"I honestly don't know why this look isn't popular anymore," Larry said to himself as he put on his purple curly wig and oversized purple glasses. "I would totally wear this to do errands."

He liked a lot of disco music, so it totally made sense for VeggieTales to do an episode about retired disco stars. This was going to be just as fun as when the cast recorded Bob and Larry Sing the 70s, maybe more so because Larry actually got to dress up in a cool costume. (He totally would have dressed up to record the CD album, but Bob said there was no point.)

Larry left his dressing room to head toward their sound stage. He was supposed to shoot some present-day scenes as elderly Lanny Wilson pulling out his old disco duds for the first time in decades, along with some of the concert scenes. Only problem was, with the purple wig on, there was little to distinguish Older Lanny Wilson with Younger Lanny Wilson, but that was just a part of Larry's natural baby face.

"Shame we don't have the budget to add artificial wrinkles," he was saying to himself as he reached the studio, but a peek inside at the occupants made him immediately glad he looked youthful right then.

Over by the snack table, a lovely redhead selected a few cookies for her plate. She was wearing the simple costume of her character, a light-blue blouse with a tan skirt. Normally, Petunia's go-to role was a TV reporter, but this time around she played a school teacher.

And right then she was conveniently alone.

Larry adjusted his wig, glad he had another chance since "Where Have All the Staplers Gone?" to wear cool hair around Petunia, and sauntered over to her. She brightened when she saw him.

"Hey, disco gal," he grinned, lowering his purple glasses to wink at her. "What brings you to my dance floor?"

Petunia giggled, ducking her head. "Nice look."

Larry did a smooth spin, striking a pose. "Do I make a convincing disco star?"

"Very much so." She held up the sign she was holding, which declared she hearted Lanny. "By the way, I just finished filming my concert scenes where Ms. Petunia is cheering on Lanny Wilson."

She did a playful demonstration, waving the sign. "Whoo-hoo! Lanny!"

"That sure helps him feel better," Larry said knowledgeably. "Even if he doesn't say that to Ms. Petunia."

She's his granddaughter's teacher after all — and a lot younger than him, he added silently.

"I kinda feel bad taking a paycheck for this one," Petunia admitted. "Teacher Petunia barely shows up. You could just as easily remove my part from the show without really changing the story."

Larry smiled. Petunia may have knocked on a lot of doors before she had her big break with VeggieTales, but she was considerate and conscientious, wanting both the stories to be high quality and for the company to stay in the black.

"There are no small roles, just small actors," Larry said. He nodded toward the French peas who were hopping past. "Right, guys?"

Jean-Claude squinted at Larry. "Did he seriously just make a short joke?"

"Maybe he was hoping it'd go over our heads," Philippe answered dryly.

After Larry appeased the peas with a pleasing apology, he turned back to Petunia, who was gazing at the big pink heart on her sign.

"I meant to ask a question earlier, Larry."

"You can ask me anything, Petunia," he assured her.

She looked up from her sign and gave Larry a smirk. "Is there a reason why Ms. Petunia is cheering on Lanny specifically, instead of the Groovy Brothers as a whole?"

Larry tugged at his purple shirt collar. "Uh, who can say? Some people in real life are fans of specific band members."

"Hmm, but was that your idea, Larry?" she asked innocently.

"Who really remembers?" Larry returned, hopping backwards a little, but he bumped into the snack table and couldn't go further. "When we're pitching around ideas, it's hard to keep track of who said what."

That was certainly true. Larry couldn't remember who decided to make her character praise his character above the others, but Petunia seemed to be forming her own hypothesis. She gave him one of those smiles which Julia might have given Minnesota Cuke.

"So, I'm Lanny Wilson's fangirl, huh?"

Larry fiddled with his purple glasses next. "Heh, looks like it."

She batted her eyes at him — or maybe she had something in them — or maybe she was trying to break the world record for highest number of blinks in a single second. Larry couldn't be quite sure.

"Even when we're not paired, we still seem to be paired, huh?"

"Looks like it," Larry repeated.

"Funny how that works out."

"Well, uh, Bob writes most of the scripts. I usually handle the jokes and slapstick."

His stomach felt like a bunch of butterflies decided to play Tag, and they kept inviting more friends to join the longer Petunia smiled at him — and yet Larry hoped she'd keep smiling like that.

"Well, whoever it was," Petunia said, "I think it adds a little hidden depth to my character."

She leaned toward him — or maybe she was having a little inner ear trouble — or maybe she was practicing a mime routine where she was being pushed by the wind. Larry couldn't be quite sure.

"We sure do like quality around these parts," Larry mumbled.

Petunia's nose crinkled in that cute way before she turned. "I should get going. Laura and Junior said they wanted to show me something after I finished filming. See you at the wrap party."

"Kay," he returned.

She gave him one last look before swiveling away. He waited until she had left the room before he slumped against the table. He sighed and pulled his wig over his eyes. He felt sillier than normal, and not in a good way.

"Larry?"

Larry glumly raised his wig again to see the red face of his best friend staring up at him.

"Hey, Bob," he said dully. "Is it time for my scene?"

"Well, yeah," his friend said, regarding him with concern, "but I couldn't help overhearing your conversation with Petunia just now."

Larry fumbled with his wig, nearly dropping it. "You did? H-How much?"

"I heard the part when you said I write the scripts," he clarified, "but you write some of them."

"But not 'most' of them," Larry countered, hurrying past, "and I don't go out of my way to cast Petunia as my love interest."

"And you also don't try to cast anyone else as your leading lady," Bob returned.

Larry nearly tripped on his nonexistent feet and whirled around. His adrenoil voice came out more like a squeak: "What exactly are you implying, Bob?"

"Who said I was implying anything?" Bob tilted his head, raising an eye ridge, but there was a tiny smirk on his red lips.

Larry winced; Bob was giving him that knowing look, which meant Bob knew something, usually something Larry had overlooked — or preferred to ignore.

And maybe Larry preferred to keep ignoring something for right now.

"I have to shoot my scenes," he huffed.

"Okay, buddy," Bob called after him, and his voice had that knowing tone.

"Why does Bob have to know so much all the time?" Larry grumbled to himself, heating beneath his green skin.


After Larry filmed the scenes of him talking to the video camera for Laura's school report, he was allowed to take a break. He grabbed a bottle of water and made his way to his dressing room, intending to nibble on the PBJ and Goldfish Crackers tucked away in his Larry-Boy lunch box. He had to pass the production room, and as he neared, he realized it was occupied, probably by Bob or Archibald. He was about to pass on, but he heard a sweet, beautiful voice speak.

"That's a good take, Bob."

"Yeah, Larry's facial expressions are pretty good," the tomato agreed.

Curious, Larry softly opened the door and peeked in, his eyes almost drawn to the red braid and smiling profile. Petunia's eyes were fixated on the screen, watching Larry closely — or maybe she was counting the number of purple curls on his wig — or maybe she was trying to use x-ray vision on the monitor to find a technical malfunction. Larry couldn't be quite sure. But he kinda liked how she was watching him, if that was what she was doing.

"Larry really has amazing range as an actor," she commented, and Larry thought she might have sighed a little. "It's mind boggling how many types of characters he can play."

"Yeah, I've tried to avoid typecasting him over the years," Bob said. "It's easy to have him always be 'the silly one,' but Larry can pull off 'the hero,' 'the leader,' and more, if you give him something to work with."

"And 'the kid' as well as 'the father figure,'" Petunia pointed out. "It takes talent for an energetic Twenty-Something like him to pull off a convincing grandpa."

Twenty-Something? Larry started to brighten, feeling incredibly flattered.

His elated bubble promptly burst, however, the moment Bob said, "Actually, Larry is a lot older than he looks."

Petunia turned. "Oh? Come to think of it, just how old is Larry?"

Larry felt his stomach drop. He had the wild urge to pull the fire alarm — to blow a trumpet and clang cymbals as loud as he could — to fire off a few rockets — to throw himself between Bob and Petunia, screaming "NOOOOOO!" — but of course he didn't.

And Bob told Petunia what she wanted to know.

Her eyes widened in amazement. "Really? What kind of skin moisturizer does he use?"

Bob grinned. "Guess he's living out that one Bible promise about God satisfying his mouth with good things so that his youth is renewed like the eagle's. If you didn't know Larry's true age, you'd never guess it.

"You can say that again," Petunia said thoughtfully. "Boy, that's interesting…"

Larry's heart plunged to his nonexistent toes. Hanging his head, he shrank back and continued on his way.


Larry waited until Petunia went home before he stalked into Bob's dressing room.

"Seriously, Bro?!" he demanded.

"Seriously, what?" Bob replied, his confused expression reflected in his mirror.

"Seriously?!"

Bob exhaled, leaning back in his chair. "Whatever I did, did it warrant you coming into my dressing room without knocking?"

Larry stormed back a few paces into the doorway and knocked twice.

"Come in, Larry," Bob replied dryly.

Larry hopped forward, seething, and slammed the door shut. "Seriously, Bro?!"

"What did I 'seriously' do?"

Larry's words tumbled out, trying to form something coherent. "You — and Petunia — and me — and how old — and why — why, Bob?"

It took Larry a few more tries, but he still could not get a complete sentence out. Fortunately, realization appeared in Bob's eyes.

"Are you upset that I told Petunia your age?" he guessed.

Larry nodded vigorously.

Remorse took over Bob's face. "Wow, I'm sorry, Larry. I didn't think you'd mind."

"Well, maybe I do!" he managed to spit out.

"I'm sorry," Bob repeated, hopping off his chair and crossing to his friend. "I didn't know. You didn't mind when I told Scooter."

"Well, Scooter's not—" Larry choked a little. "He's not her."

Bob's eyes widened, and he nodded slowly. His width expanded, indicating he was sitting.

"I suspected something like that was going on."

"Something like what?" Larry hurriedly said. "There's no something, only nothing. Nothing, Bob."

Bob studied him. Gently, he asked, "Then why are you bothered?"

"I just don't want Petunia to be weirded out," Larry snapped.

"Are you afraid she'll be weirded out playing your love interests?" Bob guessed. "Or that she'll be weirded out by you?"

Larry faltered. "Petunia doesn't need to be thinking about how she's been acting out romantic scenes with an old guy."

"You're not old, Larry," Bob insisted. "You're just… older than her."

"Same difference."

"And you're worried she won't like you the same way?"

Larry's bitter eyes began to dart about. "Like me? Who said anything about her liking me? She doesn't like me, Bob — except as a friend."

Bob sighed, shaking his head. He seemed to be searching for the right thing to say.

"Larry," he began slowly, "you consider Miss Achmetha a friend, right?"

Larry squinted. "Sure, but what does she got to do with this?"

"Well, you guys bonded over dogs a couple of times. She even gave you the number for that breeder to help you with the 'Perfect Puppy' silly song."

"Miss Achmetha definitely knows her puppies."

"And she even sang the 'Sports Utility Vehicle' song with you."

"So?"

Bob met Larry's gaze in that knowing way. "So when you compare 'Sports Utility Vehicle' with 'Where Have All the Staplers Gone?', there's a night-and-day difference."

"That's because of the lighting," Larry replied. "We had to keep the set dark to simulate being in an actual theater."

"And you have a lot more chemistry with Petunia."

"That's because of the song," Larry insisted. "Petunia's great at Broadway-style show stoppers."

"Is that the only reason?"

"W-What other possible explanation is there?" Larry asked quickly.

Bob rolled his eyes, sighing. "Look, Larry, speaking as your friend, I'll admit 'Sports Utility Vehicle' was a nice song, but I couldn't buy you and Miss Achmetha doing the whole 'meet cute/love at first sight' trope. I said to myself, 'Well, this is Larry, the same guy who danced a tango with his plush manatee. When has he ever been on a real date?'"

"Wait, were those your exact words?" Larry asked, a little hurt.

"But then Petunia shows up for an audition one day, and suddenly Larry the Cucumber is convincingly portraying a man in love."

Larry hopped back.

"You know, I really shouldn't have just burst in here," he squeaked, staggering toward the door. "I gotta water my hamster and feed my plants. See ya at church, Bob."

Bob exhaled and hopped after him. "Larry, we can do this here, or somewhere else, but as your best friend, let me help you. Don't you want some help?"

Larry, coiled for the next leap, stopped stock still in the doorway. His instincts told him to flee — to keep running until he hopped on the city bus, rode six blocks, hopped off, then ran the rest of the way to his apartment — to hide under his bed with his teddy bear and a box of chocolate bars. Yet a sad part of him — maybe even a great, big, whopping chunk — didn't want to keep dealing with this issue by himself.

Larry turned slightly. "Can you help, Bob?"

"I can try."

Larry looked toward the open hallway, and the green exit sign at the end. Then he thought of Petunia, and how she knew his age now, and his stomach twisted in despair. Slowly, he hopped backwards and closed the door again. He hung his head.

Bob went over to the drawer where he kept a few snacks and tossed Larry a chocolate bar. "Pull up a chair, buddy."

Larry did, but he did not look at Bob or even open his candy bar.

"Larry," Bob said, "why don't you just tell Petunia you like her?"

"I can't do anything now, Bob," he lamented. "She used to think I was a Twenty-Something, and now she knows I'm not."

"But you're still the same Larry you were yesterday," Bob replied. "What's a little number got to do with anything?"

"It's a pretty big number," Larry returned, "especially when you put it next to Petunia's number."

"You're both adults," said Bob, "and Petunia's a nice girl. If she's the one for you, the age difference won't matter."

"What if she is the one for me, but she wasn't supposed to find out how old I am yet, and so my destiny's been changed?"

"God's destiny for you doesn't work like that," Bob said. "Look at Abraham or Joseph or David."

"But those are Bible heroes. I'm just Larry the Cucumber!" He looked away. "I can't approach Petunia when she just found out my age. That's going to be playing on repeat in her brain."

He began to act a scene out. "'Say, Petunia, would you like to grab a root-beer float after work?' 'Sure, Larry. Wow, it's amazing how you like the same stuff as us youngsters.'"

"That doesn't sound like Petunia at all."

"Well, female impressions aren't my strong point."

"I meant that sounds out of character for her," Bob clarified. "Petunia's not like that. You should know her better than anyone else here."

Larry thought he did, maybe. He and Petunia would spend hours practicing their scenes, sometimes grabbing a bite at Burger Bell or the Chinese buffet afterwards, and he'd drive her home. When you tallied up all that quality time, he and Petunia probably knew each other pretty well, but there was a difference, a big difference — like, super-mega, ginormous, even King Kong would be intimidated by how big this difference was — between hanging out with Petunia for work-related purposes and confessing to her that he… he…

"I can't tell her, Bob," he said. "I can't."

He tossed the unopened candy bar onto the dressing table. There were some things even yummy chocolate could not fix.

"I know I'm not the best person to get advice from on this matter," Bob said, "but if it helps, the Bible says, 'Open rebuke is better than secret love.'"

"What does that mean?" Larry asked, frowning. "Why would rebuking someone be better than loving them?"

"Open rebuke, Larry," Bob explained. "If someone was mad at you and told you, at least you would know where they stood with you. You might even be willing to do what it takes to fix the problem, right?"

"Sure, if I was able."

"But if someone secretly loves you, and they never let you know, then that doesn't help you or them, does it? You might even think they hated you, but you'd never know because they didn't tell you."

Larry looked away. "But that's my problem. If I asked Petunia out, she'd know I like her. And — and I don't know if I can handle that."

"Because if she doesn't feel the same way," Bob said slowly, "then you're afraid you can't go back to what you have now. Right?"

Larry nodded miserably.

"Well, if you're really not ready to tell Petunia, then I don't want to force you, but if you want to try, there are things you can do."

"Like what?" Larry asked dubiously.

"Write her a letter, getting out everything you want to say in a rough draft, then put together a final draft."

"It's not like writing a silly song, Bob."

"Then write her a silly song."

"Bob!"

"Some women like gestures like that, even if they seem goofy."

Larry shook his head. "I don't think I could sing a silly song if it's also supposed to be a lov… another kind of song."

"Says the guy who sang one to a manatee," Bob deadpanned.

"That was different."

Bob closed his eyes. He was either thinking or saying a quick prayer, maybe both. After a moment, he raised his head.

"Hey, Larry, you know something? You're really good at telling stories."

"Well, that's my job," Larry replied, perplexed.

"Sure, but whenever someone has a problem or a question, a lot of the time you know which story to tell them." Bob leaned back in his chair. "Why don't you pretend you're helping out somebody with a similar problem? What advice would you give them?"

Larry hesitated. "Do you think that could work?"

"Why not?" Bob returned kindly. "You've created so many great characters, both as a writer and as an actor. Maybe you could pretend one of them is going through this problem."

"I guess I could try," Larry mumbled.

Bob nodded encouragingly. "Go home tonight, get yourself some supper, and see what you can come up with."

"Sure," Larry scoffed, "make it sound easy, why don't ya?"


Why this story? Well, one reason is that on one of the DVDs, there's a video with kids visiting the Big Idea office, and one of them asked Mike Nawrocki how old Larry was. His response was somewhere between 4 and 40 and that Larry doesn't know how old he is. While I personally don't see Larry as old as he is implied to be in this fic, I had the idea of writing him on the further end of that spectrum. (I'm often a "What if?" kind of writer.)

Skin moisturizer — In one episode of Psych, the villain turned out to be a lot older than he looked, and Jules' immediate response was to ask about his skin care.