A/N: The actual year for this story hasn't been stated, but it is prior to 2019, even though the dates and days of the week they fall on are drawn from the 2019 calendar. TLDR – It's Chuck time in the country of Chucklandia on the planet Charah. Don't worry about it, just Chuck it.
Disclaimer: I'm just a poor boy. With a small fanfiction. Can't afford to own Chuck. Make no money from Chuck. Doesn't really matter to me … Who am I kidding? Of course, it matters to me. Bismillah, it won't let me go. Mama Mia.
Chapter 7 – God Bless The Child
October 3
"The ChoirBoyz compete in the same acapella contests we do. Which isn't a big deal." Sarah frowned. "But, they usually do better than we do, which is a big deal."
"Why do they do better? Are they better singers than y'all?" Chuck wanted to know. His competitive spirit was waking up.
"Hardly," Aubrey grumped and crossed her arms over her chest.
Sarah shrugged and shook her head. "No, they're not better singers. They might put on a more choreographed performance, but not that much more than we do."
"They say they win and we lose because we can't do the vocal range that guys can." Amy growled. Her mood hadn't gotten better since her previous outburst. If anything, it had gotten worse. Chuck wondered what that was all about.
"Sexist assholes." Zondra glowered.
"I don't understand. How is it possible that you don't have the range that they do? I thought both male voices and female voices had a pretty wide vocal range." Chuck questioned.
"What they really mean is we can't hit low notes like they can because we're girls." Sarah clarified. She twisted her lips to the side and shook her head.
"Don't you have any altos in the Songbirds?" Morgan jumped in as he looked around at the girls.
"Sure, we have altos, Morgan. It's not that." Sarah said sadly. "What they're implying is, we'll never win because we can't hit the low notes that male voices can. Bass and baritone. Like co-ed or all boy groups can."
"You're saying that the judges at those competitions rate you lower just because you don't have any boys in your group? How is that fair? Are you the only all girl group that goes to those competitions?" Chuck was getting agitated and his voice was climbing higher.
"No, Chuckles, we're not the only all girl group that competes. There are others, but they've never won, either." Carina stated matter-of-factly.
"What a load of BS." Morgan pounded his fist on the table causing everyone's plates to jump. "How sexist can you be?" Some of the girls were startled at his outburst and jumped, too. Alex patted his arm and smiled at his passion.
"You'll figure it out." Chuck said calmly. The girls all turned and looked at him, hearing the confidence in his voice.
"How can you say that, Chuck?" Sarah looked at him questioningly. "How can you be so certain?"
"Because y'all are good. Y'all work hard." Chuck nodded his head emphatically. Then he looked at Sarah. "You're smart. I bet you can do anything you want, when you put your mind to it." He smiled at her.
"Wow. You have a lot of faith in us." Sarah grinned at him, her eyes shining.
Chuck ducked his head in embarrassment. More like I have faith in you, Sarah, he thought to himself. To Sarah, he said, "Not faith. Confidence. You'll figure it out." He turned back to finish his dinner. It had gone cold during the prolonged conversation. The girls stared at him a moment longer, amazed.
"Well, I hope you're right, Chuck. I really do." Sarah said, softly, as she picked up her fork and returned to her food.
Morgan couldn't contain himself any longer. "So, besides, doing better than you in some competitions and putting you down because none of you sing baritone or base, what other issue do you have with these Choirboyz?" He wondered. "It sounded like there was something else there."
"Yeah, there is." Chloe hesitated, looking over at Amy, who reluctantly nodded.
"I dated their shitbag of a leader for a while back when I was a sophomore. Bumper Allen." Amy frowned; her voice flat. No bubbles. "He's an ass, but I'm a bigger ass for falling for his BS. All he wanted was some stories to brag about to his d-bag friends." Girls around the table nodded in sympathy.
"What a douche," Morgan muttered. Bumper? Good grief.
"I'm sorry to hear that, Amy. You're too nice a person to have to put up with someone like that." Chuck said.
"That's nice of you to say, Chuck, but I still feel like a fool." Amy replied, shrugging slightly.
Chuck thought for a minute. "You shouldn't think that way, Amy." He said, firmly. "You're an engineer. A scientist. Think of Bumblebutt Allen as a flawed design or an experiment that failed. Failures aren't bad things. Failures are learning experiences. You learned something and will know what not to do the next time."
The girls all looked at him with stunned expressions on their faces. Was this guy for real? Morgan just grinned. Chuck coming at the world sideways, again. He always focused on the half-full part of the cup, never the half-empty part.
"Ha. Bumblebutt Allen. I like that, Chuck. And I like the way you think. Thanks for that. I'll try and keep that in mind. For my next boy experiment." Amy said, happily, giving Chuck a sweet smile. It appeared that she was getting her bubbles back.
Sarah stared at Chuck, wide-eyed. She had to fight to keep her jaw from hanging open. Who was this guy? Who thinks like that? He hardly knew any of them, yet he cared enough to offer Amy kind words and support. Where did he come from? Some other planet? He was different from anyone she had ever met before, that's for sure.
"He came to find you and look at you with his bedroom eeyyeess." Mental mom was back from vacation, apparently.
"Mother, is that all you can say?" Sarah sighed, inwardly.
"He's a keeper." Mental mom said, firmly.
That was new. "How can he be a keeper? I hardly know anything about him." She thought.
"You will. Just give it time." Mental mom counselled.
"He's not telling us … me … everything." Sarah worried.
"Have you told him everything about you? About Jack? Or me? Or Molly? Or your dad? Just give him time. It's only been a couple of days." Mental mom reminded her.
"How can I trust him?" She wondered silently.
"You trust him by trusting him." Mental mom said, sagely.
"I'll try." She promised herself. And mental mom, of course. A touch on her arm caused her to jump and refocus on the people around her.
"Are you OK?" Chuck looked concerned as he took his hand off her arm. "You kind of spaced out there for a second."
"Yeah … yeah. Sorry. Just got lost thinking about some stuff, ya know?" Sarah responded, sheepishly.
"Oh, Chuck knows all about zoning out. Don't you, Chuck?" Morgan grinned over at his oldest friend.
Chuck gave Morgan a dubious look and shook his head. "Don't start." He thought, hoping Morgan received the message, before turning back to his food.
Morgan nodded and looked down. Message received. He looked over at Alex and she gave him an understanding smile. His mood instantly brightened. He reached out for her hand under the table and gave it a squeeze in thanks. She gave his hand a squeeze in return.
Trying to lighten the mood, Carina changed the subject. "Chuckles have you and Marvin the Martian over here gotten your tickets for Saturday's football game?" She smirked at Morgan and winked at Alex.
"Why, yes, Carina, Morgan and I have gotten our tickets. Or, more correctly, we have claimed our electronic tickets and they've been loaded onto our student id cards. We're ready for some football." Chuck replied archly.
"How does this sound?" Carina continued. "You and Mirkwood meet us for dinner at around 5:30pm. Then, we head over toward Maloney Field to see what's shaking at the student tailgates. After that, go watch the big boys get all hot and sweaty." She gave Chuck a salacious grin.
"Uh …, "Chuck began.
Sarah jumped into the empty spot in the conversation. "Unless, you guys have baseball stuff to do, that is." She chewed on the inside of her cheek as she waited for him to respond.
"Ah, no. We don't have baseball stuff going on then. Earlier on Saturday, sure. But not then." He responded.
"So … you'll join us then? And go to the game?" She gave him a tentative smile.
"Definitely. Wouldn't miss it for anything." Chuck gave her a crooked grin. Sarah's smile grew wider.
"Good grief, Curls." Chuck looked back to Zondra. "They even work you guys on Saturday? What are you pack mules? What, on Earth, do they have you do Saturdays?" Zondra grimaced distastefully.
"We do the same thing we do the rest of the time." Chuck shrugged slightly and gave them a 'what can you do?' look. "Weight lifting early in the morning and small group work in the middle of the day. But they ease up on us and don't make us run in the afternoon. That means we can go to the football games that don't start at noon."
"Glad to see that they ease up on you and let you go to the football games." Zondra snorted in derision. "What happens if the games are at noon or early afternoon? You can't go?"
"That's right, we can't go."
"That's some shit, right there, Curls. How do they get away with that?"
"The coaches would say that we're here to play baseball. That's what we signed up to do. It comes first over everything else. Even big-time college football games."
"Assholes." Zondra grumped.
"Maybe, maybe not. They're not completely heartless, though. We'll have the entire day off for homecoming. We'll be able to go to the game and hang out with friends and family."
"Like normal people." Morgan chirped. A few giggles at that statement. "And, on that note, I've got to run to another movie." He started to get up. "Ladies, it was nice seeing you all again. I'm off to get cultured." He picked up his plates and trash. "Chuck, I'm heading back to the room to get my stuff. I'll lock up, don't worry. I'll be back right after the movie. I've got other sh … stuff to study tonight, still." Chuck waved goodbye to him.
Alex got up and cleaned up her area. Saying "Bye, you guys. See you later." She followed Morgan out of the dining hall.
"Well!" Carina chuckled.
Sarah turned, grinning, to Chuck. "I'm guessing Morgan is taking a friend to tonight's movie."
"I guess so." He grinned back. Way to go little buddy, he thought.
"Curls, do they practice you on Sundays, too?" Zondra pressed.
"No, not on Sundays. At least, not yet. Who knows what they'll do in the future?" Chuck mused. He didn't tell them that he worked out on his own on Sundays.
"That's nice of them." Zondra said sarcastically.
"Can't complain. I knew what I was in for when I signed up." He concluded. "And so, I need to head out, too, and hit the library tonight. More work to deal with." As he started to collect his trash and empty plates, two of the girls, Anna Wu and Cynthia Rose Adams got his attention. Chuck stopped what he was doing to listen.
"Hey Chuck, we heard that you helped Sarah with a project she has. Do you know anything about physics?" Anna asked, holding up a massive textbook. Chuck glanced at Sarah. She gave him a weak smile and hung her head in embarrassment. He shook his head with a slight smile.
"Sure, I know some stuff about physics. Is there something I can help you with?" Chuck replied.
"Yeah, Cynthia Rose and I are in the same Mechanics class. We've got some questions on what the professor is lecturing over. Can you help us?" Anna's voice took on a pleading tone. "And, maybe, take a look at some of the homework problems we've got, too?" She gave him an ingratiating smile.
"When do you need to have the work done? Do you need to meet right now? Or can you meet later? Or over the weekend or something?" Chuck asked.
"The homework problems aren't due until Monday, but we have a test next week on the chapter we're studying." Anna managed a weak smile.
"Sure, I'd be glad to help you. I'm not using the book you're holding, so if you would bring it along and give me a few minutes to look it over, that'd be great." The girls looked a little uncertain. "It's just so I can look at how your book presents the material and in what order, so I don't do things or talk about things you haven't covered yet or in a way different from how your book presents them." Chuck said, trying to reassure them.
"Oh, I get it. Wow, thanks. That's not a problem. We can both bring our books and you can look over whatever you need to." Anna said, happily. "So, when can we meet?"
"Well, I'm super busy tonight and tomorrow. Do you want to meet Saturday afternoon before the football game or would Sunday afternoon be better?" Chuck offered. "Or do we need to figure out a different time?"
"Sunday afternoon would be better since there isn't anything else scheduled, at least for us."
"OK, Sunday sounds great. Let's say 2:00." Both girls nodded their agreement. "We can meet in the Makerspace in Roble Hall and either stay there or find somewhere else, if we have to. That sound good to you?"
"Oh my gosh, Chuck. That'll be great." Anna gushed. "Thank you, so much."
"Yeah, thanks, Chuck." Cynthia Rose agreed.
"You're welcome. Don't worry about it. I'm glad to help." Chuck nodded.
As the two girls returned to their spots to clean them up, Chuck finished gathering his stuff and began to walk toward the trash bin. Sarah and her suitemates trailed after him.
"That's really generous of you, Chuck." Sarah marveled. "You didn't have to do that, you know. Are you sure you have the time to help them?"
"It's not a big deal. I'm glad to help out, if I can." Chuck shrugged, once more. "As for having time to help, well, I've got time. I'll make time, if I have to. Y'all have been so nice to me. It's the least I can do." He dumped his trash and put his dirty plates on the collection bin. "Sorry to eat and run, but I've got to get over to the library. I've got a good bit of stuff to deal with tonight." He started to walk away then stopped and turned back, smacking his palm on his forehead.
"I never asked you for an address where people can send their donations." Chuck winced and ducked his head apologetically and shuffled his feet. He pulled his phone from his pocket to get ready to take down the information.
"Oh, right. That would be a bit of a problem for anyone willing to help us out." Sarah reasoned as she took out her own phone. She opened her Notes app and scrolled until she found the pertinent information. Chuck tapped it out as she read it to him. They exchanged phone numbers, too. People watching grinned and nodded to themselves.
"That's great, Sarah. I'll be sure to give that information to my parents and some other people I have in mind. Now, I've really got to go. Sorry. See y'all later." He waved goodbye to everyone, giving Sarah a small smile as he walked away.
The CATS all looked at each other. Chuck sure was full of surprises. What other surprises did he have in store for them?
"Secret smiles, Blondie?" Carina teased. "Where are you planning on registering your china pattern?"
"Bite me." Sarah grumped. Her friends snickered as they followed her back toward their suite.
Chuck got back to his room. Morgan had already come in and gone out again. After closing and locking the door, he unlocked his secure lower desk drawer and pulled out two objects of his own design. One was a small square box about the size of a Rubik's Cube puzzle; the other was a hand sized scanner. Taking the scanner, he turned it on and slowly walked around the room while watching the display window. He completed the slow circuit of the room and the display remained unchanged. Satisfied his room contained no new electronic signals, he turned the scanner off and turned to the small cube. One side of the cube had a small indicator light, a power switch, an On/Off button, and a USB port. Sticking out of another side of the cube were four antennas. The opposite side had a speaker. After turning on the power switch, the indicator light glowed red. Chuck pressed the On/Off button and the indicator turned green. Soft noises emanated from the speaker. His sound masking and localized signal jamming system was now active.
With his security in place, Chuck turned on his laptop. Once the start-up sequence was complete, he started his VPN. After that connection was established, Chuck ran his own video chat application and pinged an address. His application was faster, smaller, more secure, and had more features than the ones that were publicly available. Soon, he was looking at a woman, somewhat older than him, but very pretty with light brown hair and wearing a flattering cream-colored silk blouse. Her green eyes regarded him with amusement.
"Miss McArthur, it's good to see you again." Chuck grinned.
"Miss McArthur, is it now?" Chuck could hear the telltale Scottish accent, faintly, even after all this time. "Well, OK, if that's how you want to play it. It's nice to see you, too, Mr. Bartowski." She chuckled. "To what do I owe the honor of this impromptu call? Is there some way that CIB Technologies can be of service to a poor, starving student clothed in rags and living in a drafty garret in the unforgiving clime of the frozen north?"
"Please, Miss Bumble, I want some more." He begged piteously.
"More what, you scruffy nerfherder?" She scowled.
"More Galactic Credits for the endangered Shyyyo birds of Kashyyyk." Chuck whimpered, giving her his best puppy dog eyes.
"Birds, huh?" She rubbed her chin. "OK, now I'm confused." Chuck smirked. "Did you just slip an Austin Powers reference into the middle of a Star Wars reference after segueing from an Oliver Twist reference including a reverse gender swap from a Les Misérables reference standing start?"
"Maaaybbeee?" He hadn't been thinking of Austin Powers, but he wasn't about to admit it to her.
"Fiiiine." She held her hands up in surrender. "I give up. You win. That might have been a 1.9 or even a 2.0 degree of difficulty. Not bad for a starving college student." Miss McArthur's eyes danced and she chuckled.
"Only a 2.0? I was hoping for a 2.2, at least. Starting with Les Miz really put me in left field. You almost had me with that one. Better luck, next time." Chuck's grin started to wrinkle his nose.
"Yeah, you say that every time. My record is still like zero and infinity." She pouted.
"You're getting better, for someone who didn't have a mis-spent youth watching endless movies. Trust me." His smile turned into a faux-glare. "That scruffy nerfherder jibe was a bit harsh, though. I am not scruffy."
"Quit your whining." She admonished, shaking her head. "You are scruffy. You need a haircut."
"Oh, no. No, you don't. Uh uh." Chuck wagged his finger in front of his monitor, so the camera could catch it. "I've already got a Mom-thing #1 and a Mom-thing #2. Dr. Seuss didn't write any stories with a Mom-thing #3."
"OK, you're the boss." She admitted. Chuck nodded with a small smile. "So … boss …" Chuck frowned. "Ah … Mm … Chuck, what can I do to help?" His face softened as his smile returned.
"It's really good to see you Vivian. I've been crazy busy since I got here. Sorry for not calling sooner." Chuck looked sheepishly at the older woman. "Is everything OK on the home front? No fires that need fighting. Or damsels in need of rescue?"
"Nope. Everything's fine. Running like a top." Vivian confidently answered. "Don't worry. We knew you'd be up to your eyeballs from the get go. That's why we organized things the way we did before you left for Stanford. Although … " She paused, considering her next words. "It would be helpful if you would finish up your part of the paperwork for your latest application, so we can get it over to legal. They need to give it their once over and stamp of approval before we send it along to the Feds." She continued in a rush. "I know you've got baseball stuff and a crazy school schedule, but we've already floated some hints with certain customers and they're chomping at the bit for us to seal deals with them, but we need that filing done first."
"I know, Vivian. I'm not worried. I have every confidence in you and your ability to hold the fort and run the show while I'm busy up here. Truly. You've been a fantastic Chief Operating Officer for CIB and a good friend, too." Chuck said sincerely. "You took on a big job when you came on board and I've dumped more on your shoulders since then. And you've never complained."
"Well, maybe a little." She grinned cheekily and held up her hand with her index finger and thumb almost touching. He laughed. "Seriously, though, what's up?"
"Well …, " Chuck hesitated, suddenly aware he wasn't sure how to proceed. Mentally shaking himself, he decided to just plow ahead. "There's a campus group that is trying to raise funds to help defray the costs they incur in their activities. I'd like to have us help them."
"Chuck, that's a little vague. Can't you give me some more details?" Vivian looked perplexed.
"OK, Fiiiine." He grumped. "Do you promise that not a word gets back to MODOK or the Leader? That you'll handle this personally? I'm going to call them as soon as I hang up with you, anyway."
"I'll deal with it." She held up three fingers. "Scouts honor. Cross my heart and hope to die."
"I get it. And they call me childish." Chuck pouted. Vivian stuck out her tongue, making him laugh. "There's an all-girl acapella group that needs money for costumes, travel, accommodations, and food when they're away from school. Stanford only pays the entry fees for competitions they go to, but they're responsible for the rest. They ask their alumnae and local businesses for donations and offer a singing telegram service on campus. Sing at functions on campus, too. You know, that sort of stuff. I'd like to help. I'm going to talk to mom and dad about it, too, but I don't want to rely on just them. Their help usually comes with strings attached." Vivian's eyes lit up at the admission he wanted to help some girls.
"So, a group of girls, huh? That you want to help?" She grinned.
"Yes, a group of girls. That I want to help." He gave her a flat look.
"All of them? Or is there one of them you'd like to help more than the others?" She knew his history, so she only gently teased him. This could actually be a good thing. For everyone.
"No … Yes … I don't know. Maybe." He sighed, squirming in his chair. Vivian could see his skin darkening even over the video call. He was actually blushing. But he was smiling, too. Wow. She must be something else, whoever she is. Miss I-Don't-Know-Maybe.
"OK, you want to help out this group."
"Songbirds."
"What? I'm sorry?"
"Their name. They're called the Songbirds. Turns out my mom was in the group back when she and dad were at Stanford." Chuck confessed.
"Interesting. I didn't know that." This call was bringing out all sorts of surprises. "How much do you want to donate and how do you want to do it?"
"Let's do fifty thousand. Multiple small physical checks, not electronic transfers. Various amounts. Nothing over one thousand. Use as many of our bank accounts as you can. Don't involve either of the shell companies or their accounts. I don't want it to get out, or reach certain ears, that I'm doing this. Keep it anonymous. And under everyone's radar. There are only so many tedious conversations that I can handle. Use cashiers' cheques, if you have to. Or whatever. I'll text you the address where to mail the checks." He tapped his chin in thought as his gaze drifted toward the ceiling. "Start sending them next Wednesday and spread it out over the next couple of months, but make sure to send out the last check so that it gets to Stanford by the end of the first week in December. No later. That's when classes end. Finals will be that next week. Does that sound good?" Chuck finished and focused on Vivian again.
"It sounds great. Multiple small checks. Multiple banks and accounts. Less than a thousand. Anonymous. Spread out delivery for the next two months." Vivian nodded. "Shouldn't be a problem." She was curious why Chuck wanted to mask the donations and didn't believe for one second it was to hide it from his parents. More likely was that he wanted to hide it from Miss I-Don't-Know-Maybe. Chuck was waking up. Finally. Good for him.
"Thanks, Vivian. I really appreciate it. We can do a tax write-off or not. Whichever. I'm not worried." Chuck smiled happily. "And I promise to finish up that paperwork and get it back to you by Monday. Tuesday, at the latest."
"I'll believe it when I see it." Vivian snarked.
"Hey now." Chuck faux-glared. "I'm the boss."
"Sure, you are," the older woman teased, nodding. "Now go and call your parents, boss."
"Yes, Ma'am." Chuck laughed. "Bye." Vivian was still laughing when he closed the call. He texted her the address and got a confirmation back immediately.
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, held it, and let it out slowly. Chuck sat quietly for a couple of minutes and centered himself before opening his eyes. Thus prepared, he pinged his parent's address.
When the chat handshake procedure completed, he was looking at the faces of his parents, Stephen and Mary.
"Good evening, Charles," Stephen smiled.
"Hello, Chuck," "Mary frowned, slightly. "Nice of you to call us for the first time since you went to school."
"Good evening, MODOK and Leader." Chuck deadpanned.
"I wish you wouldn't call us that. We're your parents. Not Marvel comics villains." Mary fumed. Her frown deepened as she shook her head at him.
"Wait. Am I MODOK or Leader? I can never remember." Stephen's eyes twinkled in mirth. He glanced at his wife and gave his son a surreptitious wink.
Chuck gave an exaggerated faux-sigh. "Dad, we've been over this. MODOK is the head of Advanced Idea Mechanics or AIM. They're bad-guy tech geniuses in Marvel. You 'consult' for one of our shell companies, Advanced Intersectional Methodologies. That makes you MODOK and mom is the Leader."
"You should show more respect." Mary glared.
Chuck bit his tongue to keep himself from blurting out what he had been thinking. Instead, he said, "I was only teasing. I didn't mean anything by it." Mary gave him a doubtful look.
"So, what's going on, Charles? Is everything OK?" Stephen looked mildly concerned.
"Everything's fine, Dad. No worries. Just wanted to talk about a couple of things."
"What things?" Mary asked.
"Well, first, Coach Graham says hello." Chuck smiled.
"How is the old scoundrel? Is he working you hard?" His dad grinned. "I bet he's got you running endless poles, doesn't he?"
"Yeah, pretty much. He really, really loves to have us run poles. And steps. And sprints. I think he missed his calling. He should have been a track coach." He laughed and shook his head at the same time.
"Yeah, he always was a stickler for those running drills." Stephan smiled at the memories. "You tell him that your father says the only thing he was ever good at, back in the day, was running. Couldn't catch or hit to save his life. You tell him that." He grinned at his son.
"Noooo. No." Chuck held up his hands and shook his head, emphatically. "I'm not telling him that. Whether it comes from you or not. You can tell him that. I don't want any more punishment poles. Thank you very much."
"You got assigned punishment? What did you do?" Mary looked cross.
"Nothing really. I was a minute late to conditioning practice on Tuesday and Coach Casey gave me five poles as punishment." He shrugged.
"Why were you late?" His mom gave him that look. The patented mom 'I'm not happy with you look.'
"I was clear across campus, studying, and had to run to the field with my backpack weighing fifty pounds, at least. Maybe more."
"You're going to hurt yourself, Chuck." She scolded.
"I'm fine. Don't worry about it." He retorted. Mary was about to say something else, but stopped when Stephen touched her arm.
"Any other troubles, son?" Stephen asked quietly.
"No, I'm good. No issues. Haven't gotten called out on anything besides that one time." Chuck shook his head. "Morgan, on the other hand, does have some troubles."
Both his parents chuckled. "What's Morgan gotten into now?" Mary asked.
"Well, you can probably guess. He pipes up when he shouldn't where people can hear him. Coach Casey has his number." He twisted his lips and shook his head in sympathy for his friend.
"Morgan's becoming the Pole King, is he?" Stephen chuckled.
"Pole King?" Chuck gave his father a quizzical look.
"Yeah, Charles. Pole King. They give out an award at the Spring Banquet to the player who ran the most punishment poles over the course of the year. From what you said, it sounds like Morgan is leading that race, so far."
"Oh, yeah, he's leading that race. By a good bit, too. Pole King, huh? Yeah, that's Morgan for ya." Chuck laughed.
"The good news is he'll be in great shape that's for sure." Mary commented dryly. They all laughed together.
"So, what else did you need? You didn't make his call just to give Langston's hello and to talk about Morgan running poles, did you?" His dad gave him a shrewd look.
"No, Dad, you're right. There is something else. Or someone else, I should say." Chuck admitted.
"What's up, Charles?" Stephen asked.
"I've been meeting people on campus. You know, in class. Around the dorm. In the dining hall. That sort of stuff." He paused. How to word this? "Turns out some of the people I met. I mean, girls I met. Well, it turns out that they're in a singing group called the Songbirds." His parents both perked up when he mentioned that name. "Even met their faculty advisor, Dr. Diane Beckman." Mary started to grin. "She says 'hi', Mom, by the way. And you, too, Dad. Anyway, I heard the girls talking about having to raise funds for their competitions."
"And …," Mary prompted.
"And I offered to try and help out. So, I am calling you to ask you if you would be willing to contact people you know in LA to ask them to help them out and donate."
"How much do they need to raise, Chuck?" Mary was intrigued.
"They need fifty thousand dollars. They're working toward five thousand, now. I'm not saying you need to raise all of that, but anything would help out."
"Why don't we just cut a personal check or have the company cut one? Use it as a tax write off." His dad scratched the back of his head.
"We could do that, but I would rather not have it appear that I'm … eh … we're bailing them out. I don't want them to think that I don't think they can raise the money for themselves. I want to help them. Encourage them. Not put them down or belittle them."
Mary gave him another look. This one was the mom "what's really going on' look. "What's her name?"
"Who?"
"Come on, Chuck. Who's the girl you're trying to impress?" His mom pressed.
"Who said I'm trying to impress anyone? They're people I've met. People I'd like to help. You know, friends. Friends who aren't named Morgan. One of the big reasons I wanted to go to Stanford, remember? I thought you might actually want to help. Seeing as you used to be part of the group, yourself, Mom." Chuck took a breath to calm down. His temper had flared. They were his friends. Or becoming his friends, at least. He was doing this for all of them. Wasn't he? He wasn't doing this just for Sarah, was he? He pushed those thoughts to the back of his mind. His mom was talking.
"I didn't say I didn't want to help." Mary apologized. "I was just curious about your motivation. That's all. Of course, we'll help out. Send a check. Ask some friends to help, too. I had a lot of fun being in the Songbirds when I was in school."
"Apology accepted. I'm sorry for snapping at you. It's just that they've been friendly. Nice to me. I wanted to help, is all. So, thank you for offering to help. I've got the address where the checks can be mailed. I'll text it to you both as soon as we finish the call."
"OK, Charles. We'll look for your text. We're happy to help out. Any other news?" Stephen asked.
"No, not really. I had dinner with Ellie and Devon this week. It was fun. We had a good time. She made your beef stew, Mom, and it was really good. A nice change of pace from the dining hall."
"Ellie told us about it. She said you were nice to her and great around Devon."
"Yeah, Devon is a good guy. He likes Ellie a lot. I think she likes him a lot, too."
"Yes, he is a nice young man. And I do believe you're right that Ellie likes him a lot. It sure sounds that way when she calls us." Mary paused and then pressed on. "Ellie also told us that you almost had one of your headaches before you came over for dinner."
"The operative word there is 'almost'. I was able to handle it before it got bad. No big deal."
"You're pushing yourself too hard, Chuck. I'm worried about you." Mary gave him a stern look. Chuck saw his dad out of the corner of his eye. He was subtly shaking his head. His mom still didn't know anything.
"Mom, I'm fine and I'm dealing with it. Don't worry." He said soothingly. "Now, I've got to hang up so I can get over to Terman Library and get some work done. It was nice talking with you. Thanks for helping with the Songbirds. I'll text their address in a minute."
"Chuck …," His mom began.
He interrupted her. "Mom, don't start. Just don't. I've really got to go. Bye." Chuck terminated the connection and sighed. Frowning and shaking his head, Chuck picked up his phone and sent the promised address to both of his parents. With that task done, he turned off his privacy cube and locked the two devices back in his desk. Then he shut down his laptop, filled his backpack, and made the trek over to the library and another evening of work.
October 4
Chuck was walking back to the dorm alone. The other players who usually accompanied him had all scattered to begin their Friday evening activities. Even Morgan had jogged off after conditioning practice. He had a date with Alex. Chuck wasn't sure what they had planned, Morgan wouldn't tell him, but he hoped they had a good time. They'd really hit it off. Almost instantly. He was happy for his friend and he grinned at the image of Morgan trying to be cool around Alex.
After a moment, his grin grew wistful and, then, faded. Even awkward Morgan had, seemingly, found someone. All Chuck had found was that pest, Jill. Well, the Songbirds; he'd found them, but they were just friends. Or becoming friends, a least. He had spent most of his time talking to Sarah and her friends, the CATS. They were seniors, so that meant they were older than him. He didn't mind being around older people; he'd been around older people a lot during his life. But, how did they feel about being around younger people? A younger guy? How did Sarah feel about that? He wished he knew. He couldn't talk to them tonight or have dinner with them to try and find out, either. They were going out dancing together; he'd overheard them talking about it when everyone was packing up their stuff and leaving Helman Hall, earlier that afternoon.
Chuck sighed. I guess I'm eating alone, he thought. Another boring evening. Probably just doing more school work. He had just turned to walk along Santa Teresa Street when a car horn got his attention. Looking up, he saw a yellow taxi drive past him up the road. That gave him an idea. Miss Maisie's. Chuck smiled and quickened his pace. He had to get back to the dorm and call Mr. Dixon. It might not be such a bad night, after all.
Ron Dixon saw the familiar sight of the tall, curly-haired young man waiting on the curb when his cab pulled up in front of Roble Hall. The car had barely come to a halt, when the rear door flew open and Chuck jumped into the back seat.
"Hi, Mr. Dixon. Thanks for coming to get me." Chuck said, at little breathlessly, bouncing on the seat.
"Hi, Chuck. You call, I come. That's how this works." The older man turned and grinned at Chuck over his shoulder. Chuck grinned and nodded his head. "Where to?" Chuck started to answer, but Ron interrupted him. "No, wait! Let me guess?" He paused for dramatic effect. "Miss Maisie's! Am I right? I'm right, aren't I?"
Chuck's grin grew into a full smile. "Ya got me, Mr. Dixon. Right between the eyes."
Chuckling, Ron gave Chuck a look. "You don't have to keep calling me. You told me that you've got a car and you now know the way to Miss Maisie's."
"I know that, Mr. Dixon, but you were the one who told me about her place. Three weeks ago, now. That was good luck for me. I'm a baseball player. We're superstitious. When something works, we keep doing it. Otherwise, the luck could turn bad. I don't want that to happen. So, I call you." Chuck said with a serious tone, but Ron could see his eyes dancing.
"Whatever you say, Chuck. You're the one paying." Ron shrugged and smiled. Chuck nodded, again, and lapsed into silence.
While Mr. Dixon drove, Chuck looked out the window, remembering his first visit to Miss Maisie's. It was the first Monday evening after he had arrived at Stanford. He had called a cab, Mr. Dixon happened to be driving that night. Having heard that cab drivers typically knew all the good local places to eat and party, Chuck had asked the older man if there were any good Cajun restaurants near Stanford. Mr. Dixon had said, "Miss Maisie's". It was not only close, but a great place. The owners and the cooking staff had all grown up in and around New Orleans.
Chuck had then asked if there were any places around that had live jazz music. He had told Mr. Dixon that he liked to relax and listen to jazz to unwind. Ron had said, "Same place, Miss Maisie's."
"I'm two for two. Batting a thousand." Chuck had laughed. "Please take me there." After giving Chuck the eye, Ron had done as he requested. The cab had pulled up to a place on California Avenue in the Ventura section of Palo Alto, with a bright neon sign that displayed "Miss Maisie's Jazzy Place" in garish colors along with a blinking neon saxophone and neon party poppers, just up the street from the popular wine bar, Calave.
Chuck had paid the fare, collected one of Mr. Dixon's business cards, and thanked him for the recommendation and the ride. As soon as he got out of the cab, Chuck smelled wonderful aromas wafting out of the open door of the restaurant. He hadn't taken more than two steps before the way into the restaurant had been blocked by one of the biggest men Chuck had ever encountered face-to-face.
The dark-skinned man was only a little taller than Chuck, but he appeared to be twice as wide with arms that resembled most people's legs. He had glowered at Chuck and asked him, in a voice that was quarried from deep inside his barrel chest, "May I help you, young man?"
Chuck smiled at the memory of meeting Mr. Colt for the first time. Michael, the part owner and husband to the titular Miss Maisie, Mrs. Maisie Colt. He had quizzed Chuck on jazz and Cajun food. When Chuck had said he liked pre-WWII jazz the best and that Billie Holiday was his favorite singer from that era, Mr. Colt had started to grin. When Chuck had talked about loving chicken and sausage gumbo, boudin, shrimp and grits, red beans and rice, crawfish etouffee, and so much more, Mr. Colt's grin had turned into a full-on smile. After clapping Chuck on the back, painfully, with one of his ham-sized hands, he'd ushered him into the restaurant and personally got him seated in a booth not too far from the stage where a jazz quartet was playing a smooth instrumental.
That first visit had been magical, he'd loved everything about it, and Chuck had come back at the end of that week for a repeat visit and each week since. Michael and Miss Maisie had both sat with him and talked, wanting to know about a Stanford college boy who loved their food and jazz music. The two of them were so kind and sympathetic that he found himself not only talking about food and music, but telling them his life story. They were alternately amazed and saddened, then angered and, finally, hopeful when he concluded his story with his dreams for his time at Stanford. Every time he entered Miss Maisie's, he left with his spirit feeling lighter.
His reverie was interrupted by the cab stopping and Mr. Dixon turning to him, saying, "Here you go, Chuck."
Chuck shook himself back to the present and pulled out his wallet. Smiling sheepishly, he handed over the fare, along with a generous tip. "Thanks, Mr. Dixon. Is it OK, if I call you for a ride back afterwards?"
"Sure thing, Chuck. No problem. You know where to find me."
Chuck got out of the cab, turned and stuck his hand out toward the front window. Shaking the proffered hand, Ron gave him a casual salute and pulled away from the curb.
Before he could turn around, Chuck heard, and felt, a deep rumbling voice. "Chuck Bartowski! Are you back again? Don't they feed you at that fancy school over yonder?"
Grinning, Chuck turned around and saw Mr. Colt with a huge smile on his face. "Not nearly as well as y'all do, Mr. Colt. And their choice in music is downright horrendous."
Mr. Colt gave a belly laugh that shook his whole body. Stepping up to Chuck, he enveloped him in a bone-crushing hug. "It's good to see you, son. Welcome back."
"Gee, thanks." Chuck pretended to gasp out.
"Oh, quit crying, you big baby. I didn't squeeze you that hard." Mr. Colt laughed at Chuck's pout and clapped him on the shoulder. "Now, let's find you a table." Grinning, the two men entered the restaurant.
The group performing that night had just finished a set and taken a break. As soon as Chuck got inside the door, a number of people around the restaurant greeted him and waved. "Chuck!" "Hi, Chuck." He smiled and happily waved back. It had only been a few weeks, but they treated him like a 'regular'. The thought filled Chuck with happiness, "Where everyone knows your name."
Mr. Colt steered him to what had become 'his' table, a booth by the back wall not too close or too far from the stage. "I'll tell Maisie that you're here. You want your 'usual'?"
"I want to see the menu. I actually might order something different tonight."
"Yeah, sure you will." Mr. Colt chuckled as he handed over a menu. Chuck stuck his tongue out and Mr. Colt's chuckle turned into another fit of laughter. He was still laughing as he disappeared into the kitchen to fetch his wife.
Chuck took the time to look over the menu. He really was in the mood for something different from his usual fare. Even though he had the menu memorized, he still looked it over in order to focus his mind. Coming to a decision, he put the menu down on the table and looked around.
Miss Maisie's was decorated like a low country fish shack. Rough pine paneling on the walls and the concrete floor patterned to look like plank boards, complete with knots and wood grain. Rustic chairs, high backed benches, and tables covered with gingham checked tablecloths set the mood. Tin shade, single-bulb lights, enamelware plates, and plain silverware completed the picture. They even served drinks in old 8oz or 16oz mason jars. It reminded him of some of the places Gommy and Granddaddy, his mom's parents, had taken them during the family's visits to Atlanta. The whole place spoke of home and family and Chuck couldn't keep the smile off his face.
Chuck's daydreaming was interrupted by a loud, amused voice. "Lord of Mercy! Look what the cat dragged in!" Chuck looked up to see a smiling Miss Maisie coming toward his table. His smile grew wider and he stood to envelop the older woman in a hug. She hugged him back, almost as hard as her husband. Shooing him back to his seat, she smiled down at him.
"It's good to see you, too, Miss Maisie. I've missed you."
"More like you missed my cooking. It's only been seven days." She chuckled.
"That's seven days too long." Chuck said with an exaggerated pout on his face.
"Flattery will get you everywhere." Maisie gave him a saucy grin. "What're y'all having tonight? The usual? Gumbo, boudin, and etouffee?"
"No, I'm in the mood for something else." Miss Maisie's eyes widened in shock.
"Hold everything." She yelled. Everyone in the restaurant turned toward the sound of her voice. "This here college boy, Chuck, is ordering something new!" She grinned at him. "Run for the hills! It's a sign of the apocalypse!" Many people were grinning and laughing, too.
Voices called out. "Way to go, Chuck, now we're all going to die." "EEEeeek." "Help, help." Chuck blushed furiously and twisted his lips to try and avoid laughing at the good-natured teasing. He had an idea.
With an evil grin, he sighed. "Oh well, if you don't want my order, I'll just go to that burger joint down the street."
Miss Maisie wailed. "Now, you're trying to kill me! Oh, my heart." She clutched her chest. "Hang on Grandma, your baby, Maisie May is coming to see you soon."
Mr. Colt slipped up behind her and slapped her on the backside, causing her to yelp. "Quit teasing the boy and take his order. You're holding up business, woman." He grinned at his wife's antics.
Pouting and rubbing her sore rear end, she turned Chuck and said, with saccharine sweetness, "Whatcha all be havin', tonite?" She winked to let him know she was only playing.
"I'd like a cup of gumbo, like usual." Maisie smirked at that. "But, instead of boudin and etouffee, I'd like an order of your hot chili gator tail appetizer and, for my entrée, I'd like the red beans and rice with grilled andouille sausage." Maisie smiled.
"Good choices, Chuck. Do you want a salad, too?"
"Yes, please. A house salad with your homemade Chipotle Honey Mustard dressing."
"And to drink?"
"Sweet tea. Is there any other kind?" He grinned. She shook her head, smiling back at him.
"I'll get right on it." She paused. "Would it be alright if we came back and visited for a spell?"
"I was hoping you'd do just that." He gave her a sincere smile.
As she walked away, the band started to play the instrumental version of 'What Is This Thing Called Love'. Chuck smiled and tapped to the beat feeling lighter than he had since talking to his parents the night before.
Miss Maisie and Michael walked up with his gumbo and tea, just as the band launched into their next selection. Placing the mason jar and cup in front of him, they slid into the booth opposite. With their encouragement, Chuck began eating the rich gumbo.
"Give us the news. What've y'all been up to this week?" Maisie asked eagerly. With their own children both grown and out on their own, the couple had taken Chuck under their wing. They provided him an impartial sounding board and a sympathetic ear that he really appreciated.
Between bites, Chuck filled them in on the week's events. When Chuck told them about the chase across campus and meeting the Songbirds, they began to smile. After Chuck began to describe the girls in the group, they glanced at each other and winked. They'd noticed the change in his demeanor and tone of voice when he described one of the girls. How his eyes both softened and shone brighter. They saw a small smile on his face and heard it in his voice.
"So, what's her name?" Maisie quietly asked.
"What's whose name?" Chuck asked hesitatingly.
"Oh, come on, Chuck." Michael rumbled, grinning. "Maisie calls me a blockhead and even I can tell that something is different about you this week. Y'all sound different when y'all talk about these singers. Y'all look different. More relaxed." He smiled. "So, what's her name?"
"Uh … well … Sarah. Um … Her name is Sarah. Sarah Walker." He blushed and whispered, like he was afraid to say her name too loud for fear of breaking the spell and waking up.
Maisie reached across the table and placed her hand on top of Chuck's, smiling gently. "So, tell us all about this Sarah Walker, who has affected y'all so much."
Chuck gulped. Trying to calm his nerves, he took a sip of their deep brewed, nearly black, tea, sugared to the point he imagined it rotting his teeth as he drank it. It cooled the heat from the gumbo and gave him courage to continue his story.
Over the course of the rest of his dinner, from the gator bites to the red bean and rice, and on to the lemon icebox pie he had for dessert, he told them his tale. All about Sarah Walker and her friends, his dinner with Ellie and Devon, baseball practice, extra poles, and his talk with his parents. It felt great to talk with someone about all of it. People who genuinely cared and wouldn't judge or blab to the world. He loved Morgan, but he constantly had to remind him not to blurt out things. It was tiresome to constantly be on guard. Miss Maisie and Michael gave him a place he could just be himself. It felt wonderful.
Miss Maisie told him not to worry. To take his time and let things develop naturally. When he wondered about telling Sarah his secrets, all Maisie would say was that he would know when the time was right. He'd feel it in his heart. Until then, just be himself. "You're a wonderful and kind young man. She'll accept you no matter what you tell her. Nothing about you is terrible. You're a good person. Don't worry." She assured him. She also made him promise to bring Sarah to the restaurant as soon as possible, so they could meet her. Chuck had blushed, but did promise to bring her by, as soon as possible. Both of the older adults had given him comforting hugs as they parted.
With a stomach full of great food, an evening filled with wonderful music, and empathetic conversation, Chuck felt happier and more confident about a lot of things than he had in a long time. He even had a spirited discussion with Mr. Dixon, about the upcoming football game against Washington, during the trip back to the dorm. Leaving the cab, Chuck hummed a jazz tune as he strolled into Roble Hall. He really was looking forward to the football game the next day. And seeing Sarah, again.
A/N2: Chapter title comes from the song by Billie Holiday. Great song for Miss Maisie's Jazzy Place. Great lyrics, especially for Chuck.
A/N3: Maloney Field is the Stanford soccer field. During football Saturdays, student organizations can rent a space on the field from Stanford Athletics and in return receive a tent, table, and communal grill to use for their tailgate. Stanford students have it rough. Obviously, such activities are suspended during the fall of 2020. More TMI – Prior to 2019 Stanford students had their claimed student sports tickets digitally added to their student id cards. That changed in 2019, in case anyone out there knows about such things.
A/N4: Signal jammers (like the one Chuck has built and uses in this chapter) are illegal. Sound masking devices or systems are fine. A combined device would obviously be illegal due to the signal jamming functionality. Don't try this at home, kids.
A/N4: Makerspace in Roble Hall is a sort of student creative work area. They are all over campus. The ones in the residence halls are reserved for the students living in that hall.
A/N5: Miss Maisie's Jazzy Place is my creation. It is located where the Norge dry cleaners is located, in real life, on California Avenue in Palo Alto, for anyone who knows the area. We need more clubs and less dry cleaners, just saying.
A/N6: Thank you WillieGarvin for your stellar beta-ing of this story. Also, a big thank you to all of you who have offered encouragement and advice.
A/N7: Thanks to everyone reading this for hanging in there with me and this story. If you get a chance, drop me a PM or a review. Let me know what you think. Come back next time for a revelation. Or is it a discovery? Or, possibly, a confirmation?