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Chapter Nineteen
Clifford straddled the old malfunctioning light and pulled a screwdriver out of his pocket. He shoved his sunglasses up his forehead and set about unscrewing a large metal plate.
He felt a frown on his face. Dumb light. Dumb, lousy light. It never worked. Why did he have to fix it?
He pulled out the unscrewed screw and turned to put it- aw, rats, he’d forgotten to bring a bowl for the loose screws.
Man, why couldn’t they just buy a new light, like a normal theater?
He looked at the screw in his hand.
Too many loose screws around, that was why.
He balanced the screw on the metal grating of the catwalk behind him, careful that it wouldn’t fall through to the stage below. It was stupid, but it worked. A lot of things were like that around here.
On the stage below him, Kermit and Fozzie were practicing their song and dance number for the show. It was going better than the diner skit, which wasn’t saying much.
Clifford cringed at the thought of the diner skit as he began to unscrew the next screw. Why did he have to be the one behind the counter? Why was he the one to put up with everyone else’s insanity?
He sighed. It wasn’t so far off from real life. Hey, Clifford, could you fix that light that’s broken, and nobody can figure out why it’s broken… Could you spend the rest of your life fixing it, when it would be cheaper and easier to just buy a new one?
He pulled out the unscrewed screw, turned, set it next to the first screw, and turned to unscrew the third screw.
Yeah, sure, he’d be happy to waste away his life just slaving away fixing this dumb old light. It wasn’t like he had anything better to do. Not like he’d ever dreamed of anything better than lurking in the shadows with a wrench in his hand. Why would he dream of that?
Man, couldn’t the frog, of all people, understand dreaming? Couldn’t the frog understand that ambition to do more, to be more? So why keep him fixing this dumb old light? Who did the frog think he was- Beauregard? Andy and Randy Pig? Man, even Pepe was moving faster than he was, and that shrimp was a lying, scheming, no-good money-hungry back-stabber!
He didn’t grab the unscrewed screw fast enough, and it tumbled down to the stage below.
“Aw, MAN!” Clifford glared down at the falling screw. He shoved the screwdriver back into his pocket, grabbed the railing above and behind him, and pulled himself under it onto the catwalk.
His feet kicked against the two precariously balanced screws, knocking them through the metal grating.
He clenched his jaw as he watched the screws fall. “Typical,” he muttered. Talk about good-for-nothing. Even if he’d had a bowl for the screws, he would’ve kicked it over.
“Ah! It’s raining hardware!” Fozzie’s voice carried up from below.
Clifford’s muscles tensed. It WOULDN’T be rainin’ hardware if that frog would buy a NEW light and let me-
“Everything all right up there, Cliff?” Kermit called up.
Clifford clenched his fists. “Yeah, it’s cool, Kerm.” He marched along the grid of catwalks until he reached the tall metal ladder, which he then grabbed hold of and lowered himself down.
This was just typical. All he wanted was to make something of himself, and he couldn’t do anything right. He was stuck fixing the same light, day in and day out, dropping screws, screwing up his love life-
His feet hit the wood floor and he turned to the stage, yanking his sunglasses off and shoving them into a pocket as he squinted to spy the screws.
“What happened?” Kermit asked.
“None of your-“ Clifford caught himself, not looking at the frog. “Uh- nothin’, Kerm. Just butterfingers, that’s all.”
“…Okay,” Kermit said, something unsettled in his voice. “…You need any help finding-“
“I got it, Kerm.”
“…Okay…”
Clifford picked up one of the screws, squinted, and spotted the other two in the band pit, on the carpet, near Animal’s drum set. He groaned, swung himself down, and picked up the screws. He shot a warning glare of don’t ask at anyone in the band pit as he straightened up. As he trudged up the steps to the house, his eyes passed over Rowlf’s piano.
You can’t live with ‘em, you can’t live without ‘em…
“Where are ya when I need ya, Ol' Brown Ears?” Clifford muttered under his breath.
His fist clenched around the three screws in his hand as he pushed his way into the old supply closet. Everything in this theater was old.
“I gotta get outta here,” he muttered. “No guy here has luck with life. Or women.”
He snatched a small bowl and slammed the screws into it.
Rejected.
Carly, cute Carly from the checkout line at the grocery store, had walked out on him just a few nights ago. Before her, Stacy had stopped returning his calls without explanation. Before her, Rebecca had dumped him for some jerk in the South Korean Army. Brittany had left him for the garbage man. Now that HURT.
But one look at the company he kept, and how surprised could he be about it? All these guys, and the only two with good relationships were Gonzo and Floyd, a weirdo and a musician, with a chicken and another musician.
He yanked his sunglasses off and thrust them onto his face. “You are who your friends are,” he muttered.
He glared through his shades at the three screws in the bowl.
For the thousandth time in his life, he thought about quitting the Muppets and moving to some remote village near the Amazon. From the way Scooter talked about his twin, Skeeter, that was where the really good women were, anyway.
And who would miss him here? Nobody would notice if that dumb light NEVER got fixed! And they all hated him, anyway, because he was the one who had gotten that show cancelled.
He snatched the screws, clenched them in his fist, and shoved the bowl into his pocket. He left the supply closet.
It wasn’t the first time he’d thought of leaving. Maybe this time… Maybe after this show… When that lousy diner skit was through…
He hauled himself up the ladder, reached the catwalk he needed, and felt the screws slip from his hand.
He groaned as he watched them fall. “Typical,” he muttered, climbing down. “Good for nothing…”
Clifford straddled the old malfunctioning light and pulled a screwdriver out of his pocket. He shoved his sunglasses up his forehead and set about unscrewing a large metal plate.
He felt a frown on his face. Dumb light. Dumb, lousy light. It never worked. Why did he have to fix it?
He pulled out the unscrewed screw and turned to put it- aw, rats, he’d forgotten to bring a bowl for the loose screws.
Man, why couldn’t they just buy a new light, like a normal theater?
He looked at the screw in his hand.
Too many loose screws around, that was why.
He balanced the screw on the metal grating of the catwalk behind him, careful that it wouldn’t fall through to the stage below. It was stupid, but it worked. A lot of things were like that around here.
On the stage below him, Kermit and Fozzie were practicing their song and dance number for the show. It was going better than the diner skit, which wasn’t saying much.
Clifford cringed at the thought of the diner skit as he began to unscrew the next screw. Why did he have to be the one behind the counter? Why was he the one to put up with everyone else’s insanity?
He sighed. It wasn’t so far off from real life. Hey, Clifford, could you fix that light that’s broken, and nobody can figure out why it’s broken… Could you spend the rest of your life fixing it, when it would be cheaper and easier to just buy a new one?
He pulled out the unscrewed screw, turned, set it next to the first screw, and turned to unscrew the third screw.
Yeah, sure, he’d be happy to waste away his life just slaving away fixing this dumb old light. It wasn’t like he had anything better to do. Not like he’d ever dreamed of anything better than lurking in the shadows with a wrench in his hand. Why would he dream of that?
Man, couldn’t the frog, of all people, understand dreaming? Couldn’t the frog understand that ambition to do more, to be more? So why keep him fixing this dumb old light? Who did the frog think he was- Beauregard? Andy and Randy Pig? Man, even Pepe was moving faster than he was, and that shrimp was a lying, scheming, no-good money-hungry back-stabber!
He didn’t grab the unscrewed screw fast enough, and it tumbled down to the stage below.
“Aw, MAN!” Clifford glared down at the falling screw. He shoved the screwdriver back into his pocket, grabbed the railing above and behind him, and pulled himself under it onto the catwalk.
His feet kicked against the two precariously balanced screws, knocking them through the metal grating.
He clenched his jaw as he watched the screws fall. “Typical,” he muttered. Talk about good-for-nothing. Even if he’d had a bowl for the screws, he would’ve kicked it over.
“Ah! It’s raining hardware!” Fozzie’s voice carried up from below.
Clifford’s muscles tensed. It WOULDN’T be rainin’ hardware if that frog would buy a NEW light and let me-
“Everything all right up there, Cliff?” Kermit called up.
Clifford clenched his fists. “Yeah, it’s cool, Kerm.” He marched along the grid of catwalks until he reached the tall metal ladder, which he then grabbed hold of and lowered himself down.
This was just typical. All he wanted was to make something of himself, and he couldn’t do anything right. He was stuck fixing the same light, day in and day out, dropping screws, screwing up his love life-
His feet hit the wood floor and he turned to the stage, yanking his sunglasses off and shoving them into a pocket as he squinted to spy the screws.
“What happened?” Kermit asked.
“None of your-“ Clifford caught himself, not looking at the frog. “Uh- nothin’, Kerm. Just butterfingers, that’s all.”
“…Okay,” Kermit said, something unsettled in his voice. “…You need any help finding-“
“I got it, Kerm.”
“…Okay…”
Clifford picked up one of the screws, squinted, and spotted the other two in the band pit, on the carpet, near Animal’s drum set. He groaned, swung himself down, and picked up the screws. He shot a warning glare of don’t ask at anyone in the band pit as he straightened up. As he trudged up the steps to the house, his eyes passed over Rowlf’s piano.
You can’t live with ‘em, you can’t live without ‘em…
“Where are ya when I need ya, Ol' Brown Ears?” Clifford muttered under his breath.
His fist clenched around the three screws in his hand as he pushed his way into the old supply closet. Everything in this theater was old.
“I gotta get outta here,” he muttered. “No guy here has luck with life. Or women.”
He snatched a small bowl and slammed the screws into it.
Rejected.
Carly, cute Carly from the checkout line at the grocery store, had walked out on him just a few nights ago. Before her, Stacy had stopped returning his calls without explanation. Before her, Rebecca had dumped him for some jerk in the South Korean Army. Brittany had left him for the garbage man. Now that HURT.
But one look at the company he kept, and how surprised could he be about it? All these guys, and the only two with good relationships were Gonzo and Floyd, a weirdo and a musician, with a chicken and another musician.
He yanked his sunglasses off and thrust them onto his face. “You are who your friends are,” he muttered.
He glared through his shades at the three screws in the bowl.
For the thousandth time in his life, he thought about quitting the Muppets and moving to some remote village near the Amazon. From the way Scooter talked about his twin, Skeeter, that was where the really good women were, anyway.
And who would miss him here? Nobody would notice if that dumb light NEVER got fixed! And they all hated him, anyway, because he was the one who had gotten that show cancelled.
He snatched the screws, clenched them in his fist, and shoved the bowl into his pocket. He left the supply closet.
It wasn’t the first time he’d thought of leaving. Maybe this time… Maybe after this show… When that lousy diner skit was through…
He hauled himself up the ladder, reached the catwalk he needed, and felt the screws slip from his hand.
He groaned as he watched them fall. “Typical,” he muttered, climbing down. “Good for nothing…”
Oh nuus.