Love Reign O'er News

[newsmanfan]

Part 15

The walk home after the ambulance left was awkward. Rain drizzled down, but neither of them bothered about it, even though droplets occasionally spattered the Newsman’s glasses. He didn’t know what to say. Gina stole concerned glances at him every few steps, and finally took his right hand in hers as they went. He looked up at her briefly, gave her fingers a squeeze of acknowledgement, but said nothing. Another block along towards her place, Gina said quietly, “It wasn’t your fault.”

“I always thought I was jinxed, but usually not outside the theatre,” he responded in a lower voice than normal.

“Newsie,” Gina said, stopping, forcing him to stop as well and look into her face. “You are not jinxed, and you did not cause Lewis to get hurt. It was a freak accident.”

“How long have you been watching the show at the Muppet Theatre?”

“Um…almost three months now, I guess?”

Newsie shook his head in despair. “How can you say I’m not jinxed? Call it accident-prone, call it bizarre and frequent coincidence – but whatever the term, it fits.”

Shaking her head, searching his narrowed eyes, Gina argued, “You know, I really wasn’t kidding about being a blood Gypsy. My folks were first-born Americans; their parents were all from Czechoslovakia.”

“The Czech Republic,” he corrected. She tossed her hair angrily back over one shoulder as it slid into her face, and dropped to her knees so she wouldn’t have to look down at him.

“My point is, I know from jinxes! If you were really jinxed, all kinds of things would happen to you, even outside the theatre! If you keep thinking like that, it’s only going to bring more bad things down on you!” she scolded, and when he winced, she amended, “…So to speak.”

Newsie thought of the sequence of awful things which had happened to him just a few days ago, the same night he obtained the piece of her note which told him how she really felt. He didn’t speak them aloud, suddenly realizing he’d had an even worse string of luck than usual, and outside of his job, at that. Gina sighed, rubbing the woven bracelet she’d tied on his left wrist. “Newsie…I made this for you specifically, to protect you from any real or imagined danger. I need you to trust in that. Trust in me,” she pleaded.

Imagined danger? Had he imagined that ax last night? Or the acid burning his hand tonight? He scowled, then saw the look on her face, and regretted his anger. He took both her hands in his, ignoring the pain in his left one. “I trust you,” he said softly.

They embraced. He held tight to her, smelling the faintly spicy scent of cloves and cinnamon in her hair, telling himself to just shut up. This young woman had said she adored him, had kissed him and flirted with him to prove it, had even made him a little charm. Who was he to push away gifts like that? He felt tired suddenly, though he wouldn’t have been able to say if it was the wine or the stress of the evening. Gina kissed his nose again – he was growing fond of that – and slowly rose, still holding his right hand. “I don’t know about you, but I’m beat,” she said. Newsie nodded agreement, and they began walking again. “What’s tomorrow?” she asked.

“Uh…Sunday. I think. Yes.”

“You have a matinée?”

“Yes. You?”

“Off day.” She smiled at him. “Do you think your boss would mind if I came and hung out at your theatre all day?”

Newsie looked up at her, his spirits boosted immediately. “Would you really?”

“Why not? …If it’s okay?”

“I’d love that,” he said honestly, and she laughed.

“You know what? I have an idea. I’ll bring lunch, watch your show, and then we can go back to your place and watch a movie. I’ll bring the movie, too.”

“Sure…” The bare-bones level of his earthy possessions struck him, and he stammered, embarrrassed. “Uh...are you sure you want to go to my apartment? I mean, you’ve seen it…I don’t have a VCR or anything…”

Gina laughed. He looked up at her, fascinated with the lightness in that sound. Just hearing it put him in a better mood. “I’ll bring my portable DVD player. And yes, your place will be fine. It’s closer to your theatre.” She leaned down to murmur to him, “You actually have the cleanest, best-organized bachelor digs I’ve ever seen, especially for someone who works in theatre!”

“Er,” he said, feeling flushed, “Well, it’s clean when the rats aren’t trashing it…”

“Tell them if they’ll keep it neat for you, I’ll also bring the popcorn.”

“Oh,” Newsie said, dismayed. He’d hoped the rodents wouldn’t be invited.

She heard the tone of his voice, and gave him a sideways look. “Newsie? Would you rather be alone with me?”

He had to try twice to get his throat to unstick. “Yes. Yes I would.” When she gave him another look, her eyes narrowed and a sly smile on her face, he felt flustered. “That is…if you wanted…er…”

She stopped again, and for a moment he thought he’d overstepped. Then she stroked his hair tenderly. “You. Are. Priceless,” she said, low and breathy. She leaned over and tilted his chin up to kiss him. The Newsman kissed back fervently, holding her waist, feeling overwhelmed. At that moment, he didn’t care what she saw in him; he just hoped it would never stop. Eventually she did pull away, softly, leaving him breathless and feeling physical sensations he’d never experienced. He stared up at her. She looked at the building in front of them, then gave him a wistful smile. “Um…we’re here.”

“Here?” He looked up, realized they’d reached her apartment building, and sadly stood there. “Oh.”

Gina stood a long moment as well, debating with herself. Finally she sighed. “I have to be up at six. I promised I’d feed my neighbor’s cat, and she needs medicines at certain times. I should get some sleep.” She stroked his cheek fondly. Please, please keep touching me, he thought, realized he was actually thinking it and felt ashamed. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he responded automatically. She raised an eyebrow, mock-frowning, and he assured her quickly, “No, honestly, I’m fine. You’re right. You need your sleep.”

“So do you,” she said, her fingers still resting against his cheek. She gave him an impish smile. “Your eyes are looking brighter lately. I don’t want to ruin that trend!”

“Really?”

“I like seeing that energy in you. Yes.” He smiled tentatively at her; she gave out a small giggle. “Ah…what a fantastic smile. Go on, go get some rest. I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon, okay?”

“Definitely,” he promised. She gave him one more quick kiss on his nose, smiled, turned and ran up the steps. She looked back once; he waved, feeling ridiculous, but she waved back and then went inside. He sighed, all the energy leaving his body, weary and with returning worry. He fingered the bracelet, its woven textures soft against his skin. No, he didn’t believe in spells or charms, but then again…she’d made it for him, and she believed in it. Perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to keep that in mind. Whether Gina could protect him or not, she cared, and that was more than anyone else had ever done. Nodding to himself, he reoriented, getting his bearings in the not-yet-familiar neighborhood, and headed home.



No one might have noticed the bracelet if he hadn’t kept fidgeting with it. “Cool, friendship bracelet?” Gonzo asked.

The Newsman paused in his pacing and continual adjusting of his cuffs, his tie, and the woven and knotted strings around his wrist. “Friendship?”

“Yeah. Camilla made me one a few years back, when they were all the rage. She wove it herself out of corn sheaves and my belly-button lint,” Gonzo said. The Newsman just stared at him for a moment, then resumed his pacing on the loading dock.

“Gina made it for me,” he responded finally, wondering why he was bothering to explain anything. He felt too nervous to be still. It was fifteen minutes until opening, and there was still no sign of the person he most wanted to see.

“I like it,” Gonzo said. “Kinda brings out your eyes.”

The Newsman didn’t say anything, pausing momentarily to stare down the empty alley. Internally he was cursing himself for not having memorized her phone number yet. Rhonda had it; should he call his own apartment and get it? Would the little rat who seemed to have fallen into the role of his housekeeper even answer the phone? His answering machine had died years ago, and he’d never bothered with things like voicemail, since no one ever called him. Come to think of it, he wasn’t even sure where the phone was. “So, I gotta ask you,” Gonzo said, putting out a blue furry hand to arrest his pacing again, “What’s it like?”

“What is what like?”

“Dating a taller woman.”

Newsie stared at Gonzo. The odd little creature opened his heavy eyes wider, appearing genuinely curious. A few beats passed. Gonzo picked up the thread again, somewhat more subdued: “’Cause, you know, don’t get me wrong – I love Camilla! But she is a little on the, well,” he glanced around to make sure his chickie wasn’t nearby, “the height-challenged side.”

“Who’s height-challenged?” Rizzo demanded, wandering over to them with something possibly vegetable he’d snatched from the canteen.

“Oh, hey Rizzo. I was just asking Newsie what it’s like being with a taller woman.”

Rizzo sighed. “Divine, I bet!”

“Can’t a man pace in privacy?” the Newsman snapped at them both.

“Sheesh, okay,” Rizzo grumbled. He tugged at Gonzo’s hand. “Hey buddy, will you come do that thing with the soda machine again? I want a Splurt.”

“Huh?...Oh, sure,” Gonzo agreed, and the two of them went back inside the theatre.

Worried, the Newsman paused every few seconds to look down the alley. Had she changed her mind? Was she not coming? Maybe she’d reconsidered the whole jinx thing. Maybe… He stopped himself before he could think about something having happened to her. No. Probably traffic. But she walks. She’d overslept maybe. She said she was getting up early. Angry with himself, he glared out at the empty bricks and high walls. Will you stop that! She’ll be here!

And just like that, she was. His heart lightened immediately when she appeared around the corner. He leaped down the stairs and hurried to her, taking the stack of covered deli trays she was bearing. “Oh! Hi Newsie!” She kissed him, grinning. “I’m sorry I’m late…the deli was crowded.”

“What is all this?” he grunted, hefting the heavier-than-they-looked trays.

“Lunch, remember?” she laughed. He tried to pretend carrying it all up the stairs was easy; she followed, resisting the urge to put a stabilizing hand on his back. It would only have hurt his pride. As they came through the backstage hall, Scooter was rushing around telling everyone five minutes. Newsie nodded acknowledgement and then bore the trays of goodies downstairs to the green room.

“Hi guys! I brought lunch!” Gina called out, and within seconds half the theatre were swarming around, opening up the trays on one of the tables, and attacking the food. Gina waded into the fray, laughing, her arms lifted over the swarm of hungry Muppets, saying “You’re welcome” about twenty times for everyone who thanked her. The Newsman stood apart, at first annoyed that it wasn’t a small, private, shared bagged lunch, but within a few minutes was surprised by how many of his fellow cast members patted his shoulder or simply gave him some compliment or thanks in passing. When Gina came back to him and handed him a paper plate with a sandwich, pickles and green olives, and a handful of spicy-looking chips, he shook his head at her in bewilderment.

“Why are they thanking me?” he asked her. “You’re the one who fed them.”

“Because they know I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you,” she murmured back, kissing his nose. He wondered if he was turning pink; it certainly felt like it.

“Thank you,” he murmured back at her, examining the sandwich. “Pastrami, grilled onions and mustard on marbled rye?”

“Rhonda said it’s your favorite,” Gina said hopefully.

“I…yes,” he blinked at her. “How did she…when did you…”

“While you were sick. She and I had a really long chat that one afternoon. I’m glad you decided to give her a chance. She said she knew you were a decent guy when all you did was glare at them, not put down traps or poison or get a cat.” Gina smiled at him. “Come on, let’s find a seat.”

As they passed the soda machine, neither noticed two blue legs in bell-bottoms sticking out of the slot at the bottom where the cans were dispensed. Gonzo’s muffled voice came from the machine’s innards: “I think I’ve…think I’ve almost got it…there! Okay Rizzo, pull me out!... Rizzo?”

The brash little rat had followed Gina to a bench by the stairs, where she and Newsie were sitting down to eat. “I just want you to know,” Rizzo said, gazing up at the amused redhead in absolute worship, “that you are the best lady to ever have brought us food twice in a row! And…I think I’m in love!”

When Newsie leaned over, turning on his deepest scowl, Rizzo amended quickly, “In a, ‘hey I’m glad you’re my roomie’s girlfriend,’ kind of way.”

“We are not roommates!” Newsie barked at him.

“Whatever,” Rizzo said, and scurried off.

Gina giggled. “Did I do good?”

The Newsman looked once around the room. Everyone not scrambling to get upstairs to go onstage was happily noshing. She’d brought two sandwich trays, a tray of different kinds of chips and dip, and a tray of pickled things. He doubted any of it would last another five minutes. Everyone seemed pleased, and people were throwing happy looks their way. “You did wonderful,” he told her. “I think you’ve impressed everyone. They’re all smiling at you.”

“Not just at me,” she corrected gently, and he looked back at her, surprised. She smiled, then gave him another of those soft kisses on his prominent nose which he had decided he definitely liked.

“Thank you,” he said softly.

“Welcome,” she replied around a mouthful of her own sandwich. “But we’re gonna have to cool the freebies. This is just about the last of the money-tree cash…unless you want to try the same stunt again.”

He realized what she meant, and heat rose in his face again. “I don’t think so.” He busied himself with his lunch. She giggled. When he met her gaze, her gray eyes looked bright, and he found his normal stiff demeanor melting. Then she shifted closer to him, leaning her arm against his shoulder, and he relaxed.

He had time to finish off most of it before Scooter yelled for him. Gina deftly caught the remainder of the food and his plate when he jumped up. He ran four or five steps, halted as though a leash had yanked him, hurried back to her and kissed her more petite nose, then grinned at her and sprinted upstairs. Gina grinned back at his retreating form, then realized many eyes were upon her, and most of them looked shocked. Just as swiftly, nonchalant conversations resumed. Hmm, she thought, I guess he DOESN’T smile much. Pleased with what she’d wrought, she finished her own pickle, stood and wiped her hands on a paper napkin, then followed her favorite newscaster upstairs.

“Oh hey, thanks for the food,” Scooter whispered to her as he hurried past.

“Just don’t tell the Sosilly crew,” she whispered back. “I didn’t bring them any!”

The young man laughed silently, continuing along on whatever errand he was bound. Gina watched Newsie from the stage right wing, keeping carefully out of everyone’s way.

The stage lights on him were too bright for Newsie to see Gina, but he felt reassured at the certainty she was back there somewhere. Glancing down at his copy, he saw the little knots on the bracelet just poking out of his shirt-cuff, and with a bold heart launched into the story. “Here is a Muppet News Flash! Authorities today in the city health department declared the reports of mutagenic cockroaches allegedly swarming the city to be absolutely without merit…”

Gina suddenly turned to Kermit. “Do you have any mouthwash?”

“No, why?” the frog asked, perplexed.

“I think Gonzo has some,” Fozzie offered.

Gina grabbed the bear’s arms, startling him. “Which one is Gonzo?”

“He’s the short one with the paisley shirt,” Fozzie replied, taken aback at her intense manner.

“Short? Curly nose? Is he blue?”

“Come ta think of it, he was acting a little down today,” Fozzie mused.

Gina raced downstairs, looked around, spotted Rizzo and ran up to him. “Rizzy! Where’s Gonzo?”

The rat tapped one of the shoes sticking out of the drink machine. “Hey, buddy. Newsie’s girl wants you.”

“Yeah?” the muffled voice sounded from deep within the machine.

Gina leaned against it, asking loudly, “Can I borrow your mouthwash?”

“Sure.”

“Where is it?”

“Dressing room,” came the faint reply.

As Gina leapt up the stairs again, Rizzo poked Gonzo’s shoe. “C’mon, can you reach it or not? ‘Cause if not I’ll take a Goober Cola instead.”

Onstage, Newsie thought he heard a rustling sound around his feet. He looked down, saw nothing, and tried to continue the newscast. “Er…here is our own Dr Bunsen Honeydew of Muppet Labs to comment on the report. Dr Honeydew?” He turned to the screen behind him, where Bunsen’s beaming round face appeared.

“Thank you, Newsman. Yes, these reports which the health department has been issuing are quite true. I can definitively say there are no mutagenic roaches roaming the sewers of our city.”

“Oh good, good,” Newsie said, relieved to hear it, but still distracted by the sounds of something skittering across the stage. He tried to surreptitiously glance over his desk, but saw nothing. “I guess we can all relax, then.”

“The roaches are, in fact, not mutagenic at all; they’ve simply been trained to only go after specific types of food,” Bunsen continued brightly.

“Excuse me?”

“Yes, it’s an advance in insect behavioral modification which will revolutionize entymology! You see, we here at Muppet Labs have trained the roaches to disdain all of their normal food sources, so they will no longer be a general menace to civilization!” Bunsen looked positively bursting with pride.

Newsie was positive something had just zipped under his desk. Stepping away from it, he darted anxious looks all around the floor. “Ah – I see – uh – what – what foods do they now prefer?” he asked the scientist, trying to keep his focus on the story.

“Oh, only very specific ones.”

“Such as?” Newsie’s head jerked to the right. Had something just rustled the notes on his desk?

“They only eat pastrami sandwiches with grilled onions and mustard on marbled rye,” Bunsen stated firmly. He waved a dismissive hand. “Of course, since they’ve given up all other food sources, that one now makes them absolutely frenzied!”

Newsie shrieked as small brown bugs poured over his desk and swarmed down the news backdrop, all heading directly for him. Startled, Bunsen put his hands over his mouth before the connection winked out. “Oh! Oh, my…”

Gina grabbed Newsie two steps offstage. To his shock, she took firm hold of his nose in one hand and yanked it up, opening his mouth very wide. He nearly choked as she doused his tongue with strong mouthwash. “Rinse!” she told him, releasing him. He did, too surprised not to obey, but the taste was so violent he wound up spitting the stuff out almost immediately. Spluttering, he backed away from the stage, but the roaches suddenly seemed to be milling around in confusion. One of them, sniffing around with tiny antennae, stood on its hindmost legs and gestured. With a tiny but audible cheer, the entire swarm surged off toward the lower stairs, heading for the green room.

“Yeesh,” Kermit muttered.

“Did you even get a bite of the food?” Fozzie asked him.

“No! However,” the frog mused, “I suppose I could get a bite or two now…”

Gina shuddered, turning away. The Newsman walked a few steps off to the side with her, still hacking; he pulled out a clean handkerchief to wipe his mouth. “That was awful,” he panted. “What did you just give me?”

Gina looked at the bottle’s label, her eyes widening. “Uh…fresh minty sardine flavor?”

They both muttered, “Ugh…”

Kermit looked around. “Where’s Gonzo? I thought he was singing with Rowlf next.”

Scooter hurried past again on his way to find a screwdriver. “He’s stuck in the soda machine again. Already on it, boss.”

Gina gave Newsie a sympathetic look, brushing his cheek with one soft finger. “Out back?” she offered.

“Sounds good,” he said, drawing in air over his burning tongue, trying to erase the horrible taste from his mouth. She draped an arm around his shoulders, and they slipped outside, ignoring the screams from the green room.

 

[The Count]

Hee, I'm really liking the story as it develops. After that fiasco with the mutagenic retrained cockroaches I wonder if Bunsen will finally finish that milkable refridgerator. Please, post more.

 

[newsmanfan]

Part 16

“Fake butter or not?”

“Oh, yes please,” Rizzo said, drooling. “Lots and lots of it!”

Grimacing, Newsie shook his head. Gina grinned at him. “Looks like I was right to bring both kinds. Rhonda, two bowls, please?”

“Here you go,” the dainty rat said, plopping one large wooden bowl on the counter, then reaching up to receive another from two rats handing it down from a cupboard.

They’d stopped by a Zippy-Mart on the way to Newsie’s apartment to get sodas. Newsie kept a close eye on his own cup while Rizzo distributed a pack of cold cans to the other rodents. Newsie still wasn’t happy about sharing this evening’s entertainment, but Gina had promsied him it wouldn’t be the whole evening…with a suggestive stroke of her hand down his tie, and so he’d grudgingly agreed to include his non-paying roommates. Even now, he saw them carrying tiny lawn chairs and miniature tables into the living area from heaven knows where, arraying themselves drive-in style in front of the TV. “Okay, I’m going to get the movie set up,” Gina told him, indicating the elderly microwave wheezing as its turntable wobbled around with a bag of greasy fake-butter popcorn in it. “Could you give that one to the rats and then start another for them?”

Rizzo was grinning at him. Newsie frowned, making sure the rat understood this was being tolerated only because Gina had asked. Rizzo, undaunted, gestured at the microwave. “Why don’cha put em all in at once? It’ll be done quicker.”

Newsie shook his head. “I saw the Swedish Chef try that once. It wasn’t productive.”

“’It wasn’t productive,’” the rat repeated derisively. “Yeah, just hurry it up!”

The Newsman’s only response was a deep scowl.

“So, like, what’re we watching?” another rat asked in the living area.

“Dunno. Some royalty thing.”

“Royal Shakespeare Company,” Gina corrected, connecting her DVD player to the TV and turning everything on. She pulled out a DVD case, showing it to them. “This is their version of ‘Macbeth.’ It’s pretty scary. You guys sure you can handle it?”

“Ooh! A scary movie!”

“Yeah, yeah!”

“Bring it on!”

“Rizzy? I don’t know if I can watch this,” a pretty little gray rat named Lola whispered to Rizzo, who was already munching the first of the cooked popcorn from the larger of the two bowls.

He put his arm around her. “Ah, don’t worry, baby! I’ll hold you the whole time!”

“That’s what I was afraid of,” she sniffed, stalking off.

“Lola, Lola, sweetheart --!” Rizzo went after her.

“Shakespeare?” Newsie asked Gina as she returned to the kitchen.

“You don’t like?”

“I do like. I, uh…just wasn’t expecting something so…”

“Cultural?” She grinned at him, then leaned over to kiss him briefly. “Actually, it’s the show the Sosilly is doing. Not quite like this, of course; but I thought you might like to see the version I like best before you see the one I’ll be working on.”

Newsie nodded, intrigued by the idea. The Muppet Theatre mostly put on variety and vaudeville; he couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen something classical…and no, the time Nureyev had been their guest didn’t count. “When it comes to Shakes,” Gina said, “I actually prefer ‘As You Like It’ the best, but I really love what RSC did with this one. It’s true to the script, but has a modern dystopian theme that’s amazing to watch.” She swapped out the popcorn bags, dumping the second buttery one into the large bowl and handing it off to three eager rats who carried it over to the TV. “Do you have a fave?”

“A favorite play of Shakespeare’s?” He had to think about it. “I haven’t seen enough to form an opinion,” he hedged, and she laughed.

“Then, dear deprived Newsman, you are in for a treat!” He couldn’t help but return her smile. “If you’ll get the drinks to the sofa, I’ll be right there with our bowl.”

He nodded again, and took the jumbo-sized fountain cups over to the sofa, still a little amazed to have a party going on in his place which he was actually invited to. The rats were at a high pitch of excitement, already eating their popcorn, chattering amongst themselves. When Gina sat down and hit PLAY, they applauded and then settled down. Gina set the bowl of no-butter popcorn in her lap, put her left arm around Newsie’s shoulders, and drew him in close. He marveled at her clean, faintly spicy scent; she always seemed to have just rubbed cloves and exotic flowers all over her skin before she saw him. He hoped he was as pleasant for her. He’d managed with several rinses of water to get the sardine-mouthwash taste out of his mouth, and once they’d reached the apartment, Gina had talked him into removing his jacket and tie and shoes, and even rolling up his shirtsleeves and unbuttoning the top collar button. He felt half-naked…but that feeling in conjunction with being so close to her was rather exciting.

He was surprised to see what looked like a twentieth-century war bunker in the opening scenes. “I thought ‘Macbeth’ was about an old Scottish laird centuries back?” he whispered at Gina.

“This is a new interpretation. Think ‘1984,’” she whispered back; her breath on his ear made him temporarily lose all focus. He wasn’t entirely sure what she meant, but nodded back.

“Shhh,” one of the rats hissed. Biting back a smile, Gina kicked up the volume a touch, and offered up a fingerful of popcorn to Newsie. A little surprised, he opened his mouth for her and she tossed it in with a soft giggle.

Oh…he could get used to this.

He had to admit, the production was outstanding. The set, which seemed to be someplace underground (when Rizzo suddenly squeaked, “Oh my gawd! I get it! It’s a morgue!”, all the other rats squealed in fright), strongly suggested a fortified bunker in the midst of a second-world military coup. Patrick Stewart as the ambitious but tortured Macbeth was by turns eager, harsh, and chilling. The murder of the king, although performed mostly off-camera, was so effective several of the rats fled or cowered under the coffee table; when Banquo’s ghost visited the grand feast, Rizzo himself yelped that he couldn’t take any more and left the room for several minutes. For his part, the Newsman was entranced as much by his companion as the play. He completely missed at least one scene when she began playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. Feeling daring, he let his hand brush her thigh when he reached for the popcorn bowl a couple of times, each time glancing up at her; she smiled.

When Macbeth confronted the witches about his kingship, a startling and eerie scene involving some fast-motion camera tricks which really made the weird sisters look unearthly, Gina surprised Newsie by setting aside the near-empty bowl and drawing him into her lap instead. As she wrapped her arms around his waist, she murmured into his ear, “This scene always messes with my head. Do you mind?”

Oh no. He definitely did not mind.

He leaned against her, conscious of the curves of her body against his back, wondering if she expected him to be able to follow the story like this, or if she was deliberately teasing him. She shivered at the end of the witches’ scene, which even made him shudder; most of the rats were squeaking in terror. “Ugh. It’s just so creepy,” Gina whispered.

“Gypsies aren’t like that, right?” Newsie asked her cautiously.

She smiled, then met his lips with a kiss. “What do you think?”

“I think your spell is working,” he murmured.

She giggled. “He does know how to make a joke.”

Newsie blushed, but was content to snuggle with her through the end of the play, feeling more appreciated than he ever had. When the credits rolled, the rats who’d toughed it out (or come back into the room) slowly clapped, and loud chatter quickly arose.

“Wow. That was amazing.”

“Didja see when the dead guy sat up? Didja see that?”

“Well obviously, it was a postmodern metaphor for totalitarianism and the fall of the one-party state…”

“That Royal Stewart guy kicks butt!”

“Let’s watch it again!”

“Hey Gina, is there any more popcorn?”

“Fine, but don’t hide under my chair this time.”

Above the noise, Gina held up one arm and pointed to the kitchen. “There’s more, but you guys have to make it yourselves!” She shifted, and hastily Newsie moved off her lap, but when she stood up, she took his hand, smiling at him. “Your landlord and I have some things to discuss.”

Bewildered, he rose, going into his bedroom as she gently indicated. “Off-limits!” she called over her shoulder at the rats, most of whom barely acknowleged her as they figured out how to cue up the beginning again and wrestled the microwave door open. She shut the bedroom door behind her, turning on an absolutely evil grin.

“Uh…what…” Newsie began, but was cut off when she swiftly bore him to the bed, locking his tongue with her own, her hands stroking his hair, his face, his neck. She removed his glasses, setting them on the nightstand, and he could only stare at her in complete surprise. When she allowed him a breath, he puffed, “…Oh.” He was sure he was bright red by this point. Gina was breathing hard as well, poised on hands and knees above him on the bed, her hair falling over her shoulders and eyes narrowed in mischevious delight.

“Gotcha,” she said.

“Okay,” he conceded happily. Giggling, she lowered her face to his. Her hair tickled his neck and the little of his chest exposed by his slightly open collar. He reached up, brushing his fingers through that amazing silkiness, then surprised her by pulling her down to meet his kiss, his hand on the back of her neck.

“Mmm,” she said, smiling, her eyes inches from his own when they broke for air once more. “That’s more like it.”

“I’ve never…um…haven’t really had much…experience,” Newsie admitted, blushing again.

“You,” she said, kissing his forehead, “Are. Adorable.” Her kisses moved down his nose, making him chuckle in utter delight. She drew back a moment, looking semi-critically at him. “Did you know, without your glasses, you look kind of like Sam Donaldson?”

“Is that bad or good?”

“Your nose is cuter.”

He had to laugh at that, and pulled her close again for more kissing.

Oh, this was amazing. This was absolutely unthought-of! He inhaled sharply when she started undoing his shirt-buttons. Any protest he might have made was buried in a groan as she began brushing just her fingertips over his chest. He gulped for air, and managed to find some shadow of his usual deep voice, though it sounded weak even to him: “Gina…are you…are you sure…?”

She pulled back enough to study his eyes seriously. “Are you?”

He had to swallow twice before he could speak again. “Yes.”

Her smile was tender, and more beautiful than anything he’d ever seen directed his way before. “Then kiss me.”

He was happy to oblige. The placement of both of their hands became more involved, more daring, each welcoming the other’s touch. In the midst of this, Newsie suddenly started, looking blurrily around the room. “Did you hear that?”

“Hmmm?” Gina kept doing something to him with her fingertips, and only with great effort did he focus his hearing. Some small sound, some shifting, creaking noise, sounded out of place to him.

“Wait, wait,” he begged. “I thought I heard something…”

“Just the rats,” she dismissed it. As she returned her lips to his neck, he gave in, doing his best to echo that affection with his own ministrations.

The definite sound of a groaning floorboard shook him out of it. “That doesn’t sound right,” he said, blinking up at her.

“Newsie…” Gina sighed at him, mildly annoyed. “I’m sure it’s just the rats. Relax.” She renewed her attentions, doing something else by shifting position that caused him to groan and close his eyes. She was probably right. Why was he even worried about the rodents? It didn’t matter nearly as much as…that…oh yes, that…right…there…

“Whoa! Uh, sorry,” Rizzo said.

Flustered, Newsie quickly opened his eyes, glaring around Gina’s curtain of lovely fiery hair at the rat. “No interruptions!” he yelled angrily, and Rizzo flinched.

“Hey, I said sorry! I just wanted to know how attached you are to that antique in the kitchen, ‘cause it just kind of…exploded…uh…” Before Newsie could erupt at this, Rizzo stared up at the ceiling over the bed. “Uh…you might wanna move!”

Newsie looked up and saw the ceiling directly over the bed bowing down, obvious even without his glasses: plaster flaking off, droplets of whitish water beginning to fall. The whole thing creaked ominously.

Several things happened in the next three seconds.

The Newsman shoved Gina off the bed sideways with a surge of adrenaline. Rizzo screamed as a chunk of rotted boards, corrupted plaster, and a large downpour of water caught him. The Newsman tried to get his legs under him and leap, when gallons and gallons of powerful water roared down on him as his upstairs neighbor’s waterbed crashed through the ceiling directly onto his own bed. A piece of half-rotten wood hit Newsie on the head as the whole mess fell; the waterbed grazed his legs, throwing off his jump in midair. The added weight on the original and poorly-maintained floor made it buckle and instantly collapse, taking both beds down to the next floor with a terrible crash. He lunged toward Gina and managed to grab the edge of the new hole with his fingertips, crying out in pain and fear.

“Help! Help!” Rizzo shrieked, clinging to another part of the rough-edged hole. Newsie clung to the splintered boards, scrabbling to pull himself up even as he felt one of the half-boards he held onto creaking downward, about to fall in. Rats ran in, squeaking in alarm, and quickly pulled Rizzo out of danger. Gina seemed to have hit her head on his nightstand when Newsie had flung her off the bed; she groaned, one hand going to her forehead. Newsie heard more noise above and cringed; more chunks of the ceiling fell, spattering and bouncing off him on their way down. Below, shouts and more noise, and another loud crash. Straining, gasping, he dragged himself out of the hole right before his upstairs neighbor’s night-table tottered over the edge and dropped past, scattering various personal items as it went. He pulled himself over to Gina, touching her shoulder. She raised her head, blinking groggily at him; he embraced her, and felt her putting an uncertain arm around him in return.

“Holy cow!” Rizzo exclaimed, looking up and then down at the twin holes in ceiling and floor. Voices several floors below seemed to be echoing that sentiment.

“Are you all right?” Newsie gasped, checking Gina’s head, looking for wounds. He didn’t see any blood, at least.

“Y-yeah,” she stammered, shaking, slowly looking up to see the damage caused by the near-miss. Then she turned concerned eyes to him. “Newsie, you’re bleeding!”

He touched a hand to his forehead, his fingers coming away with a stain of pink. He could also feel rough scratches where the floorboards had scraped his exposed chest as he hauled himself out of the hole. “I’m okay,” he said, trying to control the shaking in his own voice. “As long as you’re all right, I’m fine.”

“A waterbed?” Gina asked, incredulous. The hole above was still dripping around all its edges. “Some idiot actually had a waterbed in this rat-trap?”

“Hey! Language,” one of the rats squeaked indignantly.

“It would fall on him,” Rizzo said, glaring.

Astounded, Newsie glared back. “What the hey did I have to do with that? Did you miss the fact that it nearly killed me?”

“Yeah? So what else is new?” the rat countered. Disgusted, he shooed a couple of his fellow rodents out of the room, heading after them. At the door he turned for a parting shot: “Everything falls on you! You – are – a – menace! I am not sticking around for another close call!” Grumbling agreement, the rats all left.

“I can’t believe that,” Gina breathed, still shivering, staring up at the hole. Distraught, Newsie held her tight, slowly getting her to sit up with him on the floor a few feet from the hole. No telling how dangerous the whole floor was now. Anxiously he looked around for any hint of instability, but couldn’t tell if the remaining boards would be safe to step on, even for him.

“Let’s get away from that,” he suggested. Gina nodded at him, and together they edged away from the hole, only standing when they had their backs to the bedroom wall, then slowly moving sideways along it to the door.

“Your glasses,” she said, but he pushed her out into the living area.

“No. I’ll get them. Don’t come back in here.”

Cautiously, he inched forward until he could stand in the doorway to the tiny bathroom, firmly held the doorframe with one hand, and leaned out as far as he could. He couldn’t reach his glasses, but he could reach the nightstand, and slowly tugged it closer. He put his glasses on finally, starting backwards when he could clearly see just how bad the damage was. Impossible to see much below unless he dared approach the edge of the hole, which he wasn’t willing to risk, but he felt it was safe to assume his bed was little more than matchsticks and fluff now. He gathered up the few books on the nightstand, glad they seemed to have escaped harm, and took them out into the main room. Gina was shaking her head as the rats, lugging tiny suitcases and complaining in low tones, marched out his front door. Only Rhonda hesitated, looking between her fellow rats and Newsie as he emerged with his prized books.

Gina looked at Rhonda. “Could you do one more favor?” The rat shrugged. “Can you rustle up a couple of empty boxes for his stuff?”

Rhonda glanced up at Newsie. “Sure…why not.” She scampered off. Newsie felt his legs trembling, and sat down hard on the sofa. Gina sat next to him, biting her lip and looking worried when she saw the red scrape-marks on his chest and lower arms.

“You saved me,” she said quietly.

Feeling lightheaded, he only nodded. She pulled him to her, holding tight, and he closed his eyes, giving in to a shudder, thinking just how close a call that had been for them both. He muttered, “If that little rat hadn’t come in…”

Gina was silent a moment, stroking his hair back. Then she touched the string bracelet still on his wrist. “Never doubt.”

He wasn’t sure her charm had anything to do with it, but he nodded. While he sat still, trying to calm his frantic heart, taking deep breaths, Gina mused aloud, “I guess we should call a cab.”

“A cab?” Newsie frowned at her, confused. “What for?”

“Granted, you don’t have a lot of stuff, but it’d be easier to drive over than carry it in several trips…”

“Stuff? Drive? Huh?”

Gina gestured at the open bedroom door. They could see droplets still pattering down. “Newsie…this place is uninhabitable.”

He had to agree, but still didn’t grasp what she was talking about. Looking into his eyes, she saw his confusion, and tenderly brushed a finger down his cheek. “You can stay with me. Just for now…or as long as you want. Okay?”

He stared at her, his jittery brain still not really present. Rhonda returned with two large cardboard boxes; she carried one overhead, another rat the other. The rats dumped the boxes down on the rug, and the other rat snorted in contempt at Newsie before trotting out the door again. Rhonda twitched her whiskers at Gina uncertainly. “Is this okay?”

“That’ll be fine, thank you, Rhonda,” Gina said.

“Well,” the rat said, “Um. See ya.” With a flick of her tail she was gone.

Newsie looked at Gina, bewildered. “Did you say move in with you?”

“Yep.” She searched his gaze, concerned. “Is that okay with you?”

He couldn’t form a coherent reply. Instead he just held onto her, trying to master his emotions, ashamed at his own fear, but unwilling to break away from her warm, safe arms.



He was embarrassed at how few possessions he really had; all his books, including the ones from the single shelf in the living area, didn’t quite fill one of the boxes. He folded his clothes into the other one with a small collection of personal items, draping his two remaining clean jackets on hangers over the box. Gina insisted the framed Yerka prints not be left behind, and carried those. Neither spoke much during the cab ride to her apartment building. The Newsman was unwilling to admit just how deeply shaken the whole incident had made him, but he held tight to Gina’s hand until the cab stopped. He followed her into the building a little nervously, lugging the heavier box of books, avoiding eye contact with the few other residents they passed on the way in and in the elevator up to her floor in the nine-story Art Deco-styled building. As they paused before her door and she fumbled out her keys, he muttered to her, “Are you sure this is all right? What about your landlord?”

“I actually own the apartment. My grandmama left it to me,” she replied, opening the door. He hefted his box, following her inside, the atmosphere of the place unnerving him immediately. “Um, just set that wherever. I’m really sorry…I wasn’t expecting you over just yet. Give me a sec?” Gina asked, and he nodded. She hurried back through a doorway, and the Newsman set down the books and looked around in uncertain awe.

The row of windows looking out to the street were uncovered save for a myriad of things hanging from hooks at various levels: ferns and cascading flowers in pots, round glass baubles, a woven web of some kind of thick string with feathery tassels, tiny windchimes which tinkled softly at the light breeze from the closing door. Below all that, bookshelves made from old apple crates held numerous large books on art and artists and titles relating to theatrical design. The furnishings were far nicer than what he’d had, including a large and well-stuffed leather couch with several sections, an old steamer trunk serving as a coffee table, a couple of Victorian armchairs, and through an actual arched doorway an elegant-looking wooden table with huge clawfoot legs and four matching chairs. A small octagonal fishtank with black gravel and reddish plastic plants slowly waving in a bubbling current was home to a school of tiny black and bright blue fish. Framed prints of Art Nouveau advertisements graced many of the walls except where a wardrobe with intricate carvings on the doors sat across from the couch. The floorboards were bare around the edges of the room, but several Oriental carpets had been laid throughout the living area, some overlapping. Some odd scent hung in the air, spicy and floral as the owner herself always was, but in a deeper, somehow more powerful way. Newsie thought, So this is how Gypsies live? If an old woman in a shawl had popped out of the other doorway and offered to tell his fortune, he wouldn’t have been surprised…though he probably would have fled anyway.

“Okay,” Gina said, returning to the room. She noted his nervous expression, and halted. “Is…is everything all right?”

“Fine,” he said at once, nodding. “Um…interesting art.” He looked up at one particular print which featured a lithe green devil pouring roiling fumes from a bottle into a slender glass. The ad copy was in French, which he couldn’t read.

“Oh, yeah. The absinthe one. Great, isn’t it?” She looked around. “What about the one with the house underwater over there?”

“Huh?” he said intelligently.

Gina smiled. “Your print. ‘Double Life.’ Would it go well over there?” She pointed to a bare patch of wall near the arch to the dining room.

“You want to hang up the Yerka prints here?”

“Why not? Especially if you’re going to be here a while,” she offered, and he felt a flush stealing over his cheeks.

“Whatever you want,” he said. Gina came and looked down at him a moment, sighing.

“We really should put something on those scratches. Come on into the kitchen. I’ll make some tea for your nerves and bandage you up.”

Newsie didn’t know whether to refuse or welcome the offer, but he followed along, feeling overwhelmed. The kitchen was another cause for mild alarm. A low, multi-globed ceramic lamp gave off soft amber light, but even in its dim illumination he could see the myriad of strange herbs and flowery stems bunched and tied together upside-down, hanging from a rack over a work-counter; colored hand-dipped candles paired on strings dangling from a row of hooks on a wall; and on the marble slab of a counter itself, mortar-and-pestles and an ancient-looking book with a tarnished lock holding it closed. He hung back as Gina went to the sink and filled a copper kettle, placing it on the stove to heat up. “Uh…if you don’t mind my asking…what exactly do you make in here?” Newsie asked hesitantly.

Gina laughed. “Everything! It’s kind of a work area as well as a cooking area.” She indicated the drying herbs. “My Grandmama Angie taught me herbal remedies, folklore from the old country, stuff like that. Nothing scary, Newsie. I promise.” She mixed something in a cloth teabag and set in in a simple pottery mug. “Have a seat, and take off your shirt.”

“Um,” Newsie said, not entirely comfortable. But Gina wasn’t taking no for an answer, and soon he found himself seated at a small café-style table in a corner, sipping something watery and floral from the steaming mug, trying to pretend he wasn’t in a woman’s apartment with his shirt off while she cleaned the slight wounds on his forehead, chest and arms. He knew he’d never win a beach-body contest, but Gina only smiled, kissed his cheek, and patched bandages over the treated scratches.

“Not so bad, is it?” she asked him as he rebuttoned his shirt.

“You have a very nice home,” he managed, still feeling out of place.

“Thank goodness for Grandmama Angie. I’d never be able to afford it otherwise.” After a pause, she switched topic. “You were my hero today,” she said, looking him in the eye. He tried to shrug it off, embarrassed, but she caught his chin in her hand and made him meet her gaze. “Thank you, Newsie.”

“I’m just glad you weren’t hurt.” He sipped more of the odd tea. “Uh…what is this stuff?”

“Chamomile, mugwort, and jasmine. Just to calm you down.” She smiled at him again. “Is it helping?”

“I guess so,” he replied. He reassessed internally, and realized he did feel tired. Of course, that could be the crash from the earlier adrenaline.

“Will you let me make you dinner?”

“No, I’m fine, really,” he protested, feeling guilty. This was a lot for someone to do for him all at once.

“Suit yourself. I am hungry, and I am cooking.” She grinned. “Why don’t you go check out the bedroom? I hung up your jackets on the door to the closet, and put your other things in the bottom dresser drawer.”

“My…my things?” He realized that would have been his shorts as well as shirts and ties, and blushed deeply. “Uh…you didn’t have to do that.”

“Well, go check it out. Move stuff if you want. I don’t mind,” Gina offered. As Newsie reluctantly walked down the hallway to the bedroom and bath, he heard her add, “Cute polka-dots, by the way!”

Deeply mortified, Newsie stepped into Gina’s bedroom. Her bed was the low-platform variety, with storage drawers underneath. He avoided it even though the colorful patchwork quilt of velvets and rich-toned patterned squares immediately caught his eye. The odd smell, some kind of incense, was even more powerful in here. He saw some red candles in brass holders atop the dresser; there seemed to be something else behind them, but he wasn’t tall enough to see what. He wondered if all the exotic things were part of her heritage. He wondered what he’d gotten himself into. He wondered what the incense was; it was making him drowsy. He wondered why she kept a tasseled shawl draped and pinned to the wall over the bed. How soft was that bed, anyway? It looked soft… He rubbed his hand lightly over the surface of the quilt, attracted to the deep colors of it, dark green, indigo blue, burgundy red and bits of coppery thread woven here and there…

When Gina came looking for him almost a half-hour later to coax him to eat the stew with wild rice she’d thrown together, she found the Newsman curled up on her bed atop the quilt, sleeping soundly, his shoes and glasses still on. She smiled, watching him a moment, then gently removed the harder articles of clothing and set them safely aside. He stirred and mumbled but did not awaken. Gina moved silently to the altar on top of the dresser, opened the little doors, and looked inside it at the small figure posed within. It had an umbrella over its head, a large red heart sticker on its chest, and was a miniature dead ringer for the man asleep on her bed. She sent up a prayer of thanks, shut the altar again, and bent over to kiss the sleeping Newsman before she went to enjoy her dinner.

 

[newsmanfan]

Part 17

Eventually the unnerving silence awoke him.

The Newsman blinked, briefly panicked to find himself in a strange place and unable to see clearly. Then the previous night came back to him. Peering around, he discovered his glasses on a sturdy, small table swathed in a dark red paisley fabric next to the bed. He cleaned them and set them on his nose, puzzled to see the bed didn’t look slept in. He’d woken with a soft throw blanket over him, still clothed in pants and shirt, atop the quilt. “Gina?” he called. No answer.

Nervously he got up and walked through the still apartment. The soft burbling from the aquarium was the only sound anywhere. He marveled that no noise from the street or her neighbors disturbed the peace of the place. This building must have been well-constructed, unlike his own digs…which made him grimace, wondering what would happen with that mess. The phrase ‘class-action lawsuit’ came to mind fairly readily.

There was a large piece of paper folded like a tent on the otherwise smooth dining room table. From across the room he could read “Newsie” writ large on it. He picked it up and read it in the comfortable light of the living room, envious of all her bright, large windows. “Dear Sleeping Journalist,” Gina had penned in a graceful, looping hand, “I didn’t want to wake you. I have to be at the Sosilly all day – hanging and focusing lights all morning and afternoon, then first tech rehearsal tonight. Drew you a map if you want to come by and meet for dinner; I should have an hour free around five. I’m sure you can stay for rehearsal if you want, too. I’ll clear it with Dr Rob, our director. Meanwhile feel free to settle in. I’ll call at lunch; don’t know when that’ll be yet. Hope your wounds are feeling better today. Use anything you want. Talk soon… Yours, Gina.” On the backside of the paper, a small sketch of the route to the Sosilly Theatre was accompanied by a phone number, presumably either the theatre or Gina’s cell phone. Newsie wished he still had his own cell; the last one had been the property of the television station where he’d done local reports and the occasional filling-in for the weatherman, but that had been taken away when he was let go. The recession had bit everyone hard, necessitating his living in the should’ve-been-condemned rat house in the first place.

This…this was heaven by comparison. The apartment was probably three times the size of his place, with actual woodwork around windows and doors, decorative heating grilles in the floor, a large kitchen and a bathroom which made him pause in appreciation when he stepped inside it. She had a shower with an actual tub below it! Although the tilework looked older to him, everything was spotless. He noted, looking around the rooms more carefully and not allowing the bohemian feel of the place to continue throwing him off-kilter, everything was actually very neat. A little exotic for his taste, but tidy and organized.

Walking back through the living room, he noticed the pillow and rumpled blanket on the couch. Oh, no. Had she slept out here while he spent the night on her bed? Chagrined, he vowed to reverse that order tonight. She was being terribly generous just allowing him to stay there! He wondered how much he had left in his bank account. Enough to buy her dinner, at least?

Newsie checked his watch: just after ten. He probably had some time before she would call. He debated looking through the kitchen for food; he already felt terribly guilty. Sure enough, there was a small note inside the refrigerator as well: “Go ahead. Whatever you want!” Oh, no. This was far too generous. He tromped down the part of his mind which was soaring triumphantly, telling himself it would be selfish to take advantage of this; he should be humble, appreciative, generous as possible in return; he ought to…he…

There was a tub of some kind of soup in the ‘fridge. He could clearly see wild rice and vegetables, and when he opened it for a sniff, the odor which assailed his sensitive nose actually made him take a step back from the sheer pleasure of it.

He should eat this soup before it went bad. That’s what he should do.

Sitting at the small kitchen table, wolfing down the warmed-up soup a few minutes later, he found he couldn’t think clearly until it was gone. Immediately an image of Rizzo stealing his own food came to mind, and guiltily he cleaned up the dishes. He wandered the apartment, thinking. Relationships were certainly not something he’d had much practice with, but even he could see this called for something different, something truly appreciative and significant. Frustrated, he turned over a dozen different clichés in his head, dismissing them one after another. Surprised at himself, he realized he actually wanted to do something romantic for Gina. He had no idea what would be appropriate.

Who could advise him? The very thought of calling anyone for romantic help made him cringe in humiliation. Gonzo and Camilla had been together a long time…but knowing Gonzo, any suggestions he could make would be so bizarre as to be impracticable. Pepe? Newsie frowned. Please. Who, then?

Someone came to mind. He physically flinched. She’d probably kill him just for asking… Then again… Newsie rubbed the string bracelet around his wrist. He wondered if it was effective against karate chops.

After several minutes of internal debate, he finally sighed, steeled his nerves, and used the apartment’s phone to call Scooter to ask for another number.



Piggy was not pleased; the phone rang just as her dressmaker was pinning up the hem on her brilliant new spring frock. It would have three tiers of lace and ribbon roses, each scalloped at a slightly different point for a lovely layered effect. Impatiently, Piggy gestured for her rhinestone-studded cell phone, and Foo Foo handed it up to her. “Yeah?” Piggy snapped. There was silence on the other end. Piggy growled, “Don’t waste my time, jerk!” and was about to hang up when she heard a nervous throat-clearing on the other end. “Well? Who is this?”

“Uh…er…Miss Piggy. I’m sorry for tracking you down on your off day…”

The voice was familiar, male and a little scratchy around the edges, but she couldn’t place it. “This is an unlisted number, bub, so you’d better have a really good reason for calling me! Now who is this?”

“Er…it’s me. The Newsman.”

Stunned, Piggy foundered a moment. “Newsgeek? Why…why would you…” Then she got it, and got angry. “Who gave you this number? Did the frog put you up to this? I’ll kill him! Look, what part of not a snowball’s chance in –“

“I need your help,” the Newsman said. He sounded terrified.

Piggy took the phone away from her ear a moment, looking at it in confusion. Finally she put it back to her face and growled, “I’m not bailing you out of jail, either, or paying your hospital bills, if that’s what you’re after!”

He sounded desperate now. “No, no, not that…Miss Piggy…please! I…I need…romantic advice.”

Piggy stared at the phone again, dumbfounded. “You? You need romantic advice?”

“It’s for Gina,” he added.

“Who?”

“Gina. The…the young lady who’s come to the theatre for me a few times. She’s…um…she’s…special. To me. I mean…she’s done so much for me, and I just…I just want to repay her somehow. Something nice. And I thought you…uh…well, you know more about…these kinds of things…than anyone else.”

Piggy waited to see if he was done stammering. “Lemme see if I get this,” she said, beginning to be intrigued despite her annoyance. “You are asking moi for advice on what to do for your groupie?”

He seemed to be having difficulty answering. “Well?” she demanded.

The voice on the other end was timid. “Yes, Miss Piggy. You…well…you’re the expert.”

“Hang on,” Piggy sighed to the dressmaker. “I gotta sit down for this one. Foo Foo, be a dear and pour me another cup of tea?” Once settled, she spoke into the phone again. “Newsgeek? You still there?”

“Yes?”

Piggy started to feel amused. He must be really desperate if he was daring all this. “Well…I am tres busy…but since vous asked so nicely, I suppose I can spare just a teensy moment. Although I’m not sure there’s anything that would be romantic coming from you.”

“Thank you!” He sounded genuinely relieved, and then went right into barking-out-the-news mode. “Thank you thank you! See, my apartment is ruined because my neighbor’s waterbed crashed through my bedroom and there’s too many holes to stay there and she let me move in with her and her place is really nice and she’s done so much for me and I really don’t want to screw this up and…”

“Geez, concussion-brain, slow down!” Something he’d said struck her, and she asked in surprise, “Did you say you moved in with her?”

“Uh…yes.”

“As in moved in moved in?” Piggy was shocked.

“Uhm. Er.”

“Good grief. She must be as brain-damaged as you.” Who on earth would want that accident-attracting geek staying with them? “Well, it seems you’ve already skipped the courtship phase.”

“No!” He sounded panicked. “No, I mean, sort of, that is…er…er…I’m just staying here. ‘Til I find a new place. I mean, yes, we’re dating, but it’s not…”

“Listen, loser, do you want my help or not?”

“Yes…?”

“Then shut up a minute and let me think. This is a lot to take in.” The Newsman waited in tense silence while Piggy considered the unbelievable ramifications of this information. She’d glimpsed the long-haired girl backstage twice now, and had to admit she had decent taste in clothes, if not in men. Clearly, not at the fashionista level of Piggy herself, but not too bad. Vaguely she recalled Kermit mentioning the redhead worked at another theatre; maybe she was a dancer? “Are you sure she’s dating you?”

Newsgeek sounded affronted. “Yes!”

“Don’t snap at me, baggy-eyes. I’m just checking.” Piggy thought some more, then sighed. “You want to do something romantic for her?”

“Yes,” he said softly, and Piggy, startled, heard it. Whatever this mystery girl felt or didn’t feel for the Muppet Theatre’s much-ridiculed newscaster, he was smitten. She paused, for a moment thinking of the times she’d heard that same tone in her frog’s voice, when he looked at her all wistfully; those times she knew he really did adore her… Snapping herself out of the reverie, she was all business again.

“Okay, Newsgeek, listen up…and grab a pen…”



“Meep me mee mee!”

Honeydew hurried over to check the readout screen which his colleague was so frantically gesturing at. “Oh, my goodness! You’re absolutely right! Quick, let’s go find it!” Picking up his revised and rebuilt psychokinetic field sensor, the scientist hastened to the lab door. Beaker hung back, in no hurry to repeat his experience in tracking down the field’s source last time. “Well, come along, Beakie! This could be the frontier of a new and exciting subfield in variable explositropic energy modulation! You don’t want to be left behind, do you?”

Beaker gestured back at the mainframes, where needles tracked the energy like a seismograph, looking from them to Honeydew. Finally, with a heavy sigh, he trotted after the eager Honeydew. At least he didn’t have to go first this time…

The investigative pair cautiously made their way up to the mainstage level, Bunsen sweeping the sensor to and fro in front of him. “How interesting! Since we’ve fixed the sensor, there seem to have been more incidences of the strange energy bursts right here in the theatre! Oh, isn’t this something?” he asked Beaker, smiling.

Beaker shook his head rapidly, but Bunsen was already moving on, checking the readings on the dark stage. “Hmm. By my calculations, I believe the most recent high spike to have been right here yesterday. How intriguing! Did you see anything out of the ordinary yesterday, Beaker?”

“Huh-uhh,” Beaker said, nervously peering up and all around. He’d spent the day in the lab, happily working on his own mold cultures while Honeydew fiddled with the new instruments during the time he wasn’t helping with the news sketch. It had been a blissfully peaceful day as far as Beaker was concerned.

“Hmm. I’m getting some current readings, although they’re not as strong as these. The newest signal seems to be coming from…right…through…here…” Honeydew tracked the quietly beeping signal through the backstage area. “My goodness! It’s moving! It’s gone downstairs!”

All sorts of hideous possibilities flashed through Beaker’s mind. He began waving his hands and shaking his head at his compatriot. “Meep! Meep mee mee meep me mee…” Honeydew wasn’t listening, heading for the stairs down to the green room and the canteen. As they reached the top of the stairs, Honeydew suddenly thrust the sensor into Beaker’s hands.

“Go ahead, Beakie! Let’s see what’s making that energy field!”

“Meeeeep!” Beaker protested, trying to brace himself, but the heavy sensor in his hands nearly toppled him. Beaker stumbled down a few steps before he caught himself, hanging onto the railing.

“Beaker, please do be careful with that equipment! The last one was so thoroughly destroyed it took me days to salvage the main components!” Honeydew said, irritated. Beaker felt like giving him a meep of his mind, but continued down the stairs with trepidation. They both heard noises coming from below. “Oh, my! What do you suppose that is?” Honeydew asked, a worried hand touching his mouth.

They peered slowly over the enclosed rail of the stairs. Rizzo and a number of rats were slinging bedrolls and suitcases under a bench and flopping down on and around it. “I shoulda made the geek pay cab fare,” Rizzo complained, panting.

“Man, who’d’a thunk we’d wind up here again?”

“Yeah…I thought you said we were done eating Chef’s cooking!”

“I need a mineral water…”

Startled, Honeydew and Beaker looked at one another. Beaker pointed the sensor at the rats. It beeped more strongly. Bunsen took the device from him, fiddling with dials and frowning at the results. “That’s very odd,” he said.

“Hey, look who’s talkin’,” Rizzo quipped.

The scientists came the rest of the way down into the green room; Beaker continued to glance around fearfully, convinced the other shoe had not yet dropped. “Excuse me, but you seem to be giving off an inordinate amount of psychokinetic energy,” Honeydew told the rats, sweeping the sensor over them.

“Hey, point that thing somewhere else!” Rizzo said.

“Who’s a psycho?” another demanded.

“Is that geek-speak for I-just-hauled-this-danged-suitcase-for-hours-and-I’m-outta-energy?”

“I really need a mineral water, you guys…”

“Hmm,” Bunsen mused, scratching his bald head. Beaker looked the rats over, looked at the readout screen, and started to relax.

“Mee me, mee meep mee?” he suggested.

“No, I recalibrated for that,” Honeydew told him. “How very odd. They’re all tainted with the same energy readings, but I don’t believe they’re the true source of it…”

“Hey buddy, gimme a boost?” one of the rats asked Beaker. Obligingly he lifted the rodent onto the kitchen counter, where it began foraging through the kitchen supplies stacked there. “Aw, man! Perrier! Why can’t we ever get some San Pellegrino?” Disgruntled, the rat hefted a large green bottle. “Catch, Marty!”

“Whoof…” puffed the flattened rat on the floor beneath the bottle. Those rats not still panting from exhaustion tittered.

“This bears further investigation,” Honeydew said, drawing Beaker away from the rats. “We may have to completely reconfigure…”

“Meep meep, me mee?” Beaker suggested. Honeydew snapped his fingers.

“Ask them where they’ve been? What a brilliant idea, Beakie!” As Beaker shrugged happily to himself, Honeydew turned back to the rodents now passing the bottled water back and forth. One of them had produced an harmonica from somewhere and was playing a mournful Western tune on it. They already had their bedrolls in a circle around a tiny campfire in an ashtray on the floor. “Ah, excuse me, my rodentia friends: might I ask where you just came from?”

“The eighth circle of Heck, that’s where!” Rizzo exclaimed angrily. “I tell ya, ya try to be good company, give a little fashion advice, make sure burglars don’t break in when he’s not home, and all for what?”

“Me mee moo mee?” Beaker asked.

“Doc, I think your friend there needs Hooked On Phonics or somethin’. I can never understand him,” Rizzo complained.

“Beaker asked, ‘when who’s not home?’” Bunsen translated. He turned to his colleague. “That was a very good question, Beakie, but I don’t think it has much to do with a psychokinetic –“

“That yellow geek,” another rat grumbled.

“You know – the one who always gets hit by falling stuff,” added Rizzo.

“I didn’t realize our Newsman kept pets,” Honeydew said, curious. “How interesting. Was he running any experiments?”

“Aaagh! Don’t say that word!” Rizzo, on his feet, trembled in remembered anguish.

“Meep mee,” Beaker said, patting the air in front of him in an attempt to be calming.

“I fear I’m not making myself clear…oh, dear. Beakie?”

“Mee mee meep me meep, me mee-ee meep meep?”

Rizzo shook his head. “Yeah…sure, whatever. Look, nice talkin’ with you guys an’ all, but we hauled this stuff all night and we’d really like a little shut-eye for a while, okay?”

“Did you ever observe the Newsman conducting experiments with psychokinetic field energy?” Honeydew asked patiently. Beaker nodded, rolling his eyes; that’s what he’d asked…

“Is dat what dey call it dese days?” another rat mumbled, to assorted snickers.

“He was experimenting with something, that’s for sure!”

“Yeah – figuring out how lips work finally!”

Bunsen sighed. “This is unproductive. Come, Beaker. Let’s go back to the lab and see if we can’t puzzle out these readings.”

Beaker looked from the chortling rats to the retreating scientist, hesitantly pointing at the rats. “Uh meep…meep mee me?”

“Well, that’s nice to hear, but I hardly think the Newsman’s personal life has any bearing on our energy field mystery! Now come along, Beakie! We have a lot of data to go over!”

Sighing, Beaker followed Bunsen through the door to the tunnel, heading back to the lab.



Gina emerged from the restroom in the women’s dressing room to find Kayla, the stage manager, giggling and waiting for her. “What’s so funny?”

“Uh…I think your date’s here,” Kayla said, hooking a thumb over her shoulder in the direction of the green room. “I didn’t know you were into guys that short.”

“He’s a Muppet.” Gina was immediately angry; seeing it, Kayla wiped the smile from her face. “Is that a problem for you?”

“A Muppet? Like those…uh, people…the ones who run the Muppet Theatre?”

“Exactly. He works there. A little respect for a fellow performer, huh?” Gina snapped, striding out of the dressing room with a flick back of her ponytail. She looked around the green room, but saw only a couple of her colleagues. Puzzled, she walked slowly across the room, looking around carefully, but didn’t see Newsie anywhere. She was about to go into the mainstage area of the large black-box theatre when Scott stopped her.

“Hey, your friend’s waiting for you out back. I helped him get the table set up,” Scott said.

“Uh…thanks,” Gina replied, surprised. Table? She reversed direction, going from the green room into the small courtyard which the Sosilly shared with a bazaar of small shops. About ten feet from the back door, beneath a gingko tree, the Newsman stood in his usual brown and tan sportscoat, waiting for her. Cradled in his arms was a bouquet of wildflowers, ferns and grasses spilling out above daisies, bluebells, and scarlet trumpetflowers. He offered it to her as she neared him. She couldn’t help but smile at the tentatively hopeful look on his face. “Wow. These are gorgeous! Thank you.”

“How’s your day?” he asked. He seemed more nervous than usual.

“Oh, okay so far. All the lights are focused and gelled now.” She could tell he didn’t understand what she meant, but he nodded anyway. She grinned, sniffing the flowers. “Gelled means we put color in front of them, so they won’t be plain white lights.”

“Right,” he nodded. “Uhm. I…I brought you dinner. If that’s all right.”

“Newsie, you didn’t have to go to any trouble,” Gina said, kneeling to kiss him and exchange a hug. She could feel him trembling. “Are you okay?”

“Now?” chirped a voice somewhere above.

“No, not yet,” Newsie said.

Gina frowned. “Who are you talking to?”

“Uh, nothing. You’ll see. Here…” He led the way to a small table; Gina recognized it as an old ice-cream parlor table, with the heart-backed wire chairs, which the Sosilly kept in its prop furniture room. A tall vase with water was set upon it to accept the bouquet; Gina put the flowers into it, smiling.

“Now?” the odd voice came again; Gina looked up into the tree, almost positive the sound had been above her.

“Not yet,” Newsie growled up at the tree. To Gina he hurriedly said, “Please, have a seat. I’ll get dinner.”

“Um…okay,” she said, sitting on one of the round chairs, wondering what all the fuss was about. Newsie opened a small cooler; she wondered if he’d lugged it from her apartment. He laid out two chilled bowls of salad greens, fresh soft rolls, two large strawberry parfaits, tableware and cloth napkins, and then poured two champagne flutes of something sparkling.

“It’s actually white grape juice,” he admitted as she took a sniff. “I figured you wouldn’t drink before you had to go back to work…” When she looked over at him, his expression was so worried it almost made her smile. “Is it…is it enough? I couldn’t really afford caviar, or oysters…”

Gina pulled him in for a kiss. “It’s perfect. Thank you.”

“Now?” came the voice from above.

He nodded. “Now.”

A trilling voice burst into song: “Yooouuuuuu…send me…darling yoooouuuu… send me…”

Gina laughed, seeing the large bird with pink feathers and a puffed-out chest finally. Newsie glanced up at it, then hopefully at Gina. “Did you arrange this?” she asked.

“I wasn’t sure what song to pick, so I told him to choose,” Newsie confessed. He took her hand, studying her eyes carefully. “I…I wanted to do something…romantic for you, and I, uh, heard that a dinner for two al fresco was a nice thing in the springtime.”

Above, the bird yodeled loudly, “Honest you dooOOOoooOOOooo…”

Gina started giggling. She masked it by starting in on the salad, which proved to be a nice mix of wild greens and shredded fresh veggies. Well, no one ever said dating a Muppet was going to be an average affair…

Newsie kept pausing to gaze raptly at Gina. She seemed to like it all. Relieved, he thought about everything Piggy had suggested, crossing ‘dinner al fresco’ off his mental list, but then wondered how on earth he was going to manage the sailboat in moonlight, diving for pearls for her, a Paris fashion show, or dancing all night. “I don’t even know how to sail,” he muttered to himself.

“What’s that?”

“Uh, nothing. I picked the strawberries myself,” he offered.

“They’re fantastic. Thank you, Newsie.”

“I made sure to only get the ones not old enough to talk yet,” he assured her.

“Um…okay,” Gina said, eyeing the spoonful of whipped cream and fruit she’d been about to put in her mouth. Unperturbed, Newsie started in on his own parfait, unconcerned about sentient berries. With a silent sigh, she followed suit.

No one said it was going to be normal…

 

[newsmanfan]

Just a note by way of preface to the next part:

What happens to Newsie in this one very nearly happened to me, with two significant differences:
1. the dimmer controlling the light wasn't up, so I got the amps but not the full voltage;
2. I was alone. Had I received the full force of the current, the first anyone would have known about it would've been the smell of BBQ wafting through the theatre.

I escaped getting fried only by the most unusual and lucky circumstance. So remember, kids -- safety first!

 

[newsmanfan]

Part 18

The Newsman kept silent, fascinated, as he watched Gina bring up or down the seventy-five dimmers active on the long lighting board, each of them controlling one or two or a set of lighting instruments. The lighting and sound booth was above the audience level, just a little below the network of metal catwalks which formed the lighting grid for the theatre, and quite often when her hands moved across the computer keyboard to manipulate the lights as the rehearsal went on below, Newsie could see the physical effect her actions caused, as instruments within sight of the booth’s large window brightened or dimmed. It reminded him of the way Dr Teeth’s lithe fingers moved across an organ keyboard to bring forth a multitude of electric sounds. Gina had a headset on, and the tall pale blonde man who seemed to be both her boss and her friend was sitting somewhere in the empty audience seats, directing her light-playing through the earphones. The booth and the theatre were very dark except for the stage. He wasn’t used to so much darkness; the Muppet Theatre always had low-level house lights on, and even backstage was reasonably bright.

He felt superfluous, but was grateful Gina had invited him to stay in the booth with her all the same. He didn’t disturb her while she worked, all her focus on the board in front of her. A few people had given him odd looks, making him feel like an intruder; it was obvious these people, actors and techies both, had worked together often before. They seemed as close-knit among themselves as his own colleagues back at the Muppet Theatre usually were. Then again, he’d never felt he belonged there either, so the feeling of exclusion wasn’t new. Alone of the people here, the tall gent Gina called Scott had seemed friendly to Newsie, even helping him find a suitable table for his dinner with Gina. Sitting inconspicuously behind her, Newsie looked out at the play below, able to hear the lines through the open door to the grid. It seemed like these performers rehearsed a great deal more than he’d ever seen the Muppets do, going over and over scenes and even single lines, the show’s director stopping and starting them so many times Newsie wondered how they accomplished anything. None of them could deliver cold newscopy in a live show, he thought, momentarily proud of his own job. Then again, if he had the benefit of a rehearsal, perhaps none of the things which usually befell him would catch him off-guard…

When everyone took a break, Gina removed the headphones, beckoning Newsie to stand next to her at the board. She surprised him happily by putting her hands on his cheeks and kissing him deeply. “Hi,” she grinned at him.

“Hi,” he replied breathlessly.

“Bored yet?”

“No, not at all! This is all very interesting,” he assured her. “It’s a very different experience from just watching ‘Mac--‘”

She put a hasty hand over his mouth, silencing him. Startled, he stared at her; she shook her head emphatically. “Never, never say that!”

“Say what? ‘Mac—‘”

She grabbed his mouth again, and he gave her a confused look. “Mmf?” he asked.

“Look, it’s an old theatre superstition, okay? Supposedly there’s a real curse in the play, the witches’ curse, and you never, ever say a line from the play, or even the name of the play, while you’re in the building, unless you’re actually performing it or rehearsing it right that second. Which means for you and I, even a mention is totally forbidden,” Gina explained.

“That’s ridiculous!” he objected. “There’s no such thing as a curse!”

“Doesn’t something bad happen every time you say ‘that’s ridiculous’?”

“Er,” he choked, taken aback.

“You get my point?”

“But a real curse?” he argued. She nodded seriously. Frowning, he asked, “Then what do you call the play?”

“The Scottish Play. Sometimes, Shakespeare’s Scottish Play.”

“They named it after me,” lanky, laid-back Scott stated, walking into the booth from the door to the lobby. “I’m cursed.”

“Really?” Newsie brightened, thinking they had something in common. “People say I’m jinxed.”

“Neither of you are any such thing,” Gina snorted.

“You got her to go out with you,” Scott told Newsie. “Trust me. You are not jinxed.”

Newsie flushed, pleased, exchanging a smile with Gina. Scott leaned over the board, twiddling with one of the multiple sliders which could manually control the lights. “Huh. Didn’t we replace the lamp in that one Fresnel on Saturday?”

“Yeah, why?” Gina asked.

“It’s out again. Maybe it’s a bad instrument.”

“I’ll go get it and swap it out,” Gina offered, standing and stretching.

“Thanks. I know it’s tiny, but it’s the perfect downlight for area C. It’s Mac’s special for the banquet scene.”

“Yep. I’m on it,” Gina promised. She smiled at Newsie. “Want to see the grid?”

He looked nervously up and out at the black catwalks of metal gratings, almost invisible in the darkened theatre. “Uh...is it safe?”

She laughed. “Of course! Come on.”

In some trepidation, Newsie climbed the short ladder behind her. He glanced up once as he did so, had a very good view of Gina’s rear in her tight black leggings, and quickly looked down again, flushed and ashamed of himself. He thought he heard Scott snicker.

At the top of the ladder Newsie found himself standing on some kind of metal screening, all painted black. He could see right through it to the stage floor, some twenty-five feet down. He hesitated, clinging to the upright bar suspending the grid from the ceiling a few feet up, unwilling to proceed, but Gina walked right out along it, not even bothering with the safety railing on either side of the narrow walkway. She realized he wasn’t moving, and turned back, smiling, gesturing for him to follow. The Newsman took a deep breath and one step out over the empty air. He kept firm hold of the railing, taking anxious step after step along the grid. It seemed solid enough beneath his dress shoes, but the sensation of suspension high above the audience seats made his heart jitter.

When he caught up to Gina, she was looking around. Two other catwalks split off from the central one, forming a rough hexagon encircling a smaller square, all raised above the performance area. Numerous black-metal lighting instruments were clamped from bars and railings everywhere, all pointing down at some angle, each of them plugged with thick cables into electrical outlets. “Cool, huh?” Gina asked him. “I never get tired of being up here. Beats the heck out of sawdust in the scene shop!”

Newsie was tempted for a moment to grab her and hold tight, but her utter fearlessness made him ashamed. He just gave her a nod, both hands gripping the railing on either side of the walk, trying not to let her see how frightened his breathing had become. Gina checked the instruments on either side of her, pushing her ponytail back with one absent hand as she bent over to peer closely at the ones nearest. She straightened up and called back to the booth, “Hey, Scott, I can’t tell which one it is! Can you bring it up for a sec?”

In the faint red light of the booth window, Scott nodded and did something to the control board. Gina bent over again, and Newsie looked down as well, gulping, trying to focus on the lights hanging off the bottom rails of the catwalk instead of the stage below. “What are you looking for?” he asked her.

“A light that keeps not working,” she murmured back.

“If it’s not working, how will you see where it is?” he wondered.

“Listen. You should be able to hear the current.”

Curious despite his fear, Newsie bent over as she was doing, tilting one ear toward the snakes of cables everywhere. He did hear a soft humming sound, very low and carrying in that almost inaudible thrum the promise of power, electricity running through the complicated network of the grid. “Here!” he told her, pleased to be doing something useful. He reached for a specific cable which seemed to be the source of the faint sound. “I think it’s this –“

The shock of it blew the breath from his chest. Dimly he heard voices yelling. He could see only blackness and sparking stars, could feel his whole body jittering, and then suddenly a pain like being kicked in the chest sent him crashing to the metal floor of the grid.



The pain in his chest was horrible. He heaved a breath, realized he was crying, and lay still, unable to stop right away. The surface beneath him seemed soft, and as he blinked to clear his vision, there was too much light above him to still be on the catwalk. “Newsie,” he heard Gina pleading, “Newsie, can you hear me?”

He tried to answer, but could only groan, pain thick in his throat. He felt something soft dabbing at his eyes, wiping away his tears. Ashamed, he tried to brush it away, and then soft kisses touched his cheeks, his nose.

“****,” someone muttered.

“That was fast thinking,” an older voice commented.

“Always keep a board handy,” the first voice said; Newsie thought it may have been Scott. “Hey, man, you okay?”

“We should call an ambulance,” a feminine voice insisted.

Newsie managed to focus, and saw Gina right beside him, and several other faces behind her. He felt around with shaking hands, discovering he was on a low couch of rough fabric. Gina knelt next to him, taking one of his hands between both of hers, kissing his fingers. She looked very upset. “What…happened?” Newsie asked; his voice sounded sluggish to him.

“That cable you grabbed had a short,” Scott informed him, leaning over from just behind Gina. “Nobody knew. You got fried for a couple of seconds.”

Gina tossed her head to the side, glaring at the assembled people. “What I want to know is how the **** this happened!” she said angrily.

A short, round man who’d been pointed out to Newsie earlier as the director of the play shook his head. “I thought you two had inspected all the cables before the lights were hung?”

“We did,” Gina said darkly. “They were all fine!”

“I…don’t understand,” Newsie mumbled. He felt heavy and shaky, and couldn’t sit up yet. “I was fried?”

Gina stroked his hair back, smoothing it down. “The cable wasn’t safe. It had the ground wire loose. Your shoes…” She took a deep breath, clearly close to tears herself. “You don’t have rubber soles. You formed the ground link to the grid. The current went through you. It could’ve…it could’ve killed you.” She sniffled, took a deep breath, and nodded up at Scott. “Scott knocked you loose.”

Uncomprehending, Newsie looked up at Scott, who gave a lopsided smile and mimed hitting a baseball. “Batter up.”

“He hit me?” Maybe that explained the sore ribs. “Why?”

“To knock you loose from the current,” Gina explained, still stroking his hair. “I couldn’t…couldn’t grab you…it would’ve got me too. Not as bad, but I wouldn’t have been able to help…”

“I killed the dimmer and ran up with our emergency board,” Scott added. “Sorry about that, man. Trust me, better a broken rib or two than a crispy critter.”

Still not understanding much of this, Newsie just held tight to Gina’s hand, closing his eyes. She kissed his fingers again. Behind her, one of the actors murmured, “Curse.”

“Bull --!” someone else hissed. “Nobody’s said the word!”

“It’s gotta be. That cable was checked.”

“So they say,” another voice chimed in quietly, and was immediately shushed.

The director sighed. “Do we need an ambulance?”

Newsie shook his head. His heart was still skipping every few beats, but he didn’t want to go to a big scary hospital. “Are you sure?” Gina asked him. Eyes still shut, he nodded.

“Okay,” the director said. “All right, everyone, back out there. I know this was exciting, but we really, really need to lock down that scene between Mac and Lady M tonight. Scott, can you two pick this back up tomorrow afternoon?”

“Sure.”

“All right,” Gina agreed.

“Okay then. Actors, I need Rex and Shannon right now; everyone else, don’t go anywhere. We still have notes.” The gathering of people in the green room broke up, and in a few minutes Newsie opened his eyes to see the room empty except for Gina, still holding onto him. Tears gleamed at the corners of her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Newsie mumbled at her.

“What are you sorry for? You’re the one who nearly got killed, and I…I just had to stand there, trying to kick the plug loose, watching you…” she couldn’t finish the sentence, beginning to cry. He tried to shake his head at her, and she leaned over and embraced him gently. “I should never have asked you to come up there!”

He held onto her, feeling embarrassed for having yet again fallen victim to something stupid. A thought came to him, and he muttered into her ear, “What would have happened if you’d grabbed the cable instead?”

“Oh, same thing. Maybe not as bad, but two hundred and twenty volts is still a punch even if you’ve got the right shoes,” she sighed, pulling away to look in his eyes.

“Then I’m glad it was me,” Newsie said. When Gina shook her head, he insisted, “This kind of thing always happens to me! Gina, I told you: I’m jinxed.” At least this time, he reflected, someone had been there to allay some of the damage, and people even gathered around to see if he was all right afterward. That was new. He glanced at his left wrist. The bracelet she’d made him looked singed. Actually, he noticed, all of him looked singed, especially on his left side; he’d picked up the cable with his left hand. It felt prickly now, as though he’d stuck hundreds of tiny needles in it. “Ow,” he breathed. His heart rate was slowing, falling into its normal pattern, but little tingles shivered all through his limbs, and his chest felt stomped on. “Did your friend…did he really hit me with a baseball bat?”

Gina, sniffling, managed a small smile. “No. A two-by-four.”

“Ow.”

“Can you move?”

He tried. Everything still ached. “Never mind,” Gina told him. “Lay still.” She readjusted herself, sitting beside him on the unwashed shag rug, not letting go of his unhurt hand. “I’ve been shocked before. Not that badly, but I know how much it hurts. You feel like it’s hard to breathe?” He nodded. “Yeah. That part goes away eventually. Just keep still. It’s going to be okay.”

Newsie closed his eyes again, feeling the air moving through his nose, his lungs. He wasn’t sure why this particular shock felt scarier than most of the horrible things he’d suffered through the years, but it did. Then he realized: the simple chance of his picking up the faulty cable had prevented Gina from doing it instead. One simple, unlikely move. He tightened his grip on her hand, swallowing with a dry throat.

He was deeply glad it had been him instead.

 

[newsmanfan]

Part 19

Walking slowly back to Gina’s place, the Newsman hoped the weak feeling would be gone by tomorrow night. He doubted he could take a night off from the Muppet Theatre. Scott accompanied them, from time to time conversing in a deep but friendly voice. “So…they call you Newsman, right? You do an act at the Muppet place?”

Newsie nodded tiredly. “It’s not an act.”

“Stuff falling on you? The time the crocodile ate you? Aw, c’mon,” Scott replied in disbelief.

“Wasn’t as bad as Carl the monster,” Newsie said, shuddering in remembered unpleasantness.

“Dude, you’re a trip,” Scott laughed. He nudged Newsie’s shoulder with a bony elbow. “You must have one heckofa sense of humor to get her attention.”

Newsie blushed up at Gina, surprised to see her turning pink as well. “I keep telling you, Scott: I have a thing for serious men. Not overgrown teenagers.”

“Who’re you callin’ overgrown?” Scott demanded, making ugly faces at her.

Gina giggled. Newsie felt a pang of jealousy…but then Gina put her arm around his shoulders, drawing him a little closer as they walked.

As they neared her apartment building, Scott said, “I’m really sorry you got shocked, dude.”

Newsie tried to shrug it off. “I try not to let it get to me anymore. Thank you for, uh, hitting me.”

Scott showed a big horsey grin. “Anytime. Gina, see you tomorrow at one?”

“Yep.” Gina sighed. The tall young man gave her a friendly slap on her shoulder, then leaned over and offered his hand to Newsie.

“So, nice meeting you. I promise no more live cables if you come back.”

Unsure what to say to that, Newsie just nodded and shook hands. Scott sauntered off, leaving the other two at the foot of the stairs to the apartment building. Gina smiled uncertainly at Newsie. “Are you feeling any better?”

“Wonderful,” he replied, without much enthusiasm, starting slowly up the broad steps. Every nerve still felt strained and exhausted.

“Um…you don’t have to come to my work sessions if you’d rather not. I should never have asked you to come up on the grid in the first place,” Gina apologized.

“I’m fine.”

She stopped him before they went in the lobby door, crouching to meet his unhappy gaze. “Newsie? I really, really am sorry.”

“Not your fault,” he muttered. “I’d just be in the way, I know.”

“What?” She drew back, surprised. “No, you wouldn’t. What gave you that idea?”

“I don’t know any of this technical stuff,” he pointed out, and gestured back the way Scott had departed. “I’m sure your friends are better qualified to help you out, anyway…”

“Newsie? Are you jealous?”

“Of course not,” he insisted, though he could feel heat rising in his face. “Your friend obviously knows you very well; you work together, I respect that; clearly he thinks fast on his feet –“

She shut him up with a kiss. Embarrassed, he tried at first to pull back, but Gina grabbed his head in her hands, holding him there, her lips on his, moving from one side of his nose to the other, until finally he gave in with a weak sigh and kissed back. When they gently parted after a minute, Gina said, “I do not want you to ever be jealous of Scott, or anyone else! Newsie…I have wanted you for months. I’m not letting you go. Okay?”

He saw the fierce sincerity in her eyes, gulped, and nodded. Standing, she walked with him into the building. In the elevator, she murmured, with a sly grin, “Besides…if Scott’s apartment was caved in, I’d make him sleep on the couch…not the bed.”

All his insecurities were put to the test an hour later when he tentatively emerged from the bathroom, cleaned up and wearing his favorite pj’s (the ones with the all-over blue polka-dots on white) and soft white bunny slippers. The bedroom was dark, a single candle on the night-table showing him only the dim outlines of the furniture. “Well?” Gina whispered across the room at him. “Come on in here!”

“Promise you’re not looking?”

“Newsie…” she sighed. “Okay, I’m not looking.”

Reluctantly he crept across the room, found the edge of the bed, and carefully felt around, finding the quilt and sheet turned down for him and that side of the large mattress vacant. Relieved, he climbed in, placing his slippers primly by the bedside on the floor and his glasses on the table. However, no sooner had he pulled the quilt up than he heard a low chuckle behind him. “Nice pj’s.”

“You said you weren’t looking!” he protested, embarrassed.

“Come on, be serious. I like looking.” She giggled. Newsie jumped when he felt her touch on his shoulder. “Warm enough in those?”

“Yes, thank you,” he muttered, having deeply mixed feelings about sharing a bed. Although it was assuredly exciting, he thought of how intimate the two of them had been just before the ceiling of his bedroom had caved in. Somehow, what he’d allowed then, and the disaster which quickly followed, seemed linked in his mind – punishment for having been so very indecent! What would his mother have thought? He was briefly grateful that august lady was no longer around – and then immediately felt guilty for thinking that way. Gina’s hand slid over his chest, finding the buttons on his pajama shirt and starting to unbutton one. “What – what are you doing?”

“Trust me. This quilt is velvet-backed. It’ll be very warm.”

He squirmed away until he found he’d run out of bed. “Uh…Gina…”

She moved closer, leaning over to kiss him, planting soft lips on his cheek, his nose, his mouth. “Shhh.” She kept kissing; he felt strange about responding. Kissing with one’s clothes on was one thing, he felt; this was far, far more suggestive. “Mmm.” He felt her touch on his collar, then the second button being undone, then her hand sliding over his chest.

“Uhm, Gina, er…” He reached out a hand under the covers, hoping to gently stop her advances. His sense of vulnerability jumped a hundredfold when he touched her bare skin. “Agh!”

She paused, then started giggling. “Uh...are you…are you…wearing anything?” Newsie stammered. Her fingers resumed their exploration under his pajama shirt.

“Nope.”

“Oh,” he whimpered.

“Do you trust me, Newsie?”

She’d manuevered herself so she was right next to him, her face above his when he blinked up into the near-darkness at her. He stared at her, his heart racing. She waited, her expression one of patience and tenderness. She didn’t seem to be mocking him. There was no malice in those eyes. He swallowed. “Yes,” he croaked.

“Then relax…”

He felt her undoing the rest of the buttons, peeling the shirt open. He gulped nervously. She kissed his mouth again, then placed her lips against his chest…then lower…

After a moment, not sure if this was his heaven or his ****, Newsie reached up and touched her in return, his hands shaking.



“And you will never guess who called moi today, asking for advice on love,” Miss Piggy said, her voice light.

Kermit, trying to focus on Bogie and Bergman, sighed. Why had she asked to watch ‘Casablanca’ with him if she was going to sit here and chatter throughout the film? “Who?” he asked automatically, then popped another dragonfly crisp in his mouth. He chewed absently, his eyes following Bogie as the dramatic confrontation over Sam’s piano took place onscreen.

Piggy stretched languidly along the other half of the sofa, her toes tickling her frog’s legs. Kermit shot her an annoyed look. “That ridiculous yellow wimp,” Piggy chuckled.

“Uh-huh.” Onscreen, the great line which so many people misquoted, once Bergman had left the bar: “Play it, Sam. You played it for her, you can play it for me!” What a great line. Such underlying bitterness, you couldn’t help but feel Rick’s pain…

“Kermie, are vous even listening?”

“Huh? Sure. Sure I am, Piggy. Pepe asked you for advice.” Kermit tried to return his full attention to the movie, but Piggy sat up, her voice turning gruff.

“I said wimp, not shrimp! I’m talking about that Newsgeek; you know, the one who doesn’t seem to have any purpose other than to have things fall on him?” Piggy growled.

“The Newsman? What about him?”

“He called me. He actually begged for my advice on matters of the heart,” Piggy explained, her voice turning sweet once more, proud of her reputation for romance. “Apparently, he needed ideas for what he could do to impress his girlfriend. I doubt there’s anything that would accomplish that, but I gave him a list anyway.”

“Huh,” Kermit said, chewing another buggy snack. “That’s strange.”

“Why would it be strange?.. Ah, ha ha ha, Kermie,” she cooed dangerously, “surely vous are not implying that moi would not be the expert in all questions of love?”

“What?” Exasperated, Kermit turned to her finally. “Piggy…of course you are. Why, you’re the most romantic pig I know!”

She paused, then asked, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Er…”

“Are you saying because I’m a pig, I can’t be romantic?”

“No! No, I--”

“I’ll have you know, buster, that I have more romance and tenderness in my little finger than some frogs have in their whole bodies!”

Kermit cringed away from the enraged pig. “Uh, no, no, of course I didn’t mean that, Piggy! No, you’re – you’re –“ He fished for the right words, the calming words. “Why…I’ve never met anyone who knows as much about matters of the heart as you do! And I’ll admit, you’ve even taught me a thing or two about, uh, about…about being attentive, and caring, and listening to the other person’s needs.”

She melted. “Ohhh, Kermie…really?”

“Yes! Yes!” the frog nodded emphatically. “Why, I was just another ignorant bachelorfrog before you came along, Piggy! I’m grateful at how much romance you’ve taught me.”

“Oh, Kermie…”

She snuggled tightly against him a moment. “Let’s…why don’t we watch this romantic movie?” Kermit suggested.

“Yes! A classic of the silver screen,” Piggy agreed, bouncing up, resettling herself with one arm around him, but not squishing him. Relieved, Kermit offered her the bowl of popcorn with extra butter she’d made for herself, and she cooed at him again. “Thank you, Kermie.”

After a few more minutes of comfortable silence between them, as Rick decided what to do about the return of his femme fatale, Piggy mused aloud, “I wonder if that geek really did move in with that girl.”

“Who?”

Piggy blinked at him. Her voice turned rough again. “Newsgeek.”

“What about him?”

“Didn’t you hear a word I just said?”

“Uh…”

“Attentive, and caring, and listening, huh?”

“Erk!”

After she stormed off, Kermit tried to watch the rest of the movie, but it was hard to do with his neck squashed down into his body.



The quiet brps and beeps of the lab equipment weren’t soothing Beaker to sleep as they usually did. He’d turned in at nine when Honeydew had, each in their own camp cot in the storage closet just off the lab, but while Bunsen was softly snoring, Beaker found himself wide awake and worried. They’d fussed over the data from the psychokinetic field sensors all day, and it still made no sense. Bunsen would no doubt have another of his bizarre dreams which would inspire a new invention upon the morrow, but Beaker was still aching in places from that chunk of concrete which had fallen on him. He for one was taking this dangerous-energy theory seriously.

Moving quietly so as not to disturb his roommate, Beaker tiptoed out of the lab and padded in his big orange monster-feet slippers through the silent halls to the canteen. No one else was around except a few rats snoring loudly across the green room. Beaker took a carton of milk from the ‘fridge, sniff-tested it, decided it was within acceptable limits, and poured a little in a small saucepan, heating it carefully on the rangetop. He leaned on a counter, tapping his fingers against his skinny cheek, and sighed. An energy field which originated quite suddenly in the Muppet Theatre, but which seemed able to move around freely… An energy field which coated the rats like low-level radiation from too much contact with spent nuclear fuel rods… An energy field which spiked weirdly at certain times of the day onstage and on the loading dock…

Beaker sighed again, shaking his head glumly. There was something here which bespoke a pattern. If only he could figure out what the commonality of all these events was… He noticed a scum trying to form on his milk from the heat, and removed it from the burner, careful to shut the range back off. He spooned out the thin skin atop the warm milk, turned around, and realized he’d been so preoccupied with this problem he’d forgot to bring along his cute froggie mug. He gestured at the ceiling with a few quiet meeps, complaining to himself. Honestly! He was becoming as bad as Bunsen; next thing you knew, he’d be subjecting himself to a Muppet Labs invention.

As quietly as possible, hurrying along the dark hallway, Beaker returned to the lab and found his mug after some searching. Bunsen had apparently put a collection of erasers in it. Irritated, Beaker dumped them out, not expecting them to bounce around quite as violently as they did. Several frantic minutes of chasing-down-every-still-boinging-bit-of-pink-rubber-and-stowing-them-in-a-drawer-in-utter-silence later, knowing full well his milk would be cooled off and he’d have to warm it all over again, Beaker sighed and trudged down the dark hallway yet again. He was weary enough; his mind just wouldn’t let the problem sit, and the warm milk would be just the ticket.

He skimmed off the milk, warmed it back up gently, poured it in his cute froggie mug, quietly rinsed out the saucepan and left it in the sink with a little dish soap in it, and with a small mugful of milk in hand, tiptoed back into the lab. He cleared a small space on a lab counter to set the mug, very quietly hefted a metal stool over to sit on (freezing momentarily as Bunsen mumbled and turned over in his sleep), and with a deep sigh, sat down at the counter. He touched the mug; still nice and warm, not too hot. Mumbling a few contented meeps, he lifted the mug to his mouth.

The alarm screeched like a cross between a foghorn and a submarine dive signal. Beaker jumped a foot. The milk spilled everywhere. Whirling, crying out in surprise and distress, Beaker checked the psychokinetic field energy monitor readout. The sustained spikes it was busily graphing were way off the scale of anything they’d seen so far. Groaning, Bunsen staggered into the lab. “Beaker! How many times have I told you! Only set off the emergency alarm if there’s an actual emergency!”

“Mee mee me meep me meep!”

“What?...Goodness,” Bunsen said, blinking dazedly, adjusting his spectacles. “Beaker! The psychokinetic field is spiking! Why didn’t you tell me?”

Beaker sighed, forlornly looking around at his spilled milk.



The Newsman awoke with a start. He blinked around at the room; it was still dark, although the candle flickered reassuringly in a glass holder nearby. Relaxing somewhat, he told himself it was just a dream, that a horrid rotting thing with endlessly long arms and a scolding voice (he wouldn’t let himself think about how familiar the voice had been) wasn’t really chasing him. He felt the warm quilt over him, an odd but pleasant sensation of nothing at all between his skin and the sheets, and the softness of the pillow beneath his head. He lay there silent, amazed, recalling every new experience of the night in a nimbus of gratitude close to awe. Had he really…? Had she actually…? He found himself astonished in the certainty that the answer to all was yes.

No turning back now. He had officially crossed into uncharted waters.

Gina mumbled hazily next to him. “Newsie…?”

“I’m here,” he whispered, beginning to turn toward her, but she shifted closer, and her soft, smooth arm wrapped over his midsection. She pulled him close to her, curling up, spooning behind him. She resettled instantly, falling back asleep with a sigh. He lay there a long while, just taking in the new sensation of her touch. Finally, curling up himself to copy her, Newsie closed his eyes once more, conscious of her holding him securely, of the warmth of her bed, of the peace of the whole place. With a deep sigh, he drifted off again, smiling.

It was the first time he’d ever been so profoundly content.

 

[newsmanfan]

Part 20

His nose knew there was coffee before his brain actually shifted into ‘awake’ gear. Newsie blinked slowly, finding himself standing in the kitchen. He had absolutely no recollection of putting on his boxer shorts or finding a mug, but there he was, empty mug in hand, feet bare on the brick-patterned floor, sniffing deeply. As he tried to focus without his glasses, he heard a giggle behind him. Gina put a hand on his shoulder, and as he turned to see her she kissed him. “So. Kind of the United Nations of shorts, huh?”

Bewildered, he glanced down, realizing the shorts his semiconscious attempt at modesty had made him pull on were the ones with multiple flags patterned all over, a souvenir from the multicultural show he’d participated in decades back. Spike Milligan had given him them when Newsie had insisted that a reporter ought to concern himself with all nations, not just one. He’d thought it an odd gift, but there were many odd things about that particular show, not the least of which had been the mad English comic attacking him onstage during the news. “Uh…long story,” he muttered. He watched her go to the counter nearest the stove, where a small carafe of some kind seemed to be the source for the deliciously rich scent filling his nostrils.

Gina held up the French coffee press. “I take it you want a cup?”

“Huh?...oh, sure!” Gladly he held the mug still while she poured, and then joined her at the kitchen table. She sipped from her own mug, smiling at him, watching him practically melt into the coffee, his eyes barely open, holding it under his nose when he wasn’t actually sipping it so the fragrance would drift up.

“Organic shade-grown arabica and Kona mix,” she told him.

Newsie simply nodded, completely involved in the coffee. This was miles above the sludge he usually had to settle for. When he felt her hand stroking his cheek, he smiled sleepily at her. She giggled again. “Wow. You are not awake. I wish I had a camera right now.”

“Whyzzat?” he mumbled, taking another long, exquisite mouthful, tasting the rich oils the coffee press brought out in the liquid.

“Because, dear Newsman, I doubt you’ve ever just sat around enjoying coffee in your boxers before.”

“Huh?” Newsie blinked at her. What she’d said filtered into his brain. He looked down at himself again. The realization hit him like a certain pig’s karate chop. “Wh-why am I sitting here in nothing but shorts?” he stammered, shocked.

Gina gave him a truly evil grin. “Why are you sitting there in anything at all after last night, is my question!”

“Ulp!” He set down the mug, eyes open as wide as they could go under his heavy brows. “Uh…’scuse me!” He hurried back to the bedroom, hearing her hearty laugh behind him. When he returned, the red in his face nicely complementing the brown shades of his closely-wrapped robe, Gina was still snickering. He resumed his seat, found he’d drunk over half his mug, and sheepishly looked up at her through his usual thick lenses. “Um. Is there any more coffee?”

“Uh-huh.” She fetched the carafe, refilling his mug and her own. She grinned at him, resettling herself. “Better?”

“I think I need it,” he mumbled, trying to drink it faster without burning his tongue.

“Do you eat breakfast normally?”

“Uh…my mother used to make me eat a bowl of plain oatmeal every morning.”

“Ooo-kay,” Gina said, mildly surprised. “Well, I don’t think I have any, but I can certainly get you some…”

“Actually,” he said, very quiet and embarrassed, “I…I’d kind of rather not. Ever. Again.” He heard silence, and looked up, puzzled. Their eyes met. After a second Gina burst into fresh laughter, and gradually Newsie began to chuckle as well.

“That can be arranged,” she promised. “No oatmeal for the journalist!”

“Thank you,” he said, relieved. She leaned over to kiss him; he returned it happily.

“So. What would you like?”

“Oh, no, you don’t have to –“

“Hey, we both have a long day ahead of us and many calories will be burned. Let me see what’s in the ‘fridge… Hmm. What say you to my version of cheese toast? I have some apple butter and Canadian bacon for it.”

“I’m sure you’ll be doing much more strenuous things than I will,” Newsie said, picturing her climbing all over that scary lighting grid, hauling around heavy light instruments.

Gina swung the ‘fridge door shut with a foot, her hands full of appetizing things, and shot another wicked grin at him. “Oh, you’re sure of that, are you?”

It took him a few minutes for her meaning to dawn on him. He flushed bright pink. “Ah…er…”

She broke away from the breakfast preparations to kiss him again. “I like the pink on you. Ever thought about getting a tattoo? Maybe a cute little itsy bitsy pink heart, right next to your–“

“No,” he said hurriedly, and she chortled, returning to the counter to finish layering things on slices of bread. He sank down in his chair, deeply embarrassed, sipping the coffee, doing his best to ignore the image flashing through his mind of her tattoos he’d glimpsed, in the dim candlelight, when she’d thrown off the covers at one point. What was wrong with him? He’d never allowed his mind to wander so wantonly! Why, this was shameful; this was terrible; this was…it was…

She bent over to put a baking sheet with the cheese toast into the oven to broil, and he realized with a start she, unlike him, wasn’t wearing anything besides a robe. He was only vaguely aware his mouth was hanging open in shock.

This was heaven. That’s what it was.



“Kermit? May I have a moment of your time?”

Kermit glanced up briefly from his desk, where his long tongue was licking three envelope flaps closed at the same time. “Sure, Bunsen. What’s up?”

“You may not have been aware of this, but a dangerous psychokinetic energy field has been popping up most irregularly and worrisomely in the theatre,” Honeydew informed him. Behind the scientist, Beaker stuck a finger in the air with an affirmative meep.

“Psycho-what energy? Dangerous in what way?”

“Psychokinetic…meaning, affecting objects. Have you noticed anything odd recently involving things moving by themselves, or, oh…suddenly materializing or dematerializing?”

Kermit put stamps on the envelopes for the theatre’s bills, his face rumpling in a frown. “Bunsen, this isn’t like the time you were experimenting with that teleport invention, is it?”

Beaker waved his hands in front of him, swivelling his head no. “Mee meep!”

“I assure you, Kermit, the current emergency has nothing at all to do with anything from Muppet Labs!”

“Well, that’d be a first,” the frog muttered darkly.

“I have been tracking the energy spikes for several days now, and they seem to be somehow connected to something in the theatre,” Bunsen continued. Beaker shot him a look at the words “I have been…”, then sighed, irritated. “Please, Kermit, try to think: have you seen anything at all out of the ordinary, especially onstage? My data indicates there was some sort of psychokinetic field incident onstage Sunday afternoon!”

“No, nothing out of the ordinary,” Kermit said, quickly running through the show in his head: Gonzo getting stuck in the soda machine, dancing operetta pigs, Fozzie being heckled, the Newsman attacked by rabid roaches, a couple of numbers that actually went well, and a conga line which wound up accidentially kicking out half the footlights. “Nope. Seemed like a typical show.”

Overhearing as he took the bills from Kermit to run up to the front office, Scooter said, “Well, Newsie’s girlfriend brought us all food. That was kinda out of the ordinary.”

“True,” Kermit nodded. “Wish someone had thought to bring up a sandwich for me!”

“Sorry, boss. I was trying to find the toolbox,” Scooter apologized. As he scurried out into the house, the scientists turned away, disappointed.

“At least a pickle would have been nice,” Kermit grumbled, putting the account ledger away.

“It seems we shall have to design a more sensitive sensor, in order to pinpoint the source and effects of the field,” Bunsen mused. Beaker considered it.

“Mee meep me me mee, mee meepie?”

“Hmmm…” Bunsen thought it over, then patted his compatriot on the arm. “You know, you may just have something there, Beakie! It’s worth a try!” With renewed enthusiasm, they hastened down to the lab.

Piggy swooped through the back door, shopping bags dangling from both gloved hands. “Oh, hi, Piggy!” Kermit greeted her. Quickly he fumbled for the small vase of pink and red carnations Scooter had picked up from the florist earlier for him. “Uh, I got you a little something to brighten up your dressing room,” he said, offering the flowers.

Piggy stopped, looking at them, then at the frog. “Lemme guess: they were having a sale on cheap flowers?” she huffed.

“Uh, well, uh, no! No, I just thought you might –“

“For your information, real admirers give star performing ladies orchids!” Tossing her snout in the air, she bustled upstairs. The loud slam of her dressing-room door informed him he was still not forgiven.

Kermit sighed, wondering how much she’d just put on his credit card at those fancy little boutiques. At least they looked like large bags. He’d learned that the smaller the bag, the higher the price tag of whatever was in it. Gonzo came offstage from whatever he’d been doing to set up his act tonight, and saw the vase still in Kermit’s hand.

“Wow! Carnations? For me? Kermit, you shouldn’t have!”

“Uh…you’re welcome,” Kermit muttered, scrunching up his face.

“You know, for next time, I really prefer the two-colored ones,” Gonzo confided. ”Maybe red and white, or yellow and purple…”

Kermit waved his arms. “Gonzo! Will you just get out of here?”

“I’m just saying,” Gonzo shrugged, taking the flowers and hurrying off.

With a heavy sigh, Kermit looked up at the backstage clock. “Wonderful. Only five o’clock and it’s already gonna be a long night…”

Beauregard stopped, pointing at the clock. “Oh, I forgot to reset that for Daylight Savings! Here…” Standing on tiptoe, he adjusted the clock hands, nodded at it in satisfaction, and walked off, mop in hand.

Kermit groaned. “Six o’clock and it’s gonna be a long night…six o’clock! Hey! It’s an hour to curtain -- where the hey is everybody!”

It would indeed be a long night.



Beauregard caught the Newsman whistling as he came up the alley. Beau was out back emptying the canteen trash into the theatre dumpster; the Chef’s attempt at Cajun-blackened ice cream had not gone well. The janitor heard the familiar tune, and his eyes widened; he whistled along with the whistler briefly, not turning to see who it was. “Hey, that’s a good one; I know that! ‘Strangeness in the night, expecting pantless…’” he sang. The person whistling stopped abruptly, and a second later the Newsman came up the steps to the back door, seeming very intent on getting inside fast. Beau put out a hand to stop him. “Hey, was that you whistling just now, Newsie?”

“No! No, of course not,” Newsie coughed, startled.

“Oh.” Beau’s face fell. “I guess I must’ve just heard me, then.”

Escaping quickly, Newsie went inside and downstairs. He used the somewhat-reflective air-conditioning drip tray which Beau had hung up in the broom closet as a mirror to check his appearance, ran a comb through his short hair to part it properly off to his right, and straightened his already-straight tie. He paused, staring at himself, trying to identify what he was feeling. The usual nerves, certainly; but there was a high-pitched giddiness behind them, a feeling of…of…he gulped.

Invulnerability. He actually felt confident. Gina had said, when they met for a very late lunch, she wasn’t feeling worried about his work tonight. She’d promsied to call the theatre if she had a premonition at the last minute, but they’d parted with a kiss that left him staring along the sidewalk for minutes after she’d gone around a corner, and he’d walked on to the Muppet Theatre in a daze. He tried now to shake himself out of it, to focus, to be prepared for a News Flash if one occurred…but, strange though it was to acknowledge in himself, he actually felt good.

He sat down in the green room, opening The Backstage Handbook at the place he’d marked, gently touched the strings woven and knotted around his wrist, and with a faint smile buried his nose in the pages.

Unfortunately, he didn’t get far. Gonzo interrupted him. “So, Rizzo tells me your girlfriend is involved in a production of ‘Macbeth,’” he said.

Newsie gave him a startled look. “Uh…I thought you weren’t supposed to say it aloud?”

“Say what aloud?”

“That play.”

“What play?”

“The Scottish Play?”

“Uh, bagpipes, I’m pretty sure,” Gonzo mused.

Newsie frowned at him. “No! There’s supposedly a curse on the play.”

Gonzo grabbed his sleeve, eyes widening. “Your girlfriend’s play is cursed?”

“Of course not,” the Newsman grumbled. “It’s a silly superstition!”

“Oh,” Gonzo said, confused. “I always thought it was Shakespeare.”

“No, no…there’s a superstition… Gina told me it’s cursed,” Newsie tried to explain.

“Why would she curse a superstition?”

Newsie scowled. “She isn’t! The play which her theatre is producing is supposedly cursed!”

“That really sounds like an awful lot of cursing,” Gonzo offered. “You’ve told her we do family-friendly shows here, right?”

Giving up, Newsie stalked into the canteen to see if anything vaguely drinkable could be found there; the soda machine was on the fritz again for some reason. The opening theme music sounded upstairs, and Gonzo hurried up to be ready for his act. Tonight he would impress everyone by eating a tire to the orchestra’s rendition of “Sing, Sing, Sing.” Standing backstage while Kermit welcomed everyone and gave his usual emcee patter, Gonzo greeted Fozzie, who seemed to be pacing a ditch in the floor. “Hiya, Fozzie. Everything okay?”

“Oh, Gonzo, I just don’t know what I’m gonna do!” the bear moaned.

“Well, I’d let you help with my act, but tonight’s special. I’m eating a tire to the tune of ‘Sing, Sing, Sing’! It’s kind of a solo piece.”

Fozzie looked at him quizzically. “Didn’t you do that years ago?”

“No, it was ‘Flight of the Bumblebee.’ And I never got to finish the tire.” Gonzo held up a circle of rubber. “I planned it better this time! I got a bicycle tire instead!”

Fozzie sighed. Kermit introduced Gonzo, who eagerly hurried onstage. From the noises that followed, it sounded like the band, at least, was enjoying the number, if the audience was less than thrilled. Fozzie continued to pace and fret. Kermit noticed, and stopped him. “Fozzie, what’s wrong?”

“Oh, Kermit, I was gonna do that great routine I told you about, remember? The one with the purple panda joke? But I lost my cue cards, and now I can’t remember the joke!” the bear wailed.

“You forgot a joke about a purple panda?” Kermit wondered, scrunching his face in disbelief.

“Yes! Oh, Kermit, what am I gonna do now?”

“Listen, Fozzie, I’m sure you’ll think of something,” Kermit promised, then clicked on the backstage intercom. “Jug band! Jug band onstage next!”

To numerous boos and a flourish from the orchestra, Gonzo returned. “Philistines! You’d think public taste would get a little more sophisitcated after this many years…”

“Gonzo! Gonzo, do you know any new jokes?” Fozzie demanded.

Gonzo tossed aside the remaining quarter-tire, scratching his feathery head. “New jokes? Uh…no, but I think Newsie was trying one out on me earlier. I didn’t get it.”

Fozzie stood up straight, dumbfounded. “Newsie? You mean our Newsman? He does jokes now?”

“I think so, but it’s hard to tell with him,” Gonzo said, shrugging.

“Ohhhhh…now he wants to be funny! Kermit! Where does it end?”

Pops and the rest of the jug band strolled past, the mouth-harp player tuning as he went. “Uh, I really don’t know, Fozzie. If it’s any consolation, I very much doubt the Newsman intends to get laughs,” Kermit said.

“He was telling me something about a curse,” Gonzo told Fozzie. “It didn’t make much sense to me, especially because I started out asking him about his girlfriend’s play.”

“Why, what does she play?”

“No idea – but the theatre she works at is doing a production of ‘Macbeth.’”

Kermit nodded. “Oh, that’s the old ‘witches curse’ story.”

Fozzie gasped, recoiling. “A…a witches’ curse?”

“Yeah, supposedly ‘Macbeth’ has a curse on it.”

“Oh, Kermiiiiit!” Fozzie cried. “Newsie’s girlfriend is in danger? But she’s so nice! She brought us pickles!”

“No, Fozzie, no – I’m sure she’s not in any danger. That whole ‘curse’ thing is nothing but an old theatre myth,” Kermit assured the distraught bear.

“It’s a what?”

“A myth.”

“A what?”

Kermit frowned deeply. “Oh, no! I’m not doing that one again!”

Gonzo, curious, asked, “What’s the curse about?”

Kermit shook his head. “Well, supposedly, that particular play has a real curse written into it. There’s an old superstition that you should never say a line from the play, or even the name of the play, while you’re inside a theatre, unless you’re actually performing it.”

“What happens if you do?” Fozzie asked anxiously.

“Fozzie…nothing. It’s a silly old tradition. You know, kind of like the one about performers not whistling onstage.”

“You mean like this?” Gonzo queried, immediately whistling “Sing, Sing, Sing.”

“Why shouldn’t we whistle onstage?” Fozzie asked.

“Well, you see, Fozzie, the first theatre techies over in England were often sailors, and they communicated with one another like they would aboard a ship, by whistling to each other,” Kermit explained. “So one whistle might mean, ‘raise that fly-line,’ and another might mean, ‘drop that sandbag here’…”

“Ack!” A heavy sandbag crashed down on top of Gonzo, making Kermit and Fozzie jump. Kermit peered up into the loft over the stage right wing.

“Hey! Knock it off! …I thought we got rid of those sandbags when we switched to a double-hung pulley system?” Kermit wondered.

A pig in a sailor suit with a jaunty cap shrugged at him from above in the loft. “Sorry. Thought you wanted it down there.”

“Yeesh,” Kermit muttered.

“Can someone please give me a pump up?” Gonzo’s muffled voice came from the squashed blue pile on the floor.

“Uh…whaddaya want me to do with all these old sandbags up here?” the pig called down as Fozzie cranked Gonzo’s arm, restoring him to a more or less standing position.

“I don’t know – just get rid of ‘em!” Kermit answered.

“Okay!”

Dozens of full sandbags rained down, burying Gonzo. The bear and frog jerked back in surprise and dismay. “…Ow,” came a weak voice from somewhere under the pile.

Fozzie turned to Kermit. “I see what you mean. Curses are silly, but whistling is bad!”

“Eeesh,” Kermit shuddered.



The Newsman heard the wire spitting out news copy before Scooter could even reach it. Grabbing the printout, Newsie hurried to the stage, but found his way blocked by an enormous mound of sandbags. Huffing impatiently at them, he reflected that such disorganization would never happen at the Sosilly, judging by what he’d seen. Beau was trying to move them out of the wing, but the bags were so decrepit half of them split open when he tried to pick them up, the sand spilling everywhere. “Newsman, you’re on!” Scooter said, earning a frown.

“Is there a way around this?” Newsie demanded. Scooter shook his head sadly.

“’Fraid not. You’ll just have to climb over like the rest of us!”

Grumbling to himself, Newsie did his best to make it over the shifting pile without staggering, trying to shake the loose sand off his trouser cuffs as he hurried to his desk. He looked at the bulletin. “And now for a Muppet News Flash! There have been reports of a tornado sighted! People are urged to stay indoors in a secure area! If you are outside, get to safety, especially if you hear a noise like a freight train…” He squinted at the report. “Uh, unless you are actually on a freight train. In that case, you should listen for any noise which sounds like a tornado.” Shaking his head, he tossed the report aside, stalked off the set, and only when he was past the sand trap and in the wing did he realize nothing had happened. Nothing. He stopped in mid-step, surprised, and quickly looked all around – especially up. For once, nothing seemed to be bearing down on him.

Relieved, he touched Gina’s string bracelet a moment, wondering if his luck had finally changed for the better. As he went downstairs, feeling much lighter of mood, Piggy barrelled past. “I thought there’d be at least another minute of them scraping you up! Can’t you stick to a routine, loser?” she snapped at him, running for the stage. At a loss for a response, he stared after her a moment. Then he felt a smile creeping over his face. He bit it back, thinking how unprofessional it would be, but as he returned to the green room and his study reading, he almost whistled. Almost.

“And now, we present a musical interlude of wistful wondering, willfully warbled by our very own Miss Piggy!” Kermit told the audience. As he retreated stage right, Dr Honeydew and Beaker opened the stage left door from the tunnel. Janice played a pretty acoustic guitar intro.

“I clooooooose, myyyyyyyy, eyyyyyyyyyes,” Piggy sang, suiting deed to words as she threw one arm dramatically over her face, her gauzy champagne-colored peignor and robe flowing wispily through the air before her. Beaker stared at her, then looked all around the stage. Bunsen held up his new and improved psychokinetic energy field source-manipulator pinpointing sensor array, which looked a lot like a Jiffy-pop popcorn pan with a readout screen from a GPS indicator welded inside.

“It’s definitely here, Beaker! Look at those readings! It just spiked again!” Bunsen exclaimed. Piggy, hearing him, paused to glare into the stage left wing, then moved more center stage, singing louder.

“Only for a moment, and the moment’s goooooooone…” What the heck were those two geeks doing on stage? What was it with all the geeks doing things they weren’t supposed to tonight, anyway? Annoyed, Piggy tried even more emphatic gestures. Her gauzy outfit was blowing around quite a bit. Why was there a fan above her? She coughed; sand was blowing over from stage right. “Alllll…myyyyyyy… dreeeeeeaaams… pass before my eyes…(cough, cough, cough) my eyyyyes…(cough, hack)…aaaagh! My eyes! Someone get this darned sand out of my eyes!” Piggy shrieked.

Bunsen stared in awe; Beaker squealed and tried to make a run for it. The twister touched down right on top of Piggy, yanking her up with a scream and a wild flurry of fluttering fabric. The entire sandpile was sucked into the air. “Oh! Oh, heavens!” Bunsen cried, hanging onto the exit stair railing for dear life. Beaker dove into the tunnel, running as fast as his pattering feet could take him. He could hear the chaos onstage still; it sounded like a dull roar…kind of like a freight train…

The train blared its horn at him, bearing down too fast to escape. Beaker shrieked, going down as the improbable train plowed over him and shot through the understage tunnel.

“Kermit! It’s a twister!” Fozzie yelled.

“I can see that!” Kermit yelled back. “Piggy!”

“Auntie Em, Auntie Em!” Gonzo howled, being pulled out of the remainder of the sand. Several chickens zipped past, bawking in terror.

“Kermit! It’s that play curse!” Fozzie cried.

“I told you, that’s a myth!”

“Is there another myth about how to stop it?”

“I don’t remember!”

The phone rang. “You’ve gotta be kidding me!” Kermit complained, worriedly staring up into the circling winds. Far above the stage, he could see a small white thing swooping around and around, still shrieking loudly. “How is that even possible?” he yelled. “The roof’s still on!”

Scooter answered the phone. “Hello?...Oh, hey, Gina. Look, we’re kinda busy –“ He broke off, listening a moment, then nodded. “Okay, I’ll tell him! Thanks!” He rushed over to his boss. “Kermit? Gina says to break the curse, you have to go outside around the building three times counterclockwise, spit, swear, and then someone else has to let you back in!”

“Are you kidding me?” Kermit shouted. “I am not doing all that! Get the Newsman up here! This is his tornado!”

“My what?” Newsie asked, jaw dropping, when Scooter ran downstairs and informed him of the chaos onstage. He backed away, shaking his head. “Oh no! I am not going up there! You guys can deal with this for a change!”

“He says get up there, or you’re fired!” Scooter said, Kermit having anticipated this response.

Newsie hesitated. Scooter tried a different tack. “Newsie, please! The twister’s got Miss Piggy! If she’s hurt, Kermit will never get over it! Please!”

They looked at one another. Swallowing hard, the Newsman gave in, and hurried up the stairs after Scooter, shaking in dread. Downstairs had been calm – relatively, at least – but once at the top of the stairs he could hear an awful sound, a roaring like an oncoming train. He thought of every trailer-park interview he’d ever seen on the Weather Channel, gulped, and ventured into the stage right wing to peer out at the impossible freak of wind. “You! This is your fault!” Kermit shouted at him.

“I only read the news, I don’t cause it!” Newsie yelled back over the noise. Audience members were either clinging to their seats or being sucked up into the whirling cone. “What do you expect me to even do about it?”

“Do something! I don’t care what!”

“Newsie! Gina said –“ Scooter quickly told him what Gina had said for Kermit to do. Newsie gestured at Kermit.

“Well then tell him to do it! I’m not the one going around saying ‘Macbeth!’” Newsie protested, then blanched. “Oh –“ he unleashed a few of the words he’d heard Gina use before, though he wasn’t entirely sure of their meanings.

Scooter shoved him toward the rear exit. “Just do it! Get out there!”

Angrily, the Newsman whirled as the back door slammed shut behind him. This was outrageous! He didn’t have anything to do with this! If Gina had said the way to stop it was for Kermit to perform this silly countercurse, why was he the one out here? He looked up; there was no sign at all over the theatre that a tornado was raging inside. He shook his head, completely astonished. None of this made any sense! Even less than usual! “Which way is counterclockwise?” he wondered aloud, trying to visualize a clock laid over the theatre. Figuring it out, he ran down into the alley, realizing that to go around the building completely he was going to have to travel a very long route, as other buildings hemmed in the theatre on two sides. He turned at the first cross-alley, heading left, running until he turned left onto the street, turned again, ran in front of the theatre, turned at the intersection, ran until the alley opened up, went down it, nearly turned the wrong way at the cross-alley…

By the time he’d completed three circuits he was panting hard and his sides hurt. He staggered up the rear stairs and pounded on the back door. Scooter opened the door a crack. “Did you do all three laps?”

“Take a wild guess,” Newsie huffed weakly.

“Now you have to spit and swear. Then you knock and I let you back in.”

“Now hold on just a –“ SLAM.

Exhausted, Newsie tried to even work up enough water to spit. He felt disgusted doing so, but clearly he wasn’t going to be allowed back in without completing this nonsense. He aimed for the dumpster a few feet from the loading dock. “Hey!” a sharp voice protested. Rizzo’s head popped up from the top of the dumpster. “Do you mind? There’s some amazing blackened ice cream down h—oh it’s you. I thought I was done with you!” the rat complained.

It didn’t take much imagination for Newsie to swear at that point. “Rat, I swear on the crocheted tombstone cozy of my dear mother, if you say one more word to me in that disrespectful tone, I’ll plant mousetraps all over this theatre!”

“What the heck’s a tombstone cozy?” Rizzo wondered.

Newsie leaned against the back door a moment, gasping, his legs shaking. He wasn’t used to that much exertion. At least, when he was running for his life, it was rarely a sustained run of more than a minute… He gathered a small bit of strength and knocked on the back door. Scooter opened it, eyes wide. “Wow. That was some heavy swearing!”

“Just tell me it’s done,” Newsie panted, stumbling inside. A long shriek, a thrilled scream, and several falling baaaaaawwwwwks sounded from the stage, followed by crashing sounds.

Scooter surveyed the falling pig, Gonzo, and chickens all the way down. “Yep. That did it!”

“Good,” the Newsman managed. He used the stair railing to keep himself from falling down to the green room, found an empty beat-up sofa, and collapsed onto it. He wondered whether getting caught up in the tornado would’ve been worse as he lay still and tried to get his breath back.

Kermit helped Piggy up. “Piggy! Are you okay?”

“Whoooo-hoo-hoo! What a ride!” Gonzo laughed. The chickens seemed less pleased. The audience were picking themselves up, adjusting clothing, toupées, and jewelry in an angry murmur. The band members crawled out from under the lip of the orchestra pit, anxiously checking their instruments. Bunsen slowly let go of the exit stair railing, panting in fright; the field sensor was beeping furiously.

Miss Piggy attempted to dust off her ruined dress. “What…the heck…was that?”

Kermit gulped, though he was glad to see her basically unharmed. “Uh…well…that was the Newsman’s tornado.”

“What?” she stared at the frog blankly.

“I’m tellin’ ya, it was the curse! The witches’ curse!” Fozzie was yelling from the wing.

“Goodness, Beaker! Look at these readings! That was definitely a manifestation of the psychokinetic energy field! Have you ever seen such a potent demonstration of the raw power of theoretical dimensional quantum physics?” Excited, Bunsen looked around. “Beaker…?”

In the tunnel, the train from nowhere had apparently gone back there. Beaker lifted his dazed head enough to see that the tunnel was simply an access hallway once more. With a groan, he passed out, his face flopping into the thin layer of sand coating the floor.

In the green room, Newsie was just starting to feel like his heart wasn’t going to explode from exertion after all. He felt a tap on his shoulder, and opened weary eyes. Piggy stood next to the sofa, shaking in rage. Before Newsie could so much as utter a what? he heard the dreaded sound from a pig throat raw with sand: “Hiiii-yaaa!”

“Whooof!” he puffed, his legs flopping into the air from the force of her chop on his stomach. Coughing, gasping, he fell to the floor. Piggy tossed her hair back; it fell over her face, but she pretended dignity anyway.

“And if you ever, ever want my advice again, jerk, just stuff it!” she shouted, storming away to her dressing-room.

In a great deal of pain, Newsie lay there, still gasping, as Scooter came over. The young man leaned down, shaking his head. “Maybe next time, you should just let the twister get you,” Scooter suggested.

“Uh-huh,” Newsie groaned, and fell unconscious.

 

[The Count]

Wow, 20 chapters. I'm really loving/liking the relationship play between Newsie and Gina... And all the random hyjinks that continue to befall the bedraggled broadcaster. Seems he's gone half a week with that protection charm bracelet and it's still business as usual. Hope it actually works for him when the seven days are up and he can take it off. Now if you'l excuse me, I'm gonna go get some of that cajun spiced Black & Blueberry ice cream. *Gets container of Cajun Black & Blue from the Creole Creamery, a spot on my must-visit culinary list.

 

[newsmanfan]

Hey! Don't bogart that ice cream! Pass it over!

Count sir, this next chapter contains an extended cameo I put in just for you...and once that character was present, the rest of the chapter fell neatly into place.

Twenty-one! ah-ah-ah!