For Waylon, the next three days were dull. He spent all of Friday redirecting insubordinate workers, as he often had to on the last day of the week. The plant was primarily populated by idiots, and in all the excitement of Friday's arrival, many of them had forgotten that they were still required to do their jobs on this most holy of days. Even long after they had left, Smithers was still stuck cleaning up their messes because Mr. Burns was too stingy to hire a custodian. He didn't see very much of his boss at all that day, which made the work nearly unbearable.

He spent his Saturday tidying up his apartment and making arrangements for a house-sitter. Though he called several times, Edna never picked her phone up. His only other friend was John Waters, but their relationship was rocky to say the least. Besides, Waters had been out of town all week, and it was unclear as to when he'd be back.

Eventually, Waylon enlisted a young Miss Lisa Simpson to watch the house, but against his better judgment. From what he'd heard, she had the maturity levels of a kid twice her age, but an eight year old was still an eight year old, no matter how you looked at it. Even so, he was strapped for time and he had to take what he could get.

He spent Sunday morning packing his suitcases, and then he drove out to the manor and did the same thing for Mr. Burns, who wasted the majority of his day arguing with a prerecorded phone message from some political campaigners.

God, Monday could not come fast enough. Smithers had been looking forward to the museum trip since he planned for it, and the days that followed would be spent on what he'd convinced himself was a vacation with Mr. Burns in Hong Kong. He only had to get through the next few hours, and he'd be golden.

On returning home from work Monday evening, Waylon's apartment was not silent as usual, but echoing the sound of his answering machine blipping softly. That meant that someone had left him some voice mail. 'It must be about the house-sitting,' he thought, approaching the appliance and pressing the "play" button.

"New message; 3:17 PM:" the contraption beeped and continued to speak, this time in Edna Krabappel's voice. "Waylon, I'm really sorry but I have to cancel our plans for tonight. Something sort of unexpected came up, but I swear I'll fill you in and make it up to you later. Take care of yourself when you get to China, won't you? Don't let Burns keep too tight a leash on you. See you when you get back!" Something in her tone was oddly up-beat, and it made him curious. Normally, the Edna he knew had a dull, sarcastic pinch to her voice that made it impossible to picture her without slouched shoulders or a cigarette in her right hand. With an odd air of caution, he picked up the phone and dialed. It rang twice before she answered.

"Hello?"

Everything sounded normal. "Edna? What happened? Is everything okay?"

"Oh, Waylon, it's you," she began with that same uncharacteristically bubbly tone of voice. "Everything's fine."

"Yes, but what happened? Why did you cancel? Your message was so vague." The ambiguous nature of her call, coupled with the cancellation of their outing, had left Smithers quite perturbed. Edna, on the other hand, only seemed to get giddier. Her voice took on a temporary swagger in her reply.

"Well honey, it looks like I finally did something right for a change."

"What do you mean?"

"You wouldn't believe- I have a new boyfriend! And get this: he isn't a skeezebag or a mental patient! He's got a job that doesn't involve petty theft or pole dancing! I have a really good feeling about this one, Waylon. He's the full package."

Smithers was floored. Ever since her divorce, Edna had been pining desperately for someone new to connect with, but lately she seemed to have given up on finding "Mr. Right" in exchange for "Mr. Right Now," which only left her lonelier than before. On hearing of such a lucky turn of events, Smithers immediately let go of his foul mood. It was nice to hear her so happy for a change.

"Edna, that's great! Hey, who's the lucky guy? Anyone I know?" Though Edna couldn't see it, her friend winked at no one and mimed nudging her in the ribs with his elbow, though he nearly overturned a potted houseplant in the process.

At his question, Mrs. Krabappel's tone sobered a bit, but not to such an extent that it took away from her excellent disposition. "See, that's where it gets a little complicated. You might know him though. Ever met a guy named Seymour Skinner?"

"Hmmmm..." Smithers tapped his chin, wracking his brain for a face to match the name. It certainly sounded familiar. Springfield was a fairly small town, and though he didn't socialize much, Waylon was at the very least acquainted with most of its residents.

Seymour Skinner... he knew he'd heard that somewhere... wait, weren't they in the same book club? Yes, that was it! He was a fairly tall man... yeah... staunch, a little awkward, always wore that ugly aqua colored suit ('I'm one to judge,' he thought, reminding himself of the ghastly mismatched number he wore to work every day.) What else? He was always going on about his mother... but there was something else. He'd heard Edna mention someone named Skinner in previous conversation, but when did- wait.

Couldn't be.

"Are- are you dating your boss?" Even saying it was all kinds of surreal for Mr. Waylon Smithers. On the other line, he could hear a guilty little snicker, which was all the conformation he needed.

"I don't think it's going to be a problem though," she added quickly. "I really don't. We're keeping things quiet for now. But God forbid the super should ever find out." She let out a dry little laugh, trying not to ponder that scenario in too much detail. The likelihood was that she and Seymour would both wind up jobless, a concept that made her shiver. Her little friend's mind was elsewhere, however.

Smithers was totally overtaken by jealousy. Not of Skinner for absorbing his one truly good friend, nor of Edna for having Skinner specifically, but of how easily she had accomplished the task that he himself had been agonizing over for more than twenty years. She had won her better over without even trying. Rationally, Waylon knew it wasn't even worth considering, but his emotions were somersaulting into one another.

The whole rest of the conversation was a bit of a blur. Smithers kept his increasingly negative thoughts under wraps and managed to excuse himself with fair quickness. "Yes... yes... I'll see you when I get back... yes... yes, all right... goodbye Edna."

The phone slipped back into its spot on the hook with a hollow click. Smithers stared blankly ahead, trying to reckon with the tumult of irrational fog settling in his brain.

He wanted to be happy for his friend, he really did, but the whole business only reminded him sorely that he was chasing after his cripplingly aged boss and probably would continue to do so until the elder man's fast approaching death. What made it ever worse was that:

A) He could probably have any other man he wanted, being fairly young, intelligent, and somewhat attractive

B) If he'd been a woman, the likelihood was that Burns would have married him ("her") a long time ago, simply because it was powerfully rare for any woman to show any romantic interest in him whatsoever.

Waylon was happy as a man, but in all honesty, he would have given that up in a heartbeat if it meant having Mr. Burns's affections. However, he knew that such a process would take years and much more money than he had presently. Not to mention the tremendous exertion it would take to make the change work smoothly. He would have to fake his own death and build a new identity around this foreign woman he'd created, because there was no way Burnsie would take a transgendered version of anybody, but especially not Smithers.

He knew that if he put enough effort into such a hair-brained scheme, he could make it work, but he never truly entertained it. It was dishonest, and furthermore far too Vertigo for his tastes. He never really cared for that film.

With a heavy sigh, Smithers made his way into his ridiculously small kitchen. He didn't much feel like going to the museum anymore. He dug through his cabinets a little before fishing out a bowl, some microwaveable popcorn, and a flask of "Vagrant's Choice" bourbon. 'Time to get drunk in front of the TV,' he decided. '"Pardon My Zinger" is almost on.'

Though he wasn't madly depressed (closer to startled, he thought, or moderately sad) he really didn't want to take the risk of hitting that spot on his spectrum of moods. T'is much better to dull one's senses with alcohol, crappy late night programing, and party snacks than to gamble with sobriety and have feelings. It really didn't take long for him to pass out in the warm glow of his television, face down in a bowl of cold popcorn.

The sound of a particularly loud car horn beeping came from just out the window and it shook Smithers from his sleep, causing bourbon and saliva scented popcorn to fly everywhere. With a little gasp, he glanced over at the nearest clock. "Eight fifteen!" The cab he'd ordered days in advance had arrived, and his flight was leaving in half an hour. Meanwhile, he'd just woken up, moderately hung over mind you, and he knew he looked (and probably smelled) atrocious. He was unshaven, in wrinkled clothes with his bow-tie hanging undone on his shoulders. With no time to eat breakfast or practice proper grooming, Smithers merely grabbed the nearest jacket and flew out the door, never mind the fact that his eight year old house sitter would be greeted by a big mess in the living room and an open bottle of liquor. Hell, he didn't even have time to stick an apology note on the fridge.

As he slid into the back seat of the cab, the disheveled young man couldn't help but to sputter, "I didn't keep you waiting too long, did I?"

The driver didn't turn around or make eye contact, but he did reply as he tapped away some ashes from his cigar. "Nah, not too long. Where to next? Airport?"

"Burns Manor please," he corrected, shifting uncomfortably into his seat.

"You got it." The cabbie shifted gears, and the car shook into action.

From the instance that Mr. Burns had been picked up, the only words that seemed to have escaped his assistant's mouth were "yes sir," and "no sir." Only long after they'd boarded the plane and settled in their seats did Monty actually look at him. Needless to say, he was aghast at what he saw.

"Good heavens Smithers, you look atrocious!" Burns was a bit caught between following his exclamation up with a stiff appraisal or mild concern. As a result, the motivation behind his follow up had a rather confused pitch to it. "What ever happened to you?"

Waylon turned away from the window for the first time since he'd sat down, shaken from his thoughts. He was still rather upset with himself that he'd left his suitcase back in the condo, though that wasn't the biggest problem on his plate at the moment. "Oh, it's nothing sir. I just overslept a little." Technically, that was not a lie. Without realizing it, Smithers reached up and massaged his temples a bit, still headache-y from his hangover. Burns donned an equally scrutinizing and troubled look. "Yes, well, try to be more self-regulatory next time."

"Yes sir."

The older man nodded and tented his fingers. "Yes, very- egad Smithers, what is that fluid leaking from your eyes? Are you ill, boy?" Monty's expression was drowned in worry, but it was hard to tell if it was over Smithers's well-being or the chance that he might catch whatever sickness his assistant seemed to be carrying.

Waylon brought two fingers to his cheeks and realized that he'd been crying, but just a little bit. He was so wrapped up in his thoughts he hadn't even noticed. Fortunately for him, his employer had forgotten what crying was in relation to emotion for just a moment.

"Oh, it- it's nothing sir. It's just allergies."

Monty settled back in his chair a little, his sudden burst of apprehension subsiding. "I see."

That was a near miss. After a brief pause, Smithers could hear the sound of sniffling, but it wasn't his own. Fleetingly, he thought that his boss might be getting emotional as well, but before he could fully react, he heard that rasping hoary voice wonder out loud: "Smithers... Smithers, do you smell kettle-corn?"

Waylon turned his head and pressed a palm to his hot cheek, trying to mask his embarrassment. "N-no sir."