Here Figgie, I know it's 12:52, but since your sick tomorrow I want you to wake up to something happy so...that she blows, my wimpy little chapter. I hope you like her...and I plan on doing great things with you and Henry James Kristoferson. (just Henry for now, his mouthful name will be said later) hope you like! And I hope someone reviews! Boy, that'd be nice!
CHAPTER THREE
As Henry watched Alison, his strong hands holding the box of props began to slip. He was caught where he was. A million show-girls came by a week: with long adjustable hair in pristine perfect colors and bright eyes, in their flashy outfits. Them he was somehow used to. But her...he had never seen her before, and now he could not make his eyes look away. He watched as her face flushed with color on the chorus, watched her gray-blue eyes light up as her angelic voiced soared through the old building. Watched her flip her auburn hair around her back and smile as she was joined for the last verse. He hardly noticed Beauregard tap his shoulder.
“Here,” The empty-headed janitor handed him a box of junk.
“What are those for?” Asked Henry, trying hard to pay attention to his boss.
“Well we need those ones your holding, but if you want some so bad--”
Henry looked down and realized his hands were clutching the box so that his knuckles had turned white. He chuckled, wondering whether Beau was trying to be funny or sincerely helpful. The latter was much more likely.
“Hey, Beau-who is that singing?
Beauregard blinked confusedly. “Which one?”
“The girl Beau, I've never seen her before.”
“Oh—that's a girl. She sings.”
Henry smiled at him hopelessly. “Thanks a lot Beauregard.”
“Your welcome! Want to keep those props?”
“Uhm...no, no. In fact, will you take these for me? I have to find Scooter.”
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
“We have seven cots in the prop closet,” The go-fer was saying. “But one of them Hilda cut up to make spare costumes: Gonzo volunteered to sleep on what's left though.”
“Problem is, where do we put them?” Kermit asked, observing the crammed hallways with extras and Muppets and cots and suitcases clogging the works.
Fozzie came up the back stairs. “The band says they'll share the basement.”
“Yeah, except with the pig. Never with the pig.” Floyd yelled up after him.
“I HEARD that you dirty tree-hugger!” Miss Piggy flounced down the stairs in an obvious huff. “Kermie! I cannot, repeat, cannot share a dressing room with Sweetums!”
“Oh boy. Piggie, we talked about this...”
"Hey Kerm, Gonzo's taking apart one of the stage lights. Says he's gonna make an electric blanket or something.”
“What?! Well stop him!”
“Kermit? How on earth am I supposed to rehearse with half of the theater sleeping in the orchestra pit?”
“Don't worry about that tonight Nigel. Just get some sleep.”
“Uhm, like Kermit? Like you know that glass nativity scene, you know? Well like, I think Animal ate one of the wise men.”
“Well...well...Have someone start making another one!”
“Mir cooun meke-a oone-a veet sume-a duoogh!”
“Kermit, if I were to sleep in the cannon on stage five, do you think you could keep Crazy Harry away for the night?”
“Hey frog, the other rat's and I have decided we'll be taking the fridge tonight, considering it's probably warmer in there than the rest of the house...”
“Si, and me with jou, hokey?”
A chorus of “Kermit”'s were echoing from almost every side of the theater. As the man-in-control, the poor, small green leader suddenly felt like he was in the midst of an angry see of tired, cold, busy Muppets.
“Alright, that's enough!” He managed to get their attention, his voice cracking in the process. “Now listen everybody, I know it's not what we're used to, and I know it's not the easiest situation and I know it's not the best. But we canhandle it if we all try pitching in and co-operating with each other instead of all serving our own needs, OK?” There were murmured agreements. Muppets shuffled off in various directions. Kermit could placate them for now, but he knew motivational speeches weren't going to solve all off their problems: problems which were numerous and seemed to be multiplying by the minute. The drafty old theater was freezing cold, and no amount of coaxing and begging and pleading could convince Scooter's uncle to do anything about it. There wasn't enough space—people were crammed in nearly seven to a room in some places. Not to mention: the theater wasn't home. Familiar and sentimental it was: cozy and accommodating it was not. In one day they had lost their residence of ten years. He tried not to let that bother him, tried not to think about the randomness of it all. It wasn't the first time life had shown him it's easy come, easy go policy the hard way. And he had learned how to cope: That was half of life. The other half was learning how to enjoy yourself while you did so. That part wasn't always so easy.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Scooter was trying hard to concentrate on his clipboard, ignoring his exhaustion, just like everyone else: when the tall, dark haired whatnot-stagehand ran up to him.
“Scooter?” He panted.
“Oh, hey...erm...”
“Henry.”
“Oh right. What can I do for you Henry? Tell me there's not another problem with the props--” “No, no problem. Uhm...can you tell me...what the name of that girl that uhm, was singing just now was?”
Scooter looked at him a little blankly. In reality he was thinking, but Henry suddenly felt extremely uncomfortable under his gaze.
“I've just...never seen her before. And you know, I want to get to know you people...now that I'm working here.”
“The one who's booked on the show next week?” Asked Scooter consulting his clipboard.
“I don't know...she has dark red hair and gray eyes, and she was singing the solo just now.” He blurted out.
“Yeah, well her name is Alice. Alice Dove. She's on the Christmas program.”
“Ok. Well—-thanks Scooter.”
Scooter gave him a knowing smile. “Your welcome. Want me to introduce you?”
“N-no, no thanks. I've...gotta get those wreathes set up. Thanks—anyway.”
He hurried off, wondering why the freezing cold theater suddenly felt so warm.
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