Hi everyone! This is a St Patrick's Day story I've had rattling around in my head for a long time, so I thought I'd better start writing it out before another year went by. It's my first and only Cheers story, so please go easy on me. I used to watch Cheers re-runs with my Dad all the time (and M*A*S*H and Frasier and Wings...). M*A*S*H has always been my leading favorite of the bunch. I liked Cheers, but I have to admit that it was only after I spotted Cliff the mailman in Star Wars: The Empire Strikes Back that I really got interested. My favorite part of the show is the classic friendship between Norm and Cliff. I've been to the Bull and Finch Pub on Beacon Street a bunch of times with my family (the place that inspired Cheers), but I haven't seen the show in a while, so I'll be writing the characters from memory. I hope it's OK, and I hope you'll enjoy my story! :)
And now, on with the show!
Don Juan...Clavin?
By Rowena
So, this man walks into a bar...
He hung his coat on the rack and shot a glance at the wooden Indian by the door before raising his hand in greeting.
"Hey, everybody."
"Norm!" the bar patrons chorused.
The lanky, blond bartender put down the glass he'd been polishing and snatched up a beer mug, which he filled from the tap and set before the man just as he settled his beer-barrel frame onto the corner bar stool.
"Hey, Mr. Peterson," the young man said. "How's it going?"
"Like a Chevrolet Vega...chugging uphill in winter," Norm grunted, and emptied the mug in one swallow. "Could I have a beer here, Woody?"
The young bartender smiled and refilled Norm's mug.
"And I'm telling you right now, I'm not going to stand for it. Not this time."
The bar's manager, an attractive brunette in a no-nonsense blue business suit, charged out of her office and marched up to the bar. She was followed by the bar's senior bartender and former owner Sam Malone, an ex-baseball player with a long face and a mane of meticulously styled brown hair.
"Come on, Rebecca," Sam said. "It's not like we were the ones who issued the challenge. If we don't respond, we're gonna look like wimps."
"No!" Rebecca insisted. "St. Patrick's Day is one of our busiest days of the year, and I'm not letting you and your gang of aging adolescents threaten our potential profits with another one of your ridiculous prank wars with Gary's Olde Towne Tavern. In fact, I'm going to call Gary right now and tell him this childish competition is off for good. Cheers is a business, not a playground, and I am a professional."
"A professional kill-joy."
A short waitress with curly dark hair slammed her empty drinks tray on the counter next to Norm.
"Every year since I can remember, Gary's made fools out of us," she said, her voice as sharp and piercing as her dark eyes. "This year, we have a chance to finally get our own back, and L'il Miss Howe-itzer here wants to call it off!"
"Well, Carla, at least I'm not petty enough to let Gary bait me into another of his transparent traps," Rebecca said. "He takes advantage of this infantile competition to undercut us and boost his own sales every year on nearly every major holiday. This destructive nonsense has got to stop, and I'm the one to end it."
She strode behind the bar and picked up the phone.
"What's the number?"
"Oh, it's right here on this postcard Gary sent," Woody said, handing her a large, rectangular photograph.
Rebecca glanced at the picture, and her eyes widened. A peek at the writing on the back, and she slammed the phone down so hard it jangled.
"That creep!" she shrilled. "That sophomoric cretin! A friendly challenge is one thing, but this!"
"I did think that image of Gary and his cronies mooning us through the tavern's window was a bit much," Norm commented over his beer mug.
"Yeah, and those limericks on the back," Carla said with a smirk. "Who would have thought Gary could find such a creative rhyme for 'Rebecca'? And the one he did for Sam, there, was truly artful."
Sam smiled.
"So, Rebecca, what do you say now?"
Rebecca's eyes smouldered.
"Kill 'em," she said, and marched back to her office.
Sam, Woody, Carla and Norm shared a high five.
"Better watch out, Gary," Carla said. "This year, St. Patrick's Day is ours!"
"Yeah!" Woody cheered. "So, uh, anyone got any ideas?"
A beat of awkward silence was broken by the muffled sound of bickering outside the door. The bickering grew loud and clear as the door opened and a well dressed, professional couple stepped into the bar. The man was tall and balding with broad shoulders and a high forehead. The woman was straight and slender with black hair pulled into a bun so tight it seemed to preclude any trace of expression from creasing her snow-white skin.
Still arguing, the pair struggled out of their long coats and marched toward a table at the back of the room.
"Frasier, I don't give two hoots about your outdated Freudian claptrap," the woman was saying in a flat, resonant monotone. "I'm running this trial, and if you have anything negative to say you can fill out a form and submit it to the comment box in the main office like everyone else."
"Outdated-!"
The man gaped, his wide mouth opening and closing like a hungry bass. Recovering, he said, "Well, let me tell you, Miss Behaviorist: the human psyche is far more complex than a rarefied system of impulse and response! We are not flatworms!"
"It's Dr. Behaviorist to you," the woman retorted. "And as for your simplistic and flawed caricature of my research-"
"No, no, I won't hear it!" Frasier said, rising to his feet. "There happen to be layers to our lives, Lilith. Nuanced shades of shadow and color your stark, unimaginative mind cannot seem to fathom!"
Lilith stood to meet his attack with one of her own.
"Pansy," she said.
"Robot!" Frasier roared.
"Hey, guys, guys!" Sam said, stepping in before the pair could come to blows. "Settle down. What's all this about, anyway?"
Lilith turned her calm features toward Sam.
"I have volunteered to head a research study to determine the effects of a new anti-anxiety medication. If effective, this medication promises to work wonders for those afflicted with moderate to severe self-esteem issues."
"One pill cures all," Frasier scoffed. "Any reputable psychiatrist will tell you it takes years of-"
"I never said it was a cure-all," Lilith interjected. "I merely put forward the hypothesis that, if effective, this new drug could potentially serve as an aid to behavior modification techniques designed to help a patient learn to break the cycle of self-destructive habits and accompanying self-demeaning attitudes that-"
"These anxieties are not mere habits to be corrected!" Frasier retorted hotly. "You're talking about deeply ingrained defenses learned in early childhood to-"
"OK, OK, enough of this egg-head scream-fest," Carla broke in, shoving her tray between the bickering pair. "Why don't you both do us a favor and order something already? You can't talk while you're swallowing."
Frasier and Lilith stared at each other for a long, charged moment, as if daring the other to sit down first. Finally, they both sank slowly back into their chairs at the same time.
"I'll have an Evian water," Lilith said coolly, as if nothing had happened.
"Perrier," Frasier countered. "With lemon."
Carla shook her head.
"Gee, pick something daring why don't you," she said, and went to fill their order.
A moment later, the door opened again and a mousy little man in a colorless mustache and a blue postal uniform shuffled into the bar.
"Hey, everyone," he said listlessly, slouching over to the stool beside Norm.
"Hiya, Cliff," Sam said, and slid him a mug of beer. "You seem kinda down today."
"Yeah, buddy," Norm said. "Something go wrong on your route?"
"Ah, Nahm, I don't wanna talk about it," the mailman said in his pronounced Bostonian accent.
"OK," Norm said. "Hey, did you hear that Gary-"
"It happened again, Nahmy," Cliff broke in, as if he hadn't heard.
"What happened?" Sam asked.
Cliff hunched his shoulders and sighed into his beer.
"Wait—does this have to do with that beautiful woman you were talking about the other day?" Norm said. "The one who just moved into your condo? I thought you were all set to ask her out."
"Well, I was," Cliff said. "I had everything planned, down to the last nuance. I even wrote out some witty repartee on a few, eh, flashcahds."
Carla rolled her eyes.
"Good grief, Clavin," she said. "You must be the king of all dinks. Only a pathetic nerd like you would need flashcards to talk to a woman."
"Well, if it makes you any happier, Carla, the cahds didn't work," Cliff said bitterly. "She went down to the pool after work, just like always, but when I tried to, you know, sashay up to her-"
"Don't tell me, let me guess," Carla said. "You tripped and dropped the cards in the pool, then scurried away like the skulking little rat you are."
She snorted, her voice rising until practically the whole bar could hear her.
"Get this. All his big talk, and I'll bet that woman still doesn't know he exists."
"Carla..." Sam warned.
"What?" Carla said. "If Clavin doesn't have the guts to even-"
"Carla," Sam said, more sharply. "Leave Cliff alone."
Carla crossed her arms, but relented.
Cliff moaned.
"Oh, I don't know what it is about me," he said. "I thought, once Ma moved to Florida and I had my own place, things would be different, you know? I'd be my own man. But I'm still the same tongue-tied wretch I always was. Carla's right. If I don't have the guts to even talk to a woman, I don't deserve to have a date."
"Oh, I don't know, Cliff," Rebecca said. Rebecca had come out of her office to grab a fresh pencil from behind the bar, but she'd paused to listen. "You talk just fine in front of me and Carla."
"Yeah, unfortunately," Carla sniped. "Usually, we can't get him to shut-up."
"Yeah, but that's different," Cliff said. "You guys, you're like family to me, you know? Like, eh, like sisters, almost. That woman, though...
"-Oh, what's the use," he said, and downed his beer in two swigs. "I should just accept I'm a loser and leave it at that. Sammy, another beer, if you please."
Sam took his mug, and Norm gave his friend's shoulder a comforting pat.
Lilith looked at Frasier.
Frasier looked back at Lilith, and his eyes widened.
"Oh no," he started, but Lilith had already made her approach.
"Cliff," she said. "I'm sorry to intrude, but I think I can help you. I'm starting a clinical drug trial at the university, and-"
"Ignore her, Cliff," Frasier broke in, hurrying over to the bar. "The scheme she's peddling is a mere quick-fix that's sure to be ineffectual in the long run. Now, if you wish to overcome this hurdle—a hurdle doubtless caused by a lifetime of building defenses to mask a host of deep, crippling insecurities-"
Lilith glared.
"Why are you doing this, Frasier?" she demanded. "This man is a perfect candidate for my research study."
"Precisely!" Frasier blustered. "That's all he is to you—a research candidate! Whereas, when I look at Cliff, I see a deeply layered human being. A flawed and hurting man whose only hope of sustained recovery is intense therapy over a course of-"
"Yes, yes, we're all familiar with your long-term approach—an approach that only serves to build up a worrying sense of dependence and-"
"Hey, guys, wait," Cliff said. "Uh, what's this all about, now?"
"Clifford," Lilith said. "What would you say if I told you I could help you build up your confidence and self-esteem to the point where you could feel secure asking that woman to date you? Or, indeed, any woman who caught your fancy."
"Well, I'd say, eh, what would I have to do?"
Frasier held up a hand.
"Cliff, a moment with Lilith, if you don't mind."
Pulling her aside, he started to speak, but Lilith cut him off.
"Frasier, listen," she said. "It's clear this man is in crisis, and it's also clear that we each feel we possess the necessary skill-set to provide him with much-needed help and advice. So, I propose a deal. If my method can't help him secure a date within the next two weeks, we'll see what your therapy can do. Agreed?"
"Two weeks?" Frasier scoffed. "That's a laughably short-"
He snapped his mouth shut, a sly gleam creeping into his eyes.
"And if, after you fail, I can help him secure a date, you'll admit my methods are superior," he said.
Lilith pursed her lips.
"Only if he manages to achieve that goal within the subsequent two weeks."
"And you'll take back that crack about Freud?"
She raised an eyebrow.
"Don't push it, Frasier."
"Then, we're agreed," he said, and they shook hands.
"Cliff," Lilith said, turning back to the gang at the bar. "Come with me. Before I can help you, there are a few standard forms I'll need you to fill out. I'll explain everything on the way to my lab."
Cliff looked around at the gathered faces, from Norm to Sam to Woody to Rebecca to Carla to Frasier. Frasier gave him a little nod of reassurance, and Cliff's expression brightened.
"Yeah," he said, sliding off his stool. "Yeah, OK. After all, what have I got to lose?"
"You want an honest answer?" Carla started, but Sam shook his head.
"It's all right, Sam," Cliff said. "Carla'll be laughin' out the other side of her face soon enough. I may be leavin' here a loser, but I'm comin' back a man."
Frasier raised his eyebrows at that, but swallowed any comment he might have made as he watched Lilith lead Cliff out the door and up the steps to the street.
"Well, guys," Norm said, reaching out to claim Cliff's untouched beer before Sam could dump it out. "This could be the start of a whole new Cliffy."
"As if I wasn't disturbed enough by the old one," Carla said, and shuddered. "Now, back to this prank we're gonna pull on Gary. We got less than two weeks to come up with the greatest St Patrick's Day scheme ever. Who wants to go first?"
To Be Continued...
So, what do you think so far?