A/N: Helloooooooo! I'm so excited to finally be able to share this story with my Schmoopy, Robinpoppins, and all of you, of course. Robin bought me in the most recent Support Stacie Author Auction. And her request (God bless her) was for me to write a pre-series story about Gypsy. Well, I did her one better than that… actually, I did her seven better than that -- lucky number seven. Now, sit back, relax, and let's all get to know our favourite mechanic a little better…
Mags, you have earned a free membership to the Gypsy fan club for your incredible guidance, thoughtful comments, and sage advice. Thank you so much for all your help!
The Shop
Gypsy was the youngest of three. The only daughter born into the Hewes family: a modest, middle-class family on the outskirts of Stars Hollow.
Her father, Eugene, was a proud man. He'd built his garage from the ground up, earning the respect of the townspeople and some honest profits. Of course, as any father would, he expected to hand the business down to his sons. So, on his eldest son's eighteenth birthday, he unveiled the new sign: 'Hewes Bros Auto Garage'. Before the cork was popped, and the champagne poured, his son informed the family that he'd enlisted in the army. And as if that wasn't a significant enough blow, his youngest son shared his dream of running away to New York City to become an actor. In the span of five minutes, Eugene's world was shattered.
Cue Gypsy. Cars and Gypsy were synonymous. She had a knack for all things mechanic, and she loved to work with her hands. As a child, her toys and dolls were quickly replaced with gear boxes and carburettors. As an adult, her youthful vitality got a turbo boost whenever her hands were on a wheel. Her father brushed aside her unusual interests as mere curiosity, and nothing more. It was certainly uncommon for a girl to aspire to be a mechanic in that day and age. But as she stood before him with a look of pure determination on her face, and told him that she would take over the business, he saw something in her that he hadn't recognized before. He hemmed and hawed over the decision, but her enthusiasm, dedication and inimitable strength eventually won out, proving to him that she could contend with any challenge that she faced, particularly the ongoing challenges of working in a man's world.
She volunteered for a career she was destined for, and was heralded a hero. Her brothers showered her with gifts, her mother catered to her every whim, and her father taught her everything he knew. Once she successfully completed the twelfth grade, and apprenticed for several months, the keys were handed over, and she found herself at the helm of her father's enterprise. With her school days behind her, she devoted all her time to her work, and quickly discovered that along with great responsibility, there was also great sacrifice, and even greater reward.
The ownership may have changed, but the sign never did. And Gypsy preferred it that way. She wasn't one for the spotlight, and to her, the sign above the shop was a symbol of her brothers, always watching over her. Besides, she was savvy enough to know that most people would still be a bit uncomfortable handing their vehicles over to a female mechanic, especially one in pigtails. Strangely enough, both brothers found success on the stage in New York, and although she'd never admit it, Gypsy had box seats, and she never missed an opening night.
When Gypsy Met Andrew
Andrew strode with purpose into the shop, his jaw set in a firm line. His car needed a new transmission, but he didn't want to appear as pathetic as the Chevy Caprice parked out front, so he walked a little taller, held his head a little higher. He wore his cleanest Polo shirt, some dark-wash jeans and a pair of polished loafers to finish the look. He wanted to give the illusion that he had plenty of money, and better places to spend it.
And then he realized who he was dealing with. It was a woman. One more exotic than he'd ever seen. He was at once smitten, and he made the mistake of showing it. He was toast.
***
Gypsy was busily typing on her office computer, her least favourite chore, but when the shop was quiet, this was the most productive way to pass the time. It was hard work and dedication that made Hewes Garage the leading service center within a fifty mile radius. Her type of business called for a tough as nails woman. She had witnessed weaker men fail in the bargaining process with clients, and she wasn't about to become one of them. So when she heard the bells over the entrance ringing, signalling a new patron, she bared her teeth, cracked her knuckles, and prepared to enter the battlefield.
And then she realized who she was dealing with. A middle-class hotshot who was trying to save a few bucks. He wasn't dangerous; he wasn't a threat. And, truth be told, he was kinda cute, in a homely sort of way. He was toast.
***
He smiled nervously as the woman clad in blue coveralls approached him, a steely expression on her face. Suddenly his throat felt incredibly dry. "Do you have any coffee?" he choked out.
"You want coffee? Go to Luke's."
"Most service centers have free coffee," Andrew bluntly responded, smiling at his ability to hold his own against the surly mechanic.
She glared at the small man. "Nothing is free at Gypsy's."
Instead of challenging her further, he tried a different tactic. "That's probably a really great way to run a business. I'm actually thinking about starting up a bookstore."
"Neat," Gypsy muttered. "Just don't mention it to Kirk."
"Why not?"
"He'll send you fifty-two colour-coded versions of his resume, and a portfolio documenting every book he's ever read, starting with Bambi," Gypsy answered without missing a beat.
Andrew chuckled. "Wow, okay. I'll stay away from Kirk, then... whoever he is."
"Safer that way," she remarked, her eyes moving to the floor. "Nice shoes," she told him a moment later.
"Thanks." Andrew leaned back on his heels, smiling proudly. "My name's Andrew, by the way."
"You don't make a lot of money, do you, Andrew?" Gypsy said in the next breath.
His smile instantly became a frown. "How do you know?" he asked, on the verge of defensive.
She nodded to the vehicle parked outside the shop. "You drive a Caprice. I'm not an idiot."
"I have money," Andrew insisted, trying to maintain some of his dignity. "I was serious about the bookstore, you know. I have a great credit rating. I could show you my most recent credit score…"
Gypsy held up her hands in protest. "Do I have 'Bank of America' stamped to my forehead?" she grumbled. "What's the problem with your car?"
"Transmission's shot."
"You don't change your oil," she determined with an eye roll.
"I do, too!" Andrew argued.
"We'll see about that. What else?"
"Uh, that's it," he said. "But, well, I guess she could use a tune up, if you have the time."
"Doubt it. It's a real madhouse in here," Gypsy replied sardonically.
Andrew took a heavy breath, and sat down in a nearby chair. "So, I, uh, hear there's a town meeting tonight."
"Yeah, every Thursday." She folded her arms and looked at him questioningly. "You gonna give me the keys?"
"Oh, sure," he said, retrieving them from his pocket. He tossed the keys to her and smiled when she snagged them with little effort. "Maybe I'll see you there… uh, at the town meeting, I mean."
Gypsy nodded distractedly, walking toward the front of the shop. Before she reached the door, she snapped her head around, wearing a shocked expression. "Did you just ask me out?"
Andrew turned as white as a sheet, which was a big deal, considering he was freakishly white already. "Um, I, uh… I don't know." His hands fidgeted with the lone magazine that rested on the table beside him. Gypsy smirked, enjoying his discomfort.
"Okay," she said quietly, letting him off the hook.
"Okay," Andrew repeated, rising from his chair. He lowered his eyes, and started walking, slowly. He walked straight past Gypsy and out of the shop. He just walked away, stupefied. And Gypsy, being the thoughtful person that she was, made the necessary repairs to his vehicle, even going so far as rewarding him with the 5% stupidity discount. That kind gesture marked the beginning of a very strange and beautiful friendship.
The Pigtails
Gypsy was a tomboy, in every sense of the word. She didn't own a dress, and spat at the sight of lace and taffeta. She proudly walked through life, undetected by the opposite sex… that is, until she met Robbie Edwards. He sat next to her in Mrs. Monroe's fourth grade class. Robbie had devilishly red hair, and dimples that were visible from a mile away. All the girls loved him, but he had eyes for only one in particular. He was bewitched by her jet-black hair and impish grin.
Robbie had taken to the act of subtlety at first. He purposely forgot to bring a pencil to class. Every single day. Gypsy soon caught on to his act, and armed herself with a second pencil. That brief interaction as the writing utensil changed hands was often their only form of communication throughout the day.
Robbie lived on lead for a while. But soon, his heart urged him to take a leap. And so he did. On picture day…
He broke into a smile as he watched her walk determinedly into the auditorium, her hair in low pigtails, bouncing from side to side. She wore a loose fitting pair of navy trousers and a crisp, white, button-down shirt.
Robbie followed her with his eyes, until finally he had the nerve to approach her. With a crooked grin on his face, he said, "Your pigtails are cute."
Gypsy narrowed her eyes. "What do you mean?"
He swallowed hard. "I mean… I think you look cute."
Gypsy stared at him, dumbfounded. No one had ever called her cute before. As the silence loomed over them, she said the first thing that she could think of, "Why do you never have a pencil? Are you stupid, or something?"
Before Robbie could respond, Mrs. Munroe summoned the students to take their places. Robbie was one of the tallest in the class, so he was immediately directed to the back row of benches. Gypsy was positioned in front of him, in the middle row. Her hair swayed mesmerizingly, just inches from his fingertips. He could smell the rose-scented shampoo she always used. Once every child had been lined up accordingly, the photographer gave them their cue. As the camera flashed, Robbie reached forward and tugged gently on Gypsy's pigtails. She gasped in shock, turning to glare at him as the second flash lit up the room.
"Okay, gang. One more to go. Everyone say cheese!" the photographer coached, wiggling a ridiculous puppet of a mouse clutching cheese, in his free hand for effect.
"What a doofus," Gypsy muttered.
Robbie chuckled, shamelessly tugging on her pigtails again in approval.
That was the last straw. Gypsy grit her teeth, raised her right heel, and soundly slammed it back into Robbie's shin, in perfect time for the third and final flash.
"Gypsy, Robbie!" Mrs. Munroe shouted over Robbie's wails of pain. "Come here this instant!"
The two guilty parties followed their teacher to a quiet corner of the gymnasium, where they were properly reprimanded and quickly separated. Later that morning, Gypsy was relocated to the east side of the classroom, next to Angela Michaels, and thus ended the fleeting romance. But Gypsy kept wearing her hair in pigtails, because, well, she looked damn cute.
How Can a Stupid Doughnut be Happy?
It was the great mail mix-up of 2003 that led to Gypsy's discovery of Robin Springfield, Andrew's so-called girlfriend. And it all began with young Donny Pass…
Donny's father, Melvin, was Stars Hollow's premiere mailman. A very competent mailman, he was. And he was speedy. He knew mail like he knew the back of his hand. And he had nice hands. He was a manicure guy.
Well, little Donny was just the apple of his father's eye. So of course, when the fourth grader was named runner-up in the Connecticut State story-writing contest for his work entitled: The Happiest Doughnut, his father was at the forefront of the celebrations, accompanying Donny to local press tours and searching tirelessly for a suitable agent to represent his brilliant son. He was so blinded by the limelight that surrounded his family, that he began neglecting his duties as mail carrier, leaving Kirk to fill his place. And we all know how well Kirk can handle the responsibility of mail duty. He interpreted 'do not bend' to mean that he could crease, crumple, or cram without penalty; he had no concept of how to properly sort mail; and he was very prone to paper cuts.
Kirk had a particularly bad week during October of 2003. The Bellville's mail was delivered to the Dells, and the Dell's mail wound up in too close proximity to East Side Tilly's steaming tea kettle, and the flaps mysteriously came unglued. Al, from Al's Pancake World woke up to a boxful of Lane's CDs, and his bills and banking information were dropped off at the Gilmore household. Miss Patty was the unfortunate recipient of Taylor's lifestyle magazines, while Taylor, in turn, was blessed with Patty's GQ subscriptions (the American, Italian, German and Russian editions). But perhaps the most advantageous mix-up of them all, occurred at Gypsy's place of residence. She got Andrew's mail.
Now, Gypsy considered herself to be a moral person. She did right by people; she only overcharged when the situation warranted. Call it curiosity, or a moment of weakness, but she found herself sitting at her kitchen table with a mug full of coffee in one hand, and a love letter addressed to Andrew in the other. It wasn't her fault the poor thing couldn't work up enough spit to properly seal the envelope. Her eyebrows were knit tightly together as she skimmed through the sickeningly sappy drivel. And then she was smirking; she couldn't help it. Apparently, dear Robin had a medical condition: the avian flu.
"Damn, that's rough," Gypsy muttered, tossing a handful of trail mix into her mouth.
She read the letter a second time as she finished off her coffee, then quickly showered and headed for the shop.
***
Gypsy's feet were propped on top of her desk, and her eyes were glazed over as she lethargically flipped through the pages of The Happiest Doughnut.
When the bells above the entrance jingled, she literally cheered, jumping to a standing position and hurrying to greet Babette at the door. This was their routine. Babette would stop by every afternoon with two take-out cups of Luke's coffee, and the girls would shoot the breeze for a while.
"I see you got your free copy of Donny's book," Babette remarked as she sat in the chair across from Gypsy in the mechanic's office. "What'd ya think, sugah? Not bad, hey?"
"The dunking scene was a bit much," Gypsy groused.
"Yeah, intense. Kinda sexy, too," Babette rasped, reaching for the book that rested on the desk between them. In doing so, she uncovered an envelope with a hand-written letter peaking out of it. "What've we got here?" she wondered aloud, her eyes lighting up in anticipation.
"It's nothing," Gypsy insisted, grabbing for the letter a fraction too late.
Babette quickly scanned the contents, only slowing when she reached the more private sections. "The avian flu? Poor bastard." She dropped the letter back to the desk and leaned forward in her chair. "So you got Andrew's mail?"
Gypsy shrugged. "Not my fault Kirk's an idiot."
"I heard East Side Tilly got ours." She paused, frowning. "East Side Tilly told me."
"Big surprise," Gypsy said, her eyes darting nervously around the room.
"I think you should tell him, sugah," Babette spoke sincerely, regarding Gypsy with a knowing smile.
She visibly tensed. "What?"
"You should talk to Andrew, tell him how you feel."
Gypsy rolled her eyes. "I don't care about Andrew."
"People who don't care don't read other people's mail." Noticing her friend's discomfort, Babette added, "I just want you to be happy."
She sighed, nodding her head. "I know."
"Anyway, I better scram. It's my turn to get the props for role playing tonight," Babette unabashedly disclosed, rising to her feet. "Morey's got his heart set on a pirate theme."
Gypsy cringed. "That's more than I ever needed to know."
Babette chuckled, moving to the door. "See ya later, doll face."
"See ya," Gypsy called after her. Once alone again with her thoughts, her eyes fell to the book on her desk, and she groaned. "Stupid doughnut."
The Tailpipe
When Gypsy was eighteen, it was a very good year. She became the sole owner of Hewes Bros Garage, and she went on her first date with a boy named Nathan Bennett. She always loved the name Nathan. It's possible that it had something to do with hot dogs.
Nathan had buck teeth. That didn't bother Gypsy. He was over six feet tall. Again, she wasn't fazed. What did give her the creeps, though, was that Nathan was a very touchy-feely fella. Gypsy wasn't a fan of the touchy-feely, unless she was touchy-feeling brake pads and engine blocks. And unfortunately for Nathan, he learned that the hard way…
It was an unseasonably warm Saturday evening in the month of March, when Nathan arrived at the Hewes' residence, ten minutes early. He was pleasantly surprised to find Gypsy ready and waiting for him at the door, wearing a pale purple sweater, dark black slacks, and her trademark pigtails. He held his arm out, which she accepted, albeit hesitantly, and he walked her to her own car, opening the driver's side door for her.
That was another one of Nathan's charming quirks. He didn't own a vehicle; he rode his bike everywhere. Gypsy didn't half mind. She preferred being behind the wheel. There was no chance of any guy trying any funny business inside her car; she'd make sure of it.
They pulled into the parking lot and found a space among a sea of cars, preparing for a double feature on the giant screen that loomed overhead. Ever the gentleman, Nathan fought his way to the front of the concession stand, and returned, carrying two measly soft drinks and one economy-size bag of popcorn to share. Gypsy scowled. She wanted a damn hot dog.
Nathan obliviously munched on the popcorn, tapping his feet on the floor as the music from the speakers played. He glanced sideways at Gypsy and caught her probing stare. "What'cha thinkin' about, Schmoopy?" he asked, his arm moving dangerously close to her shoulder.
Gypsy narrowed her eyes. "What did you just call me?"
"Uh… Schmoopy? Just a pet name," he explained, resolving never to use it again.
"I don't do pet names," she growled. "And I was thinking about a hot dog. Still am, actually."
"A hot dog?" He swallowed nervously.
"Do you like hot dogs?" Gypsy asked, leaning her body away from his wayward hand.
Nathan shrugged. "They're okay."
The opening credits of the movie startled Gypsy from her violent train of thought, and she smiled as the title: American Graffiti flashed across the screen. It was one of her favourite movies. Both she and Nathan relaxed into their seats and watched the action unfold.
About an hour into the show, in the darkness of the interior of Gypy's vintage Mustang, Nathan's busy hands found one of her vulnerable pigtails, his fingers trailing lazily through her tresses. Her breath hitched. Suddenly, flashbacks of a ten-year-old boy, trying the same lousy tricks, flooded through her mind.
"Don't touch my hair," she hissed, flicking on the interior lights, vowing to keep them on for the duration of the movie, if that's what it took.
Nathan chuckled, dismissing her irritation as nerves, and nothing more. "Have I told you how great you look tonight, baby?"
"We're missing the movie," she said through clenched teeth, pushing desperately at the hand that was teasing her right thigh.
Nathan slid closer to Gypsy, ignoring the screen completely, his dark green eyes focused only on her. "Just relax, sweetheart," he whispered, bringing his free hand to her hair once more, and lightly stroking it.
"Hands off," Gypsy warned. "I won't tell you again."
"C'mon, baby. Don't fight this," Nathan coaxed her, struggling to move his large and awkward frame into a more horizontal position. Gypsy limboed under his flailing limbs, somehow ending up in the passenger seat. As she caught her breath, her right foot slid on an object beneath the seat, and a smile immediately lit up her face.
Nathan mistook her smile as an invitation for more foreplay, figuring she was just playing coy with him. He wasn't too bright, this Nathan. He came at her with a look of pure teen lust in his eyes. The moment his hands touched her sweater, she ducked down, clutched the cool metal in her hand, and shouted, "I said hands off, dipstick!" as she cracked him over the head with a tailpipe. Hard enough to leave a permanent mark, but soft enough to avoid jail time. "And don't call me baby," she barked, soundly ejecting him from the vehicle.
From that day on, she always kept a spare tailpipe in her car, 'cause you never know when one might come in handy.
Car-ology
Gypsy was a loud and proud member of the Luke and Lorelai fan club. She went to all the meetings; she wore the buttons and the t-shirts. Luke, she had known most of her life, and they had more of a mutual respect for each other, than a genuine friendship. Plus, Luke fixed his own truck, so that kinda peeved Gypsy. Lorelai on the other hand, she was an enigma. Gypsy was fascinated by her. And her sense of humour could be rivalled by none. Plus, Lorelai knew bupkes about vehicles; her blatant girliness was baffling. That meant a lot of money in ignorance. Gypsy liked money.
She'll never forget the first time that Lorelai brought her Jeep into the shop…
"Heya, Gypsy," Lorelai called cheerily as she breezed into the garage.
"What are you doing here?" Gypsy grumbled, wiping her greasy hands on the front of her coveralls as she approached the annoyingly jovial woman.
"I've come to witness your charming personality first hand," Lorelai teased.
"I don't have time for chitchat. Go talk to that girl who looks a lot like you, and talks incessantly… also, like you."
Lorelai chuckled. "You mean, Rory? As in, my daughter, Rory? C'mon, Gypsy, we've been in this town long enough for you to know our names."
"I know your names, okay? That was just my way of saying, 'I'm busy, go away.'"
"Look outside," Lorelai said, jerking her thumb toward the door. Gypsy followed her gesture and noticed the Jeep parked in the small lot. "I actually have work for you."
Gypsy actually smiled at that. "Now we're speaking my language. What can I do for you?"
"Well, I'm not sure, exactly," Lorelai began. "Sometimes when I hit the accelerator, I hear these tinkling… ringing, sort of buzzing, or chirping sounds. Oh, and when I go over bumps, it makes kind of a clanging, grinding, screeching sound.
Gypsy rubbed her palms together. This was just too easy. "Why don't we have a look at it," she offered, taking the keys from Lorelai and driving the Jeep into the garage. She walked around to the front of the vehicle, lifted the hood and peered inside. After testing a few things with her bare hands, she made a smacking sound with her lips and said, "This Jeep needs a lot of work."
Lorelai frowned. "What does that mean?"
"It means a lot of money for Gypsy."
She stood stubbornly beside the mechanic and gave her own inexpert inspection under the hood. "You're not trying to rip me off, are you? 'Cause I know a thing or two about cars."
Gypsy snorted. "Please, you wouldn't know a piston from a pepperoni."
"Oh yeah?" Lorelai challenged, her competitive side rearing its ugly head. "You point to any part, I'll name it."
Gypsy shook her head. "This might be the dumbest thing I've ever agreed to." Begrudgingly, she pointed to the transmission, figuring she'd start out easy.
"That's the, uh… think tank?"
"Almost. That's the transmission," Gypsy said with a chuckle. "Try again." This time she pointed to an even more identifiable object.
"Spark thingy?" Lorelai asked, a confused smirk on her face.
"Battery, close enough." She pointed again to the mess of doodads and delights, almost certain that Lorelai would get the next one correct.
Lorelai bit her lip, her eyes blazing into the object as though staring harder would suddenly help her to remember the name for something she had never seen before. "Oh, well, I know this one. That there is the, um, shuttlecock."
"Air filter," Gypsy corrected, unable to control her laughter.
"Right," Lorelai agreed. "That's what I meant."
"Okay, since the easy ones seem to be giving you trouble, let's try something a little more difficult." The mechanic was getting far too much pleasure out of this. Her index finger hovered over a big, shiny contraption.
"That's the handy-dandy sparkle-o-matic," Lorelai answered confidently. "No, I mean, the… dooflacky. The thing near the whatsit."
Gypsy was full blown cackling at this point. "It's the carburetor," she choked out. "You're zero for four."
Lorelai huffed. "These are too hard. Gimme something easy."
Gypsy closed the hood and pointed to the windshield wipers.
Lorelai rolled her eyes. "Windshield wipers," she said in a childish tone, sticking her tongue out for good measure.
"Very good," Gypsy commended her. "Now, please get out of my shop. I have a lot of work to do on the shuttlecock and the sparkle-o-matic."
Lorelai grinned. "You win this time."
Unfortunately, their love fest was interrupted by the most terrifying of sounds: Mrs. Kim's station wagon.
"Oh crap," Gypsy muttered. Mrs. Kim didn't often darken her door, but when she did, the mechanic always ended up getting the raw end of the deal.
"Hi, uh, hello, Mrs. Kim," Gypsy greeted the feisty Korean woman, who burst through the door like she was being chased by a man.
"Hello, Lorelai, Gypsy," Mrs. Kim returned, coming to stand next to them. Her eyes darted around the eerily quiet building. "Place is empty. You have a fire?"
"No," Gypsy assured her. "Just a slow day. It happens."
Mrs. Kim nodded, seemingly satisfied with that answer. "I need you to fix my car."
"What's the problem with it?"
"I'm not mechanic, you're the mechanic. Or, at least you say you are. Are you not the mechanic?"
"God knows I'm not," Lorelai said in jest.
Mrs. Kim frowned. "Yes, God does know."
"Okaaay," Lorelai began, "so I'm just gonna…" she trailed off, gesturing to the door. Gypsy's eyes pleaded with her to stay, but there was no way in hell she was willingly subjecting herself to any more of Mrs. Kim's scorn. "You just call me and let me know when I can pick up the Jeep," she told Gypsy.
"Fine," Gypsy sighed, watching in agony as Lorelai walked away. Finally, she turned back to Mrs. Kim, who was punching numbers on a calculator. "Casio," she remarked, eyeing the device more closely. "Nice choice."
In Gypsy We Trust
On October 31, 1997, Stars Hollow held its first and last Spiritual Awakening in the town square. This is how it came to pass…
The townspeople had gathered for the weekly meeting in Miss Patty's dance studio. Taylor stood behind the podium, at his megalomaniacal best, banging his gavel over the noisy chatter that filled the room. "Let's pigeonhole this matter for now, people," he bellowed, earning the silence he craved. No one seemed to have the energy to argue his point, which was understandable, considering they'd been discussing Kirk's proposition to build a statue of Bill Cosby in the town square for over ten minutes, simply because the man had passed through the town by accident on his way to a book-signing engagement in Hartford.
"Now, for the next order of business," Taylor continued, "as is our tradition, once every year, Stars Hollow institutes a new festival. This year, it is with resounding popularity, that we've decided to hold Stars Hollow's first annual Spiritual Awakening!"
A dramatic hush fell over the crowd.
"I don't remember voting on this," Gypsy protested.
"What the hell is a spiritual awakening?" Luke asked no one in particular.
"I think it means Taylor's gone off his rocker again," Babette answered.
"Just imagine it, people," Taylor urged, his eyes lighting up like a school boy. "Psychics, fortune tellers, gypsies, tarot cards, crystal balls…"
"You been snortin' Lucky Charms again, Taylor?" Babette rasped, earning several chuckles.
Taylor frowned. "No, I have not been snorting anything," he replied, quickly moving on. "Those who would like to volunteer their services may sign up at the table in the back of the room. Are there any questions?" A dozen hands shot into the air, but Taylor paid them no heed. "Great! Meeting adjourned," he declared, banging his gavel with authority.
***
And like clockwork, all the booths, tents, lights, sounds and spectacles necessary for the Spiritual Awakening were set up and ready for the public, just in time for Halloween night.
Gypsy made her way to the festivities out of curiosity, more than anything else. On her way past the gazebo, with her hot dog in hand, she ran into the last person she ever expected. "Nathan," she said, shocked, nearly chocking on her mouthful.
"Hey, Gypsy," he replied, equally as stunned to see her, and a bit petrified at the same time. After an awkward pause, he asked, "Good hotdog?"
She nodded. "Fabulous hot dog. How's your head?"
Nathan made a fist and knocked lightly on his crown. "Thick as ever," he confirmed. They both laughed. "Well, it was good…"
"Yes, you too," Gypsy interrupted, needing for this conversation to end before she considered giving Nathan a second chance.
He smiled, touching her elbow lightly as he walked past her. "Take care, slugger," he whispered into her ear.
She watched him walk away, a smirk on her face. She still liked the name Nathan. Babette and Miss Patty came upon Gypsy, each wearing a giddy expression, and of course, each very eager to pry the juicy details.
They dragged the tight-lipped mechanic in the direction of the Palm Reading tent, where inside, Lady Tabitha, the gypsy, awaited.
"I'm not going in there," Gypsy argued.
"C'mon, Gypsy, it'll be a hoot. Do it with Patty and I," Babette insisted.
***
With great hesitation, Gypsy sat down in the chair across from the gypsy. Patty and Babette stood behind her, in part for support, and also to block the doorway so she wouldn't bolt.
"Hello, Gypsy," Tabitha said, a pleased smile lighting her features. She was an older woman, with deep set eyes, in the richest blue hue. Every wrinkle on her face told a story. "I can already see that we'll be having a wonderful, spiritual adventure together."
"Yippee," Gypsy deadpanned.
Undeterred, Tabitha continued, "Let me see your palms, dear." She held her hands palm-up on the table, inviting Gypsy to rest hers on top.
"Just so you know," Gypsy said, as she lowered her hands to Tabitha's, "I don't really believe in all this crap."
"Of course not, dear," Tabitha soothed, taking a deep breath as she focused all her energy on her task.
"You got some nice palms there, Gypsy," Babette cheered from the sidelines. Patty nudged Babette with her elbow, signalling for her to zip it. Tabitha called for complete silence when doing a reading.
"Let us begin with your life line," Tabitha said, smoothing her thumb over the crease to show Gypsy where it was located on her palm. "I'm delighted to tell you that you'll be living well into your ninth decade."
"Great," Gypsy mumbled. "And I'll be stuck in a wheelchair."
"No, no, my dear," Tabitha disputed. "You have very clear lines, few health problems, maybe a scratch or two."
"I must have my grandmother's blood in me. We thought she'd never die," Gypsy indelicately exposed.
"Now, for your sex line," Tabitha carried on. Babette and Patty perked up at the 's' word. "Hmm… looks a bit cloudy. You haven't been around the bend much, have you, dear?"
"Okay, I'm done," Gypsy snapped, rising to her feet, and gasping in surprise as she was abruptly pushed back into her chair by her trusted friends, turned traitors.
"I can see this subject causes you discomfort," Tabitha noted. "Give me your hands again, this time, palms facing down." Gypsy sighed, and did as she was told, cringing as the woman followed the path of her veins, tracing their shapes with the tip of her index finger. "I can tell you that the man you are meant to marry bears the initials: M.G."
The room was silent as everyone considered the possibilities, their minds running through a mental list of every male citizen in Stars Hollow, wondering if perhaps, Mr. Right, had been right under her nose, all this time.
"Michel!" Babette blurted, drawing all eyes to her. "He's got the initials M.G., right?" she asked Patty.
"Oh God," Gypsy groaned. "I feel sick."
"And you'll be having three babies. Two boys and a girl," Tabitha added with a wink.
"Not helping," Gypsy growled, this time rising from her chair without fail, and stomping out of the tent. "Biggest waste of time ever," she said, when Patty and Babette nervously joined her outside.
"Sweetheart, don't let it get to you," Patty told her.
"Yeah, doll, she's probably some crazy kook, trying to earn a few bucks."
Gypsy rolled her eyes. "I don't trust gypsies."
Babette chuckled. "Oh, but I do. In Gypsy I Trust."
"In Gypsy We Trust," Patty corrected, clutching the arms of both women affectionately, as they made their way through the crowd.
The End!
A/N: Hope you all enjoyed this rare and wonderful glimpse into the secret life of our favourite mechanic. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to share this story with the real Gypsy, and perhaps, the kind folks at E! True Hollywood. ;)