Secondhand Burns

Chapter Five

Burns stood in the Springfield Community Center beneath the banner reading "The Greatest Treasure" where the judging for their community art contest was about to commence. On the wall were a half dozen paintings that had made it to the final round, including a waterfall, a child on a swing, a mother dog licking her pups, a close-up of a couple of seeds in someone's hands, a man giving a dollar to a homeless man sitting on the floor of a subway car, and Burns' painting of Smithers looking adoringly and longingly up at him, rose perched between teeth.

Mr. Lombardo cleared his throat and spoke. "Welcome, everyone, to the annual Springfield community art competition. This year's theme: the greatest treasure. The winning artist will get a $1000 dollar cash prize."

Burns tented his fingers anxiously, his eyes darting toward the entrance.

"Will it be: Water Falls Unto Springfield, Swing Low Sweet Child, The Pup Also Rises, Tomorrow Belongs to Seeds, More than Dimes to Spare, or Apple of My Eye?And the winner is..." A woman handed him an envelope containing the judge's votes. "More Than Dimes to Spare!" A young man with long brown hair approached the podium to accept his award. Burns sighed in dejection. At least Waylon wasn't here to see me lose. Although, he would know just the thing to say to console me about not winning that money. Lombardo spoke up again. "While the judges agreed that the winning painting was the best in technical skill and overall composition, they wanted to give recognition to a painting that was particularly evocative. Honorable mention goes to... Apple of My Eye."

Burns' eyes brightened, and he tented his fingers as he approached the podium. "What's the prize for honorable mention?"

"Esteem in the eyes of Springfield's art community," said Lombardo.

"Oh," said Burns, suppressing a pout.

"...And two tickets to a production of Chekhov's The Cherry Orchard at Springfield Dinner Theater, including the cost of two meals."

"Ooh, excellent. I've been wanting to see that one." He took the tickets in hand and turned around to see Smithers running up to him.

"I'm sorry I'm late, but my photo op at the Retirement Castle ran long." He kissed Burns' cheek. "I'm eager to see the painting you entered. You've been so secretive about it. You don't act so cagey even around NRC inspectors."

"It's on the wall there," he said, gesturing to it. Smithers' eyes scanned the paintings until he recognized himself, and his lower lip fell a bit as he gasped at his own endearing visage. As he studied the image, Burns said, "I didn't win the cash prize, but –"

Smithers grasped his wrist to turn him so they were facing and hugged him. "I love it." He ran his hands up and down Burns' shoulders. "We can hang it in our room, next to the painting of you I kept in my old bedroom."

"Tonight, let's go see The Cherry Orchard at the dinner theater. My treat," he said, holding them up and splaying them between his fingers.

Smithers moved his hands from Burns' shoulders to his hands, then said, "I can't wait."

That evening, during the play, whenever Smithers stole a glance at his beloved, he noticed a disquieting tension not befitting someone watching a comedic play. He soothingly stroked the back of his hand, wanting desperately to ask him what was wrong, but he knew his husband would heartily resist revealing any emotional vulnerability in public.

At the end of the play, once they were back in the familiar comfort of the front seats of their limousine, Smithers said, "I couldn't help but notice you didn't even crack a smile at the throwing-the-baby scene. Is anything wrong?"

Burns looked downward, saying, "It just hit a little close to home. I'm not some generous fool frittering money away like Lyubov Ranevskaya. But I know the pain of having to sell my estate."

Smithers hugged him, running one hand up and down along his spine. "Oh, Monty, no wonder you're upset. But we have your estate back now."

"I know. But it's not the same, barren of the memorabilia of the proud legacy of my family."

"I'll let you in on something I was going to surprise you with. I've been tracking down and buying back the things you sold. I already have most of your original dining room set and the portraits of your family. I've kept them in the dungeon."

Burns squeezed him a little harder. "I can always count on you, can't I?"

"As long as I'm breathing."

Burns pushed his face further into Smithers' chest. "Keep doing that."

They held each other for another minute before Smithers kissed the top of his head and gently parted from him so they could go home.

On a television screen in Quimby's mayoral office, as the camera panned across Quimby's secret swimming pool, Smithers narrated: "Quimby funnels your money into his private swimming pools. The only place I'll funnel money into is your futures." Clips played of road construction workers, smiling children, and a clean park, then the screen cut to show Smithers standing in the park with a trash-collecting stick with a candy wrapper impaled upon it. "Hi, I'm Waylon Smithers. Vote for me for mayor and I'll help you build a better Springfield."

Quimby shut the television off in his office and turned to his campaign managers. "That Smithers is killing my chances for re-election. How do we put a stop to this?"

An advisor said, "Well, sir, the problem is that he's running on a platform of dialogue, compromise, and good will."

"That moron. Doesn't he know anything about being a politician?"

"The people of Springfield have been growing increasingly frustrated with the political establishment. And unfortunately, you are entrenched in establishment politics."

"We have got to bring him down to our level, or those stupid hicks might actually vote for him." He smirked. "If he wants dialogue and compromise, then by God, he will have it."

"What do you have in mind?"

Quimby dialed his phone. "Is this, er, Mr. Smithers? … Ah, good. I would like to invite you and Mr. Burns out to dinner with me and the, er, wife. We can discuss how to put aside our petty differences to best serve the interests of Springfield's people. … Let's dine at The Gilded Truffle. How does Saturday night sound? … Yes, seven would be fine. We will see you then." He hung up the phone. "We'll go back to their place after dinner and get it bugged. Get some dirt we can use to really stick it to him."

Smithers hung up his cell phone, then walked up to behind the tall red chair by the fireplace where Burns sat cradling a snifter of brandy in his hand. He put a hand on Burns' shoulder and trailed his fingers back and forth over the soft green fleece of his robe. Burns rolled his eyes and said, "You set up a dinner appointment for us, didn't you?"

"Yes, dear," he said, sheepish.

Accusingly, he said, "Why did you not consult me first?"

Smithers kissed his cheek and said, "You'd never have agreed to come."

"Well, what dissentious rogue are we meeting with this time?"

Smithers pulled an adjacent chair closer and sat beside him. "We're having dinner with Quimby at The Gilded Truffle this Saturday."

"He's up to something."

"You just don't want to go."

"He's looking for a way to screw you."

"Of course he's looking to screw me. But if I turned him down after making such a big deal about dialogue and compromise, it would make me insincere."

"Which would differentiate you from – which politician, then?"

"The whole point of my campaign is that I'm not like other politicians."

"He's plotting something. I guarantee it. You've seen those attack ads he's been running about us polluting Springfield."

"Just wait until you see my latest response ad, where I tell people how I persuaded you to start dumping in Shelbyville. They'll hail us as town heroes."

"Now that Quimby has the plant, perhaps we could undermine his campaign exposing our waste mismanagement by showing he's a hypocrite who dumps waste in Springfield."

"Yes, but he hasn't been dumping the waste. He's been following the laws for storage and disposal of nuclear waste. It's about the only thing he does follow the laws about."

"Why, Waylon, I didn't realize you were so charmingly naive," said Burns. "Whether he is guilty of it is immaterial; what matters is that the public deems him guilty."

"But how can we convince the public he's guilty of it if he isn't?"

"I have a plan. Get him here after dinner, and leave the rest to me."

AUTHOR'S NOTE: It's hard for me to believe it's been just over a year since I've updated this. I don't expect to update frequently from now on, but I don't expect it to take so long before the next update.