Chapter Nine: I Wanna Hold Your Hand
Disclaimer: Don't own FOP. Duh.
The night all have awaited, some with trepidation, some glee, and some simply so they can stay up past their bedtime. For two lucky adults, Friday night is D-Day, no, not when the Allies stormed Germany, but Date Day. All hopes and prayers hang on this very special time, when Crocker's future employment is determined. Needless to say, Crocker has tried his best to run up against time, to prevent Friday the 13th.
With her dress finally pressed and cleaned (it took at least six hours to eradicate all signs of filth), Geraldine fears what is to come, since their recent track record is dubious. Even though she considers it folly, there is an ominous presence saturating the air. Nothing she can put a name to, it's simply there. Between her revolution and the date, the upcoming events are against her.
Her lips in a thin line, she pulls up to Crocker's house and remains in the driver's seat. She closes her eyes and frantically tries to imagine this going well, bidding all scenarios involving arrest to flee. Yes, she can do this (and not hear the tell-tale sirens!)
Gathering her wits, she shoves the door open and muses on the irony of the situation. The typical date is reversed- she is one to pick up her date, drive and probably foot the bill, provided Crocker does something insanely stupid and winds up fired. Heavens, *she* doesn't envy herself.
Swallowing the bile newly arisen in her throat, Geraldine rings the doorbell. A thousand thoughts assail her at once, but none as strong as the notion of tempting fate by asking the question: "just how much worse can it get?" She, of course, knows the answer intuitively, much. It might be nice if she is proven wrong for a change.
At attention like a soldier, a well-dressed Crocker, behind the door, stands perfectly motionless. His hands at his sides, there is a bouquet of white roses in his left hand and a plain, large, red Valentine heart in his right (clearance tag adjacent). Donning a white tuxedo (reminding her painfully of their junior dinner) and a black bowtie stiffly about his neck, hair combed neatly, Crocker appears to be the perfect model of a gentleman (spend five minutes in his company and one will soon revise their opinion). He's like a choir boy, were the choir composed of unnatural, spindly men who spend their time on rather unusual hobbies.
"Are those for me?" Geraldine indicated the box. Or are they for the police after your arrest?
Crocker nods dumbly. This is their first two way conversation since Tuesday and the irony is not lost on him. Acting as a lack wit might permit him to retain his dignity and his job. Conversely, it might make no difference.
"Er, those aren't Belgium chocolates, are they?"
"They are. Why?"
"Belgium chocolates make me swell up like a balloon."
An image of an even more enormous Geraldine, rolling like a pool ball inside the school, flits through Crocker's mind. It takes an extremely vast amount of self-restraint to keep his laughter at bay. .Another thought strikes him: she certainly doesn't need to gain weight as she's the only woman he knows whose gain is exponential.
"Oh, um…"
There is a moment of awkward silence broken with a soft sigh. Geraldine shifts her weight to one foot and walks to the car, Crocker following closely.
"I'll drive." As it's my car.
Sitting in utter silence, the trip is rather uneventful until the first red light. Drumming her fingers lightly on the steering wheel of her antique, 1970's Cadillac convertible, she waits patiently for the light to change. They're making good time. What's one red light?
Crocker cranes his neck (not extraordinary when one takes into account his unique physique) and examines the bus in front of them, filled to the brim with elementary school kids. Objects are casually thrown across the aisles but this doesn't concern him .The prospect of chasing a bus load of children who might have fairies does and he acts without thinking (something not exactly foreign to him).
Grabbing the wheel, Crocker presses his foot down on hers and proceeds to trail the bus. He is fought every step of the way by an irate Geraldine who ill appreciates the loss of control. She's not clairvoyant but she has a gut feeling where this heads, as does the oldest tree in Dimmesdale, "Old Barky".
"Let go!"
"No!"
Geraldine jerks the steering wheel hard to the right and the car complies immediately. She can't hit the brake, his foot is in the way, but she can't…
Crash! Giving way like a dealer to an antique, the tree crumples within an instant of impact. What's worse is the alarms, preventing any abuse of "Old Barky", shriek shrilly in protest and alert every denizen to the street. In no time at all, every occupant of every house (including some of the mob who chased Crocker) crowd around them.
Sirens blare and Geraldine's heart sinks, she will be arrested tonight. What on earth possessed her to suppose Crocker changed? Who determines how people are to be tricked by fate? Where is the justice? When did the world become so cruel and unyielding? Why is everyone pointing and laughing?
In a chorus, all with ear-splitting grins, they chime, "April Fools!"
Pulling up in his new Rolls-Royce, Doug Dimmadome honks loudly and smirks at them. "I already bought 'Old Barky' here and retired him to some place safe."
"Then what's…" Geraldine murmurs.
On cue, her car explodes in pink, green, and blue fireworks. So, it isn't a tree at all, it's fireworks and her car served as the catalyst. All chortle madly at this development and return to their homes. A good time had by all.
"We set this up two weeks ago and we were just waiting for someone to test it," Doug Dimmadome grins and drives off, much to Geraldine's annoyance.
She, shoulders hunched, spins on Crocker, positively spitting with anger. Truly it is amazing how much this man brings out her bad side. Talk about bringing her blood to a boil, Crocker made it do so at much below the normal temperature.
"Have you any idea what you've done?"
You don't really want an answer, do you?
"You lunatic, you mangy cur, you, you, you!" Then, under her breath, "my car!"
Crocker watches the Chevy burn and the fireworks display, "April Fools!" He tuned her out after 'you lunatic!'. If she says 'you're fired', he might tune her back in. If not, oh, well.
"You were chasing fairies!"
Fairies? Where?
"You broke the rules we agreed upon!"
That's a lot of 'you's'.
"You're fired!"
Here, he objects. "We agreed a full date. After dinner, you'd decide." He laughs manically.
Oh, dear Lord. I did. "Fine."
She walks off toward the park, close to their destination, Café Nervosa. No said I had to enjoy it.
Crocker hurries to catch up. After the many, many chases, he's quite adroit. He had to be, otherwise his pursuers would have caught him. Due to her mass, it takes naught more than a few minutes.
"It's a beautiful night, isn't it?" Crocker inquires. The stars twinkle in the clear, black sky and the full moon shines brightly upon them. An owl hoots somewhere in the distance.
"Shut up."
Dimly lit, in the park the duo fail to notice the dangers of the dark. Benches easily avoidable in broad daylight become painful objects to run against. Freshly painted signs leave residues on their clothes. Beehives, dangling precariously on the edge of a branch make good targets for the unwary straight into.
A mass of yellow and black and a loud buzzing noise announce the bees' arrival. They swarm around Crocker and sting him since he inadvertently stepped on the queen. They go through more queens this way…
In agony, Crocker darts around and around, making her dizzy. Every so often he tries to pluck out a stinger and screams from the pain. They won't stop coming and he won't stop turning. Like a carousel, around and around and around.
With a final howl, he sinks to the ground and clutches his head, where the mark of fifty bees remain. Fifty bees, fifty reasons why one should never go outside after dark in a park without lamps. Add to that about fifty bleeding cuts and there's the sum of Crocker's suffering and Geraldine's lack of sympathy. For a principal she certainly could be callous.
"I'm okay," Crocker springs back up and clenches his teeth. "Fine!"
Sure. "And I'm a fairy godmother," she snaps.
"You are?"
"No!" This guy, she thinks, annoyed. "Let's just go already."
Ignoring his whimpers, they find a lit path (they hadn't strayed more than a few feet from it) and end up right in front of Café Nervosa. Geraldine heaves a sigh of relief while Crocker lets out a small declaration of pain. There is the destination, their place, they're getting rained on!
Rain coming down in buckets, Geraldine holds her arms over her head. There's no way she's dirtying this dress- it's dry clean only. If only it were water repellant as well.
Crocker allows the rain to wash over his face and soothe it. Unlike her, he welcomes it. The burning ceases for the moment, but his gratification is short lived.
They step inside Café Nervosa, a small coffeehouse littered with little circular tables. On the right side is a bookcase filled with musty volumes only the highly literate read, although there are two tomes, pink and green, which look brand new. To the back are miniature booths and adjacent to the front wall is the ordering counter. Not to be forgotten, hanging from the ceiling are the light fixtures.
At seven o'clock, there are none present; only a few enjoy coffee at such a late hour. No entertainment and no specials means no reason to flock here. Hence, not even the loyal patrons attend.
The help leans relaxed against the counter, impatient for the closing in two hours. As all know, the last two hours of a coffeehouse are basically dead time, but at least they're paid for idleness. However, the video games and late night television beckon.
Geraldine
smiles. She chose this place simply due to the low patronage at this hour: if
Crocker makes a scene, less will witness it (unlike the car). None can fathom
Crocker's thoughts, if any are sane enough to be handled at any given moment.
What's wrong with insurance?
They swiftly stride to the seats slightly askew from slip of slander. To the right of the door, their table is closer to the wooden bookcase covered in dust than the door. Proximity to and from the other customers is important since it determines how much sound travels. Of course, this doesn't take into account if one of them is reduced to shouting, but it works in theory. (Like many theories, it sounds better in practice than it in execution).
"Your order? We have Malaysian coffee with cinnamon or macadamia nuts."
"We'll," Geraldine says, shooting a quick glance at Crocker, cautioning him against speaking, "have two lattes with cinnamon."
The waiter nods, his long black hair falling in front of his face and hurries to make it. A true believer in capitalism, he's a poor sap.
In moments, their coffee arrives and the waiter offers Crocker the cups. He figures this is some sort of date and thus wants to allow him to gain brownie points but he didn't count on the "b" factor, the burn factor.
Crocker grabs them but can't hold on. Hot liquids and burned hands don't mix. Throwing them on the table and missing spectacularly, he manages to spill the contents of both on Geraldine's lap.
Slinking away before anyone can place the blame solely on him, the waiter is gone.
At first, no words will come to mind. All that is present is pure fury. She wants to scream like a Neanderthal, shriek like a banshee, but mainly she wants out of here!
Storming away, she stomps to the bathroom and tries to retain some dignity, whatever portion left her. Of course, this is nearly impossible since she now has coffee burns on her thighs, but she'll make the most of it. She usually does.
Crocker blanches as his eyes follow her to the bathroom. Under the table, his hands fold and unfold. Anxiety has consumed his being. Frankly, he's far too apprehensive to notice much.
The restaurant is now empty except for the women in the bathroom. A pin drops and resounds, reminding Crocker of his fate.
***
In the pink bathroom stall, Geraldine sits atop a toilet seat and contemplates her situation. Outside, two women discuss their own horrid dates and offer her some hope. Sure, Crocker really screwed up, but it can't be any worse than their dates.
"So, he gets down on one knee and asks if I have any spare change for the meter!"
"I opened the door and heard a noise. It was my date asking if I could hide him while the police conducted a search for him!"
"He gave me a cell phone and asked if I could hear him now."
"He asked me if I was lovin' it while he robbed me of all my earthly possessions!"
"He said he lowered his cholesterol and dropped dead of a heart attack. (It was the wrong cholesterol)."
"My date had braided hair and his daughter kept following us around, chattering incessantly."
"He said all those little dollar bills just trailed him!"
"Mine said that a can of Chef Boyardee pursued him home!"
Geraldine clamps a hand over her mouth to suppress her laughter. These women sound like their dates come from commercials or something. No one in their right mind would date such banal men. It makes her own painful experience slightly better.
Grinning to herself, she walks out (and the women continue to talk).
***
Crocker, amid two new cups, waits for her, a nervous grin on his face. Am I fired? Are you really a fairy?
"I have decided to give you yet another chance," Geraldine notifies him. How many does that make now?
Like a dog eager to please his master, Crocker nods and regards her as she carefully sits back down.
"Why don't you tell me just what happened to make you insane- I mean, on Denzel Crocker day?" Her hands grab his, not in some sudden display of romance but to chain him to the table. Tightly clenched about his, he can't possibly escape her now.
In an hour, Crocker manages to tell her every tale of woe from that fateful day onward. As she was an outsider, it didn't seem nearly as bad from her viewpoint, but his method of telling it, so detachedly, makes her heart sink. Is this the reason behind his insanity? He wants to cut off his emotions?
On impulse, Geraldine leans over the table and kisses him on the cheek. (After all that, one must be stolid to not respond). She wants him to feel better…
Unfortunately, tables aren't really built for unexpected jumps by an person of tremendous obesity and she inadvertently knocks it over onto his lap and in turn his hands. So much for making him feel better, the table has an iron underside, translating into pain. Lots of it.
"I'm so sorry!" She rushes to pick up the table but can't heft it and it falls on his foot. "Sorry! It must be all the bad luck since it's Friday the 13th."
"Friday the 13th is when all the anti-fairies escape from Fairy World and cause trouble," Crocker informs her and punches himself on his right knee. He can't recall where he gleamed such information but a short, floating woman with pink hair flashes in front of his eyes. Bizarre.
"Don't start, Crocker," she warns.
***
Author's Note: Wow, a really long chapter. But wait, it's not finished yet. Now we have a dilemma.
Following this note are two different endings. I was split between the two and compromised by penning them both.
The first ending, a happier one, immediately trails. However, the next chapter, not an epilogue but rather an angsty, more realistic second ending. My personal opinion is the angstier one is better, from a realistic standpoint, but you may pick and choose.
Of course, I would prefer you read both and reviewed them. Feel free to tell which one was good and which one wasn't. I won't be hurt (at least I hope not).
***
Standing on Crocker's doorstep, a pink streetlight shines upon them and there is an awkward silence. Presumably his mother went to bed early, lending them some alone time. Too bad they aren't sure what to do with it.
"I had a decent time, all things considered." Geraldine says, and, then sensing his impatience, "You're not fired."
Crocker leaps with glee and winces (he limped home, mostly leaning on her). "Yes! I live to hunt another day! I could kiss you!" He does, on the lips.
A moment passes before either party realize neither has broken the lock yet. Fluttery feelings arise in his stomach and she feels a bit faint. In a nearby tree, a green squirrel tumbles to the ground out of shock.
Geraldine breaks it first. In a flush, she mutters, "See you on Monday, Denzel," and darts off.
Denzel puts his fingers to his lips and pushes the door open to the silence within.
"Good night."
Fin