Chapter 110: Getting to Know You
They drove around the strip, which was nothing new to Clifford, but then Tricia dived down a side street, then another and suddenly he was seeing a different side of Las Vegas. Little houses, modest houses and no glitter in sight. It was oddly homey and domestic. They stopped at an out-of-the-way roadside stand that obviously did not cater to tourists and got out of the car.
“Hey Lamont,” Tricia called to a dark-skinned Hispanic man behind the stand. “What’s fresh—besides you?”
“Well, well, well Miss Trish—I guess the freshest thing at my stand would be—your own self! But I could rustle up a couple of cherry limeades if you ask nice.”
Tricia leaned on the counter and fluttered her eyelashes and Lamont laughed out loud.
“Whoa, whoa,” he said. “Tone it down or I’m liable to faint.”
Clifford had hung back, not sure whether or not to join in, but Lamont looked up and grinned at him, extending a strong hand.
“Howdy, I’m Lamont, the owner of this fine establishment,” he said. “Any friend of Tricia’s….”
Clifford shook his hand and smiled. “I’m Clifford, a friend of Mabel’s and, um, Tricia’s,” he said uncertainly.
Tricia pouted. “I was getting to introductions,” she said.
“Well, I know your Mama raised you better,” said Lamont and Clifford grinned, put at ease.
The limeades were frosty and delicious, a contrast to the day which was already off to a broiling start. They chatted for a moment, said their goodbyes and got back in the little car.
“Nice guy,” said Clifford.
“Great guy,” said Tricia. “He was the one who introduced me to Mabel.”
Clifford sat still a moment, digesting this revelation. Her tone had been off-hand, but she was obviously trying to tell him something and he thought a moment before he answered.
“Lucky you,” he said at last.
Beside him, Tricia let out a breath she’d been holding and smiled. It had been the right answer.
“Don’t I know it,” she said, and drove them out to look at the desert.
“So, how old were you when you, um, met Mabel,” Clifford asked. “We got acquainted when The Palace asked her to take care of us when we came to do the Christmas show.”
“She told me,” Tricia said wistfully. “I wish I could have seen your show. The Mayhem—wow. Solid old-school rock. But I was touring,” she said, then made a face. “If you can call it that.”
Clifford looked at her in surprise. He’d been looking at her a lot, but his eyes widened and he furrowed his purple brow. “You—you play in a band?”
“Straight up,” said Tricia. “I’m a good bass player and a bad drummer.” She cut him a quizzical look. “Mom didn’t tell you?”
“Your mom didn’t tell me squat,” said Clifford, “except that one of her daughters was going to be here when I was, and I was sleeping on the couch.”
Tricia laughed, a long peal of bell-like laughter. “Well that certainly narrowed it down! I’ve only got 146 brothers and sisters. So Mom didn’t tell you anything about me?”
Clifford shrugged. “That you were a good kid,” he said lamely. He hesitated. “You know I play bass, right?”
“Yeah, yeah,” said Tricia airily. “She mentioned it—this morning. And you sing and dance and chase all the girls—“
“Hey now!” objected Clifford, blushing furiously. Good grief—he hadn’t blushed since…since…he didn’t know since when. “I don’t chase all the girls,” he said stiffly, and Tricia burst into another round of bell-like laughter.
“Oh, well—glad you clarified that,” she said sarcastically.
“So, do you sing?” Clifford asked, hoping to drag the topic back to safer ground.
Tricia shrugged. “Sure,” she said. “Nobody’s offering me a record contract yet but I do okay.”
“What kind of stuff do you like to sing? And play?” he continued doggedly, still smarting a little.
“We’re an Indie band,” said Tricia. “The Indie Vittles.”
It was Clifford’s turn to laugh out loud.
“What’s so darn funny?” Tricia demanded indignantly. “It’s a good name.”
“No—no, I like it. So, is it a chick band?” he asked, deciding to pluck the string Mabel had tied on him.
“Actually, yeah,” said Tricia. “Believe it or not, there’s less drama when it’s all one or the other, you know?”
“I know,” said Clifford. “Trust me, I know. All Christmas long, we got all kinds of drama ‘bout who is dating who and who ain’t dating nobody.” That last was said a tad sourly, and Tricia turned and gave him a searching look.
“I know about that,” she said soberly, and the conversation veered back into more serious territory.
Clifford hesitated, then plunged ahead. “So, you’re adopted?”
“Since I was 14,” said Tricia, and there was a ring of defiant triumph in her voice. “The judge said I could choose then, and I did.”
“Good for you,” said Clifford. “And good for Mabel,” he added, and saw her face soften in response.
“Yeah,” said Tricia. “Good for everybody.”
“So…what’s the deal with your real mom?” Clifford said, and any softening in her features turned to stone.
“Mabel’s my real Mom,” Tricia said coldly, and shot the little car forward.
“Hey—no foul intended,” said Clifford. “Really. I’m sorry—none of my business.”
Tricia shrugged microscopically, thawing again. Clifford thought he might get emotional whiplash, but it just might be worth it.
“I been on my own since I can remember,” said Clifford seriously. “Kermit and the gang—that’s my family, the only one that ever cared about me.”
Tricia looked determinedly at the road. “Mom said you were like that. She said you guys were like a family.”
“We are a family,” said Clifford. He reached out and touched her arm lightly. “Guess we ought to go see what your Mom has laid down for lunch, and then maybe you can show me a little of that great bass. Ok?”
Tricia made a face. “I said I was good. I didn’t say I was great.”
“Fair enough,” said Clifford. “And maybe you can play the drums a little while I play the bass.”
“Badly?” asked Tricia saucily, and Clifford laughed.
“You or me?”
“Maybe both! We’ll get Mom to be the judge of who’s more awful, okay?”
Clifford nodded, satisfied. “Sounds like a plan.”
“This is nice,” said Scooter, smiling up at Sara. Sara smiled.
“There are certainly worse ways to spend your evening that being waiting on hand and foot by your adoring fiancé,” she said dryly. She brushed the hair back from Scooter’s forehead and leaned down to kiss him.
“I can think of a few,” said Scooter, returning her kiss and reaching to tangle a hand in her hair. When the kiss finally ended, Scooter sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the couch. “More wine?”
“None for me,” said Sara. “I’ve got to work in the morning.”
Scooter got up and took their dishes to the sink. “I’m putting the leftover spaghetti back in the fridge,” said Scooter. “Anything else that needs doing before I turn out the light?”
Sara just laughed. “I can’t think of anything else that needs doing. You’ve been waiting on me hand and foot since you got home—and I know you’re exhausted. She held out her hand. “Come to bed. I know it’s early but I have big plans for tomorrow.” She tried wiggling her eyebrows like Groucho Marx, and the result was more comical than sexy. “I’ll bet you’re asleep by the time your head hits the pillow.”
Scooter came out of the kitchen and turned out the light, then reached out and twined his fingers with hers. “Betcha I’m not,” he said, and followed her down the hall.
“This is like old times, huh Kermit?” asked Fozzie. “Just you and me after work, shooting the breeze and hanging out.”
“Um, yeah,” Kermit said, nodding with satisfaction. “This is a lot like that.”
“Except you’re really married.”
“Yes. I’m really married.”
“And before you weren’t.”
“Right—before I married Piggy, it was just us guys, right? That what you mean?”
“Um, yeah,” said Fozzie. He was quiet for a moment, looking down. “I miss that sometimes, Kermit, when we would hang out and just, you know, talk about stuff.”
Kermit felt mellow and expansive. Tomorrow he was going to see Piggy, and today was wonderful because of it. “Well, we’re here now, right? Just us. What do you want to talk about Fozzie? What’s been going on with you since we got back from Vegas?”
Fozzie tried to be nonchalant but Kermit saw hopefulness leap into his eyes. “I’ve been working on a new stand-up routine,” he said shyly, and Kermit was suddenly overcome with fondness for one of his oldest friends.
“That’s fantastic, Fozzie,” said Kermit.
“But…but you haven’t even heard it yet,” said Fozzie, somewhat confusedly.
“Well, we can fix that,” said Kermit. He sat down determinedly in one of the kitchen chairs and crossed his arms and legs, the picture of attentiveness. He looked Fozzie up and down. “Have at it, Fozzie,” he said. “Show me your routine. I’m all, um, aural organs.”
Fozzie looked both thrilled and terrified. “Um, really?” he said. “Cause some of it isn’t ready yet….”
“Well, if you really don’t want to—“ Kermit began, but Fozzie sprang into action.
“Okay—you twisted my arm.” He trotted over to the kitchen counter and stood near it, taking “center stage” as it were, in the The Frog kitchen. “Wocka, wocka, wocka,” Fozzie said, giving his trademark wide-mouthed smile. “You’re a wonderful audience. Anybody here from Cleveland?”
“Um, you can skip that part, Fozzie.”
“What?”
“I said, ‘You can skip that part, Fozzie.’ Because it’s just, you know, me and you don’t have to do that stuff for just me. Just…um, launch right into the jokes, okay? I can’t wait to hear them.”
“Oh.” Fozzie looked startled, but determined. “Um, okay—hang on for a moment. Let me just, um….go through the material in my head.” He turned back toward the kitchen sink. “I think I’ll just get a drink of water, okay Kermit?”
“Oh. Um, sure Fozzie. You know where everything is. Help yourself.”
“Got any seltzer water?” Fozzie quipped, then laughed at his own joke, but as he approached the sink something seemed to propel him forward. Kermit heard a small “Clank” and Fozzie was suddenly stooping over the sink, apparently held fast by his tie. Kermit wasn’t sure if this was part of the act or not. “Um, Kermit?”
“Yes, Fozzie?”
“A little help here, please,” said Fozzie.
“Sure thing.” Kermit got up and trotted over to the sink. “What, um, what do you want me to do. Is this a joke for two people?”
“No,” said Fozzie. “This isn’t a joke. I’m stuck.”
“Stuck?” said Kermit. “Stuck how?”
“Stuck to the sink,” said Fozzie.
Kermit blushed. “Well, the housekeepers are supposed to come tomorrow but I’m sorry the floor is—“
“It’s not the floor. It’s the sink. I’m stuck to the sink by my new tie tack.”
“Your new tie tack?” said Kermit, puzzled. “Oh. Oh! The magnetic…oh. Got it.” He walked behind his friend, put both of his arms around Fozzie’s waist and tugged. Nothing happened. “Oh,” said Kermit. “Let me just, um, put a little muscle into it, okay?”
“Okay, Kermit,” said Fozzie, sounding pained.
It finally took a heroic effort from both of them to pry Fozzie’s magnetic tie tack off the rim of the sink, and they landed, panting on the floor.
“Oh no!” said Fozzie. “Get between me and the fridge!”
Kermit did, and just in time. Fozzie’s tie zinged out like an arrow and poked Kermit in the place where his nose would have been if he’d had one.
“Ouch,” said Kermit, rubbing his face. But they had broken the tie tack’s stranglehold and managed to get to their feet. Fozzie took his pink polka-dot tie off and looked at it ruefully.
“I’m sort of tired of my new tie tack,” said Fozzie.
“Yeah,” said Kermit. “I can see where that would get old. Does it always do that?”
“Just around metal objects,” Fozzie said, and Kermit had a sudden picture of Fozzie trying to ride the subway or a city bus. He shuddered.
“Well, maybe it was supposed to be a joke, you know? Like a flower that shoots water or something.”
“Maybe,” said Fozzie, sounding dispirited.
“Here,” said Kermit, trying to take charge again. “I’m sure whoever sent it to you knows that you got it and you wore it, right? So you could probably, um, put it away now in a safe place. And not wear it all the time.”
“Do you really think so, Kermit?” asked Fozzie. “I don’t want to hurt anybody’s feelings. Especially someone who likes my jokes.”
“I’m sure they won’t know, and even if they did know, they wouldn’t care. You didn’t need a tie tack to tell me you were funny, Fozzie. I already knew that.”
Fozzie brightened immediately. “That’s right,” he said eagerly. “They already liked my routine before, so I don’t have to wear this all the time. That’s—thanks, Kermit. That’s a good idea.”
“No problem, Fozzie,” said Kermit reassuringly. “Now let’s get to those jokes, how ‘bout it?”
“Sure thing, Kermit!” said Fozzie. “Um, what do you get when you cross a cat with a lemon?”
“Um, an unhappy cat?”
“No! A sourpuss!” cried Fozzie. Kermit chuckled.
“Cute. Cute joke.”
“What do you get when you cross a snake with a hedgehog?”
“This isn’t one of those video game jokes is it, cause I don’t do those things.”
“No. This is just a plain, funny joke.”
“Hmmm. I don’t know, Fozzie. What do you get when you cross a snake with a hedgehog?”
“Two yards of barbed wire! Wocka wocka!”
“Ouch,” said Kermit. “That was good.”
“I got a million of them.”
“Great.”
“Well, maybe not a million. Maybe more like a thousand. Well, at least a couple of hundred, anyway—“
“Tell the next one,” Kermit said.
“Okay. Speaking of hundreds….what do you get when you cross a centipede with a parrot.”
“Um, lots of drumsticks?”
“No—that’s crossing a centipede with a turkey.”
“Oh. Oh, right. Okay. I give up. What do you get when you cross a centipede with a parrot?”
“A walkie-talkie!”
“Of course.”
“What do you get when you cross a hummingbird with a doorbell?”
“A little birdie that tells you someone is at the door?”
“No. A humdinger! Ahhh! Wocka wocka wocka!”
“These are good, Fozzie. Tell another one.”
“Um, what do you get when you cross a pig with a cactus?”
Kermit knew the answer to that one—it was, “A very unhappy pig,” but he shook his head instead of answering. “I don’t know,” he said.
“You get a porcupine,” Fozzie said, and laughed his open-mouthed laugh.
“A pork-u-pine,” Kermit said. “I should have guessed.”
Fozzie kept going, and Kermit continued to offer encouragement, but some part of his brain had detached and was thinking of tomorrow.
What do you get when you cross a lonely frog and a glamorous pig? his mind prompted, but the answer was obvious to everyone. A happy, happy frog.
Everyone had gone to the party, and Piggy had gone shopping. Nothing mattered, nothing at all, but the fact that tomorrow night Kermit would be here, would be sitting in the audience watching her sing and dance and…kiss Rory. Piggy squirmed a little. That thought wasn’t making her happy, but she had been acting for so long she could kiss anyone onstage and not think tuppence about it. But Kermit had never been like that.
Like most frogs, Kermit took his kissing seriously, and he had initially been faintly horrified by her penchant to grab him and kiss him in a teasing way when the mood struck. He had told her later that it was the most delicious anticipation in the world—not knowing what she would do and not honestly knowing which he wished she’d do—kiss him or pass him by.
But Piggy had been unpredictable, even to herself, and Kermit had found it well-nigh impossible to predict when he might be confronted with her soft lips under his. It made him nervous and sometimes grouchy and very, very aware of what he had for lunch every day. Piggy smiled, remembering the faint minty tang of those first kisses.
Although he had taken defensive measures (of a sort), Kermit had not given up on launching an offensive. One day, after a particularly thrilling dance number, Piggy had laid her head back and gazed at him upside down as she so often had and found, to her complete surprise, that Kermit was there—right there—with his arms strong and sure around her and his lips ready for hers. He had taken her in his arms, kissed her with the stern seriousness that she found so charming and then released her, stunned and reeling backstage.
“Kermie?” she had asked, too surprised to say more.
His answer had been smug. “I think frogs should be liberated, too,” he said. “Just not all at once.”
And after that, it had been different.
Piggy smiled and felt her cheeks grow hot, but whether it was from her memories of those kisses or from the act of putting away the results of her shopping trip it was hard to say. She had put food in the fridge, another fluffy pillow on the bed and a scandalous fragment of lingerie in her undies drawer. She was ready. She was ready for opening night—ready to sing and dance her heart out on Broadway, and she was ready for Kermit, ready to see him and bring him back to this little apartment that suddenly seemed empty. This thought was too melancholy for the rest of her thoughts, and she plucked it out and discarded it.
Kermie was coming and she was ready for him. As far as she could tell, all was as it should be.
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