held her in his arms, he knew that she was far from at her ease. In spite of his dismal thoughts, Rory’s mouth twisted into a wry smile. She was rather curvier than his regular dance partner.
His key was in the lock. He had time for a bite, a shower and maybe a tweet, but all thoughts of tweeting evaporated when he opened the door of his little apartment. The heavenly smell of food hit him as he crossed the threshold, and two bright eyes under a cap of dark curls appeared around the kitchen doorway.
“I know you don’t have time for anything fancy, but I made hot soup and—can you do a sandwich?”
Rory grinned and patted his stomach. “I’m going to,” he said. “We had to run “Greased Lightning” today as well as the whole show and about half the other songs, and I’m gonna do it all again tonight. So I’ll eat anything you put in front of me.”
There was a snort, and Rory watched the apron strings disappear into the kitchen. After a moment, the front of the apron reappeared.
“They’re still looking at ‘Greased Lightning’? Is everything okay?”
In the face of someone else’s worry, Rory’s evaporated. “Yeah,” he said. “It went great.” He almost sounded convincing.
“Good.” Another almost convincing voice.
“Yeah. I’m glad.”
The food appeared in front of him as though conjured and Rory tucked in. Iced tea, no sugar, extra lemon arrived at his elbow.
“Need anything else?”
“Just you—sit down with me, okay? I’ve only got a few minutes, and I’d like to spend them with you before we both go to work. I just want to be domestic for a few minutes.”
“You’re just saying that because I’m cooking and doing the dishes,” sniffed the cook. Waiting tables was the mainstay occupation of the would-be thespian between acting jobs, and they both knew how to do it.
“True,” Rory laughed. “But I’ll catch up over the weekend—okay? Just…sit with me now before I have to go.” He put out his hand, palm open, on the table.
After a moment, another hand closed with his. “Sure. Love to.”
“Everybody else is at the theater,” Piggy said. Tim’s odd behavior this afternoon had left her unsettled and distressed. She didn’t know if she felt snubbed, confused, guilty or some combination of the three, but she did know she felt…Kermitless. She had called, wanting to hear his voice, and he had answered on the first ring. That had made her heart leap into her throat and tears start into her eyes. That Kermit, who could hardly remember how to answer his phone, had perfected the skill just for her….
“I don’t have any idea where anybody else is,” Kermit admitted. If Piggy was in a bubble, isolated from the people who didn’t really know her yet, Kermit was in a bubble, too—just a different kind of bubble. “Well, that’s not totally true. Rowlf’s still on the road with the band—“
“In a state that begins with an M,” Piggy teased.
“Georgia, actually—I think,” Kermit said, but smiled at her joke. “Um, Clifford went back to Vegas.”
“In a paddy-wagon?” Piggy asked, and heard Kermit chuckle.
“No, surprisingly enough. He went to see Mabel.”
“Oh! Mabel sent me a care package!” Piggy put a hand to her face. How had she forgotten to tell him? “She sent me Snickerdoodles and fudge and sugar cookies shaped like heart.”
“All the basic food groups,” Kermit murmured and Piggy pursed her lips.
“Very funny,” she said. “For your information, supper was take-out Chinese.”
“You’re ahead of me,” Kermit said. “I’m eating something called “Cup-o-noodles.’”
“Eww,” said Piggy. “That sounds terrible.”
“Scooter says they’re passable.”
“What do vous say?”
“I say Scooter’s a good personal assistant, but a lousy concierge.”
Piggy was quiet a moment. “Concierge” made her think of the hotel, which made her think of the care package she had forgotten to mention, which made her think of the apartment that she had neglected to explain. The silence stretched between them.
“So Clifford went to see Mabel?”
“So—rehearsal went better today?”
They spoke at the same time, then stopped, not sure who should give way.
“I miss you.”
“I miss you.”
Neither minded that they spoke at the same time, and there was no thought of giving way.
“Talk some mush to me,” Piggy begged. “Talk to me like you would if I were sitting there beside you on the couch.”
“If you were sitting beside me on the couch, I wouldn’t be talking,” Kermit said, and Piggy giggled.
“So tomorrow you run the entire show again?”
“Twice,” said Piggy. “And then they have to do everything all over again tomorrow night with the current Rizzo.”
It was an odd thought, that Piggy was just waiting to step into a role currently occupied by someone else. Piggy didn’t like the current feeling of displacement. Kermit had an unsettling image of some nameless, faceless amazon replacing Piggy here at home.
“But opening night Sunday. I—I’m sorry I can’t come.”
“But of course, Mon Capitan. When the movie is done—when you have nothing better to do that to come up here and adore me—then come to visit.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Kermit murmured.
They talked about nothing, then a few sweet nothings, then said their goodbyes and hung up. Kermit sighed, then looked down at his phone, thinking he would want to charge it tonight.
He felt an irrational sense of pleasure. He did not need a keeper. He was proving remarkably self-sufficient. Piece of cake.
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