A.N. Hey readers. So, last year I was struggling with some traumatic events, including the suicide of a friend at the same time that I was contemplating suicide. In order to cope, I fixated on another similar event—which, thanks to Kevin Clash, turned out to be the death of Jim Henson. I am doing better now, but I ended up writing several fanfictions as a show of my grief. I felt that publishing them today was the right thing to do, in thanks to an extraordinary man.
To Jim Henson—
Thank you for showing us the rainbow connection.
Sincerely,
The lovers, the dreamers and me
Bert had never experienced silence before. He had wished for it, certainly. Throughout the non-stop rhyming and spelling and singing and teasing, he had frequently wished for just a moment of peace. Just an hour when he could sit down with his new book and read. Or organize his paperclip collection. Or feed his pigeons without worrying that someone would scare them away. And then he got that moment of peace. And the world was never the same.
The morning of May 16th, 1990, had seemed like just a normal day at first. Bert had woken up at 7:00am, fed Lyle and Talbot, and had walked down for breakfast. Ernie was in the kitchen, already making a horrible monstrosity of waffles, coco puffs, baked beans, carrots and cheese for breakfast. And then the phone had rung. Ernie had almost bounced over to answer it—after all, he loved surprises, and what was a better surprise than a telephone call in the morning? Bert had been watching Ernie out of the corner of his eye, and had seen his reaction first-hand. Ernie had gone pale after just a minute on the phone. His eyes had watered, his breath had hitched, and he had almost dropped the phone. Then, he hung up and dashed to his room. Bert had leapt to his feet, now seriously concerned. But before he could ask, could offer comfort, could do anything, Ernie had dashed out with a small suitcase and leapt into the back of a waiting car. And before Bert could react, he was gone.
It hadn't been long before Bert found out why Ernie had left. It was on all the news stations—the surprising death of Jim Henson. Bert had recognised him immediately—he was one of 'the people down below', as he and Ernie had dubbed them. He had always been with Ernie, in everything that he did. In fact, Jim was as much of a part of Ernie as Frank Oz was a part of Bert. And now both Frank and Ernie were gone, and Bert was alone in the apartment. He finally had the peace and silence that he had longed for all this time… and now he wanted anything but.
It hadn't been long before Frank had come back to Sesame Street. Bert had woken up one day to find him in his normal spot 'below'. Frank had offered Bert comfort, had talked to him when he was scared, had cried with Bert when things were hard. It had taken a bit longer for Ernie to come back to the apartment. But something in Ernie had changed forever. A man who called himself Steve Whitman had taken Jim's place 'below'. And Ernie wasn't as happy-go-lucky or energetic as before. Sure, he always put on a great show for the kids on Sesame Street. He would bother Bert and play with Cookie Monster and sing with Elmo. But when the day drew to a close, he would fall silent, preferring to stare out at the sky instead of begging Bert for a bedtime story. He would sit there, watching the stars come out, and Bert would sit beside him, watching Ernie. Once the children left, and the real faces of Sesame Street came out, the apartment once more became silent.
"It feels strange writing this kind of thing while I'm still alive, but it wouldn't be easy to do after I go."—Jim Henson, from a letter addressed to 'Friends and Family'
