Disclaimer: The basic plot for this story is my idea, however The Fairly OddParents and all characters involved belong to Butch Hartman.

Chapter Three-- "It Was Nineteen-Eighty-Something"

"This job may be just the thing," Crocker talked to himself as he drove to his destination, résumé in hand, "It's an ice cream shop and where there is ice cream, there are kids and where there are kids, there are bound to be...FAIRY GODPARENTS!!!"

He had said those very words about twenty years ago. Yes, he'd held down a job at Mr. Frosty's once before--part time as he worked his way through college. He still had his uniform and, after twenty years, it still fit him simply because his neurotic character and his high metabolism made it difficult--if not impossible--for him to gain any weight.

He squealed his tires as he jerked the van into the parking lot. Kicking his door open, he leaped out and, trying his best to look confident and dignified, he strolled into the building. He wasn't surprised to find the same person owned and ran the place. Nothing like that ever changed in that stupid, two-bit town. Crocker approached the counter and passed the sealed envelope to the owner, who was also the permanent manager.

"What's this?" the gruff, burly man asked.

"My, uh...résumé," Crocker replied, tugging nervously at his shirt collar.

"Don't I know you from somewhere?" he asked, eyeing Crocker closely for a moment before a look of recognition crossed his features, "Ah, I remember you. You were the kid I hired and fired three months later. Crocker, right?"

"Correct," Crocker answered, the teacher in him coming out spontaneously with that answer.

"We ain't hiring," Mr. Frosty snarled, remembering well his reason for having to fire Crocker in the first place.

"Oh, yes you are!" Crocker replied quickly, brandishing the paper he'd printed out as proof, "I picked this up on the internet."

"If I'd known you were job-hunting, I never would've posted that ad," Mr. Frosty grumbled, but heaved a sigh of resignation, "All right. I'm willing to let bygones be bygones and give you a second chance here. Twenty years can change a man--and maybe ice cream can stay frozen on the sun..."

Crocker didn't hear the last muttered comment. He was beside himself with relief after hearing the old man giving him a second chance. Maybe--just maybe--today would be the turning point for the better that his life had always needed.

"You've got the job," Mr. Frosty interrupted his elated thoughts, "You can start tomor--bah! Forget it. You can start today. I'll get you a uniform."

"No need," Crocker replied, holding up his old one, "I still have the one you gave me twenty years ago."

"Good," Frosty growled, "More money in the bank then."

---------------

After a week of retraining, it all came back to Crocker--just like riding a bicycle...or tying shoes. He was serving ice cream, running the cash register, and keeping track of stocking and inventory. For the first week, teaching was a thing of the past, but after a while, he began to miss his old occupation. When it started showing in his current work, things got difficult.

"What would it take to equal $2.80?" he asked a child who couldn't have been more than four or five as she stepped forward to pay for her ice cream.

She held up a quarter.

"Wrong! F!" he shouted, writing an "F" on the receipt and sticking it in her face.

"What do you think you're doing?" his boss demanded as the child ran out crying.

"Teaching--gah! I mean, uh...my job?" he grinned ingratiatingly.

"Your job doesn't involve grading customers," Mr. Frosty growled, grabbing Crocker's shirt collar in his massive hand and breathing cigar-smoke breath in his face, "It involves giving them what they want, taking their money--which is what I want--and giving them their change. Clear?"

"Crystal," Crocker choked, giving him a "thumb's-up" as he was sweating bullets.

---------------

After the whole incident involving the flaring up of his teaching skills, Crocker was more or less walking on eggshells--especially when Mr. Frosty was around, breathing down his neck. He was grateful when his boss finally took him off register duty and sent him to the back room to make sure supplies were well stocked.

Like the janitor's closet at the school, Mr. Frosty's walk-in freezer became Crocker's safe haven where he frequently retreated whenever possible simply to get his thoughts together--and talk to himself about fairies, of course. True, the temperature in there was below zero, but it didn't bother him too much. At least he had a long-sleeved uniform, however un-insulated the material may have been.

Lost in thought, he paused in his mindless chore of organizing ice cream flavors. Standing there, caught in a common stupor, he found himself subconsciously reflecting on "the good old days".

---------------

It had been a month since he'd gotten the job at Mr. Frosty's where he intended to raise the funds to aid him in his research. It wasn't a bad job. The pay was fair--minimum wage. Not much, but it would all add up in time.

Crocker was busy in the freezer, stocking ice cream and making sure things were neat and in order. It was after hours and he'd been left to straighten things and lock up when he was finished. Truth be known, he was honored that his boss already trusted him that much.

Unfortunately, very few clouds in Crocker's life had genuine silver lining. Most of the time, it turned out to be just common, worthless aluminum foil. That was one of those times.

A block of wood was used to prop the freezer door open when someone was working inside it because the door only opened from the outside. As Crocker passed the door, transporting a load of frozen goods from one end of the cold room to the other, he stumbled over the wooden block, dislodging it and falling flat on his face in the process. He realized the door was only inches away from locking him in the windowless, subzero room and he scrambled to catch it, but he was too late. He hit a door that wouldn't give an inch. Panicked, he rose to his knees and pounded his fists on the door--not that it would do him any good, but it was a convenient way to vent some frightened energy. He managed to collect his thoughts a little better after doing so.

"The story of my life," he sighed, his breath vaporizing in the cold as he sank down on a milk crate, "Just when I think things are going to get better--bam! The door slams in my face--sometimes literally."

Seconds turned to minutes and minutes turned to hours. Crocker knew no one would come to his rescue. No one knew where he was. He wasn't expecting a miracle, but he was hoping for one. After barely an hour, he was shivering violently and pacing the floor in a vain attempt to stay warm. His hands and feet were completely numb and the chill wasn't stopping there.

It wasn't long before he stopped shivering altogether--a telltale sign that hypothermia had set in. His complexion had taken on a shade of blue and he felt too exhausted to pace anymore. It wasn't doing him any good anyway. He huddled in a corner of the room behind some boxes to block the blast from the freezer fans and struggled to battle unconsciousness. Like all the others, that battle was a losing one.

When he awoke again some time later, he was in completely different surroundings, but that didn't concern him. The first thing he noticed was that--wherever he was--it was warm. He couldn't have known he was in the hospital as he succumbed to unconsciousness once again, but he was vaguely aware of his mother's presence.

"Where am I?" he groaned a few hours later as he opened his eyes to take in a blurry, disfigured world. Again, he made out the fuzzy silhouette of his mother by his side.

"You're in the hospital, Denzel," his mother answered, placing his glasses back on his face, "Mommy had to defrost these. That better?"

Crocker just offered a weak smile, grateful someone was there for him. As his vision cleared a little, he noticed his girlfriend, Geraldine Waxelplax, was also in the room.

"Oh, Denzel, are you all right?" she asked, stepping closer to take his hand in one of hers while she held up four fingers with the other, "How many fingers am I holding up?"

"I don't think I can even count that high," Crocker grimaced, crossing his eyes as he struggled to focus, obviously still experiencing multiple vision, "But you're all very pretty--all sixteen of you."

"Go back to sleep, Denzel," his mother said, gently taking his glasses away again, "You'll feel better soon. To think we almost lost you..."

---------------

Why didn't you lose me? Crocker sometimes wondered why he'd survived all the things he'd been through. There had to be a reason.

"Good luck figuring out what it is though," he said to himself.

"Crocker!"

Mr. Frosty's gruff, gravelly bark interrupted his thoughts and startled him so bad that he almost dropped his clipboard. He grinned nervously and turned to face his boss.

"You're still not through stocking those shelves?" Mr. Frosty demanded, "Get to work! I ain't paying you to stand around and think--or whatever it was you were doing. Get busy! Slacker. Oh, and by the way, you won't have to worry about being locked in any freezers. Technology has changed things here. You simply push a button to get the door to open from the inside now. No more wooden blocks. Anyway...get a move on!"

How'd he know what I was thinking about? Returning to his work, Crocker lapsed into thought once again--thoughts about his past life...days gone by. Not much had changed and yet--in the same token--so much had.