This story takes place on the weekend during which the episode "God Child/Curtain Call" actually aired. In the story just prior to this one, Roarke tells the newly-hired Lawrence that "it's a dirty job, but someone has to do it." Lawrence actually states in one episode that Roarke said this to him when he was hired, so I thought it was only fair to include it in the story of Lawrence's employment! (Thank you, thank you, thank you to Harry2 for his very welcome encouragement. Enjoy, Harry!)
§ § § -- October 29, 1983
The weeks passed and Lawrence proved to fit in surprisingly well. Nonetheless, there were regular occasions on which something Roarke did or said caught him off guard in a way that usually left Leslie laughing, and secretly relieved that someone besides herself wasn't completely familiar with the magic and mystery that surrounded Roarke and his island.
Lawrence and Leslie got along fairly well, but the first real test of their working relationship came one evening a week before Halloween, when Roarke received a letter requesting a very odd fantasy that had him in the cellar mixing up potions the rest of the week. The fantasies for the weekend of October 29 and 30 were par for the course: one involved a little girl who wanted to ask God why her deceased parents had been taken from her, while the other dealt with a man who wanted to revive his old TV act with his two former partners for one final performance. Thus all was quiet that Saturday evening when Lawrence stopped by the main house on his way back to his cottage. There he found Roarke in deep contemplation and Leslie reading.
"If there's nothing pressing, sir," Lawrence said, "I'd like to say good night."
Roarke, jolted out of his reverie, looked up at him, then glanced at Leslie. "As a matter of fact, Lawrence, there is something... Since I have both of you here, would you and Leslie kindly come with me to the cellar?"
That got Leslie's attention. Never before had she gone down there, even without Roarke's knowledge, much less at his invitation. Whatever this was, it had to be something momentous. "You actually want us to come into the cellar?" Leslie asked carefully, to make sure she'd heard right.
"Yes, I do," Roarke said. "Follow me, if you would, please."
So Leslie and Lawrence followed Roarke down the hall towards the kitchen, but stopped about halfway at a closed door which concealed a spiral stairway leading up to the bell tower, whose bell Lawrence now rang by pushing a button on a post just in front of the veranda. Instead of going up, however, they descended to the cellar in solemn single file, giving Leslie the creepy feeling of being in an ancient Frankenstein movie.
In the cellar lab, which to Leslie's surprise turned out to be quite large and crammed from cement floor to overhead joists with shelves containing hundreds of mysterious little bottles lined up in precise order, Roarke said nothing right away. Instead he moved swiftly around the room removing seemingly random bottles from shelves and placing them on a stomach-height stainless-steel table in the middle of the room. Once he was done, he turned finally to his puzzled audience.
"I recently received a request," Roarke began, "to grant someone his fantasy of being a cat for a weekend..."
"Excuse me, sir," broke in Lawrence, looking slightly confused. "Do you mean a house cat, fully domesticated?"
Roarke nodded. "Exactly," he said.
Leslie was a bit disappointed when Lawrence's face cleared and resumed its usual blank, vaguely expectant expression. "Thank you, sir."
"You're very welcome," Roarke answered, looking perfectly serious. Leslie wanted to roll her eyes, but for some reason she didn't quite dare. "As I said, I received this request. This guest is very wealthy and quite eccentric, and rather well-known, I might add: J. Anderson Rollins."
Lawrence still looked blank, but Leslie blinked in recognition. "The ski-resort tycoon from Aspen?"
"The very same," Roarke told her. "He has sent a full fifty thousand dollars for his fantasy; and I might add that I find myself working unusually hard to earn that fee. I have never attempted something like this before, and it has been necessary to make one attempt after another to create a potion that will do the trick without causing undue harm. Unfortunately, there is only one way I can test the potion -- I cannot determine its safety without using someone as a very carefully supervised guinea pig." Both Leslie and Lawrence were beginning to look apprehensive; they could both see where he was going with this. "And, I am sorry to relate, I could find no one willing to fill that role at any price whatsoever. Therefore, I am forced to ask one of you two to volunteer, if you would, please."
Lawrence's only reaction was to send an eyebrow chasing his receding hairline. Leslie flat-out blanched and croaked, "Volunteer?"
Lawrence eyed her and observed dryly, "I do believe that is what the man said." Roarke turned away in order to mix his latest version of the cat potion.
"Well, I think you should do it," Leslie said. "I mean, that's your job; you're Mr. Roarke's assistant, and you're paid to do stuff like this."
"Oh?" Lawrence's voice was acerbic. "You've been here longer than I, miss. I suggest that Mr. Roarke should take seniority into account and let you have the exciting privilege of testing this concoction."
Leslie glared at him in disbelief. "Seniority!" she echoed incredulously. "I thought seniority meant you were supposed to be exempt from things like this! It's the low man on the totem pole who's the most expendable, remember?"
"I beg your pardon," said Lawrence, affronted. "I do not, in all honesty, believe I am 'expendable'. I seem to recall that I was hired because an assistant was needed. Nothing was said about the necessity of having a second assistant on duty."
"But..." Leslie began.
A loud "AHEM!" killed the rapidly escalating argument. "Forgive me for interrupting this...discussion," said Roarke, heavy on the irony, "but it seems to me that we are having some difficulty determining who is to be the subject of the experiment. I see I shall simply have to choose someone to undergo the test."
Leslie's pallor grew more pronounced; Lawrence, visibly perturbed at last, gave Roarke what could be described only as a pop-eyed stare. "Oh, Mr. Roarke, no..." Leslie protested faintly.
"Perhaps you should flip a coin, sir," Lawrence suggested tightly.
Roarke's features lit. "An excellent idea," he said approvingly. "Has either of you a coin I could use, perhaps?"
By now Leslie was so aghast that she could only gape at her adoptive father in horror; however, Lawrence went through his pockets and came up with a quarter. "Right here, sir," he said.
"Thank you," said Roarke, just then catching sight of Leslie edging toward the staircase in the hope of getting there unnoticed. "Kindly stay put, young lady. One of you may call a side."
Lawrence, out of apparent chivalry, paused, but somehow Leslie felt robbed of her wits. That is, until he inquired slyly, "Cat got your tongue, miss?" This earned him a blazing glare from her, but she didn't recover in time to prevent Lawrence from turning to Roarke and requesting calmly, "Heads, please, sir."
"Very well," said Roarke, and gave the coin a toss, caught it and overturned it on his arm. He looked up.
"Heads," he announced.
§ § § -- October 29, 1983
The weeks passed and Lawrence proved to fit in surprisingly well. Nonetheless, there were regular occasions on which something Roarke did or said caught him off guard in a way that usually left Leslie laughing, and secretly relieved that someone besides herself wasn't completely familiar with the magic and mystery that surrounded Roarke and his island.
Lawrence and Leslie got along fairly well, but the first real test of their working relationship came one evening a week before Halloween, when Roarke received a letter requesting a very odd fantasy that had him in the cellar mixing up potions the rest of the week. The fantasies for the weekend of October 29 and 30 were par for the course: one involved a little girl who wanted to ask God why her deceased parents had been taken from her, while the other dealt with a man who wanted to revive his old TV act with his two former partners for one final performance. Thus all was quiet that Saturday evening when Lawrence stopped by the main house on his way back to his cottage. There he found Roarke in deep contemplation and Leslie reading.
"If there's nothing pressing, sir," Lawrence said, "I'd like to say good night."
Roarke, jolted out of his reverie, looked up at him, then glanced at Leslie. "As a matter of fact, Lawrence, there is something... Since I have both of you here, would you and Leslie kindly come with me to the cellar?"
That got Leslie's attention. Never before had she gone down there, even without Roarke's knowledge, much less at his invitation. Whatever this was, it had to be something momentous. "You actually want us to come into the cellar?" Leslie asked carefully, to make sure she'd heard right.
"Yes, I do," Roarke said. "Follow me, if you would, please."
So Leslie and Lawrence followed Roarke down the hall towards the kitchen, but stopped about halfway at a closed door which concealed a spiral stairway leading up to the bell tower, whose bell Lawrence now rang by pushing a button on a post just in front of the veranda. Instead of going up, however, they descended to the cellar in solemn single file, giving Leslie the creepy feeling of being in an ancient Frankenstein movie.
In the cellar lab, which to Leslie's surprise turned out to be quite large and crammed from cement floor to overhead joists with shelves containing hundreds of mysterious little bottles lined up in precise order, Roarke said nothing right away. Instead he moved swiftly around the room removing seemingly random bottles from shelves and placing them on a stomach-height stainless-steel table in the middle of the room. Once he was done, he turned finally to his puzzled audience.
"I recently received a request," Roarke began, "to grant someone his fantasy of being a cat for a weekend..."
"Excuse me, sir," broke in Lawrence, looking slightly confused. "Do you mean a house cat, fully domesticated?"
Roarke nodded. "Exactly," he said.
Leslie was a bit disappointed when Lawrence's face cleared and resumed its usual blank, vaguely expectant expression. "Thank you, sir."
"You're very welcome," Roarke answered, looking perfectly serious. Leslie wanted to roll her eyes, but for some reason she didn't quite dare. "As I said, I received this request. This guest is very wealthy and quite eccentric, and rather well-known, I might add: J. Anderson Rollins."
Lawrence still looked blank, but Leslie blinked in recognition. "The ski-resort tycoon from Aspen?"
"The very same," Roarke told her. "He has sent a full fifty thousand dollars for his fantasy; and I might add that I find myself working unusually hard to earn that fee. I have never attempted something like this before, and it has been necessary to make one attempt after another to create a potion that will do the trick without causing undue harm. Unfortunately, there is only one way I can test the potion -- I cannot determine its safety without using someone as a very carefully supervised guinea pig." Both Leslie and Lawrence were beginning to look apprehensive; they could both see where he was going with this. "And, I am sorry to relate, I could find no one willing to fill that role at any price whatsoever. Therefore, I am forced to ask one of you two to volunteer, if you would, please."
Lawrence's only reaction was to send an eyebrow chasing his receding hairline. Leslie flat-out blanched and croaked, "Volunteer?"
Lawrence eyed her and observed dryly, "I do believe that is what the man said." Roarke turned away in order to mix his latest version of the cat potion.
"Well, I think you should do it," Leslie said. "I mean, that's your job; you're Mr. Roarke's assistant, and you're paid to do stuff like this."
"Oh?" Lawrence's voice was acerbic. "You've been here longer than I, miss. I suggest that Mr. Roarke should take seniority into account and let you have the exciting privilege of testing this concoction."
Leslie glared at him in disbelief. "Seniority!" she echoed incredulously. "I thought seniority meant you were supposed to be exempt from things like this! It's the low man on the totem pole who's the most expendable, remember?"
"I beg your pardon," said Lawrence, affronted. "I do not, in all honesty, believe I am 'expendable'. I seem to recall that I was hired because an assistant was needed. Nothing was said about the necessity of having a second assistant on duty."
"But..." Leslie began.
A loud "AHEM!" killed the rapidly escalating argument. "Forgive me for interrupting this...discussion," said Roarke, heavy on the irony, "but it seems to me that we are having some difficulty determining who is to be the subject of the experiment. I see I shall simply have to choose someone to undergo the test."
Leslie's pallor grew more pronounced; Lawrence, visibly perturbed at last, gave Roarke what could be described only as a pop-eyed stare. "Oh, Mr. Roarke, no..." Leslie protested faintly.
"Perhaps you should flip a coin, sir," Lawrence suggested tightly.
Roarke's features lit. "An excellent idea," he said approvingly. "Has either of you a coin I could use, perhaps?"
By now Leslie was so aghast that she could only gape at her adoptive father in horror; however, Lawrence went through his pockets and came up with a quarter. "Right here, sir," he said.
"Thank you," said Roarke, just then catching sight of Leslie edging toward the staircase in the hope of getting there unnoticed. "Kindly stay put, young lady. One of you may call a side."
Lawrence, out of apparent chivalry, paused, but somehow Leslie felt robbed of her wits. That is, until he inquired slyly, "Cat got your tongue, miss?" This earned him a blazing glare from her, but she didn't recover in time to prevent Lawrence from turning to Roarke and requesting calmly, "Heads, please, sir."
"Very well," said Roarke, and gave the coin a toss, caught it and overturned it on his arm. He looked up.
"Heads," he announced.