Erin Ptah (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ptahrrific) wrote2007-07-20 02:30 am
ptahrrific) wrote2007-07-20 02:30 am
Entry tags:
Fake News: Expecting, Chapter 7
Title: Expecting, Chapter 7: Calls of the Worried
Series: The Colbert Report
Rating: G for this part
Words: ~1900
Disclaimer: Two.
For the Report characters: They and their universe are property of Stephen Colbert, the other Report writers, and of course Viacom. Not mine. Sue me not, please.
And for the real people, the poem:
Please, make no mistake:
these people aren't fake,
but what's said here is no more than fiction.
It only was writ
because we like their wit
and wisecracks, and pull-squints, and diction.
We don't mean to quibble,
but this can't be libel;
it's never implied to be real.
No disrespect's meant;
if you disapprove, then,
the back button's right up there. Deal.
Notes: Rather than use the names of Colbert-the-actor's kids, Stephen's kids in-story are based on the ones he's named in various segments. More details here.
Clips referenced: It's not a date or anything; fall in love all over again; adult diapers; Bobby's replacement.
For the full table of contents to this story, click here.
Chapter 7
Calls of the Worried
Yesterday
"Mr. Stewart?"
The polite young voice at the other end of the line was most definitely not Lorraine. But it was anxious, and Jon's paternal instincts hit his own anxiety on the back of the head with a blunt object, dumped it in a secluded corner of his brain, and took control.
"That's me. Is this Mary or Sally, hon?"
"Mary. And John Paul's here, and Sally's watching the door. Mommy made us turn off the TV. Is Papa okay?"
Kid, I haven't the faintest idea. "Honestly, I don't know for sure. But listen, there are a lot of very smart doctors taking care of him, and they're working very hard to make sure he gets through this. He's in the best and safest place he could possibly be."
"But you don't know?" pressed a very small voice. That would be John Paul. Trust the littlest one to zoom in on the facts.
No wonder Stephen was so bad with children.
And yet they loved him and worried about him anyway. Well, Jon was in no position to fault them for that.
"That's right," he said. "But here's the thing: the reporters on the news don't know any more than I do. They're just going to be playing the same clips over and over, along with wild speculation and rumors and scare tactics. They're trying to make people afraid so that the people will keep watching. It's good that you're not watching the news, because it wouldn't tell you anything, and would try to scare you when there's nothing to be scared about."
He glanced at the clock on the wall. It was a quarter to midnight.
"Try to get some sleep, okay? In the morning you can go online and find out just as much as everybody else knows."
"But we can't!" protested Mary. "Mommy and Tina took us on a cruise, and we don't have a computer."
On top of everything else, this was ruining their vacation? When Jon thought about it, though, it made sense. Lorraine had probably hustled her partner and the kids onto a boat for the week in order to get them away from press attention. With the possible exception of her decision to marry Stephen in the first place, the woman had good judgment.
And she was obviously not sanctioning this call, if one of the kids was standing watch at the door. As a fellow parent, Jon knew he should side with her.
"Okay, tell you what," he said. "Stay on the line. If anything happens, I'll tell you right away. I'm right in the waiting room at the hospital, so I'll be the first to know. Sound like a plan?"
As a fellow person who cared about Stephen, Jon was siding with the kids.
There was some quick conferring on the other hand, and then John Paul's voice piped, "Thank you, Mr. Stewart!"
"No problem. Now, tell me, how's the cruise going?"
From the way both kids talked at once, it was clear that they'd been having a fun-filled trip in spite of everything. Jon started grinning in spite of himself. Not only was he relieved for their sakes, he was glad to have something else to think about as he watched the doors, hoping for a sign of one of the doctors.
♦ ⋅ ◊ ⋅ ♦ ⋅ ◊ ⋅ ♦
February 7, 2007
19 Weeks
Jon met Dr. Moreau during the first genuine scare of the pregnancy.
He was feeling particularly good about Stephen at the time, too. A few weeks earlier, the pundit had opened his show with "Hey, America, I was thinking if you're not busy for the next half hour, maybe you'd like to, you know, watch the show? It's not a date or anything; we're just hanging out." Which wasn't quite "I've come to terms with the fact that I'm single now," but it was a start.
Of course, the intro from last night had been "Now's your chance to fall in love with Stephen Colbert all over again!" So maybe he wasn't ready to steer out of that old river in Egypt just yet.
They had gotten together for lunch: pizza with cheese for Jon, pizza with sausage and pepperoni and ham and bacon for Stephen. (He had gotten over the need to have mustard on everything; in its place was an apparently indiscriminate desire for meat.)
"The networks are out-punning us," complained Jon as Stephen washed down that day's pills with a glass of milk. Replacing his usual three double venti lattes with genuine latte at lunch had been one of his few concessions to the health demands of the pregnancy. "Every bit of dumb wordplay we think of, someone else beats us to it. Of course, 'Astro-Nut' was kind of obvious."
"What chaps my thighs is that they're all getting on her case for wearing a diaper," grumbled Stephen. He tore off a meat-laden chunk of cheesy, saucy dough with his teeth, and continued: "Issa puhfully p'fssianah fin' t' do, 'On."
"Careful — you're getting tomato sauce on your sweater. Say that again?"
The other man swallowed, and dabbed the sweater (it was white, naturally) with a napkin as he repeated: "It's a perfectly professional thing to do, Jon."
"'Professional'? My one-year-old wears diapers, and she's not even talking yet."
Stephen looked down at his stomach. It had reached the point where it was impossible to hide in a suit, but at the moment he was wearing two or three shirts under the bulky sweater, concealing the lump via the principle of "a forest is the best place to hide a tree." "Hang on, he's going to need diapers. And probably a bunch of other stuff too."
Jon raised his eyebrows. "You might want to look into that."
"Ah, I'll do it later. I've got plenty of time — aw, not again!" This time it was a sausage that had jumped ship, leaving a trail of grease down the front of the poor sweater.
Jon dampened a napkin in the condensation on the side of his glass and passed it to his friend. "You also might want to wear something darker with a meal like this."
"Can't. It's the only sweater I have left, and it's cold in here."
Jon frowned. It felt pleasantly cool in the room as far as he was concerned. Not that he was unused to Stephen griping about things he didn't mind, but this complaint seemed odd, in a way he couldn't place.
"I'll call the hotel laundry service tonight," Stephen continued. "But right now I'm stuck with this. Oh, I know! We could go eat on the set. The stage lights are nice and hot, and last week I had Bobby replaced with a 5,000-watt heat lamp."
On the other hand, when it came to oddness, Stephen kept setting the bar higher.
"Uh," said Jon hesitantly. "Why?"
"The old Bobby wasn't wasting enough energy. Gotta offset Al Gore as much as I can," replied the pundit briskly. "And besides, the set was cold too."
And then all of a sudden Jon remembered. Tracey had had moments, in both pregnancies, when she'd complained about the temperature — but she had always said things were too warm. Those last few months before Nate's birth, at nearly the height of summer, she had spent every free moment in front of a fan.
Now that Jon looked more closely, there were other differences too. Tracey, like Sam, like Lorraine, like every other female friend he'd ever seen pregnant, had gotten a kind of glow to her. A year ago he had even known the medical reason for it; now he just remembered how striking it had been.
Maybe it was just the contrast with the dark red sauce all over his mouth, but Stephen looked pale.
"Sure," said Jon, lifting the half-empty pizza box in one hand and his glass in the other. "Let's finish this on the set."
♦ ⋅ ◊ ⋅ ♦ ⋅ ◊ ⋅ ♦
They ended up in the interview chairs, but this didn't help. In fact, the pundit's pallor was even more pronounced against the dark reds and browns of the background. The makeup people must have been doing a tremendous job if Jon hadn't noticed this on the screen.
Or was he just unobservant? For that matter, had Stephen been a little slow in following him out, breathing a little too hard at the end of their walk? Were you supposed to be this tired in, what, the fourth month?
If it were serious, Jon told himself, Stephen would have complained about it already.
On the other hand, if all this had come on gradually, he wouldn't be surprised if — like the proverbial frog brought to a slow boil — Stephen simply hadn't noticed.
This was not going to let Jon go until he had gotten some reassurance. And just when I finally got him to stop calling me in a panic every time he sneezed. Well, maybe I can do this without him noticing. He stood up. "I'm going to use the, uh, the john. Back in a minute."
Stephen rose as well. "Sure. Want me to show you where it is?"
"Stephen, this used to be my studio."
"But we could have moved it around since you left. I mean, since it is my studio now, and I can do whatever I want with it."
"Did you move it?"
"As far as you know."
"You didn't."
"Not this time."
Jon sighed. "Just hang tight, Stephen. I'll be right back."
♦ ⋅ ◊ ⋅ ♦ ⋅ ◊ ⋅ ♦
Once in the bathroom, Jon pulled his cell phone from his pocket and called Dr. Moreau.
Stephen had insisted that he memorize the doctor's personal number "in case I get mugged and slip into a coma and at the same time your phone gets smashed by a car or all the data gets erased by a giant electromagnet. It could happen, Jon!" As his phone was neither smashed nor erased, he simply found her number in his address book.
Apparently the line was more personal than he had realized: the voice greeted him with "What's up, Stephen?"
"Er. It's not Stephen, actually. It's Jon Stewart. Is this Dr. Moreau?"
"Yes. What's wrong?"
Jon laughed nervously. "Boy, you don't beat around the bush, do you? What if I'm just calling to chat?"
Okay, clearly small talk was a bad idea. "It might be nothing, but..."
When he finished outlining the symptoms he had seen, the doctor asked, "Do you know if he's eating enough meat?"
"It's funny you should ask that," replied Jon, though it wasn't funny at all, "because the way he's wolfing it down, there's no way he's not getting enough."
After a moment of concentration, the voice on the other end of the line said, "This may not require immediate action, but I don't want to take any chances. An ambulance will be over in a few minutes. Stick with him, and try to keep him calm. It won't help anything if he panics."
Series: The Colbert Report
Rating: G for this part
Words: ~1900
Disclaimer: Two.
For the Report characters: They and their universe are property of Stephen Colbert, the other Report writers, and of course Viacom. Not mine. Sue me not, please.
And for the real people, the poem:
Please, make no mistake:
these people aren't fake,
but what's said here is no more than fiction.
It only was writ
because we like their wit
and wisecracks, and pull-squints, and diction.
We don't mean to quibble,
but this can't be libel;
it's never implied to be real.
No disrespect's meant;
if you disapprove, then,
the back button's right up there. Deal.
Notes: Rather than use the names of Colbert-the-actor's kids, Stephen's kids in-story are based on the ones he's named in various segments. More details here.
Clips referenced: It's not a date or anything; fall in love all over again; adult diapers; Bobby's replacement.
For the full table of contents to this story, click here.
Chapter 7
Calls of the Worried
Yesterday
"Mr. Stewart?"
The polite young voice at the other end of the line was most definitely not Lorraine. But it was anxious, and Jon's paternal instincts hit his own anxiety on the back of the head with a blunt object, dumped it in a secluded corner of his brain, and took control.
"That's me. Is this Mary or Sally, hon?"
"Mary. And John Paul's here, and Sally's watching the door. Mommy made us turn off the TV. Is Papa okay?"
Kid, I haven't the faintest idea. "Honestly, I don't know for sure. But listen, there are a lot of very smart doctors taking care of him, and they're working very hard to make sure he gets through this. He's in the best and safest place he could possibly be."
"But you don't know?" pressed a very small voice. That would be John Paul. Trust the littlest one to zoom in on the facts.
No wonder Stephen was so bad with children.
And yet they loved him and worried about him anyway. Well, Jon was in no position to fault them for that.
"That's right," he said. "But here's the thing: the reporters on the news don't know any more than I do. They're just going to be playing the same clips over and over, along with wild speculation and rumors and scare tactics. They're trying to make people afraid so that the people will keep watching. It's good that you're not watching the news, because it wouldn't tell you anything, and would try to scare you when there's nothing to be scared about."
He glanced at the clock on the wall. It was a quarter to midnight.
"Try to get some sleep, okay? In the morning you can go online and find out just as much as everybody else knows."
"But we can't!" protested Mary. "Mommy and Tina took us on a cruise, and we don't have a computer."
On top of everything else, this was ruining their vacation? When Jon thought about it, though, it made sense. Lorraine had probably hustled her partner and the kids onto a boat for the week in order to get them away from press attention. With the possible exception of her decision to marry Stephen in the first place, the woman had good judgment.
And she was obviously not sanctioning this call, if one of the kids was standing watch at the door. As a fellow parent, Jon knew he should side with her.
"Okay, tell you what," he said. "Stay on the line. If anything happens, I'll tell you right away. I'm right in the waiting room at the hospital, so I'll be the first to know. Sound like a plan?"
As a fellow person who cared about Stephen, Jon was siding with the kids.
There was some quick conferring on the other hand, and then John Paul's voice piped, "Thank you, Mr. Stewart!"
"No problem. Now, tell me, how's the cruise going?"
From the way both kids talked at once, it was clear that they'd been having a fun-filled trip in spite of everything. Jon started grinning in spite of himself. Not only was he relieved for their sakes, he was glad to have something else to think about as he watched the doors, hoping for a sign of one of the doctors.
February 7, 2007
19 Weeks
Jon met Dr. Moreau during the first genuine scare of the pregnancy.
He was feeling particularly good about Stephen at the time, too. A few weeks earlier, the pundit had opened his show with "Hey, America, I was thinking if you're not busy for the next half hour, maybe you'd like to, you know, watch the show? It's not a date or anything; we're just hanging out." Which wasn't quite "I've come to terms with the fact that I'm single now," but it was a start.
Of course, the intro from last night had been "Now's your chance to fall in love with Stephen Colbert all over again!" So maybe he wasn't ready to steer out of that old river in Egypt just yet.
They had gotten together for lunch: pizza with cheese for Jon, pizza with sausage and pepperoni and ham and bacon for Stephen. (He had gotten over the need to have mustard on everything; in its place was an apparently indiscriminate desire for meat.)
"The networks are out-punning us," complained Jon as Stephen washed down that day's pills with a glass of milk. Replacing his usual three double venti lattes with genuine latte at lunch had been one of his few concessions to the health demands of the pregnancy. "Every bit of dumb wordplay we think of, someone else beats us to it. Of course, 'Astro-Nut' was kind of obvious."
"What chaps my thighs is that they're all getting on her case for wearing a diaper," grumbled Stephen. He tore off a meat-laden chunk of cheesy, saucy dough with his teeth, and continued: "Issa puhfully p'fssianah fin' t' do, 'On."
"Careful — you're getting tomato sauce on your sweater. Say that again?"
The other man swallowed, and dabbed the sweater (it was white, naturally) with a napkin as he repeated: "It's a perfectly professional thing to do, Jon."
"'Professional'? My one-year-old wears diapers, and she's not even talking yet."
Stephen looked down at his stomach. It had reached the point where it was impossible to hide in a suit, but at the moment he was wearing two or three shirts under the bulky sweater, concealing the lump via the principle of "a forest is the best place to hide a tree." "Hang on, he's going to need diapers. And probably a bunch of other stuff too."
Jon raised his eyebrows. "You might want to look into that."
"Ah, I'll do it later. I've got plenty of time — aw, not again!" This time it was a sausage that had jumped ship, leaving a trail of grease down the front of the poor sweater.
Jon dampened a napkin in the condensation on the side of his glass and passed it to his friend. "You also might want to wear something darker with a meal like this."
"Can't. It's the only sweater I have left, and it's cold in here."
Jon frowned. It felt pleasantly cool in the room as far as he was concerned. Not that he was unused to Stephen griping about things he didn't mind, but this complaint seemed odd, in a way he couldn't place.
"I'll call the hotel laundry service tonight," Stephen continued. "But right now I'm stuck with this. Oh, I know! We could go eat on the set. The stage lights are nice and hot, and last week I had Bobby replaced with a 5,000-watt heat lamp."
On the other hand, when it came to oddness, Stephen kept setting the bar higher.
"Uh," said Jon hesitantly. "Why?"
"The old Bobby wasn't wasting enough energy. Gotta offset Al Gore as much as I can," replied the pundit briskly. "And besides, the set was cold too."
And then all of a sudden Jon remembered. Tracey had had moments, in both pregnancies, when she'd complained about the temperature — but she had always said things were too warm. Those last few months before Nate's birth, at nearly the height of summer, she had spent every free moment in front of a fan.
Now that Jon looked more closely, there were other differences too. Tracey, like Sam, like Lorraine, like every other female friend he'd ever seen pregnant, had gotten a kind of glow to her. A year ago he had even known the medical reason for it; now he just remembered how striking it had been.
Maybe it was just the contrast with the dark red sauce all over his mouth, but Stephen looked pale.
"Sure," said Jon, lifting the half-empty pizza box in one hand and his glass in the other. "Let's finish this on the set."
They ended up in the interview chairs, but this didn't help. In fact, the pundit's pallor was even more pronounced against the dark reds and browns of the background. The makeup people must have been doing a tremendous job if Jon hadn't noticed this on the screen.
Or was he just unobservant? For that matter, had Stephen been a little slow in following him out, breathing a little too hard at the end of their walk? Were you supposed to be this tired in, what, the fourth month?
If it were serious, Jon told himself, Stephen would have complained about it already.
On the other hand, if all this had come on gradually, he wouldn't be surprised if — like the proverbial frog brought to a slow boil — Stephen simply hadn't noticed.
This was not going to let Jon go until he had gotten some reassurance. And just when I finally got him to stop calling me in a panic every time he sneezed. Well, maybe I can do this without him noticing. He stood up. "I'm going to use the, uh, the john. Back in a minute."
Stephen rose as well. "Sure. Want me to show you where it is?"
"Stephen, this used to be my studio."
"But we could have moved it around since you left. I mean, since it is my studio now, and I can do whatever I want with it."
"Did you move it?"
"As far as you know."
"You didn't."
"Not this time."
Jon sighed. "Just hang tight, Stephen. I'll be right back."
Once in the bathroom, Jon pulled his cell phone from his pocket and called Dr. Moreau.
Stephen had insisted that he memorize the doctor's personal number "in case I get mugged and slip into a coma and at the same time your phone gets smashed by a car or all the data gets erased by a giant electromagnet. It could happen, Jon!" As his phone was neither smashed nor erased, he simply found her number in his address book.
Apparently the line was more personal than he had realized: the voice greeted him with "What's up, Stephen?"
"Er. It's not Stephen, actually. It's Jon Stewart. Is this Dr. Moreau?"
"Yes. What's wrong?"
Jon laughed nervously. "Boy, you don't beat around the bush, do you? What if I'm just calling to chat?"
Okay, clearly small talk was a bad idea. "It might be nothing, but..."
When he finished outlining the symptoms he had seen, the doctor asked, "Do you know if he's eating enough meat?"
"It's funny you should ask that," replied Jon, though it wasn't funny at all, "because the way he's wolfing it down, there's no way he's not getting enough."
After a moment of concentration, the voice on the other end of the line said, "This may not require immediate action, but I don't want to take any chances. An ambulance will be over in a few minutes. Stick with him, and try to keep him calm. It won't help anything if he panics."
no subject
Glad you like 'em ^_^