Erin Ptah (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ptahrrific) wrote2007-08-09 01:52 pm
ptahrrific) wrote2007-08-09 01:52 pm
Entry tags:
Fake News: Expecting, Chapter 13
Title: Expecting, Chapter 13: The Cruelest Month
Series: The Colbert Report
Rating: PG
Warnings: Pain, suffering. Mostly on Tad's part.
Words: ~2900
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: The title, and the summary, are from the first verses of "The Wasteland", because I am a nerd.
Clips referenced: The toss; the disastrous Eagle Festival; Jane Fonda; the metaphor-off.
For the full table of contents to this story, click here.
Chapter 13
The Cruelest Month
March 29, 2007
(Continued)
Tad usually didn't watch the Report, but Stephen had refused to rehearse the toss, which meant he was going to ad-lib it again, which meant Bobby wanted as many staff on hand as possible in case he started another fire. The trouble with this, from Tad's point of view, was that a stage manager has plenty to keep him busy while the cameras are on, but a building manager has nothing to distract him from the fact that only a bank of rowdy audience members separated the two of them.
After what seemed like several long and awkward years, the satellite feed kicked in, and they all heard Stewart's familiar "Welcome back — before we go, we're gonna check in with our good friend Stephen Colbert at The Colbert Report. Stephen?"
The pundit grinned at the camera.
"Thanks, Jon. Tonight: a drink. Can I buy you one? Your answer...may surprise you."
Okay, that was distracting. That was very distracting.
"Plus: anyone can say you have a beautiful body, but I'll go deep undercover to find out whether you'll hold it against me."
Who are you and what have you done with Stephen?
"Then, a Colbert Report exclusive, your father: a thief? Or did someone else take the stars from the skies and put them in your eyes? Finally, my place: a growing number of Americans are going there. Could you be one of them? All that tonight on The Colbert Report."
Stewart looked as if he weren't sure how horrified he ought to be.
"If that was gay, then I don't want to be straight — and I do want to be straight, therefore that wasn't gay. That's just logic. Jon?"
"Th-thank you, Stephen," stammered the host, and then the feed cut off, leaving the Report's set in stunned silence.
"Well, don't just stand there," ordered Stephen after a moment. "And close your mouths; you look like a bunch of trout. Come on, people — we've got a show to do!"
♦ ⋅ ◊ ⋅ ♦ ⋅ ◊ ⋅ ♦
March 29, 2007
24 Weeks
"I don't think this is such a good idea," said Meg from the side of the stage. "You're not exactly in your best shape right now...."
"Obviously, these aren't going to be actual romance novel covers — just samples, to give Harlequin the general idea," replied her boss. "They'll hire me based on my handsome face and rugged masculinity, and then they can wait until August or so to send me actual orders."
He smoothed his tie over his stomach as he said "masculinity", and Meg wondered if the man had absolutely no sense of irony.
"Now, come on—" he began, then went still. He looked as though he were listening for some sound that no one else could hear.
He put a hand to his stomach again, and grinned.
"He's kicking — and you can feel it! Come on up, quickly!"
Meg hung back, dubious.
"Oh, you're no fun, Meg," her boss snapped, and then, much to her relief, lost interest as he turned to his audience. "You guys. Come over here. Yes, you — stand up. Come on! You can do it!"
One bold fangirl in the front row stood up. "That's it!" cried Stephen encouragingly. "Yes — and your friends, too — hurry, he might stop!"
Meg had just time to glimpse Bobby's expression, which was openly queasy as he took inventory of several very important cables running around the floor, before a steady stream of fans began pouring down from the seats and blocking everyone's view. The host disappeared in the center of the throng, but gasps and squeals could be heard from the fans around him.
"Isn't that great? — Feel that? I should name him Chuck Norris Colbert — or maybe Walker Texas Ranger Colbert. — Hey! Restrain yourselves, ladies! Stomach only!"
Meg wondered if any of the overeager female fans worked in television, and if any of them would like to trade jobs.
♦ ⋅ ◊ ⋅ ♦ ⋅ ◊ ⋅ ♦
April 12, 2007
26 Weeks
"Oh, I didn't even notice this on the screen! Your desk is a lowercase 'j'! That's so cute!"
It was their first lunch together since the latest break, during which the Daily Show's set had been completely rebuilt, and Jon was giving Stephen the tour. The pundit's mood of the moment seemed to be "gushing over everything," which, though a little unnerving, was at least easy to deal with.
"Now we have a matching pair — that's so sweet!"
"See, the difference between you and me," said Jon, standing at the foot of the desk while Stephen circled the dot on the "j", "is that your desk shape was deliberate. We just got this one because it was seven hundred bucks."
"It's the only Daily Show desk that's never had me sitting at it," remarked Stephen, lowering himself into Jon's chair. "There! Now it's christened. No offense," he added quickly.
Jon smiled. "None taken."
"Think about it, Jon: I am now the prettiest person ever to sit at this desk."
"I don't know about that. Halle Berry was here last night."
"As a guest, right?" asked Stephen quickly.
"Well, yeah. What else?"
"Nothing! Nothing at all." Still, his mood seemed a bit deflated. "You really think she's prettier than me?"
"Stephen, come on — I mean, she's Halle Berry." He laughed, a little nervously; it didn't stop his friend from pouting. Time to change the subject. "So, you finally got to do that segment on house-hunting advice the other night, right?"
"Yeah, I did! With my totally awesome big red button. Did you see it?"
"No, but I heard good things. I caught the show last night, though." And that reminded him of something he'd meant to ask about. "I saw the Wørd."
"Did you like it? Most people like the Wørds the best. They're very resonant, I think. Straight from the gut. That speaks to people."
"Right, right...Who does the bullet points?"
"Hm?"
"The text that appears next to you. Who types it?"
"Nobody. It just appears."
"...what?"
"Oh, it's great! Even when I jump from the prompter, it just rolls with me, responding like it knows what I'm going to say before I say it."
"Like it's tapped into your subconscious?"
"I don't have a subconscious, Jon. I am perfectly aware of everything I do."
It had been many, many years since Jon had tried to hold an argument about psychology with Stephen. He had majored in the subject; it was downright painful to find out how much of it his friend got wrong. Besides, right now it would distract him from his point.
"Listen, Stephen, the thing is — during the Wørd last night, you said something like 'How do you think I got this show?', and the text by the bullet was, Has 'Candid' Pics of Jon Stewart."
His friend went shifty-eyed. "Really, Jon? I don't remember that."
"You didn't get your own show because you blackmailed me."
"Of course not. I got it because I'm immensely talented." He spun back and forth in the chair, not meeting Jon's eyes.
"But whoever's behind the bullet — they obviously think you did."
"I told you, Jon, there's no one 'behind' it. It just is."
Which was ridiculous, of course. It made no sense. On the other hand, if the bullet did have some kind of direct link to Stephen's subconscious — if that was possible — then that implied....
"Stephen...do you, by any chance, have candid pictures of me that you haven't told me about?"
Stephen stopped spinning, looking at a far corner of the set, and didn't answer.
No way.
"Stephen," said Jon warningly.
"Oh, all right! You were asleep, for the first time in like a week and you were out of makeup so you looked awful, and you crashed on the set in khakis and a T-shirt and ended up drooling on the couch, so we, by which I mean I, dared Walsh to take pictures, and I ended up with the prints."
"Matt Walsh? How long ago was this?"
"That was his initiation, so, I don't know, five, six years?"
"So you just held on to them for however many years, and never bothered to tell me?"
"Well, yes. They're not a big deal. It's not like I had photos of you in the shower, or something."
"That's true," Jon admitted. "And you didn't actually try to threaten me with them."
"Of course not. I've seen Death to Smoochy. Nothing I could do to you would be more embarrassing than that."
Jon sighed. His short-lived acting career was going to haunt him forever.
"So are we cool? Can you show me the rest of the set? I want to—GAH!" He had started spinning again, and ended up facing the back wall.
"Oh," said Jon. "Forgot to mention that."
"What—what—?"
"He's perfectly harmless. Go on, say hello."
"H...hello?" stammered the pundit.
"Hi there, Stephen," said the Giant Head of Brian Williams.
♦ ⋅ ◊ ⋅ ♦ ⋅ ◊ ⋅ ♦
The door of the Report burst open. There in the entrance stood Tad: bruised, battered, bloodied, black-eyed, clutching a box of film in one hand and a blanket-draped birdcage in the other. "Mission accomplished!" he cried.
To his dismay, nobody was around to notice.
He limped over to the desk, ignoring the occasional indignant squawk from the cage, and leaned against it for support. In a minute or two an intern — the foreign exchange kid, Punit or something — appeared, probably sent to investigate the noise.
"By the bow of Ram!" he exclaimed when he saw Tad's state. "I will get Bobby. Do not move!"
Tad wanted to protest, but even at the best of times he wouldn't have been sure how to explain it, especially not in terms that Punit could follow, and right now he was more than a little distracted by what can only be described as massive physical pain.
At last Bobby appeared, a first-aid kit in his hand and two interns in tow. "Oh my — What happened to you?!"
"Got the mate for Stephen Junior," said Tad weakly, pointing to the cage which now sat on the desk. "Got video of it, too."
"Great. Meg, take that down to editing, quickly. Punit, get the bird to a green room and call animal control — ask what kind of permits we'll need, and, while you're at it, what it eats. Tad, come with me."
And Tad, blissfully relieved of his responsibilities, followed Bobby into the men's room.
He winced when he caught sight of his reflection; it looked as bad as he felt. The stage manager soaked a washcloth under the faucet; Tad flinched when it was pressed to his cuts. "Ow!"
"Hold still. It's got Bactine; it's gonna sting a bit."
"Or a lot — ow—!" But he tried to hold still, and mostly succeeded.
"Why do we still work here?" asked Bobby as he wrung out the cloth for the third time.
It had the sound of a rhetorical question, but Tad offered an answer: "Because if we quit, Stephen would write us horrible references?"
"That's true. Although Stewart might intervene if we asked him to."
"No, I don't think so. He hardly ever overrides Stephen on Report matters. Also, I suspect they could be sleeping together."
"Oh, no. They were the same way back on The Daily Show — you weren't there, of course, but I was a stagehand there for a long time — trust me, they look like they're together, but then you realize Stewart loves his wife and Stephen, um, Stephen's in denial."
"Denial or not, Stephen can be very forceful when he puts his mind to it."
"Is this about the time he invited you to his cabin?" inquired Bobby with careful lightness, unrolling some gauze.
"In a way. He never said anything directly, so I could act as though I didn't know what he was hinting at. But it was tough, holding him off all weekend. I don't know if Mr. Stewart has that kind of stamina."
The gauze was pressed to the worst of his cuts, and a strip of medical tape stretched over it. "I don't think you're giving him enough credit."
"Remember the situation with the apology to Geraldo? All Stephen had to do was glare at him for a few days, and then do that thing he does with the soulful eyes, and Mr. Stewart rolled right over."
"But that wasn't really important to Stewart in the first place. He wouldn't go so far as to have sex with Stephen for the sake of his hurt-puppy impression."
"It would not surprise me," declared Tad.
Bobby sighed and began smoothing his hair — a largely futile effort, given Tad's wild tangle of curls. "And yet, you were worried about us."
"Bobby, don't." Tad stepped away. "Stephen wouldn't have seen us the same way at all, and you know it."
One of the toilets flushed.
Both men froze. The first stall, which had been labeled "Stephen's Use Only" since a few months ago, stood open and empty; but the second was closed, and as they watched it clicked open.
Thankfully, it was only Jimmy who walked out. He nodded to the two of them as he went to a sink, where he switched on the water and asked, nonchalantly, "Is anyone on this staff straight?"
Tad and Bobby exchanged a surprised glance.
"Aren't you married?" ventured Bobby.
"Oh, yes. But I swing both ways. I just met Ms. Right before Mr. Right."
"What about Punit?" suggested Tad.
"No," said Bobby, "when he finally asked what the gay agenda was, and Meg explained homosexuality and why Stephen always ranted about it, his response was basically 'You mean I'm not crazy?'"
He paused. "Has anyone asked Killer?"
"Ran into him at a pride rally last month," replied Jimmy. "Almost didn't recognize him."
"Why? Was he in one of those masked leather getups?"
"No, a ball gown. Blue satin. Rather fetching, really."
♦ ⋅ ◊ ⋅ ♦ ⋅ ◊ ⋅ ♦
April 19, 2007
28 Weeks
When Jane heard that she had been booked on The Colbert Report at the end of her promotional tour for Georgia Rule, she insisted on calling the host to thank him personally.
"I'm so looking forward to seeing you again, Stephen," she purred into the phone as she leaned back on her sofa. "You haven't been having lots of ice cream threeways in the meantime, have you?"
"Actually, I have my own flavor of ice cream now, so you might say that anyone who eats it is having an ice cream foursome with us." He paused. "That's a metaphor, by the way. The big Metaphor-Off with Sean Penn is tonight, and I have to be razor-sharp. That's another metaphor."
"That sounds absolutely wonderful. And how have you been? I saw the ultrasounds in Time last month. They look darling."
"Oh, he's great. A real gem. —That's a metaphor too. Except when he starts kicking in the middle of the night. Then he's a nightmare. —That's not a metaphor. I have actual nightmares, is what I'm saying."
"I hope he'll kick a little when I'm in the studio, so I can feel it. But it is a shame," cooed Jane. "Ever since I last did you, I've been looking forward to coming back and sitting on your lap. And now you haven't got one."
Stephen didn't have a response to that. It was most gratifying.
"I suppose that's a metaphor too?" she teased.
"Uh...yes! Yes, it is!"
"For what?"
"Well, if you can't figure that out," snapped Stephen, and left it hanging.
"You seem to be quite...potent...at producing metaphors," said Jane soothingly.
"Of course! I've been practicing. I even read some poetry, just to get an idea of what the big names do. Do you know," he added, "that this one guy, T. S. Eliot, said 'April is the cruelest month'? But April's more than half over, and it hasn't been cruel at all."
"I suppose it's different for each person," mused Jane. "Although it does seem rather cruel that we don't get to see each other until May."
"I don't think that's what the poet guy meant."
"Hmm, perhaps not."
As months go, it was May that turned out to be really notable for cruelty. To Jane's mild dismay, she was never to learn why.
Series: The Colbert Report
Rating: PG
Warnings: Pain, suffering. Mostly on Tad's part.
Words: ~2900
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: The title, and the summary, are from the first verses of "The Wasteland", because I am a nerd.
Clips referenced: The toss; the disastrous Eagle Festival; Jane Fonda; the metaphor-off.
For the full table of contents to this story, click here.
Chapter 13
The Cruelest Month
March 29, 2007
(Continued)
Tad usually didn't watch the Report, but Stephen had refused to rehearse the toss, which meant he was going to ad-lib it again, which meant Bobby wanted as many staff on hand as possible in case he started another fire. The trouble with this, from Tad's point of view, was that a stage manager has plenty to keep him busy while the cameras are on, but a building manager has nothing to distract him from the fact that only a bank of rowdy audience members separated the two of them.
After what seemed like several long and awkward years, the satellite feed kicked in, and they all heard Stewart's familiar "Welcome back — before we go, we're gonna check in with our good friend Stephen Colbert at The Colbert Report. Stephen?"
The pundit grinned at the camera.
"Thanks, Jon. Tonight: a drink. Can I buy you one? Your answer...may surprise you."
Okay, that was distracting. That was very distracting.
"Plus: anyone can say you have a beautiful body, but I'll go deep undercover to find out whether you'll hold it against me."
Who are you and what have you done with Stephen?
"Then, a Colbert Report exclusive, your father: a thief? Or did someone else take the stars from the skies and put them in your eyes? Finally, my place: a growing number of Americans are going there. Could you be one of them? All that tonight on The Colbert Report."
Stewart looked as if he weren't sure how horrified he ought to be.
"If that was gay, then I don't want to be straight — and I do want to be straight, therefore that wasn't gay. That's just logic. Jon?"
"Th-thank you, Stephen," stammered the host, and then the feed cut off, leaving the Report's set in stunned silence.
"Well, don't just stand there," ordered Stephen after a moment. "And close your mouths; you look like a bunch of trout. Come on, people — we've got a show to do!"
March 29, 2007
24 Weeks
"I don't think this is such a good idea," said Meg from the side of the stage. "You're not exactly in your best shape right now...."
"Obviously, these aren't going to be actual romance novel covers — just samples, to give Harlequin the general idea," replied her boss. "They'll hire me based on my handsome face and rugged masculinity, and then they can wait until August or so to send me actual orders."
He smoothed his tie over his stomach as he said "masculinity", and Meg wondered if the man had absolutely no sense of irony.
"Now, come on—" he began, then went still. He looked as though he were listening for some sound that no one else could hear.
He put a hand to his stomach again, and grinned.
"He's kicking — and you can feel it! Come on up, quickly!"
Meg hung back, dubious.
"Oh, you're no fun, Meg," her boss snapped, and then, much to her relief, lost interest as he turned to his audience. "You guys. Come over here. Yes, you — stand up. Come on! You can do it!"
One bold fangirl in the front row stood up. "That's it!" cried Stephen encouragingly. "Yes — and your friends, too — hurry, he might stop!"
Meg had just time to glimpse Bobby's expression, which was openly queasy as he took inventory of several very important cables running around the floor, before a steady stream of fans began pouring down from the seats and blocking everyone's view. The host disappeared in the center of the throng, but gasps and squeals could be heard from the fans around him.
"Isn't that great? — Feel that? I should name him Chuck Norris Colbert — or maybe Walker Texas Ranger Colbert. — Hey! Restrain yourselves, ladies! Stomach only!"
Meg wondered if any of the overeager female fans worked in television, and if any of them would like to trade jobs.
April 12, 2007
26 Weeks
"Oh, I didn't even notice this on the screen! Your desk is a lowercase 'j'! That's so cute!"
It was their first lunch together since the latest break, during which the Daily Show's set had been completely rebuilt, and Jon was giving Stephen the tour. The pundit's mood of the moment seemed to be "gushing over everything," which, though a little unnerving, was at least easy to deal with.
"Now we have a matching pair — that's so sweet!"
"See, the difference between you and me," said Jon, standing at the foot of the desk while Stephen circled the dot on the "j", "is that your desk shape was deliberate. We just got this one because it was seven hundred bucks."
"It's the only Daily Show desk that's never had me sitting at it," remarked Stephen, lowering himself into Jon's chair. "There! Now it's christened. No offense," he added quickly.
Jon smiled. "None taken."
"Think about it, Jon: I am now the prettiest person ever to sit at this desk."
"I don't know about that. Halle Berry was here last night."
"As a guest, right?" asked Stephen quickly.
"Well, yeah. What else?"
"Nothing! Nothing at all." Still, his mood seemed a bit deflated. "You really think she's prettier than me?"
"Stephen, come on — I mean, she's Halle Berry." He laughed, a little nervously; it didn't stop his friend from pouting. Time to change the subject. "So, you finally got to do that segment on house-hunting advice the other night, right?"
"Yeah, I did! With my totally awesome big red button. Did you see it?"
"No, but I heard good things. I caught the show last night, though." And that reminded him of something he'd meant to ask about. "I saw the Wørd."
"Did you like it? Most people like the Wørds the best. They're very resonant, I think. Straight from the gut. That speaks to people."
"Right, right...Who does the bullet points?"
"Hm?"
"The text that appears next to you. Who types it?"
"Nobody. It just appears."
"...what?"
"Oh, it's great! Even when I jump from the prompter, it just rolls with me, responding like it knows what I'm going to say before I say it."
"Like it's tapped into your subconscious?"
"I don't have a subconscious, Jon. I am perfectly aware of everything I do."
It had been many, many years since Jon had tried to hold an argument about psychology with Stephen. He had majored in the subject; it was downright painful to find out how much of it his friend got wrong. Besides, right now it would distract him from his point.
"Listen, Stephen, the thing is — during the Wørd last night, you said something like 'How do you think I got this show?', and the text by the bullet was, Has 'Candid' Pics of Jon Stewart."
His friend went shifty-eyed. "Really, Jon? I don't remember that."
"You didn't get your own show because you blackmailed me."
"Of course not. I got it because I'm immensely talented." He spun back and forth in the chair, not meeting Jon's eyes.
"But whoever's behind the bullet — they obviously think you did."
"I told you, Jon, there's no one 'behind' it. It just is."
Which was ridiculous, of course. It made no sense. On the other hand, if the bullet did have some kind of direct link to Stephen's subconscious — if that was possible — then that implied....
"Stephen...do you, by any chance, have candid pictures of me that you haven't told me about?"
Stephen stopped spinning, looking at a far corner of the set, and didn't answer.
No way.
"Stephen," said Jon warningly.
"Oh, all right! You were asleep, for the first time in like a week and you were out of makeup so you looked awful, and you crashed on the set in khakis and a T-shirt and ended up drooling on the couch, so we, by which I mean I, dared Walsh to take pictures, and I ended up with the prints."
"Matt Walsh? How long ago was this?"
"That was his initiation, so, I don't know, five, six years?"
"So you just held on to them for however many years, and never bothered to tell me?"
"Well, yes. They're not a big deal. It's not like I had photos of you in the shower, or something."
"That's true," Jon admitted. "And you didn't actually try to threaten me with them."
"Of course not. I've seen Death to Smoochy. Nothing I could do to you would be more embarrassing than that."
Jon sighed. His short-lived acting career was going to haunt him forever.
"So are we cool? Can you show me the rest of the set? I want to—GAH!" He had started spinning again, and ended up facing the back wall.
"Oh," said Jon. "Forgot to mention that."
"What—what—?"
"He's perfectly harmless. Go on, say hello."
"H...hello?" stammered the pundit.
"Hi there, Stephen," said the Giant Head of Brian Williams.
The door of the Report burst open. There in the entrance stood Tad: bruised, battered, bloodied, black-eyed, clutching a box of film in one hand and a blanket-draped birdcage in the other. "Mission accomplished!" he cried.
To his dismay, nobody was around to notice.
He limped over to the desk, ignoring the occasional indignant squawk from the cage, and leaned against it for support. In a minute or two an intern — the foreign exchange kid, Punit or something — appeared, probably sent to investigate the noise.
"By the bow of Ram!" he exclaimed when he saw Tad's state. "I will get Bobby. Do not move!"
Tad wanted to protest, but even at the best of times he wouldn't have been sure how to explain it, especially not in terms that Punit could follow, and right now he was more than a little distracted by what can only be described as massive physical pain.
At last Bobby appeared, a first-aid kit in his hand and two interns in tow. "Oh my — What happened to you?!"
"Got the mate for Stephen Junior," said Tad weakly, pointing to the cage which now sat on the desk. "Got video of it, too."
"Great. Meg, take that down to editing, quickly. Punit, get the bird to a green room and call animal control — ask what kind of permits we'll need, and, while you're at it, what it eats. Tad, come with me."
And Tad, blissfully relieved of his responsibilities, followed Bobby into the men's room.
He winced when he caught sight of his reflection; it looked as bad as he felt. The stage manager soaked a washcloth under the faucet; Tad flinched when it was pressed to his cuts. "Ow!"
"Hold still. It's got Bactine; it's gonna sting a bit."
"Or a lot — ow—!" But he tried to hold still, and mostly succeeded.
"Why do we still work here?" asked Bobby as he wrung out the cloth for the third time.
It had the sound of a rhetorical question, but Tad offered an answer: "Because if we quit, Stephen would write us horrible references?"
"That's true. Although Stewart might intervene if we asked him to."
"No, I don't think so. He hardly ever overrides Stephen on Report matters. Also, I suspect they could be sleeping together."
"Oh, no. They were the same way back on The Daily Show — you weren't there, of course, but I was a stagehand there for a long time — trust me, they look like they're together, but then you realize Stewart loves his wife and Stephen, um, Stephen's in denial."
"Denial or not, Stephen can be very forceful when he puts his mind to it."
"Is this about the time he invited you to his cabin?" inquired Bobby with careful lightness, unrolling some gauze.
"In a way. He never said anything directly, so I could act as though I didn't know what he was hinting at. But it was tough, holding him off all weekend. I don't know if Mr. Stewart has that kind of stamina."
The gauze was pressed to the worst of his cuts, and a strip of medical tape stretched over it. "I don't think you're giving him enough credit."
"Remember the situation with the apology to Geraldo? All Stephen had to do was glare at him for a few days, and then do that thing he does with the soulful eyes, and Mr. Stewart rolled right over."
"But that wasn't really important to Stewart in the first place. He wouldn't go so far as to have sex with Stephen for the sake of his hurt-puppy impression."
"It would not surprise me," declared Tad.
Bobby sighed and began smoothing his hair — a largely futile effort, given Tad's wild tangle of curls. "And yet, you were worried about us."
"Bobby, don't." Tad stepped away. "Stephen wouldn't have seen us the same way at all, and you know it."
One of the toilets flushed.
Both men froze. The first stall, which had been labeled "Stephen's Use Only" since a few months ago, stood open and empty; but the second was closed, and as they watched it clicked open.
Thankfully, it was only Jimmy who walked out. He nodded to the two of them as he went to a sink, where he switched on the water and asked, nonchalantly, "Is anyone on this staff straight?"
Tad and Bobby exchanged a surprised glance.
"Aren't you married?" ventured Bobby.
"Oh, yes. But I swing both ways. I just met Ms. Right before Mr. Right."
"What about Punit?" suggested Tad.
"No," said Bobby, "when he finally asked what the gay agenda was, and Meg explained homosexuality and why Stephen always ranted about it, his response was basically 'You mean I'm not crazy?'"
He paused. "Has anyone asked Killer?"
"Ran into him at a pride rally last month," replied Jimmy. "Almost didn't recognize him."
"Why? Was he in one of those masked leather getups?"
"No, a ball gown. Blue satin. Rather fetching, really."
April 19, 2007
28 Weeks
When Jane heard that she had been booked on The Colbert Report at the end of her promotional tour for Georgia Rule, she insisted on calling the host to thank him personally.
"I'm so looking forward to seeing you again, Stephen," she purred into the phone as she leaned back on her sofa. "You haven't been having lots of ice cream threeways in the meantime, have you?"
"Actually, I have my own flavor of ice cream now, so you might say that anyone who eats it is having an ice cream foursome with us." He paused. "That's a metaphor, by the way. The big Metaphor-Off with Sean Penn is tonight, and I have to be razor-sharp. That's another metaphor."
"That sounds absolutely wonderful. And how have you been? I saw the ultrasounds in Time last month. They look darling."
"Oh, he's great. A real gem. —That's a metaphor too. Except when he starts kicking in the middle of the night. Then he's a nightmare. —That's not a metaphor. I have actual nightmares, is what I'm saying."
"I hope he'll kick a little when I'm in the studio, so I can feel it. But it is a shame," cooed Jane. "Ever since I last did you, I've been looking forward to coming back and sitting on your lap. And now you haven't got one."
Stephen didn't have a response to that. It was most gratifying.
"I suppose that's a metaphor too?" she teased.
"Uh...yes! Yes, it is!"
"For what?"
"Well, if you can't figure that out," snapped Stephen, and left it hanging.
"You seem to be quite...potent...at producing metaphors," said Jane soothingly.
"Of course! I've been practicing. I even read some poetry, just to get an idea of what the big names do. Do you know," he added, "that this one guy, T. S. Eliot, said 'April is the cruelest month'? But April's more than half over, and it hasn't been cruel at all."
"I suppose it's different for each person," mused Jane. "Although it does seem rather cruel that we don't get to see each other until May."
"I don't think that's what the poet guy meant."
"Hmm, perhaps not."
As months go, it was May that turned out to be really notable for cruelty. To Jane's mild dismay, she was never to learn why.