Chapter 111: Amateur Night, Part I
They had come back to a lunch of cold cucumber sandwiches and potato salad, washed down with tall glasses of sweet iced tea, and then had coerced Mabel into listening in on their impromptu jam session. It took a little finagling for them to find something they could play together. Tricia shredded with high energy, and Clifford had played a more mellow hard rock for a while, but eventually they hit a groove they could both sustain and played and played, switching keys and chords and songs with nothing more than nods or flicks of their hair. Speech had been impossible then, so after, Mabel had commandeered Clifford for a sit-down and a piece of lemon chiffon layer cake. Tricia had gone back to her room to make some phone calls, check her email and such, so they could chat uninterrupted.
“So that’s everything I can think of,” Clifford said. “Piggy’s opening tonight and Kerm’s going to see her.”
“That sure was swell of Scooter. He’s a good kid.”
“He’s a grown kid,” Clifford said fondly, and remembered to relate their supper meeting at the apartment he and Sara now shared.
“I tell you,” said Mabel. “I’ve never seen a guy so worried about asking a girl what loves him to get hitched.”
Clifford just laughed. “Me neither,” he said, “but I heard tell about Kermit and the Missus and how that came down.”
Mabel looked at him. “I only know what I read in the tabloids—that he whisked her away on a surprise honeymoon after the filming of the wedding, which was the real wedding, they said.” The diminutive mole shook her head. “I can’t even say it straight,” she laughed. “It’s no wonder the papers can’t ever get it right!”
“Well, after they got married, there was a lot less tabloid coverage of Miss Piggy—well, both of them. Kermit’s always been a little more publicity-shy, and he wanted them to stick with more reputable magazines and the mainstream news media.”
“He was protective,” said Mabel.
“You could say that,” Clifford agreed, but there was a smirk lurking around his mustachioed face. Mabel picked up on it immediately.
“What did Piggy say about that?”
“Well, she’s always been a big of a publicity hound—for a pig, that is. But she was, oh! So in love with Kermit. Everybody said you could just taste it in the air when they were around. I didn’t know them well then—we didn’t start working together regular until later—but there are stories. Um.” Clifford sighed and smiled. Tricia came back into the room just then, and smiled at the sight of his long, rangy form leaning back about the booth behind the table. She took a seat at the end of the little table, next to her Mom but close to Clifford as well.
“You solve all the world’s problems?” Tricia asked. She looked hopefully at Clifford’s cup of coffee and he grinned and got up to pour her a cup.
“Not quite,” he admitted. “You finish updating the world on your whereabouts?”
Tricia stuck out her tongue.
“I got the best question of all,” said Mabel. “What are you two kids going to do tonight for Valentine’s Day?”
The mention of the biggest romantic holiday put a look of cold terror into both of their faces.
“Oh, um, yeah,” said Clifford. “About that….”
“—thinking about catching up on some more, um, letters….”
Mabel put her hands on her hips and gave them a look. “What a couple of cowards,” she said. “I’m not suggesting you go on a honeymoon cruise—just out somewhere nice for dinner.”
Clifford dared a look at Tricia and caught her daring a look at him. He blushed, but he grinned while he did it.
“But Mom! Valentine’s Day—really?--the last refuge of the desperate?”
“Your father used to take me out dancing every Valentine’s, God rest his soul,” Mabel pshaw, forgetting for a moment that Tricia was not her own flesh-and-blood offspring, however bonded they might be. It made Clifford smile. Good for everybody, he thought.
“All the fancy package deals—dinner and a show and all that—have been sold out for days,” said Tricia, trying to sound reasonable and not whiny. “And we’ll have to dress up.” She pointed an accusing finger at Clifford but spoke to her mother. “I’ll bet Clifford didn’t even bring any dress-up clothes!”
“Did too!” Clifford said, and felt light sighing. It was official—he was acting like he was back in junior high.
“Oh yeah?” said Mabel. “And I’ll be you didn’t even bring a dress, Miss Too-Tough-to-Look-Feminine,” she shot back, but there was no venom in it, just a knowing-ness of her own child.
Tricia pouted. “I did too bring a dress!” she said, and Clifford had to look away so she didn’t see him grim. If he was in junior high, Tricia was sitting right there on the bleachers beside him!
“Look,” he said. “Maybe Mabel’s right. Let’s just do this, okay? We don’t have to do the lovey-dovey dinner-dancing package deal—but there are cheap eats and hot bands all over the city, right? Go put on that dress and I’ll go put on my Sunday-go-to-meetin’ clothes and we’ll get out of your Mom’s fur for a bit, okay?” He gave Mabel his best puppydog eyes. “Can we, Mom? If we don’t stay out too late?”
He turned to Tricia a little uncertainly. “I mean, if you want to…and all.”
But Tricia smiled, and her eyes were warm. “Okay—I’ll brave amateur night with you, Mr. Bassman. Better get slicked up, though—I plan on looking sensational.”
Mabel waved them off. “Get off with you two brats,” she said, laughing and waving a dishrag at them. “Go find some young people and let this old mole alone tonight. Me? I’m gonna put on some Sinatra or Sammy D. and reminisce about the love of my life.”
Scribbler stared up at the marquee. They had been running digital messages all week touting her appearance, but today they were changing the marquee. It was the second most beautiful thing he had ever seen. To think how far she’d come, how hard she’d worked, and tonight…tonight one of her fondest dreams would come true. Her other fond wishes he couldn’t bear to think about right now on the cusp of her success.
Something sharp and hard twisted inside the fallen journalist, but it was difficult to say at this point if it was bitterness or guilt. He wanted this for her—wanted it with a purity and a selflessness that everything he’d done in the past year belied, but he had always thought that they would share this moment, that he would be a part of this story.
They finished putting the last letters up, then came down and tugged the ladder away. After a moment, the lights came up experimentally, and her name glowed in the chill air. Scribbler raised his camera and took a picture, then another. He took pictures until they turned the lights off and then after, of just the unlighted marquee.
When he lowered the camera, he was only mildly surprised that the optical viewfinder was wet.
They had abandoned all pretense of work, and had spent the last ten minutes beaming happily at each other. Kermit might as well wait at the airport as here, and they were trying to get out the door.
Kermit was stuffing his overcoat into his duffle, jamming the zipper twice in his haste. He heard a sound behind him like a cough—or a moan—and turned to find Scooter leaning palely against the door frame. The young man opened his mouth, closed it, and looked away, almost tearful.
“Scooter? What…?” Kermit took a concerned step toward Scooter, but before he could reach him, Scooter flung his hands out in a fit of frustration and rage.
“It’s
gone!” he howled. “All of it—
gone.
Erased!”
“Erased?
What? What are you talking about Scooter?” Kermit said.
But he
knew. Kermit knew in his heart and in the cold pit of his plummeting stomach.
Scooter couldn’t talk, weeping with rage, one hand over his face.
“The…the film?” Kermit asked, begging Scooter to contradict him, but Scooter only nodded his head furiously. “Oh…oh sheesh, the
film.”
“All our work!” Scooter groaned. “All that
time.” He grabbed his hair on both side as though to keep his head from exploding. “I can’t
stand it—I can’t…can’t….” He had not yet dared to meet Kermit’s eyes, and Kermit walked up and put his hand on Scooter’s back. It was scant comfort but all he had to offer.
“Tell me what happened,” he said, trying to be calm in the face of Scooter fury and pain. He could not think beyond the fact that everything was gone, could not think what to do now.
“The tape was corrupted somehow, garbled.”
“All of it?” Kermit asked. “Did they… did they check all of it?”
Scooter nodded, trying to get his voice under control. “They checked all of it before they called.” He wiped his face with the back of his hand, trying to pull his cloak of hyper-organization around him again. “The—the entire tape—all that film….”
Kermit felt numb. They had spent most of the week digitally splicing everything together, compiling the finished product—wait!
Wait!
“Scooter—
the copy! You always make a copy of
everything!” Kermit said, suddenly excitedly, but Scooter shook his head miserably.
“I
didn’t. I have copies of
parts of it, but I didn’t make a copy of the whole thing because it was so big. And none of it was original film. It was just the edited, spliced version that we worked on all week. I
should have made a copy—but I
didn’t. It’s all
my fault.” Scooter’s voice cracked, and he looked away.
“No. No, Scooter,” Kermit said urgently. “I didn’t know, either. You couldn’t have known. The film we were working from was fine, so—wait. Wait a minute!” Kermit’s heart gave a convulsive leap in his chest. “But—but you said it’s not the original film. Right? The original film is still okay?” He swallowed convulsively. “Please say
yes.”
“I—yes,” Scooter admitted cautiously. “The original film is still in the vault.” Scooter may have been a little extra-cautious, but after years of working with Crazy Harry…. Kermit could have kissed him.
“So…so we can do it again—from the notes and the partial copies. We can do it again,
right?”
Scooter was calming, trying to detach and think. His skin was flushed and blotchy but he was no longer crying. “We—I kept the notes,” he said, sounding more animated. “It might not be identical, but I know every cut we made and when we spliced it. We
could do it again.” He looked up at Kermit, needing reassurance. “If we work straight through the weekend.”
Kermit knees felt suddenly weak. The weekend. The trip to New York. Piggy’s opening night…it
couldn’t be….
It would
have to be.
“If that’s what it takes,” said Kermit, and felt
something in that hard, tight,
miserable place he’d been stuffing things flex wildly and try to claw its way out.
“But…but boss…your trip….” Scooter looked like he was going to cry again. If Scooter broke down,
he was going to break down, and Kermit didn’t think he could bear to cry in front of Scooter.
“Piggy will understand.” He said it firmly, resolutely but his voice sounded stiff. It would
have to be so.
“But…oh, boss—this is
my fault. I’m…I’m sorry. If I hadn’t told you we could do it, you wouldn’t have told
her—“
“Piggy will understand,” Kermit said again, and something in his face told Scooter not to press it any more. “We’ve worked holidays and Christmas and vacations before—it will be okay.”
But you were together, Scooter thought, although he knew better than to say it.
“Okay, Boss,” he said. “Whenever you’re ready.”
Kermit would rather have been dragged through the swamp by his tongue than dial the number he was dialing. There was no padding the bald truth, and he blurted it out after the scantest of greetings.
“What?! No!!”
Piggy tried to keep her voice normal. Her momentary wail of dismay had been heard, and several people looked her way—some covertly, some openly staring. She struggled to keep her composure with so many not-necessarily-friendly eyes and ears nearby.
“You’re…you’re not coming?” she said faintly.
Kermit heard the hurt in her voice ad gripped the phone so tight in his little green fingers that the knuckles grew white.
“I am coming,” he promised desperately. “I’m just…I’m just not coming for your opening night.” The admission made him feel sick at his stomach; somehow, saying it out loud had been so much worse than admitting the impossibility of leaving California to himself.
“But…why?” Piggy said softly. “Why can’t you come?”
The question hit him like a ton of bricks—bricks he should have seen coming, but hadn’t thought about in the overwhelming disappointment of having to make the call in the first place. Kermit opened his mouth, planning to pour out his frustration and unhappiness, but some impulse made him stop and reconsider. If he told Piggy about the trouble he was having—about the technical difficulties and mysteriously missing footage which would necessitate hours of rework, then Piggy’s own performance might suffer. He groped about desperately, trying to think of some excuse that would make it reasonable for him to miss her debut but still not worry her enough to endanger her performance.
“Um, well, it’s nothing to worry about, Piggy,” he said, improvising wildly. “It’s just—it’s mostly annoying. When they looked at some of the edited footage, there were problems with the sound and the color—some sort of problem with the machine, Scooter thinks.” Kermit had his fingers crossed, hoping against hope that Scooter would forgive him for the little white lie—and cover for him if necessary. “It’s a pain, but we’ll have to do it over today in order to stay on buh--, um, on target.” He veered away from mentioning that Rainbow Productions would get financially penalized if they were late on their end—Piggy knew that already—and he didn’t want to mention the budget, nor the financing problems they seemed to be having lately.
Although his intentions were noble, Kermit might have done better to tell Piggy the truth. He was an awful liar, and although she didn’t know what was wrong, she knew something terrible must have happened. By keeping his worry to himself, and shutting off her involvement in the day-to-day where he was, Kermit was actually contributing to the distance between them instead of closing it, but he had not figured that out yet.
As it was, Piggy heard his hesitation and understood only that his much-anticipated visit had been canceled for business. For one brief pulse of time, Piggy wanted to curse all frogs and all budgets (yes, she’d heard his slip and was annoyed at him hiding things from her) and all business, but her professionalism carried her over the hump.
“Oh.” She let the disappointment carry on her voice, which accomplished the dual purpose of telling Kermit that he’d hurt her, and telling Kermit that she missed him. While Kermit might shy away from harsh emotions, Piggy was a virtuoso at playing to them. “I’m sorry you aren’t coming,” she said softly. She ducked her head slightly and got a good feel for how many ears were in range, then turned—swiftly and silently. The eavesdroppers scattered like seagulls. “I was looking forward to…seeing you,” she said, and the longing in her voice made Kermit groan in regret.
“Oh, Honey,” Kermit said. “I’m so—I’m so, so sorry to miss your show. I’ll come as soon as I can—I promise, Piggy. I promise.”
“Come soon, Sweetheart” said Piggy solemnly. She wanted to cry, but there was plenty of time for that later, when she had the luxury of privacy and a long, lonely night ahead of her.
“I will—you know I will.” They were silent for a moment, then Kermit spoke again, his voice tentative. “Tell me you’ll be okay, Piggy—tell me this won’t spoil your opening night.”
Obedience was not something that Piggy had ever promised, and it was not usually something she aspired to, but this time she did what Kermit asked.
“I’ll be okay, Kermie,” she said gently. “It’s fine—I understand.”
And, having got what he asked for, Kermit knew better than to ask if it were true.
The terrible truth would get out soon enough. Rory had evidently been the pied piper of good news at the party last night, telling everyone that Kermit was coming. Piggy knew that his intent had been to shush the rumor patrol, which was alive and very robust backstage. She been congratulated and given interested and openly skeptical looks all day, and her initial unguarded reaction to Kermit’s phone call had set tongues wagging yet again, although she had not told anyone yet—even Rory. She had talked to Marty briefly, just to let him know, and he had expressed his sympathy, but not too much. He knew Piggy could not stand up under an onslaught of sympathy at this point without bawling, so he had been sorry—and brief.
“That stinks, Honey,” he’d said soberly. “But you’re not gonna, are you? You’re gonna be terrific. I know it.”
“And vous are never wrong,” Piggy had quipped, and gotten off the phone before she bawled. Since that conversation with Marty, Piggy have felt like she was wrapped in a Cling-Wrap bubble, able to see and hear what was going on around her but not really participating in it. She hoped that would go away before tonight, because she needed—now more than ever—to be in the moment on stage. Perhaps Piggy’s fairy-bog-mother was listening, for she was about to be engaged in the most direct manner possible.
Piggy heard the fight before it neared her. She had had enough of those fights herself to recognize a jealous snit from 60 paces. She heard Rory’s voice, exasperated and earnest, alongside another voice, also exasperated and definitely not happy.
“I don’t believe that. I know all about her,” said the other voice, and Piggy winced, but Rory charged in to her defense immediately.
“You don’t know anything about her,” Rory said patiently. “I don’t care what you’ve read—she’s not like that. She’s…she’s nice.”
“I’ll bet,” snapped the first voice.
“Oh, for goodness sake. Look—I already explained about the other day—“
“Only after I asked you about it!”
“I didn’t think it mattered!” Rory cried. “It wasn’t—it was nothing. We’re friends.”
Despite the circumstances, Piggy felt her heart warm at those words. It was true. They had become friend—of a sort, but the next words made her flinch again.
“I’ve heard that line before,” said the first voice angrily, but then Rory’s voice cut through, furious and cold.
“Not from me!” he said shortly. “I’m not like that, and I’d like to think you knew that about me by now.”
There was an uncomfortable pause, and Piggy kept her eyes firmly on her duffle bag. She’d been pretending to dig for her other toe thong, but the routine was getting a little thin. If they didn’t get this settled soon she was going to have to acknowledge the argument or claim profound deafness.
“I’m sorry, Rory,” said the first voice, pleading now. “I know I over-react sometimes, but…but it’s just so hard when you’re so…so….”
Rory’s voice was warm again, and gentle. “I know. I understand, but you need to understand. Stop being a ninny and come over and meet her.”
“Oh! Oh, no—I…I couldn’t. I can’t! I, um—“
But Piggy heard determined footsteps approaching and she looked up to see Rory coming toward her, pulling a handsome young man firmly by the wrist. Piggy flashed a devastating smile and saw the second man gasp and clutch Rory’s muscular arm.
“Oh my whiskers!” he hissed in a strangled stage whisper. “She’s gorgeous!”
“Tell me about it,” Rory murmured, and his partner gave him a mean look and let go of his arm.
“Chad,” said Rory firmly, pulling his companion forward. “This is my co-star, Miss Piggy. Piggy, this is…this is Chad, my…um—“ He grinned suddenly, wickedly. “My special friend,” he finished, using Piggy’s old line with a flourish.
Chad shot him a look, half mad, half mollified. “I—hello.” He held out a slim, long-fingered hand. Piggy took his hand and held it while she looked him over.
He had a dancer’s lithe build, muscular and lean, and a straight aquiline nose in a well-proportioned face. His eyes were the color of chocolate and his dark hair was worn just long enough to show the natural curl. A very attractive man, Piggy thought, with a very unhappy expression.
“It’s very nice to meet vous,” said Piggy gravely, her big blue eyes focused on his face until he actually met her gaze. “I’m so glad you came by so I could meet you.”
Rory stood back, watching her work with a smug look on his face. He put his hands on Chad’s shoulders. “Chad was a little upset about the other day.” Rory looked backstage to where other cast-members were milling. “Somebody told him we’d gone out together and it got misconstrued.”
Chad had the good grace to blush, but he also looked defiant and hurt. “Rory might have told me,” he pouted, and Rory unbent a little.
“I should have,” he acknowledged, “but you know how you get.”
Chad sniffed, but turned beseeching brown eyes on Piggy. “But…I was just, um, well—“ He gestured helplessly. “You’re amazingly attractive,” he stammered. “No offense.”
“None taken,” Piggy said dryly.
“And everyone here’s been talking about the sizzle onstage.”
“She’s a pig! She’s supposed to sizzle!” Rory said, throwing his hands up in the air.
But Chad was not entirely deterred. “And I watched you run that scene just now,” he said. “There is no way you could kiss like that if there was nothing at all—“
Piggy sighed, bowing to the inevitable. She gave Rory an apologetic look, grabbed a fistful of Chad’s shirt and hauled him within range.
There are stage kisses and there are staged kisses, and it should surprise no one that Piggy was an expert at both. Her kiss left Chad reeling and when he finally opened his eyes to stare at her she was gazing at him mildly, he blue eyes wide and amused.
“It’s called acting, Sweetie,” she said lazily, and released her hold on his shirt. Chad straightened and turned to find Rory glaring at both of them.
“Enjoy yourself?” he gritted.
“Yes. I mean—I mean, of course not, now that I see there’s nothing in it. I mean….” He peered over his shoulder at Piggy warily, then turned back to Rory. “I mean…please forgive me for doubting you. I’ve been very silly and I’m sorry.” He reached out and touched Rory’s arm lightly. “Don’t let’s fight anymore,” he said, and turned his big chocolate eyes on his lover.
Rory made a wry face. “I didn’t like the look of it any more than you did,” he confessed, and grinned his boyish grin.
Piggy interrupted the lovely moment with a snort. “Okay—now that everybody has kissed and made up—“ she began.
“Not quite,” said Rory, and sneaked in to plant one on her cheek. Piggy swatted him away.
“—could you boys please run along already? Moi is trying to get ready for her big debut!”
“Um, sorry.”
“Sorry, Piggy. I’ll, um, see you tonight, ‘kay?”
“Whatever!” snapped Piggy, and was disappointed—but not surprised—when Gonzo didn’t answer. She watched them walk off together and shook her head. If Kermit were here, he wouldn’t have liked it either.
Tears sprang suddenly into Piggy’s eyes. Kermit was not here. Worse, he was not coming. Piggy took a deep breath and reminded herself that this had happened before, and would probably happen again. Show biz was like that, she and was hardly an innocent about the brutalities of the business. Fiercely, she pulled herself together. She was Miss Piggy, star of stage and screen and a force to be reckoned with. Frog or no frog, she was going to knock Broadway ascot over teakettle when she hit that stage tonight. She was going out there and she was going to channel all of this into being the toughest, sexiest, most desirable, vulnerable and glorious Rizzo Grease! had ever seen, bar none.
The word for the day might be a bad word, but—tonight, grease would be the word for how she was feeling.
They think our love is just a growing pain--
Why don't they understand, It's just a crying shame.
Their lips are lying only real is real--
We stop the fight right now, we got to be what feel.
Grease is the word….
It's got groove it's got meaning….
Grease is the time, is the place, is the motion--
Grease is the way we are feeling….
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