Smithers found himself losing track of time at J. Vernie's. As the afternoon deepened into evening, the number of patrons swelled. He played a few more games of pool against Ellis, then he and Ellis teamed up and played against a woman who called herself "Perth," and her partner Diane.
"Usually we have Drag Night tonight," Ellis explained, "but our resident queen had to go out of town for a business trip. Without her to organize things, well, it would've been a complete disaster." He laughed. "It was easier to put it off till next weekend."
"Drag Night, eh?" Smithers rubbed his chin with exaggerated thoughtfulness.
Ellis pointed a finger and silently mouthed you?"
Smithers held up a hand and shook his head. "Oh no. I'm merely along for the art," he replied coyly.
Perth leaned on her cue stick. "Riiiight," she drawled. "And I only read Playboy for the articles!"
Diane did her best to look aghast, and gave Perth a shove.
Smithers and Ellis laughed.
The game ended when Diane managed a phenomenally lucky shot. "Another game," Ellis asked Smithers.
"No, I think I'm going to go outside and get some fresh air," he replied placing his cue into the rack along the wall. "Great game though," he added, shaking hands with Ellis.
"Hey, my pleasure! Anytime!"
Smithers grabbed his windbreaker, and sidled his way through the crowd out onto the patio. Like Leon had said, there was a beautiful view of the river, with the lights of the George Washington Bridge and NYC glimmering like diamonds against the hazy, lavender sky.
He leaned on the railing and took a deep breath. It felt good to get some fresh air. He wasn't paying attention when he turned around, and collided, literally, with the young man Ellis had referred to as Keith. Smithers' glasses slid off his face and landed somewhere on the patio by his feet. He dropped to his knees and started feeling around where he'd heard them land.
"Oh," yelped Keith, "I'm sorry! Let me get those for you."
Blurrily, Smithers saw Keith grab them from under a table, and hand them over.
"Thanks," said Smithers. He breathed on them, then wiped them against his shirt to clean them.
"I think the frames are kinda bent," Keith admitted apologetically.
"It's not your fault," Smithers replied. "I should've looked where I was going." He slipped his glasses on and adjusted them on the bridge of his nose. They were bent, a bit. Wearable for now, but he'd have to track down a new pair.
"Let me buy you a drink," Keith offered meekly.
Well that's not necessary, Smithers started to say, then quickly shut his mouth. Aww, what the hell. "Well, if you insist."
Keith straightened his polo shirt, tugging it down. "What are you having?"
"I'll take a CliffBoxer."
Keith nodded. "I'll be back," he said, and scurried off.
Smithers flopped down into one of the glass-topped patio tables and regarded the view. The lights of the city reflected off the river. It made him think a bit of Paris. He'd never been there, but in all the movies there was always that scene on the Eiffel tower, looking down at the "City of Lights."
He lifted his glasses off and tried futiley to see if he could bend the frame back. Nope. He decided to quit while he was ahead, and peered through the crowd for Keith.
A few moments later he saw the man's face. Keith was deftly balancing two drinks, and a basket of cheese fries. He set them down on the table, and slid the fries to the middle. "I hope you don't mind, I was hungry," he admitted. "Help yourself."
"Thank you." Smithers did just that.
While he chewed, he took a moment to look over Keith. Keith wore a polo shirt and pressed jeans, with a pair of red Converse "Chucks" sneakers. The man had a youthful, boyish face, framed by shaggy, dirty-blond hair. His eyes were a light brown, inquisitive. He had high cheekbones, and a model's mouth. His hands were slender, suggesting a career in the technical field. Smithers reasoned Keith was probably in his late 20s, possibly younger. It was hard to tell.
"Thanks for the fries," Smithers said as he helped himself to another. He hadn't realized he was hungry, but the delicious combination of grease and salt tasted absolutely delightful against the beer.
"No problem," Keith replied shyly. He met Smithers' eyes, then look away, out over the river.
Smithers realized it would be on him to keep this conversation rolling. He took a sip of his beer, and nodded his head towards the main bar. "I don't think I caught your name," he said. A little white lie, but harmless. "Do you come here often?"
The man bobbed his head, hair bouncing as he did. "Usually once or twice a week, when I can. I'm Keith, by the way, and you are…?"
"Waylon. Waylon Smithers." He held out his hand. "You can call me either, but I prefer 'Waylon.'"
Keith took Smithers' hand almost too delicately. Someone needs to teach you a proper handshake, Smithers thought as he curled his palm around Keith's cool fingers. Poor Keith would never impress anyone with a limp finger-hold like that.
"Nice to meet you, Waylon," said Keith with awkward formality.
Smithers tried to suppress a smirk. "A pleasure, Keith," he replied, every bit as formal. He couldn't maintain a straight face any longer. Smithers snickered, and clapped a hand over his mouth.
Keith's brown wrinkled in confusion. "What," he asked, looking like a worried puppy.
"Nothing," Smithers replied, grinning. "It's just that you're so serious. It makes me smile, that's all." Perhaps it was the alcohol, or perhaps it was Keith's mild manners. Something about him struck Smithers as quite appealing.
"Oh," replied Keith uncertainly. He bobbed his head, a hint of confidence returning. "Okay then."
Smithers snagged another cheese fry, and ate it slowly. "So you work at…" he made an encouraging gesture with his hand.
"Oh," Keith replied, blushing slightly. "I'm in grad school. I'm working on my MBA. I work in the college library, with the IT Department." He grabbed a few un-cheesy fries from the edge of the basket and slowly nibbled on them. "I like it…" his voice trailed off, like he was going to add a formal title at the end.
Smithers ran a hand through his ash-grey hair. "Don't you start calling me 'sir!'" Smithers teased.
Keith blushed. "I wouldn't think of it." The man should never play poker, Smithers thought. He had almost called Smithers 'sir.' Smithers was sure of it.
"Are you from around these parts?" Smithers asked, gesturing towards Plateau City.
Keith made a "sort-of" gesture with his hand. "I'm originally from Schenectady. It's near Albany," he added, recognizing Smithers' blank look. "I moved down here after college. I got myself a loft right off campus. It's small, but it's nice." He looked Smithers up and down.
"You?"
"I'm from Springfield."
"Which one?"
"North Tacoma," Smithers replied. "I grew up there. I worked at a nuclear power plant (I guess technically I still am an employee there). I guess you'd call me an 'administrative assistant.'"
"Like a secretary," Keith asked innocently.
Smithers interlaced his fingers and rested his mouth against his knuckles. How to best explain a job like his. "More like something between 'administrator' and 'indentured servant,'" he remarked dryly.
"Oh." Keith sipped his drink, some mixed tumbler of alcoholic colours. "Did you, uhm… did you like it?"
Smithers shrugged. "I thought I did." He threw his arms wide. "Why, at the time it seemed like the greatest job in the world. But now that I'm here, and moving on professionally, sometimes I'm not even sure why I stayed as long as I did." He brought his hands back, and interlaced his fingers once again.
"What are you doing now?"
"I work as a chief of operations over at the nuclear plant."
"Do you handle radiocative stuff?"
Smithers shrugged. "I've been trained to, but mostly my job involves knowing how to do everything, so I can run such a place if needed."
Keith gave a bashful chuckle. "So you went from doing everything to knowing everything, eh?"
Smithers snickered. "Well, when you put it like that, I guess yes: yes I did."
Keith smiled, looked into Smithers eyes then promptly looked away. "Sounds like a step up to me," he said softly.
"Indeed," murmured Smithers, tenting his fingers decisively.
One of the best things about being Charles Montgomery Burns was the fact that when he said jump, people didn't waste time with stupid questions like "how high." They just hopped-to, and hoped to god their leaps were high enough.
While Burns read on the veranda, in the company of the hounds, reconstruction of the entry into the sealed room was started before mid-day. Evening fell over the east coast and Plateau City, but the sun was just starting to set in Springfield.
The project had almost been completed today. It would be finished Sunday, the contractor assured him. They had to wait for some of the plaster moulding to dry before it could be sanded and painted.
Burns, much as he hated dealing with blue-collar peasants, thanked the man politely enough for his speedy work, and added a mental note to find someone from his plant who could serve as his liaison. Burns simply did not like dealing with 'the help.'
He wished, not without a certain degree of frustration, that he had someone to deliver that message to his employees; and save him the painful selection process. There was that meatbag from Sector 7G. For some reason his face stood out in Burns' mind; but Burns couldn't place his finger on why. He might be a possibility, though some part of his subconscious frantically rebelled against the idea.
Burns snorted in annoyance. He'd sort that out later. Right now, back to focusing on the room!
Smithers had been gone for not quite a month now. Burns had to admit he was a little vague on the actual time. Sad hours seem long, he mused.
All his calls to Smithers had gone unanswered.
Dimas gave him the address to Smithers' hotel apartment.
Burns decided he'd write a letter tomorrow. How were letters sent these days? What was quickest? He still had those racing pigeons. Maybe he'd just drop it on the secretary's desk Monday, and tell her to send it. That seemed easier. Depending on the size of the letter, it might take a lot of pigeons to carry.
Burns' plan was simple enough.
He'd get the room cleaned and prepared. He wouldn't have anything actually removed, he wasn't ready for that, but he'd make sure everything was fresh and ready for when Smithers wanted to come home.
Home. Burns mulled the word over. That was what he thought of the manor as: Smithers' true home. That teeny little apartment was merely a place Smithers stayed when he, Monty Burns, told the man to go away.
Burns slid his chair back and stood up. He took a step away from the table, and stumbled over something at his feet. A high-pitched shriek rent the still air. Oh, damnation! Smithers' dog! He'd completely forgotten how the tiny brute would sleep under his chair.
He crouched down. "Hercules," he cooed anxiously, "come here, boy."
The little grey terrier regarded him guardedly, accusation plainly evident in the dog's shoe-button black eyes.
Burns reached a hand towards the terrier.
Hercules hobbled forward cautiously, holding his little front paw tucked tight against his chest.
Burns held out his hands and Hercules limped into them. As soon as Burns tried to touch the paw, the little dog cried out and tried to wriggle free.
Burns held Hercules clutched in one arm, and buried his face in his free hand.
"No," he muttered. "Not this." He felt his heart drop into his stomach. The limb was clearly broken. Hercules whimpered plaintively, and despite it all, tried to lick Burns' face.
Ordinarily, he would've screamed for Smithers to get on the phone and get a veterinarian over immediately!
Burns didn't even know what the number to the nearest veterinarian was. He tucked Hercules under his arm and ran down to the garage beneath the manor. He snatched a set of keys off the rack, the ones for the Aston Martin – it was the fastest - and carefully buckled Hercules into the passenger seat, being mindful not to bump the terrier's leg.
"Don't worry," he said with a confidence he didn't feel, "we'll get you all fixed up in no time!"
He tore out of the garage, tires squealing, and barreled towards Springfield proper.
"Mister Burns, I understand your concern, but Springfield General Hospital is for people, not animals." Doctor Julius Hibbert was doing his absolute best to address the situation. "Why, that little fellow would be far better off going to the Springfield Animal Hospital," he chuckled nervously.
Burns pulled a revolver from his coat pocket. "That is a place staffed by veterinarians! All well and good for the common animal, but I want the finest doctors! The best treatment money can buy!" He brandished the gun menacingly.
Doctor Hibbert laughed nervously, and pushed the barrel of the revolver away from his chest. "Well, you do make a persuasive argument." He reached for the terrier. "This poor guy looks like he's got a nasty break there. We'll make sure we get him taken care of."
Burns reluctantly let Hibbert take Hercules out of his arms. The doctor carried the small dog back through a pair of double doors, leaving Burns feeling very alone in the middle of the Emergency Ward.
Much as he tried to distract himself with reading magazines, or watching TV, Burns couldn't concentrate. He anxiously paced back and forth in the waiting room, glancing at the clock every few minutes.
The evening lengthened. He paused at the receptionists' desk. "Is there any news yet? Is Hercules going to make it?"
"I'm sorry sir, but we can't reveal medical information without the doctor's permission."
Burns puffed up his chest, and was readying to give the woman a serious ultimatum, Burns-style, when the doors to the surgery ward swung open, and Doctor Hibbert emerged.
"He's recovering nicely," Hibbert remarked with an amiable chuckle. "You can come back and see him if you want."
Burns wrung his hands nervously as he followed Hibbert to the recovery room. Hibbert knocked on the door to a room, then let himself in. Burns followed.
Hercules looked so small, lying in the hospital bed. His right front leg was wrapped in a cast, and he looked fairly groggy. When he saw Burns though, his face perked up. His little tail wagged happily, and he made a hopeful whimper.
Burns knelt down beside the bed, and put his face on Hercules' pillow. "I'm so sorry," he said as he stroked the tiny dog's head. "It was an accident! I never meant to hurt you."
Not caring that Doctor Hibbert was still in the room, Burns leaned over and gently hugged the little terrier. His heart was awash in emotions, ones he couldn't even identify. It wasn't just that he stepped on a dog, this was Smithers' dog! Smithers had left Hercules behind, trusting Burns to take care of him. Burns had failed even that. Alternating waves of relief and guilt broke over him. He put his head next to the terrier's and closed his eyes.
"I'm so… so sorry, he whispered. He didn't even know if he was talking to Hercules or the memory of Smithers anymore. "Please," he said dryly, "forgive me." He felt a single tear, hot and stinging, roll down his cheek. It was followed by several more.
The terrier's little pink tongue licked his face, washing away the tears. Hercules pressed his cold nose against Burns' cheek. The terrier, at least, had forgiven him.
Burns drove Hercules back to the manor, the little dog sleeping quietly on the passenger seat. It was getting late, and Burns felt tired beyond belief. He was glad he hadn't needed to do anything too extreme to get Hercules seen; and the hospital staff handled his unorthodox parking selection graciously. Not everyone, he reflected, would take so kindly to a car driven into the lobby.
He didn't bring Hercules down to the kennel. Instead he carried the sleeping dog upstairs and made a small nest for Hercules at the foot of his bed. Hercules didn't even stir as Burns set him gently down and pulled the blanket over him.
Burns glanced around his bed chamber, and found Bobo, his childhood teddy bear sitting by his nightstand. "You need him more than I do," he whispered to Hercules, tucking his cherished possession in beside the small dog.
Burns climbed into bed. He closed his eyes. I'll empty out the closet for his stuff, Burns thought. Smithers can sort everything out from there. And I'll have a special bed made for Hercules. He can stay in the house from now on. And he can stay with me until Smithers comes home. He yawned, feeling his mind grow dim.
"Good night, Hercules," Burns muttered sleepily. "And good night, Smithers… wherever you are."
His last thoughts were of Smithers. Not Waylon Sr, as they so often had been, but of his Smithers, Waylon Jr. He missed Smithers' voice, his face. Hell, he even missed Smithers' scent! His arms felt empty without Bobo to hold; but Hercules needed the comfort more. He grabbed a pillow, imagined he was snuggled up against Smithers, and let the dreamless sleep of exhaustion take him.
On the other side of the country, Smithers finally made it home to his apartment. He tossed his shirt on the couch as he walked by, and kicked off his jeans. He brushed his teeth and flopped into bed, staring at the ceiling.
Smithers had to admit he'd probably indulged a bit more than he would've normally, but the conversation between him and Keith loosened up as the evening and drinks progressed. Thank goodness for the excellent public transportation system, Smithers thought dizzily.
He and Keith has swapped numbers, with the classic "I'll text you" lines that might, or might not lead anywhere. At the very least, he might've found a friend to explore the area with. Keith hadn't been to NYC in years. They both agreed a boys' night out to the Big Apple might be fun.
When he went to close his tab, Leon gave him a calendar with a list of events for the month. You really should come for drag night, Leon encouraged. It's a great time!
Smithers said he would. He meant it.
On the bus-ride home, Smithers looked at various styles of glasses frames. He could access his prescription online. All he'd have to do is call it in to an optometrist. He might also get his script for contacts filled. He rarely wore them, they made his eyes sting after too long, but it might be nice to have the option of not wearing glasses when he went out.
Usually, his last thoughts before he went to bed were of Mister Burns, but tonight his mind was on other things. It might be early to say, but he felt like this place might be a good fit for him. Perhaps Monday I'll ask Mister Dimas if I can stay on full-time. He lay on his back, feeling the room sway gently, like a hammock. Or, perhaps it was just his head that was swaying. It was rather relaxing.
I wonder what Monty did today, he thought distractedly. Smithers rolled onto his side and tucked his knees up. The bed felt so warm and comfortable. Like a floating cloud. Ah well. Whatever he did today, I'm sure he's not thinking of me, Smithers thought with a self-satisfied yawn. He pulled the covers about his neck, and drifted off to sleep.