Chapter 60: Translucent
“A tree?” said Mabel. “Like a Christmas tree?”
“Right,” said Rizzo. “We need something to decorate for Christmas.”
“What about that thing Doc Honeydew built?” Mabel asked, but before the words were out she remembered Beaker’s unexpected haircut. “Nevermind,” she said.
“Doesn’t have to be big—just something to throw a few garlands around so we can put presents under it.”
Mabel twisted the skirt of her apron thoughtfully. Since the kids had all left home, she had not bothered much with a tree, choosing other forms of holiday decorations that didn’t drop foliage on the linoleum. Why the last time she’d had a tree had been…wait. What had she done with that old aluminum tree that Lucas had insisted they buy that year? She squinched her face up thoughtfully, and Rizzo recognized the signs hopefully.
“You thinking where we could get one?”
“I’m thinking I might still have one. If I do, it’s an old one—can’t say for sure if it’s still in storage or what kind of shape it’s in, but you’re welcome to it. How about you bring a buddy over tonight after the show and we’ll forage up in the crawl space of my attic?” She smiled slyly. “I’ll feed you.”
“You had me at foraging,” said Rizzo. “It’s a date.”
Kermit and Robin had returned to find Piggy clean and pink and wrapped in a voluminous silk kimono with her hair up in lots and lots of little twists. When Kermit leaned in to kiss her, she smelled like shampoo and soap and vanilla spice and the thought of it made him hum happily all the way down to the auditorium.
When he was safely out of earshot, Robin turned to his Aunt-in-law with the air of a businessman.
“So,” he said determinedly. “What are you getting Uncle Kermit?”
Piggy paused in the process of laying out cookies chocolate chip cookies (with real chocolate chips) and root beer on the little coffee table. Robin and Kermit had eaten lunch in one of the casino cafes, but the little frog had declared himself ready for a snack and Piggy had been happy to oblige. Her own lunch of pimento spread with green olives on sour-dough lay primly on a paper towel. She laid a couple of cookies next to her sandwich thoughtfully before she replied.
“The usual—clothes which he won’t wear, ties he rarely uses, a couple of albums that he won’t be able to upload to his player without Scooter’s help and….” She smiled at Robin fondly. “And a partridge in a pear tree,” she finished.
Robin stared. “Really?” he asked. “A real partridge?”
“Well,” said Miss Piggy. “He got me a mink one year.” Then she laughed at Robin’s credulous expression and patted him fondly on the head. “Moi was just being funny, Robin,” she said. “Let’s face it—your uncle is hard to buy for.”
“That’s because he already has everything he wants,” said Robin simply, and for a moment, Piggy thought she might actually cry. She covered it briskly and fussed with the glasses of soda. But Piggy was a professional, and she corrected her momentary lapse of composure.
“Well, Mon Capitan has Moi, and he has you, and he has Scooter and the rest of our little troupe. What more could he ask for?” she teased.
Robin laughed and she joined in, but underneath their jollity there was a desperateness that tried hard to fight its way to the surface. Despite the lightness they were striving for, they were both thinking the same thing—Kermit might have everything he needed, but there were definitely some things he’d be happy to be without.
The camera man adjusted his camera angle just a smidge. He was trying to keep dark shadows from appearing underneath the eyes of the older gentlemen who were the object of his camera, but there didn’t seem to be enough light in the world to make those shadows go away. When he’d gotten the call about this job, it had sounded too good to be true. Come to Las Vegas for a free holiday and all you have to do in film some interviews and commentary to be used in the upcoming awards ceremony. It has sounded like easy money—and an easy ride professionally, but he found that getting the sort of thing that his clients wanted from these two old coots wasn’t exactly a bowl of cherries.
They interrupted each other. They told horrible jokes. They couldn’t stay on track with the questions they were asked, or remember not to look at the camera directly. One of them complained about the feedback on his hearing aid almost constantly. And—miracle of miracles—these ancient, decrepit fellows had wives. He couldn’t imagine putting up with these two all of the time. The ladies had arrived about 15 minutes ago, which was 45 minutes after he’d expected to be done with this segment. He gritted his teeth and smiled apologetically at the women before turning back to the camera.
“Okay, now,” he said, realizing that he’d reverted to the voice he’d used when he first started his cinematic career—when he’d started out photographing babies and screaming toddlers. “Let’s do this one more time—okay? Then you can get on with your day.” And I can take a headache pill. “Tell me about your history with the famous amphibian of your choice. Kermit, right? Kermit the frog?” he prompted.
“Well,” said Statler in a tremulous voice. “I guess you could say we’ve been there from the beginning—from the time they were first trying to find their place in television.”
“How about on the roof holding tin foil?” said the other one—Mr. Waldorf. They both laughed uproariously.
“Seriously, guys,” said the cameraman, almost pleading. “I know you used to go see The Muppet Show all the time. Tell us about that.”
“We sure did,” said Statler thoughtfully. “Every time the doors were opened.”
“Oh sure,” Waldorf’s voice came clearly over the screen. “My buddy and I--we used to go every week. Wouldn’t miss it for anything. We’ve seen all their movies--we even had a cameo in the last one when the regular guys didn’t show up.”
“So, you’d say you were big fans....” the cameraman spun desperately.
“The biggest!” Waldorf agreed. “We love the frog. He’s bigger than the Mouse, if you know what I mean.” There was a nervous little cough and Waldorf looked over toward the camera. “Don’t tell him I said that, okay?”
There was a confused silence. “You mean Mickey?”
“Mickey? No--what do I care what that character thinks? I mean the frog--don’t tell Kermit that we love his work. It will ruin our street cred.”
“You do know we’re taping you, right?” the weary cameraman said, one hand over his face.
“Oh sure,” said Waldorf dismissively. “Go ahead and tape. It’s just for the contest, right?”
“Um...”
“I mean, no one’s going to see this, right?”
“Um….gosh. Look at the time. And I’ve got an appointment in a little bit.” He rubbed his temple as though his head hurt. “Let me look over what we’ve got so far and I’ll let you know if I need to see any more of you.” Not likely. “So, it’s been great, Mr. Waldorf, Mr. Statler” he lied shamelessly. “Enjoy your stay in Vegas! You’ll be hearing from the sponsors later!” He ushered the men and their stately wives out the door with more haste than was strictly polite.
“Oy vey,” he said, shutting the door and leaning against it. “I’d rather take pictures of babies.”
Outside in the casino, Statler blinked at his friend on some confusion. “This just for a cable show, right? Nobody will ever see it?”
“I think its an awards program,” said Waldorf, “but who actually watches those?” The two men laughed uproariously.
Over their heads, Penelope Statler looked at Astoria Waldorf, her dearest longtime friend, and they exchanged rueful and amused expressions. Street cred, indeed.
Janice looked at the stretch of sand before her and felt a wave of memory wash over her. It stopped her in her tracks, made her hands tighten convulsively on the paper in her hands while she remembered.
They had gathered their things reluctantly, Floyd dawdling in a way that had made her laugh and tease him. As if time could really stop…. It had seemed to—here—for an all-too-brief sojourn, but now it was fading like the light around them. Janice had sensed his melancholy mood and come up behind him, putting her arms around his waist. Floyd had turned into her arms, into the warmth of her sun-kissed skin against his.
“Time to go back,” she’d said, and smiled up at him with her generous mouth.
“I don’t want to pack,” Floyd had said. “I want to go….” He had not finished the thought, but his arms had tightened around her lithe frame as he struggled for words.
“Don’t want to leave,” he grumbled. “Can’t we just stay here forever—just us?”
“That sounds nice,” she had said, and laughed and tossed her long blond hair, “but, like, Mr. Kermit is counting on us.” She had looked at him impishly and put her hand on his chest. “And you’ve always been a stand-up sortof guy….”
“Janice,” he had said. “Oh, Babe, I—“ Floyd had stopped, not sure how to proceed, but it had not mattered to Janice. She knew he could write a song that would show you the actual beating of his heart, but he was not always able to say, with words alone, what he so wished to say. But Janice knew that heart well—at least, she had thought so then. Then, she had made words entirely unnecessary by giving Floyd something more useful to do than talk, and they stood there in the fading light, with all splendor of the sunset behind them, and let the communion of their lips echo the communion of their souls.
“Hey!” said a voice—not Floyd’s. Janice put a hand to her flushed face, trying to remember where and with whom she was.
“Hey,” Clifford repeated. “Daydream on your own time.” Though his tone was annoyed, there was a definite twinkle in his dark eyes. Janice started and looked up, and there was something in her expression—wistfullness, maybe—that made him suddenly serious. “You okay, Lady J?”
Janice shook it off. In all the time they had been together, she had never had secrets from Floyd, never felt it necessary to be less than she was, say less than her heart led her to say. But now…now….
“I’m fine,” she said. “Just, like, thinking of old times.”
“Well, think faster,” Clifford said, striving for a light tone. He could guess how hard it had been keeping this from Floyd, but she had been so moody he sometimes felt uncomfortable, not sure what to say to soothe her. He looked around the room, eying the room thoughtfully.
“You sure this is what you want, Janice? I mean, if you aren’t—“
“For sure I’m sure,” she said, and her voice was determined enough to bring a smile to his lips.
“Yes ma’am,” said Clifford with considerable sass, and was rewarded when she gave him a long stare.
Still, he hesitated, worried about how this was all going to come out. “Are you sure Floyd—“
“You let me worry about Floyd,” Janice said smugly. She turned and smiled up at the tall dread-locked bass player. “Remember, I’m, like, the brains here--you’re just here for decorations.”
Clifford made a couple of mock-grumbly noises, but they were half-hearted.
“Lady J,” he said slowly, “I know I look good, but I’ve never actually been used for decoration before.”
“Oh, like, really,” Janice laughed out loud, closing her eyes and tipping her generous mouth in the air. “Stop teasing,” she insisted. “Get over here and put those muscles to work.”
Clifford gave a mock salute and sauntered over to where she stood.
“Your wish is my command,” he said dryly. Janice took him at face value and put him to work.
The afternoon heat made Rowlf feel lazy and sleepy. He and Foo Foo had snagged a couple of lawn chairs and were sitting in the arguable shade of a palm tree, passing a bag of homemade dog treats back and forth.
“I like your mole friend, Mabel,” said Foo Foo, licking her paw delicately. Rowlf opened his eyes and grinned at her. For a little thing, she could put it away with the best of them, and there were not many treats left in the bag.
“Yeah, Mabel’s been a real find,” said Rowlf. “A diva of the kitchen.”
Speaking of divas brought them back to their previous conversation where they had discussed their plans for the future—their individual plans. The big brown dog smiled to himself. He liked that about Foo. You could talk about what you were going to do and she didn’t act as though every plan had to include her. Truth be told, she seemed to have a fairly active calendar herself. It made the time their paths intersected sweeter.
“You were saying something about a marketing strategy?” Rowlf said, picking up the lost thread of their conversation. “What kind of marketing strategy?”
“Oh, you’re just like all the others,” said Foo Foo, exasperated. She sat up and gave him a look. “You think because we make it look easy that it is easy.”
Rowlf gave her a look, reacquainting himself with the fact that she was easy on the eyes, but clearly intrigued. “Enlighten me,” he said.
Foo Foo sighed and settled back on her lawn recliner. “Well, think about it,” she said patiently, eyes closed against the fierceness of the blazing sun. “Who was the most demanding backstage diva when you were filming the final seasons of TMS?”
Rowlf looked at her out of the corner of his eyes, wondering if this was a trick question. His mouth felt a little dry.
“Um….” he said.
Foo Foo opened one eye and gave him a look like you’d give a shy and somewhat backward child. “Come on. Don’t be shy.”
“Um, that would be you,” Rowlf said, and tensed, half-waiting for her to smack him.
“That’s right,” said Foo Foo, preening a little in the sun. “And before that?”
“Before that?” Rowlf repeated stupidly. “Um, well I guess that would have been….” His eyes lit up with comprehension. “Miss Piggy.”
“Um hum,” Foo Foo said, looking supremely satisfied. “Give the dog a biscuit.” She suited action to words and tossed him the bag.
Rowlf dug in the crumpled sack for the last of the snacks, thinking about what she’d said. It took a moment to sink in, then he smiled broadly.
“Gosh,” said Rowlf admiringly. “You’re good.”
Foo Foo gave him a look that made him glad he’d been sucking in his stomach.
“You have no idea,” she said teasingly, but then her face became more sober. She turned and looked at him, her eyes serious. “I am good, and it’s no accident,” said Foo Foo, but it was the professional speaking, not the diva. “I always try to make my client look good.”
Rowlf started to speak, then thought better of it, but Foo Foo burst out laughing at the expression on his face.
“Yes,” she said, laughing some more. “Making Piggy look good required very little effort on my part, but making her look sweet, well….”
Rowlf was nodding, and his expression was openly admiring.
“Foo, you are one smart cookie,” he said.
“And here I thought you only wanted me for my body,” teased Foo Foo. Rowlf felt all the hair along his neck stand up but managed not to whimper.
He cleared his throat, but Foo Foo seemed suddenly lost in thought.
“Poor thing,” she said softly. “Piggy really is a dear. I never worked for anyone who treated me as nice. I know she talks tough, but inside she’s quite a softie.”
Again Rowlf gave her a sideways look, and this time Foo Foo did smack him, but softly. Rowlf caught her paw and held it and she let him.
“Don’t be smart,” she said.
“Who, me?” said Rowlf slyly. “Not a problem. Most people tell me not to be fresh.”
Foo Foo turned on her side and looked at him, her dark eyes sparkling. “I know,” she said softly, “but I don’t mind if you’re fresh—as long as you behave.”
Rowlf covered her little paw with his big one.
“You tell me to behave,” he complained dryly, “but I noticed you don’t say how.”
Foo Foo stood up and shook off her lethargy. “You noticed that, huh?”
“Yep.”
“Huh,” she said thoughtfully. “I don’t know why people say you’re not smart.”
“Hey!” Rowlf objected, but Foo Foo was already giggling.
And she had a head start.
Scooter poked his head around the curtain and checked Kermit’s status. Although back home Kermit had a “real” office, he usually seemed to prefer to conduct what passed for muppet business out in the open. Right now, he was glaring at the little PDA that Scooter had been trying to get him to use more often and shaking his head. The whisper of movement caught his bulbous eyes (ah, the advantages of being a frog!) and he turned and saw Scooter skulking.
“Scooter—come and help me. I thought I was making notes on the New Year’s Show but then the screen went blank on me.”
“Um, okay,” Scooter said. “But have you got a minute? The Elvises want to ask you something about their show.”
Kermit looked surprised, but nodded. It had been some time since they’d worked for him, and he couldn’t imagine that he’d be much help on their show (which he had not made it down to see yet) but he was always ready to see old friends. In a moment, he was surrounded by familiar green faces and being shot by finger guns.
“Mercy!” said Ace. “You’re looking pretty good for a slave-driver.”
“We, gee—thanks,” said Kermit. “You know, us petty dictators have to keep in shape.”
Deuce laughed but shook his head. “Now you know we don’t read that stuff,” he said firmly. “Nobody knows about tabloids better than us. And if we did read them, we wouldn’t believe ‘em.”
Trey gave Kermit a mock salute. “You were an A+ boss,” he added solemnly. “Don’t let the turkeys get you down.”
Kermit gave a smile that was half grimace. “Thanks, guys. I’m trying to let it roll off my back.” He gave a little shrug. “Scooter said you wanted to ask me something?” he continued, deftly turning the conversation away from himself.
“Um, yeah. We been talking to Frosty, and we thought you might like to hear our idea. We thought you could maybe help us spread a little Christmas cheer.”
Kermit had, during the course of his career, seen thousand of auditions for acts that defied the laws of physics, much less description. The least he could do now was listen to his old friends.
“I’m listening,” he said.
The Elvi exchanged smiles and raised thumbs. “Okay,” said Ace. “Have you seen our Christmas show?”
Kermit looked sheepish. “Sorry,” he murmured. “It’s been on my ‘things to do’ list, but—“
“Have mercy,” said Deuce, giving Ace a look. “Give the guy a break.” He looked back at Kermit. “You’ve heard of White Christmas?”
No answer seemed expected, but Kermit nodded anyway.
“Well, our theme is Blue—“
“Blue Christmas.”
“What the man said,” Trey broke in excitedly. “So all of our songs are blue.”
Kermit looked interested. “You mean, like the blues?” he asked.
Three green heads shook. “No, no—not the blues—blue—like our blue suede shoes.”
Kermit looked down to seen three pairs of impeccably cobbled blue suede shoes.
“So, do you sing that one?” he asked, wondering if he was on the right track.
“Surely we do,” crowed Ace triumphantly. “And Blue Lagoon.”
“And Blue Bayou and Blue—“
“Oh! Got it—I’ve got it guys. Sounds catchy. But I’m not sure how I can help you.” He thought about loaning them Gonzo, but didn’t see the fruit-balancing act as particularly thematic.
The Elvi exchanged delighted grins. “See, we sing Blue Velvet, only there is not a lovely lady in blue velvet to sing to.”
“Oh.” Kermit thought for a moment. “So, you want to borrow somebody to wear a blue velvet dress so you can sing to her.”
Three pairs of heavy-lidded eyes lowered and they smiled. “Absotively!” said Ace.
“Posolutely!” chimed in Deuce.
“And not just any somebody—we want your heavy hitter. Um, so to speak.” Trey added hastily.
Kermit thought he’d had it right the first time.
“Yeah,” said Ace. “We want Piggy to put on a blue velvet dress and stand there and look purty while we sing to her.”
“But, guys--I don’t even know if she has a blue velvet dress,” said Kermit, thinking of the rows and rows of blue dresses in Piggy’s closet and wondering if any of them—velvet or not—had made it to Vegas with them.
Trey made a sound like a snort. “If she doesn’t, I’m sure she won’t mind getting one.”
Kermit found his mouth beginning to quirk into a smile. Piggy loved being the center of attention, and she loved back-up singers—especially male back-up singers. The only real question was timing—and, of course, the question of whether or not she would do it.
“So, can we?”
“Can she come?”
“Wadya say, there, Kermit?”
Kermit’s quirk became a full-fledge smile. “I say, go ahead and ask her. The worst she can do is say no.”
There was a momentary pause. Piggy could usually do a whole lot worse than to just say no, but no one thought it politic to say so. The four men went looking for the diva herself.
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Seeing as how I offically graduate on sunday, a perfect graduation present would be an extremely ushy-gushy addition to this wonderful fan fic! just a suggestion (wink wink)
