Thanks so much! There are, maybe, three or four chapters still to go, I'm not sure yet, but I do aim to finish this story this month! I hope you like this next part! :)
Chapter Four
"Dead fish in the air vent."
"Been done," Paul said over his beer mug. "To us. Four years ago."
"Oh yeah." Carla wrinkled her nose at the memory, then frowned and tapped her pencil against her forehead. "Then, hows about we squirt shaving cream on the bottom of every fancy-pants bottle of wine in Gary's exclusive wine rack?"
"Too simple," Norm said, pushing his empty mug forward for a refill, which Woody efficiently supplied. "Gary's humiliated us too many times."
"Norm's right," Sam said, looking up from slicing lemon twists. "We need a prank with real pizazz, something Gary can't just wipe off with an apron or a dish towel. Something that'll really say: we're the ones that kicked Gary's butt!"
A cheer rang out, and Carla scowled in frustration.
"OK, then," she said, "if you guys are all such experts, why don't you think of something instead of just sitting there shooting down all my ideas!"
"Hey, I offered to go over there and drain Gary's kegs before the big day," Norm said. "I can still go, if—"
"No, no, forget it," Carla said, and heaved a ferocious sigh. "You know, this really stinks, people. Here we are, with St. Patrick's Day just two days away, and we've got bupkis. I'd be embarrassed, if it wasn't all so typical!"
"Well, what about Dr. Crane's idea?" Woody asked.
"If you recall, Woody, the Great Baldini only said he had an idea," Carla snarked. "He never actually told us what it was."
"Yep," Norm said. "He just went in the office, there, with Cliff a couple days ago, then the two of them left and we haven't seen or heard from either of them since."
"Thank goodness," Carla grunted.
"Actually, I'm starting to get a little bit worried," Norm admitted. "I mean, we all saw how Lilith's experimental drugs affected Cliff. I can only imagine what Frasier's psych-talk's doing to the guy."
"Well, why don't you call him? See how he's doing?" Sam suggested, and glanced at his watch. "He should have finished his deliveries by now, right guys?"
Norm seemed to shrug.
"Yeah, I would, Sam," he said, "but it's been so nice and quiet in here lately without him around…"
"True," Carla agreed. "But, how'm I supposed to enjoy this blessed silence knowing we've still got bupkis to pull on Gary and those cretins over at the Olde Towne Tavern?"
"Hey, come on, we've got way more than bupkis, Carla," Sam said.
"Oh yeah?" Carla challenged. "Gimme a for instance."
Sam shook his head.
"Look, we've come up with plenty of ideas over the past couple of weeks. If we haven't come up with the perfect prank yet, it's probably because we're trying too hard."
"What do you mean, Sammy?" Norm asked.
"I'm saying, maybe we need to step back a bit, really look at the big picture," Sam said, wiping his lemony hands on a towel and stepping closer to the group. "See the pranks, not as individual gags, but as part of a team. If some of them seem too simple or too stupid, maybe the thing to do is combine a few, play them off each other. You know, set up a sort of a prank line-up to keep Gary reeling."
"Hey, yeah!" Carla said, starting to brighten. "That's not a bad idea, Sam. We could keep the pranks coming one, after the other, after the other, allowing no pause to let Gary catch his breath. We'll wear him so thin, before long he'll be groveling at our door, begging us to let up on 'im!"
"Well, that sounds good enough in theory," Norm said. "But, a prank barrage like that requires detailed planning, precision timing, intimate insider knowledge…"
"In other words, it's work," Al, one of the bar's older barflies, said snidely. "Which, with this group, means it's not gonna happen!"
"I don't hear you volunteering anything," Norm countered.
Al finished his beer, and straightened his battered brown hat.
"All you do is talk," he said. "But, it takes brains to pull off a decent prank. More than that, it takes gumption. The will to get up, off your butt, and get things done."
"Well, I guess that leaves me out," Norm said. "Pass the beer nuts please, Woody."
Al snorted and shuffled for the door.
"Bunch of weenies," he muttered.
"Yeah? Well, we'll show you," Carla shouted after him. "Come St. Patrick's Day, you'll be talkin' out the other side of your face, old man!"
"Bah!" The barfly waved her words away. "I'll believe it when I see it."
As he headed out, another man walked in: an entirely average Joe in a blue jacket with an easy-going air and an energetic gait.
"Hey there, everybody," he said, striding up to the bar. "I just popped in for a quick respite before heading home to pick up my date. I gotta say, after being on my feet all day, these dogs of mine are barkin' up a storm! Forget the postal dress code: tomorrow, I'm treating these aching arches to some good, comfortable sneakers. It's not like those goons at the main office watch me on my route, anyway, eh?" He laughed. "Could I have a beer here, Woody?"
"Right away, sir," the young bartender said, and the man smiled warmly.
"Eh, nice kid," he said.
"Postal…?" Norm repeated, squinting curiously at the man across the bar until his eyes landed on the postal eagle on his sleeve. He blinked, and squinted again, but the eagle was still there. "Cliffie? Cliff Clavin, is that you?"
"Ah!" the man said happily, taking his beer mug and striding over to claim a stool at Norm's side of the bar. "Trust my best pal, Nahmy, to notice my new haircut! Guy even threw in a mustache trim – no extra charge! Pretty spiffy, no?"
Norm regarded the smiling mailman, leaning back rather warily.
"Yeah, well… Your hair looks…clean," he said.
"It's weird," Carla said, shooting Cliff a similarly suspicious look. "It's not its usual oil slick. Come to think of it, your face looks different too. It's a lot less shiny. What happened, Cliffie, you finally find the soap?"
"Dear Carla, such a kidder!" Cliff said, and chuckled. He took a sip of his beer, then said, "But, yeah, Carolyn's been sayin' I should take better care of myself. You know, watch what I eat, pay more attention to my appearance. Make an appointment with the dentist. That sorta thing. And, she's right."
"Carolyn?" Norm queried. "You don't mean…the woman from your building? The one you've been pining over for the last few months?"
"Yeah, that's her," Cliff said. "And I can't imagine what I was so afraid of. I mean, once you actually get up and talk to her, she's really a very, eh, a very sweet person."
He smiled again, and his pale cheeks took on a happy flush.
Norm shifted uncomfortably on his bar stool.
"Wait, Cliff..." Sam stepped closer. "Are you telling me you've talked to this woman? As in, actually sat down and shared a conversation?"
"Well, sure, Sammy," Cliff said. "We talked for hours the other night, down by the pool. Had a few laughs… She told me about her work and her family, I told her about Ma and the service, and about how I'd been watching out for her the past few weeks, hoping she'd, eh, spare a glance my way… Funny, but, uh, she said she'd never noticed me there before then."
He shook his head, seeming a little puzzled.
"I don't know what it is," he said, "but the last few years or so, I guess I've sorta been letting myself slide a bit. I guess, maybe I sorta figured nobody looks at me anyway, so, eh, what's the point, you know? But, now I see, I had it all backwards. Before I can expect a woman to like me, I have to be able to look in the mirror and take some pride in that man I see staring back."
Carla stared, her expression slightly twisted.
"Surely you don't mean Cliff Clavin," she said.
"Yeah, that's the fella," he said. "Clifford C. Clavin, Jr., proud member of our United States Postal Service. I've got my youth, my health, a pride-worthy U.S. government job with a pension... Good friends... And now, I'm starting to think that, maybe, I've finally found a lovely, caring woman I can share it with. A woman my own age, who honestly thinks ol' Clifford C. is worth her time and, uh, perhaps even her affection. I know this, because she told me herself when I called her last night, and she consented to be my date this evening."
He smiled around the room.
"What a great life, huh guys? Yeah, I think I must be the luckiest guy on Earth. Here's to Carolyn."
He raised his mug in a toast, which the rest of the bar somewhat uncertainly returned, took a long swallow, then set his mug down and stood.
"Hey, I, uh, I gotta head out, but I'll be back later. I'm taking Carolyn out to dinner at Melville's tonight, but I've been telling her all about you good people and she's pretty eager to meet you all. So, see you around, uh, seven-ish, seven-thirty..."
"Wait, Cliff!" Norm said, as the mailman started to stride away. He gestured to the half-empty mug he'd left behind. "Aren't you going to finish your beer?"
Cliff laughed.
"Nah. In fact, I think I'll be ordering half-pints from now on. I'm, uh, planning to shrink the ol' waistline back down to regulation width," he said, and slapped his stomach. "Look good, feel good, that's my motto now. Well, see you later!"
It wasn't until the door closed that Carla's gaping mouth followed suit. She shivered and rubbed her arms.
"Ergh!" she said. "What was that? Please say I'm not the only one who feels totally weirded out by that…that…unearthly apparition we just saw!"
"No, I'm with you, Carla," Norm said. "Who was that strange man, and what has he done with our Cliffie?"
"More like, what's Frasier done?" Carla said. "I always said this head-shrinking stuff was dangerous, and now we've seen the living proof! Frasier hasn't just shrunk Cliff's head, he's cracked it!"
"Hey, wait, come on," Sam said, pouring gin and dry vermouth into an ice-filled tumbler. "Now, it looked to me like Cliff was actually feeling good about himself for once. Really good. If that's true, then Frasier's obviously done a good job."
"Listen, Sammy," Carla said, leaning over the bar. "You can't cure all the ills that are Clavin with a few hours of talk therapy. I'm telling you, there's something spooky going on here, and that egg-head shrink is behind it! You heard the way he and that Wednesday Addams chick he married were fighting over Cliff! If you ask me, those two shrinks did something to his screwball brain, something unnatural, and it's only a matter of time before it snaps back - worse than ever!"
"That sounds pretty nuts, Carla, even for you," Sam said, giving the tumbler a good shaking. "But, if it'll make you feel any better, Frasier'll be stopping in later this evening and we can ask him about it then. OK?"
"Good idea, Sam," Norm said. "Let's ask him about that prank idea too."
Carla sighed through her teeth and gave her goosebumped arms another rub.
"Oh, fine," she said. "But I just can't get that creepy movie out of my head. You know, the one with the pods that snatch people and replace them with alien copies?"
Norm snorted into his beer.
"Are you saying you think Cliffie is a pod person?"
"Hey," she said, "if the sneakers fit! I ask you, would the real Cliff Clavin ever go against any official post office dress code?"
"Eh, maybe, maybe not," Norm said. "To tell you the truth, I'm more curious about this Carolyn woman."
"Yeah, you're right," Carla said. "We've gotta warn her the moment she gets in."
"Warn her about what?" Sam said jokingly, pouring out four martinis, garnishing each with a lemon twist, and placing them on Carla's waiting tray. "That she's dating a pod person from outer space?"
"Worse!" Carla said, taking the tray. "That she's dating a Clavin! That should be enough to scare any woman!"
To Be Continued...
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