Male Call WHoo-Hoo! It's Spring Break at last! I actually have time to to write and not have to worry about getting up at 4:45 am the next day...for a few more days! This is a sort of "prequel", if you will, to "Desperate Times Call For Desperate Measures", and centers around a particular event that is briefly mentioned in that story. I actually had this in mind for something like one of the Foster's "shorts", to see how Frankie would react if Wilt ordered a girlie magazine in the mail, and acted like it was no big deal. Whether or not anyone wants to believe that there is, or could be, anything more to their relationship than "just friends", you have to admit that would be interesting to see! It doesn't really matter which story you read first, by the way, this one or "DTCFDM". OK, the disclaimer thingie: I do not own Foster's Home For Imaginary Friends, nor any of its characters, including Wilt, Frankie and Bloo. They belong to Craig McCracken and to Cartoon Network. If I DID own them, the show probably would not be finishing up its run at the end of this season, but unfortunately, I don't, and it is. pitbulllady
Just one more screw…"There, that oughta do it," Frankie Foster said out loud, to no one in particular, as she rotated the Philips screwdriver clockwise, tightening the last of the screws needed to hold the closet door hinge in place. Just how, or better yet, WHY, Bloo had managed to remove that door from its hinges, and how he'd lost the hinges afterwards, making it necessary for Frankie to buy new ones, remained a complete mystery to that day. As Frankie was straightening herself up from replacing that last hinge, the front doorbell to Foster's Home For Imaginary Friend rang. Glancing at just one of the countless clocks that her grandmother collected, Frankie realized that it was right at 12 noon, the time that the mail carrier usually arrived, so unless she missed her guess, that doorbell signaled the arrival of that day's mail.
"Just a minute", Frankie called out, as she put the screw driver in the pocket of her lime green hoodie, "I'm on the way!" Even as she headed for the door to meet the mailman, she could hear the sound of many footsteps-and tentacles, and wings, and other means of personal locomotion-coming towards her from all directions. The delivery of the mail was a daily routine that many of the home's residents looked forward to in earnest, since this often meant correspondence with now-grown creators, or potential adopters, or even just plain old junk mail that gave them some degree of happiness to read and meant that someone on the outside cared if they still breathed or not, even if it was only in the hopes of making a buck or two off them. For Frankie, the delivery of the daily mail was a mixed blessing; she always enjoyed doling out the letters, magazines, and care packages to the Imaginary Friends, but the mail also, inevitably, meant the delivery of more bills, and nowadays, it seemed, the latter far outnumbered anything else that the mailman could bring. Opening the door, she could see that this day's delivery was about average in terms of quantity. Smiling, she accepted the double handful of envelopes and packages from the mailman, grateful that there were no certified letters for her to sign, that might indicate that some dept or another had not been paid, or that someone was suing the home or that something was in some way, not right. Like most adults, Frankie had come to dread certified letters, which rarely if ever meant anything good. Turning around, she saw that several of the home's Imaginary residents were clustered around her, eagerly waiting to see if today's mail had brought anything for them. Must be nice, thought Frankie, to only see the mail as a positive and fun thing, and not have to worry about it bringing more bills or bad news.
"OK, everyone, just hold on and I'll see if…" Frankie's words were cut off as someone began pushing and shoving through the crowd gathered around the front door in the foyer, prompting grumbles and complaints from those already there. "Would you MOVE already? I gotta get to the DOOR…" Frankie instantly recognized the high-pitched, half-whine, half-demand as belonging to none other than Blooregard Q. Kazoo, the same one who'd caused her to have to spend half the morning replacing the hinges on the coat closet door. Shouldering his way through the crowd of other Imaginary Friends, many of whom were many times his size, the two-foot tall blue blob barged up to Frankie, reaching for the mail she still held in her hands.
"GimmeeGimmeeeGIMMEEE! I want MINE FIRST!!"
" NO way, Bloo! You're gonna have to wait your turn just like everyone else, that is, IF there's any mail for you in the first place! Now, go back and wait with the others, and if I see something that's got your name on it, hopefully something that's not a court summons or another bill from one of those DVD-of-the-Month clubs, I'll let you know!"
Bloo refused to budge. Crossing his stubby arms obstinately in front of him, he shook his head and began speaking in that patronizing tone of voice he used when he was trying to take advantage of someone; "Frankie, Frankie, Frankie,"…..he paused for effect, "FRRAnakie…HOW many times do we have to go other this?" He clicked his tongue and shook his head, like a teacher reprimanded a habitual troublemaker in the classroom. "How many times do I HAVE to tell you that…"
"Just GET OVER THERE!!" Frankie's finger snapped out to point in the direction of the others, who were patiently awaiting their turns. Bloo looked aghast at her, his mouth dropping open like a trap door. "WELL!" he said, in a huff, "I can see that this agreement is something we're going to have to WORK on!" Reluctantly, arms still folded in front of him to indicate his impatience, he turned to walk back towards the others, as Frankie muttered behind him, "We don't HAVE an agreement!" She sighed, and began sorting through the stack of mail.
"Bill, bill, junk mail…Ok, Eduardo?"
"SI! Right here!" called out the large purple, horned Imaginary Friend, raising his hand…er, hoof as he stepped forward. "Oh, es a letter from NINA!" he exclaimed with childlike delight as Frankie handed him the letter, postmarked from Los Angeles, California. "Nina", in this case, was Nina Valeroso, Eduardo's creator. She kept in contact with him and sent him letters at least once a month. Frankie smiled as she handed Ed the letter; it made her feel good that some creators still liked to keep in contact with their Imaginary Friends, even if they no longer could keep them at home. Frankie continued handing out letters and parcels. "Alright, who's next…let's see…"
"Oh, that's MINE!" shouted Bloo, again, as he rushed forward to try to grab a large envelope from Frankie's hands. "STOP IT, Bloo! I said, when and IF I see something with your name on it, I'll let you know!" Frankie scowled at him. Bloo scowled back. "But that one's GOT to be MINE; it's BIGGER than the other one!
Frankie looked at the cover of the envelope. "Acme Sewing and Needlepoint Supply House", was what it said. Frankie immediately thought, Grandma, knowing that her grandmother was quite fond of sewing, but a second look at the addressee shot down that assessment. "Oh, I mean, Cy?" She held up the large envelope. A large, muscular green Imaginary Friend, with one huge eye in the center of his face, rather shyly stepped forward, quickly grasping the envelope and clutching it to his massive, t-shirt-covered barrel chest, as though to hide what was on the front. Cy was still not comfortable with others knowing that he liked to sew. Frankie smiled warmly at him, and whispered, "It's cool, Cy. Your secret's safe with me!" and gave him a thumbs-up as he stepped away with his catalog in its large envelope. She continued to sort and distribute; "bill, bill, MORE bills…what's THIS…?
"Now, THAT one's GOTTA be for ME!" Bloo surged forward once again, lunging at the remaining large brown-wrapped publication in Frankie's hand, the one which had not been relegated to the pile of bills.
Exasperated, Frankie held it out of his reach. "Bloo, I SAID I would let you know if anything came with your name on it, and I don't see your name on any of these! Now if you wanna pay some of these bills, you can go right ahead!"
Bloo looked stunned, clearly not believing her. "But I wanna get some mail TOOOOOOOOooooo!" he whined. "That's not fair that everybody else gets mail and I DON'T get any! I KNOW that's got to be a letter from MY creator in your hand!"
"Bloo, WHY would Mac send you a letter, when he comes to VISIT you every DAY?" Frankie asked, knowing that she would not be receiving any answer that actually made sense. Glancing at the remaining non-bill item in her hand, she added, "This isn't a letter anyway; it looks like it's a magazine of some sort."
"That's right; it's MY magazine. Now, hand it over and we can be done with this little charade…" Bloo extended his hand, expectantly.
"AARRGGG!" Frankie growled, having to restrain herself from physical violence at this point. Just to be sure that the blue blob WASN'T actually right for a change, and the magazine or whatever it was didn't actually, in fact, belong to him, she flipped open the brown paper cover. What Frankie saw inside the brown paper cover nearly made her eyes pop. Her jaw dropped open, and the hand that still held the multitude of bills automatically flew up to cover her mouth.
Seeing her reaction, Bloo became that much more determined to get his hands on the magazine. "What is it? Is it THAT good? If it's THAT good, I KNOW it's MINE!" He began jumping up and down like a Jack Russell Terrier on crack, prompting Frankie to have to regain her composure and hold the thing up over her head, in order to keep it out of his reach. There was NO WAY she was gonna let BLOO, of all individuals, get HIS hands on THAT! "STOP IT, Bloo!" she yelled. "I already TOLD you, you DON'T HAVE ANY MAIL!! Now, BEAT IT!"
Nearly bowled over by the force of Frankie's outburst, Bloo composed himself and brushed himself off, angrily. "Well, FINE, then! If THAT'S how you wanna play, we'll PLAY! See what happens the NEXT time the mail comes in, and I get MY hands on YOUR stuff! See if YOU get to keep anything people send YOU, Missy!" With that, he turned and stormed out of the foyer, or at least, he did as good an impression of "storming" as it was possible for a two-foot-tall blue blob to pull off without looking utterly ridiculous, still ranting about how "unfair" it was, how Frankie was "keeping stuff that didn't belong to her", yada yada yada, leaving Frankie standing there in front of the door, still holding that brown-wrapped magazine. Once Bloo was out of sight, Frankie opened it again, to make sure she'd just seen what she thought she'd just seen.
Yep, that WAS what she'd seen, alright. The title of the magazine read, Sports Illustrated: Annual Swimsuit Collector's Edition. Frankie had heard of it, of course, who hadn't? She'd just never actually SEEN it, and had never really had any interest in doing so. Looking at the cover, it was easy to understand why the publisher would ship it in a plain brown cover. To have called whatever the model on the cover was wearing a "swimsuit" would have been a REAL stretch of the imagination! In fact, it would have been pushing it to have even gotten by with calling it a THONG, and THAT was the ONLY thing she was wearing, aside from her outspread hands, of course, strategically covering certain upper portions of her anatomy. Her mouth still open, Frankie turned a few pages, staring in absolute disbelief at the "come and get it" poses and beyond-skimpy whisps of fabric that someone euphamistically had labeled "swimwear". She was so stunned, as her mind tried to grapple with the thought of WHO had ordered THIS thing, that she almost didn't hear a voice approaching, saying, 'Oh, hello, Bloo," followed soon, by "Goodbye, Bloo" as it got closer, its owner obviously having just encountered the still-irate Mr. Kazoo along the way, nor did Frankie notice the familiar sound of large sneakers squeaking on the hardwood floor as they got closer. It was not until the same voice addressed her, directly, that she paid any heed at all.
"Hi, Frankie! Say, What's up with Bloo today?" queried the tall, red owner of the squeaky sneakers.
"Oh!' Frankie looked up, startled.
"I'm sorry, Frankie! I didn't mean to startle you; I was just askin' if you knew what Bloo's problem was. He seemed awfully cranky about somethin' when I met him in the hall just now!"
It took Frankie a moment to find her voice, given the circumstances. "Oh, uhm…don't mind him, Wilt; he's just ticked off because he didn't get any mail today, and he's upset that some residents did. He seems to think I'm withholding his mail from him, for some stupid reason."
Wilt shook his head, chuckling. "Now, WHY doesn't THAT surprise me?" he asked, then added, "Speaking of the mail, there didn't happen to be an uhm, magazine, in there, was it?"
Frankie's mind boggled a bit. NO, it CAN'T be. Not HIM…not THIS…
"Weeelllll…." She began, hestitantly, "there WAS a magazine, but…."
Before she could complete her response, Wilt curtly exclaimed, "Yep! That's it!" And, with no further ado, he deftly plucked it from her hand with his fingers, smiling pleasantly at her. "Thanks, Frankie! I'll just take this, and be on my way, if that's OK."
Frankie stared at him as if in shock, her jaw hanging open, not unlike that poor closet door had been just a little while ago, before she'd replaced the missing hinges. Somehow, she managed to find her voice.
"YOU!? That THING is YOURS??"
Wilt looked genuinely puzzled. He glanced briefly at the magazine in question, then at Frankie, who stared at him as if he'd suddenly grown a second head or something, then back at the magazine, before answering. "Uhm, yeah?" came his response.
Frankie arched an eyebrow rather disdainfully at him, and crossed her arms. "And, I guess you like to read that for the sports articles, RIGHT?" She knew that she was being a smart-ass at this point, but she was still reeling from the revelation that Wilt had actually owned up to having that…publication…sent to him.
Wilt shrugged. "Well, no, actually," he began, "I got it 'cause I like lookin' at all the really hot girls lyin' 'round' on the beach with hardly anything ON!" he stated as matter-of-factly as if describing why he preferred one type of salad dressing over another. Then he added, apparently sensing that this answer was not quite sufficient, "I'm sorry, is something wrong"?
That last question catapulted Frankie into a whole new level of incredulity. She sputtered, "Wha…? Wrong? Is there something WRONG?? WILT! This stuff is nothing more than…than…soft-core PORN! Hell, YEAH, there's something WRONG! I just can't…I mean, I do NOT believe YOU, of all people, would BUY this stuff!" Frankie shook her head to further emphasize her disbelief.
Wilt looked at the magazine in his hand, rather like a scientist staring at a newly-discovered organism and trying to figure out what Phylum it belonged to, then, to further add to Frankie's sense of disbelief, he calmly stated, "I'm sorry, Frankie, but it's NOT porn!" He even chuckled a bit, as if to suggest that her notion of that magazine being pornographic was a bit of a joke to him. "Besides," he continued, with a gesture that indicated Frankie's concerns were of little consequence, "they've got something on, and they're not DOIN' anything, 'cept lying around on the beach 'n stuff." That chuckle again-"THAT'S not what you see in porno magazines!" Wilt continued, very matter-of-factly.
Frankie could feel her blood beginning to reach a boiling point. Bloo's little tantrum had been bad enough, but THIS…and from WILT, of all the NERVE! "Oh, REALLY," she snipped, "and just HOW would YOU know what's in a porno magazine, MISTER?"
Did he just suck his teeth at me?
Wilt opened his mouth as if to reply, then apparently decided to plead the Fifth, as it were, avoiding Frankie's glare. She decided to take a different approach, managing to keep her cool, seeing that the previous attempt didn't work. "But Wilt," she began, trying to maintain a calm tone, "what about all those women being exploited by these magazine publishers, hmmmm? Don't you feel bad about that?" Frankie knew that if there was a way to get through to Wilt, it was to take advantage of his oversized sense of guilt.
Wilt seemed to consider that aspect for a second, then shrugged again.
"Nope. Not really. I mean, it's not like anyone's MAKING them pose like that, is it? I mean, they're GET-TING PAAIIID. A LOTTTT."
If there was one thing that Frankie REALLY hated, it was when Wilt used that slow-talking, patronizing tone that suggested that whoever he was talking to was a complete idiot, in his opinion. It was the same way he talked to Cheese, or Goo, and more often than not, to Bloo. It wasn't so much that tone that she hated; it was the fact that he was now using it to speak to HER. Damn if that wasn't the same argument that most men used in defense of porn! It was just such a shock to hear those very words come from the mouth of a guy whom she'd always figured was above that sort of thing, making it difficult for Frankie to even think, let alone speak, coherently.
"I just…CAN'T…I mean CAN'T…believe that you'd SAY something like that! I mean, WHY would you BUY THAT…THAT STUFF…? You're an IMAGINARY FRIEND, for crying out loud!" She wasn't even sure why she'd added that last part, but it just seemed like something she could be able to use to state her case, irrelevant though it might be. She knew perfectly well that many Imaginary Friends were capable of the same "prurient instincts" that their human counterparts were.
Wilt looked this way and that, obviously trying to avoid looking Frankie in the eye, as he tried to come up with an answer. It was obvious, despite his efforts to conceal it, that the conversation was making him uncomfortable at this point, and that he, too, was struggling to maintain his "cool". Then, as if calling upon some inner strength, he took a deep breath, and stared her right in the face, leaning in closer so she would not miss one word he had to say, "That's right, I AM an Imaginary Friend, but here's a news flash-I'm also – a - GUY!" He then added, "NOT that you'd notice, of course", wondering WHY he felt compelled to say that, even as the words came out of his mouth. Wilt felt a rare sensation-anger-rising to the surface like magma in the throat of a volcano. It wasn't something he often dealt with, his temper, and to the best of his recollection, he'd NEVER lost it with Frankie, but for some reason, her being upset with him over a simple magazine that could be purchased on any magazine rack in any supermarket, and her implied accusations that he didn't care about women being exploited and used by men just struck a nerve. Briefly, he considered retaliating with something about those novels that SHE liked to read-oh, yeah, he knew about THOSE, and what was in 'em! However. he realized that if this conversation continued on its current course, things were really going to get out of hand. Wilt hated to argue with anyone, since the topic of the argument was rarely worth the energy and effort needed to argue about it, and he especially hated the thought of getting into an argument with Frankie. However, he also hated, for some unaccountable reason, to admit that his point-of-view was actually wrong this time. He decided that the best course of action, in this case, was simply to walk away from the "discussion"; Frankie was clearly angry about it, and giving her time to cool down, and himself time to think, seemed preferable to letting this continue on its present track. With Frankie staring at him, as though dumbstruck by his last words, Wilt quickly averted his gaze, and spoke softly, but with what he hoped was enough conviction; "I have to go now, IF that's OK with you." With no further words, he simply turned and walked off, towards the stairs, carrying his magazine with him.
For several seconds, Frankie just stood and stared after him, stunned, a profound feeling of "WHAT just happened?" washing over her. For as long as she'd known Wilt, which was for most of her life, she could not recall him EVER having snapped at her like that, or having argued with her about anything. It just wasn't like him to do that. She heard her own voice reply, "FINE, then, go on and leave!" even though Wilt had already left the foyer, and she could still hear his sneakers squeaking on the stairs. As she stood there, trying to make some sense of what had just taken place, that annoying little voice in the back of her mind started nagging. This isn't REALLY about you being all concerned about that magazine exploiting those chicks, is it? It's about good ole' Wilt actually getting pleasure from looking at OTHER women, isn't it? It's because YOU aren't one of 'em, right? I mean, he actually had to remind you that he's a GUY, since you seem to go out of your way NOT to notice that, don't you? Maybe if you did notice once in awhile, he wouldn't have to order magazines with mostly-naked girls in 'em-and just think, THAT'S the magazine you know about; who knows what he's got hidden up there in his locker? Frankie shook her head, NO, it's NOT like that at all! WHY would I want him to notice me, he's not even HUMAN! WHY should I be jealous of a bunch of floozies who probably can't even spell their own frickin' names? Then, out loud, again: "Hmph! Who cares if he wants to stare a bunch of big, fat, FAKE silicone…"
"I BEG your pardon!" Mr. Herriman's voice startled her out of her little private conversation with her "inner self". Jumping, with a gasp, Frankie turned to see her supervisor, the house's Financial Director/resident stick-in-the-mud(and pain-in-the-you-know-what), standing beside her. "Miss Frances, I am CERTAIN that you are not being paid to indulge in idle conversation with YOURSELF, especially when you've barely begun to scratch the surface of today's chores! I insist that you put a stop to this pointless exercise in frivolity, and start to actually EARN your paycheck! Do I make myself clear?"
Rolling her eyes, Frankie sighed, "Yeah, I got the point already!"
"Very well, then," the dapper rabbit Imaginary Friend continued, then added, "and speaking of silicone, there's a leak around the faucet in the bathtub in room 304, that could use some attention. I suggest that you make that a priority, seeing as how it will no doubt cost us extra when the water bill arrives. You can take care of that whilst you are completing your toilet tissue dispensing duties." With that, he turned and hopped away, leaving Frankie to complete her chores…and contemplate both the near-argument with Wilt, and WHY the whole thing with the magazine had upset her so much in the first place…that damned magazine!
Retreating to his room, Wilt was quite relieved to find that none of his three roommates were inside. He needed time alone to think, and ponder just WHAT THE HELL had just happened down in the foyer. Despite his normal tendency to blame himself whenever things went wrong (and they couldn't get much more wrong than this), or to readily accept blame from others, even for things he KNEW he hadn't done, Wilt felt unwilling to accept blame for THIS. Was it THAT wrong for him to actually enjoy looking at beautiful women, beautiful HUMAN women? He'd been totally honest when he said that he did enjoy that; I thought women appreciated honesty in a guy? So, what exactly had gone wrong? But, while he couldn't quite let go of the conviction that he was right, and there was nothing wrong with him or any other guy enjoying the photos in that magazine, he also couldn't help but to think that he'd handled it all wrong, that there must have been SOMETHING he could have said, or done, that could have diffused that situation before it got to the point it did. Why did you have to get so defensive in the first place, that you had to make that stupid comment about being a guy, like she could care less? Just WHO were you tryin' to impress with that, Wilt-Man? Sitting down on what was now Bloo's bed, that had at one time been HIS, Wilt let out a deep breath that he'd been holding inside for what seemed like the duration of his climb up the stairs. He glanced down at the object of contention, still clutched in his hand, like a prize. Trying to push the unpleasantness of downstairs out of his mind, he held it up and idly flipped through a few pages, but was unable to clear his thoughts enough to actually take in what was on those pages. He stood up again, and paced a few pointless circles around the room, realizing that he was still too upset, too agitated, to actually sit down. His gaze fell upon his trusted old friend, his well-worn Spalding basketball, there on the floor by his locker. That's what you need, a good game of hoops, to let off steam. THEN you'll be better able to figure out how to deal with this. Wilt had to agree; that was the best idea he'd had all morning, out of a morning when his ideas didn't seem good at all. He always DID think best while actually DOING something, and there were few things he did better than shoot baskets, if he had to admit so himself. Placing the magazine on the bedside table, right next to the alarm clock, he rolled the basketball towards him with his foot, then scooped it up in his hand, and headed for the door to go outside. If nothing else, at least some fresh air would help him feel better.
A couple of hours later, after an especially frenetic afternoon of shooting baskets, trying to beat his own record, Wilt sat on the bathroom counter and pulled on a fresh pair of socks, having finished drying himself off from his shower. Both the game and the shower had helped abate his anger a bit, but it also helped him realize that the anger was not so much now directed at Frankie, but at himself. He shouldn't have snapped at her, no matter if she WAS wrong. It had been uncalled for, really. Pulling on his high-top Converse sneakers, he'd already resolved that he was just going to have to find her, and make up for it somehow. Somehow…apologizing just wouldn't cut it, would it? You apologize all the time, buddy! She's not gonna take it seriously, you know. OK, so that just created a new problem for him to deal with-WHAT to do that could make up for his previous behavior. Gonna have to think on this one, too…Wilt left the bathroom, deep in thought as he walked down the hall towards his room. As he neared the door, it opened, and out stepped one of his roommates, Bloo. Remembering that Frankie had said something earlier about Bloo having been upset at not having any mail, Wilt felt a little bad for the guy, and hoped to cheer him up by at least letting him know that someone cared. "How's it goin' Bloo? Feelin' OK?" he asked.
Without even looking at Wilt, Bloo just shrugged in a non-committal way, and said, "Hmmm…I've felt better, I guess" and continued on his way down the hall. "Sorry," called out Wilt, "hope you feel better! Let me know if I can do anything, if that's OK!"
Re-entering their room, which was now still unoccupied, other than himself, Wilt took a seat on the bed once again. Trying to cheer Bloo up HAD lifted his spirits a bit, it seemed. Well, lifted them enough that his attention was once more drawn to his magazine, right where he'd left it, on the bedside stand. He tried to ignore it, being that it was such a "bone of contention", but finally one little inner voice won out; you paid for the thing, so it's your right to look…I mean, READ, it. It's not your fault that she's got a problem with that. Like you said, you're a GUY, right? "Yeah, that's right", Wilt said, to no one in particular, as he reached for the "Swimsuit Edition". Who knows, maybe he'd even get some inspiration as to how he could make it up to Frankie for having acted like an ass earlier?
As soon as he got a look at the cover, Wilt let out an involuntary gasp of pure shock. Instead of the lovely, and barely-clad, supermodel he was expecting, there stared up at him a cross-eyed, dopey-looking chick wearing a black body overall, smiling up at him with blacked-out teeth, all courtesy of a black marker! Flipping through the pages, Wilt discovered that every single photo, of every single model in the magazine, had been given similar treatments-blacked-out "Bubba" teeth, big geeky glasses here, a large and conspicuous warty nose there, a mustache and goatee on this one, and GASP! THAT one had even been "made over" to look like…to look like…DUCHESS! His surprise quickly turned to disbelief, and from there, his disbelief quickly began to devolve into pure, smoldering ANGER. WHAT kind of no-good, low-down, piece of…WAIT. Wilt had seen this particular modus operandi before, on more than one vandalized portrait in the hallways of Foster's. He'd had to clean up more than a little of it himself, adorning the walls, all thanks to ONE particular resident. His mind flashing back to what Frankie had said earlier- "Oh, uhm…don't mind him, Wilt; he's just ticked off because he didn't get any mail today, and he's upset that some residents did"-Wilt was left with absolutely NO doubt whatsoever as to who had vandalized his magazine, someone with both a motive, AND a history of doing this sort of thing! THAT little son-of-a…! Normally, Wilt might have let it slide, but given his state of mind already, he just couldn't, not THIS time, uh-UH! This was just one straw too many on the spinal column of the proverbial desert beast of burden, and somebody was gonna pay for THIS! Clenching the now-rolled up magazine in his hand, teeth grinding, Wilt stood up and stomped towards the door, practically kicking it open, turning his stare down the hallway, in the direction of his just-departed roommate…
Bloo's mind was firmly locked on a raid on the cookie jar in the kitchen as he ambled down the long hallway towards the stairs, the no-mail fiasco of the early afternoon already forgotten. He just almost taste those oatmeal-raisin delights…
WHAP!
"OOWWW!!" Spinning around in his tracks, his hand reaching up to rub his head where something had just "whapped" him, hard, Bloo was really quite surprised to see Wilt standing there, glowering at him. He hadn't even heard him approach; guess that's why they call those "sneakers", he thought absently, before getting to the root of the matter. "Hey, man, WHAT GIVES?" Bloo shrieked.
"What gives? What GIVES?? You tell ME what gives, Bloo! Just because you didn't get any mail does NOT give you the right to vandalize someone ELSE'S! I mean, THAT is REALLY NOT OK…OK?" For added emphasis, he leaned down and in close to Bloo's face, gesturing towards him with a rolled-up magazine, obviously the same one he'd just used to whap Bloo over the head.
Bloo stared at him in disbelief, a sense of "oh, no, here we go again" beginning to seep in around the edges, wondering if he had somehow, not even realized it, made a "tall person" joke, and Wilt found out about it. Trying to put on his best show of toughness, though, he responded, "I have absolutely NO IDEA what you are TALKING ABOUT!"
That didn't seem to be what Wilt wanted to hear, however. "Don't play dumb with ME, Bloo! You know perfectly WELL what I'm talking about!" This time, he poked Bloo in the chest with the end of the rolled-up magazine as he pronounced each word.
"Who says I'm PLAYIN'?" Bloo responded, then added a bit more calmly, "No, seriously. I DO NOT HAVE any idea what this is all about, really I don't. If somebody made a tall person joke, it wasn't ME this time, I swear!"
"TALL people joke? You think this is about…so, are you gonna stand there and tell me to my face that YOU don't know anything…about THIS?" With that, Wilt flipped open the magazine he was carrying, and shoved the badly-defaced centerfold right in Bloo's face, presenting him with the evidence itself.
Bloo stared at the centerfold for a moment, then simply replied, "AMATEURS." He snorted disdainfully. Seeing a look of befuddlement begin to crawl onto Wilt's face, Bloo decided to enlighten HIM. "Surely you don't think that I had anything to do with this…this…lousy, amateurish hack job, do you?" Bloo spoke with the air of a world-famous art critic gazing at the latest entry into a community art contest. "I mean, LOOK at it! Buck teeth? I mean, COME ON, EVERYBODY knows that buck teeth are SOOO last month! And look at that so-called excuse of a mustache…look, look, LOOK!" He struck at the offending image with the back of his hand for emphasis. "What kind of WANNABE would use a fuzzy little blur like that? I prefer a gently sweeping up-curl of a mustache myself; it's so much more classy than THIS lousy attempt at portrait re-imaging! Pssshhht…seriously, Wilt, I'm offended that you thought I'd have done something THIS sloppy and unprofessional! You've seen MY work before, and you must know that the work of Blooregard Q. Kazoo is LIGHT YEARS ahead of THIS stuff in quality!"
Wilt glanced from Bloo to the magazine image, from the magazine image to Bloo, doubts beginning to cross his mind. "Sooooo," he slowly spoke, "are you tellin' me that you DIDN'T have anything to with this?"
"Well, DUH! Am I speakin' Chinese here? THAT'S what I have been TRYIN' to TELL you!"
Wilt briefly considered the possibility that Bloo just MIGHT be telling him the truth, that he didn't actually have anything to do with the vandalizing of the magazine, but Bloo DID have access to the magazine, when no one else was around, so that meant he'd have no alibi, AND despite his claims of that work being "amateurish" in comparison to his own "portrait re-imaging", Wilt knew that he was prone to lying, also. He shoved aside that little tendril of doubt, and carried on with his interrogation, "Well, I STILL don't believe you!"
Bloo put his hands on what amounted to hips, or, as near to hips as a blue blob could have. "FINE! Who CARES if you believe me or not, Mr. 'I'm-So-Perfect'?"
Straightening himself back up, Wilt considered his current courses of action, but that little tendril of doubt had gotten a firm enough grasp on his conscience that he decided that the best course of action, at that moment, would be to take NO course of action. He still couldn't let the culprit off without a dire warning, though; "Alright, Bloo, I'm letting you off THIS time! But it's the LAST time you're gonna get by with somethin' like this, GOT THAT? Just so you know, I'm gonna be keeping my eye on you from now on!" With that, he snatched his magazine back from Bloo's hand, and turned on his heels and walked, or rather, stomped, away, hearing Bloo's parting "shot" behind his back: "Oh, YEAH? Well, I'm lettin' YOU know…that I'm gonna be keepin'….STUFF…on YOU, TOO! So, THERE!" His own dire warning issued, Bloo waited until Wilt had turned the corner, then, with a whimpered "Owwwwieeeee", he reached up to rub the growing lump atop his head, before descending the stairs. He REALLY needed some cookies now!
"Why, that LYIN' little, sawed-off son-of-a…….he REALLY got off too easy this time! Why, I shoulda just put my foot right up his lyin'….."
"WILT!" Hearing Frankie's voice, Wilt stopped in his tracks, mouth agape. He hadn't realized that he'd been talking to himself, out loud, or that SHE was right there, beside the cart with all the toilet paper and bathroom stuff on it, completing her chores, and that she'd obviously heard every word! Wilt stuttered incoherently, as his brain tried to get itself in gear, "OH…uh..I mean, I mean, FRANKIE! I…uhm…what I meant was…was…was…so how long have YOU been standin' there?" That really wasn't quite what he wanted to say, but hey, it was a start, right?
"Long enough," came her response. "That's a whole new attitude for you! So, who exactly deserves to have your foot put 'right up his lyin' you-know-what?" She raised her eyebrows at him, in a manner that was both bemused, and concerned, at the same time.
Wilt sucked his teeth, most definitely and quite clearly this time, before answering, "Man, that little sneaky devil…". Frankie held up her hand, cutting him off.
"Let me guess. Would this 'little sneaky devil' happen to be about, oh, so high"-she held her hand about two feet from the floor-"and blue, and have an obsession with paddleball, by any chance?"
Wilt nodded, not surprisingly, "Yeah, that's him, alright!"
Frankie rolled her eyes and sighed, "So, what's Mr. Kazoo done THIS time? Nothing I'M gonna have to clean up, I hope!" Frankie knew, though, that she was probably hoping against reality for that last one to be true, since rarely a day did pass when she didn't have to either clean up, or repair, or BOTH, something that Bloo had done.
"Oh, no, Frankie, it's just…" Wilt started to tell her, to show her, but then he remembered: That magazine! THAT'S what caused you to almost get into an argument with Frankie in the first place…heck, you DID get into an argument with her! Now, was it really worth all that? All at once, Bloo's act of vandalism, however spiteful(and however denied), seemed distant and meaningless, as Wilt was struck by a reality that he'd been previously unwilling to accept: he had nearly let a magazine, a bunch of paper and ink, come between him and someone who meant almost as much to him, if not MORE, than his own creator did, even if she would never know that herself. With THAT realization came a second: maybe Bloo had actually done him a favor by defacing those photos, and making him realize just what his priorities were, after all. His head dropped to his chest, his throat tightening. He opened his mouth, as if to say something, but no words would issue forth. A slight and ever-so-gentle touch on his good arm caused him to open his eye, and look down at his side, to where the red-head now stood.
"Hey, look, Wilt," Frankie spoke softly, "don't let him get to you, OK? It's not worth it; you're too much of a nice guy for that."
Man, now she's being so nice! I could deal with this better if she was still mad at me! Wilt closed his eyes again, swallowing hard against that lump in his throat. He knew he had to say SOMETHING, hopefully that didn't sound totally lame and stupid. Just as he opened his mouth to try to speak, though, Frankie interrupted him.
"Uhm, Wilt…I sorta got something, you know, that I need to say. I'm sor…"
"No, that's OK, Frankie, you don't have to…"
They both stood and looked at each other, awkwardly. Frankie laughed nervously. "You can go first", she said, having realized that Wilt obviously had something to say, as well.
"Uh, that's OK, YOU can go first" came his equally nervous reply. Wilt figured that she, at least, probably had a better idea of what she was going to say than he did.
Frankie thought for another moment, then said, "Alright. I guess I will go first. So, here goes…" she sighed, "Wilt, I'm really sorry for acting like such a…such a…bitch earlier today." Seeing the look of shock on his face, and seeing that he was about to protest her use of that particular word when referring to herself, she held up her hand to stop him, so she could continue. "I didn't have any business trying to tell you what you can and cannot look at. I mean, you're an adult; you might be an Imaginary Friend, but that still doesn't change the fact that you're older than I am, and it was… it was…just wrong of me to go off on you like that. I'm really, really sorry." She could feel little pin-pricks starting behind her eyelids as she continued. "I don't know why, but for some reason…I know this sounds totally dumb, but for some reason, it just BOTHERED me to think of you lookin' at those…those…girls, you know?" Shaking her head slightly, she rubbed the corner of one eye with her finger, "I just feel so stupid…"
Leaning in closer to her, Wilt put his hand on her shoulder, reassuringly. "Frankie, Frankie…don't say that! You're not stupid, not by any means, not even close! Look, if anybody has been stupid, it's ME. I shoulda been more sensitive to how you would have felt about magazines with a bunch of girls in it, and not acted like it was no big deal, when I could see that it WAS, to you. But even stupider…I'm sorry, is that a word? Even dumber was that I let something like that come between us…as friends, I mean, as friends!" Wilt coughed slightly, as if to clear up any misconceptions that he might be implying that they were anything else. He glanced at the magazine, now tucked under his stumpy arm. It seemed that now, this object that had once held so much attraction for him seemed like a useless burden, and it wasn't just because of what Bloo had done to it, either.
"Look, Frankie, I really wanna do somethin' to make this up to you, IF that's OK" Wilt continued, in spite of her protests that he really didn't need to do anything for her, that SHE ought to be doing something for him. "No,no… I insist, Miss Frances!" he joked, doing a fair impersonation of Mr. Herriman, changing the whole tone of the conversation as it illicited a giggle from his companion, at last.
"Ok, then, how about we do something for each other?" Frankie offered. "That way, I guess we can call it even. Now," she pondered out loud, "just what? What can we do? I don't even have a night off for another three weeks and…"
Wilt was rather surprised that she'd even imply that she would consider going out with him…AGAIN. He was under no illusions that Frankie was comfortable with the notion of actually "going OUT with", as in dating, HIM. He DID have an idea, though, that wouldn't involve either having to go anywhere…even if it did mean they'd have to do a bit of late-night sneaking around. He grinned at her, that old familiar smile. "Hey, remember back when you were a kid, and had trouble sleepin', sometimes?"
Frankie stopped, trying to remember what he was referring to, and figure out what he was getting at, then it came back to her. "Oh, yeah…and you and me used to sneak off to that spot up on the roof, overlooking the rest of the town, and count stars…and try to see if we could name the constellations and stuff!"
"That's it! And we had to be real careful that Mr. H didn't find out, too!" Wilt hesitated a moment, not sure if this was the right way to approach the question or not, then kept on, "Weeelllll…I was just thinkin'…you know, maybe we could…I mean, maybe bring some hot chocolate and some popcorn or somethin'…maybe we could…go up there again, I mean, IF that's OK with you!"
"Weellll," Frankie answered, "it IS still pretty cold out at night, and…"
"We can bring a blanket! I mean, IF you wanna, I guess…" Wilt could feel the moment slipping away. Maybe this had been a really stupid thing to suggest after all.
"It can be like a date, I guess." He winced at his own so WRONG choice of words. "Or NOT. NOT a date. I'm sorry, I guess I'm not making much sense, am I?"
Frankie laughed out load, having to put her hand over her mouth to keep from attracting any unwanted attention. Wilt glanced nervously down the hall, just in case anyone was listening in on their conversation, as badly as it seemed to now be going. "A not-a-date, huh? Now, THAT'S a new one on me!" Leaning in, conspirator-like, she finally gave him a definitive answer. "You know, it would be sorta fun to sneak around a bit on Old Cotton-Butt, wouldn't it? Like old times again! How doessss…11:30 sound? Everyone else oughta be in bed by then. I can bring the hot chocolate and the popcorn, and…"
"So, it's on, then? That's OK with you, I mean?" Wilt could hardly believe what he was hearing!
"Well, I SAID I was gonna bring the popcorn and the hot chocolate, so DUH!"
"OK, yeah, right…sorry! I guess I can bring the uhm, blanket then! Right, the blanket…"
"For our first-ever official Not-a-Date!" Frankie laughed, leaning forward to give him a hug to seal the deal. As she did so, a small white-and-black cylindrical object fell out of her hoodie pocket and clattered to the floor.
"Oh, I'll get that!" Wilt offered, but Frankie quickly moved her foot to cover up the object before he could even get a really good look at it. "Ah, that's OK, Wilt, don't bother. I can get it, really. Oh, would you LOOK at the time!" she added, glancing at her watch, "You know, I REALLY gotta be finishing up with these bathrooms, if you don't mind, otherwise I'll still be pushing this cart when 11:30 gets here!"
Wilt stood up straight. Was that what I THOUGHT it was that fell outa her pocket? He dismissed the thought from his mind, though. Naaawwww…and even if it WAS, that still doesn't mean anything. Just a coincidence. He decided to at least offer to help her complete her chores, but Frankie insisted she could handle it better herself, so Wilt agreed to leave her, not wishing to impose or anything. With a newly-recovered jaunt to his step, he turned and walked off down the hall, leaving Frankie with the supply cart.
As soon as he was out of sight, Frankie let out a sigh of relief. Moving her foot, she bent down to pick up the black Sharpie marker that had fallen out of her pocket, held it up briefly as if to contemplate its existence, and with a wry, enigmatic little smile and a cock of the eyebrow, quickly put it back in her pocket, before turning back to her chores.
After another bend in the labyrinthine hallway, Wilt noticed a small trash basket, sitting by a door. He looked at the rolled-up magazine still tucked under his arm. It sure wasn't of much use to him now, was it? While he still didn't comprehend just WHY it had caused Frankie so much distress, beyond the "exploiting women" argument, which only seemed to scratch the surface, he knew that it really didn't matter WHY. What mattered was that he should have accepted her feelings in the first place. Oh, well, there was only one place for things like that; with no further ado, he dropped it right in the small trash basket, and continued on his way, whistling happily as he walked. This is turnin' out to be a pretty good day, after all!
Epilog-
A pair of hands lifted the rolled-up magazine out of what had been intended as its final resting place, having to struggle to do so, owing to the fact that the owner of those hands was barely bigger than the magazine itself. As the two hands managed to unfurl the publication and open it up, a single large eye, situated atop what amounted to little more than a bristly green stick figure, opened wide with amazement, and a grin began to take shape somewhere lower down on the stick's body.
"Weell, well, well, what HAVE we HERE? Ummm, ummm, talk about one HOT buncha hoochie-MAMAS! Oh, MAN, take a look at THAT set of…"
"AHEM!" A familiar voice, making a very distinct point of clearing its throat, resonated just a few feet behind him, causing him to jump, whirling around. There, just a few feet away, stood a pink, squirrel-like Imaginary Friend, wearing a cutesy big pink bow on top of her head. She did not look pleased.
The short green stick-figure stared at her for a moment, then responded, "WHAT?"
Scowling, the pink squirrel Friend seemed to contemplate the nails on one hand, held up in front of her face. "Don't play dumb with ME. You know perfectly WELL, 'WHAT"!
In a deep voice that seemed totally out-of-sync with his appearance, the green stick figure tried to say something in his own defense. Holding up the Sports Illustrated Annual Collectors' Swimsuit Edition, he replied, as nonchalantly as he could under the circumstances, "Oh, you mus' mean THIS ole' thang. Baby, you KNOW I only read this for da sports articles!"
"Yeah, RIGHT!" snapped the squirrel Friend, who turned to stalk away, her nose in the air. The little green stick figure Friend watched after her for a moment, as though considering what his options were, then with a frown, and with obvious reluctance, put the magazine back in the trash basket where he'd found it, and turned to follow her, mumbling, "WOMENS…can't live wit 'em, and ya can't SHOOT 'em!"
Finis