Here is the first Furnitures story I wrote. I make no claims as to its possessing even the traces of what others refer to as quality.
One day, Mr. Crimb was trotting quite contentedly around with nowhere really to go and nothing really to do (except trot contentedly around), and he suddenly began to smell something. It was coming from Furnitures' cottage. Sniff!, Sniff!, went Mr. Crimb. His eyes lit up. It was something good! Something yummy! With little lupine leaps of joy, Mr. Crimb started scurrying about, sniffing all the while - making it his goal to seek out the good-smelling yummy something. After much happy investigation, he finally determined that the origin of the odor was Furnitures' bedroom window. But try how he might, Mr. Crimb could not get in. All his jumping up and down by the window was all for naught.
Who should skip by just then, but Phyllis! She was collecting flowers as she always seemed to do with her little basket and her rapacious needs. And Mr. Crimb had an idea! Phyllis could climb through the window and fetch the yummy something! With another person involved to help him get the yummy something, they would be able to share it. That's what cooperation was all about! Mr. Crimb had learned all about the values of "cooperation" weeks ago during the "Who kidnapped Wrongo's imaginary friends?" episode.
Despite this, he had found no use for it. "Cooperation" would not work at all for Mr. Crimb. He wanted the yummy something all to himself. And now with Phyllis skipping by, there appeared to exist some danger he would have to "cooperate". To prevent this, he would have to make sure Phyllis didn't help him. Maybe, the wolfpup thought, she would just walk on by. After all, there were some choice flowers in Furnitures' flowerbed just up ahead on the path. Surely she would be unable to resist them? She had such a penchant for posies and other propagations of plumaged plant-life.
Phyllis ceased her skipping and approached Mr. Crimb, her head tilted inquisitively. It was a rather disheartening first indication for Mr. Crimb that he had underestimated her ability to resist fine flora.
"What are you doing, Mr. Crimb?” Phyllis asked.
Mr. Crimb, who lacked the ability to communicate through his vocal chords (like many of God's creatures), nodded emphatically and >stared at her in a wild-eyed fashion. He tried to make sure he didn't look at the window for fear he would reveal its significance. But he lacked Phyllis's already proven-to-be-considerable willpower - and several times, he found that his eyes still darted quickly towards the yummysomething's source. It wasn't too long before he realized that his odd reaction to her question might provoke further investigation on her part. So Mr. Crimb underwent a rather dramatic demeanor change: he dropped his excessive wild-eyed nodding, and tried to look nonchalant and unsuspicious. This entailed a lot of pacing about, whistling a merry tune, and bobbing his head (he imagined this was how he acted normally). During the proceedings, he kept a wary eye on Phyllis for any signs that his deception was ineffective. He immediately saw that it was.
"My! My! Something's gotten into you, Mr. Crimb! You look positively Suss-picious and very much chalant (in a decidedly -non- sort of way)! And you are clearly attempting to deceive me. Oh, but what lovely flowers lie just yonder over there!"
Phyllis glanced at Furnitures' nearby garden, her attentions broken by the beckoning view of enticing horticulture. Her will, however, as had been established time and time again, was strong, and once more she placed her focus back on the prancing, whistling, bobbing (and deceiving) wolfpup.
Who can blame her?
"Your nose is all atwitter, Mr. Crimb! Why that would be relevant to me is beyond my comprehension, but it just screams to me that I should recognize it."
NO AD LIBBING!
..came the yell of the Director from Off-camera.
Gorget (playing Phyllis) and Mr. Crimb (playing Mr. Crimb) paused in their performances and turned towards the Director.
SAY THE LINES OF THE SCRIPT. DO NOT INTERJECT YOUR OWN COMMENTARY.
Gorget appeared calm. She smiled, a strange, winsome smile. A smile you would need a manual on Fifth Reich Quantum Mechanics written in code from the year 3019 to figure out.
Mr. Crimb, on the other hand, was furious; he was pretty easy to figure out. And now he was free of the confines of his character's nonvocal attribute.
"What?! Whatever could you be thinking, Ronald? She's perfectly entitled to interject her own character's personality into her performance. If that means adding a line or two, so be it! It adds depth to her characterization and will add quality to the final product. This is what ACTing is all about! I applaud her initiative. You should be ashamed, Ronald."
MY NAME IS NOT RONALD.
But Mr. Crimb ignored the Director. His wrath was now focussed on calm Gorget.
"..and YOU!"
Despite now suddenly receiving the prickly end of Crimb's bombastic attentions, Gorget continued to smile.
"How dare you change one single line of this script! You are not the writer! You are an ac-TOR! And not the most experienced one at that, I should mention. You are only here in SERVICE to the Almighty SCRIPT! 'That Which Governs our Performance', as my Great Uncle Fooba used to refer to it in his anecdotal sermons. And think of our audience, Gorget?! What about the children? How would they like it? Having the pom-POSity to assume you can just cleave away at the lines of their favorite non-colour programme. It's unthinkable! And how do you think I feel?! I have no lines at all to say. Nothing in the script for Mr. Crimb! My talent is being WASTED on these ridiculous NODS and WHISTLES. Ohhhh, how I loathe to whistle. You know my mother never whistled to me? Never. Do you know what that does to someone? It TRAUMatizes them. Ohh, mother.. mother! WHY?!"
His monologue of lamentment fully executed, Mr. Crimb broke down and began to sob dramatically.
Gorget was moved by the speech and changed her expression to something a little less approaching a smile (but not any more comprehensible). Out of pity, she attempted to comfort Mr. Crimb. She rested one fragile palm on his huddled and quietly sobbing form.
"There, there, wolf-ie. I'll whistle for you. Here is a whistle for wolfie..."
Gorget took in a large breath -and with the inhalation, lifted her shoulders slightly, stood on her toes, arched her arms back, and finally, quite forcefully and deliberately - contracted her lips into a rounded shape and stood there - paused on the precipice in preparation for exhalation. The resulting sight was unnerving to all who witnessed it. And just as everyone came to terms with such a spectacle, emitting forth from her pursed lips came a noise like a banshee shriek.
"Eurrrrrrrrrrrughhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee."
Later, many of the crew on the set could have sworn they had heard some intelligable words hidden among the shrieking. "Catapult", "Mennonite", "circumnavigathilon" (too many swear to the existence of this latter seemingly nonsensical word to dismiss it) and "pita", just to name a few of the rumored ones.
The whistle-shriek went on for what seemed like a minute, and despite the general consensus that a minute is not a substantial length of time, all present would argue that at least in this case, it was an Epoch.
Mr. Crimb leapt up from his crumpled position, and this resulted in an immediate conclusion to Gorget's "whistling meant to comfort". Any signs he had been sobbing were gone. With much confidence and aplomb, he began to orate to the now raptly attentive audience:
"Don't call me 'wolfie', you madwoman! I am Mr. Crimb to you. And I'll have you know that I am not in fact in the least upset! Feel no pity for me! For your pity would be wasted. I was ACTING! It was DRAMA. Rather, *I* was DRAMA! Ha-HA! Never fear: my mother whistled to me countless times, and I drew much comfort from it. This was all a mere simulacrum. I wanted to give you all a lesson in the dramatic artistry I've attained in the four golden years I've been performing. In the play "Shoot me down, Yeoman", I played a similar helpless rube whose mother never whistled to him. Perhaps my "quickie", as we theaterists call 'a short monologue out of context from a larger more substantial work', was of a benefit to all present. Yes? Good. Then we are ready to continue I'm glad to be of help. Cheers to All!"
Mr. Crimb, oblivious to the silent and bewildered crew around him (and the mysterious now once-more-fully-grinning Gorget), began to assume his previous position on the set as the role of 'prancing, whistling wolfpup curiously possessed with his identical name'. And in no time at all he was poised to prance, bob, and whistle once more.
ACTION! bellowed the director.
And the crew sprang into action. The only entities not moving were Mr. Crimb - already in place to exercise his character's affectations, and Gorget - who simply continued grinning.
Everyone was in position, the cameras were rolling, and now there was not a movement from anyone. Silence descended. A quick glance from the Script Supervisor confirmed that Phyllis had the next line in the script. All eyes rested on her.
Her grin continued unabated. She blinked.
Then suddenly she assumed her character where it had been left off before: lovable eccentric Phyllis, with her flower basket - acutely suspicious of Mr. Crimb's whistling/prancing routine.
The cameras began to roll.
"Your nose is all atwitter, Mr. Crimb! I think you must be smelling something!"
Mr. Crimb (now fully whistling & prancing as the role demanded) shook his head adamantly from side-to-side, implying as a non-verbally communicating animal might - that he did not in fact "smell something", nor was his nose "all atwitter". He hoped also that his adamantly shaking head would disguise his atwittering nose. He didn't think he had a nose all atwitter anyway, but who could tell? Certainly not him - he hadn't looked in a mirror for days, not since that episode where Yetso found a talking treasure chest in a little world behind the reflective surface. Boy, that treasure chest was a meanie! So no mirrors for Mr. Crimb. And thus, he didn't know if he had a nose all atwitter or not. But he vowed to be more careful in the future. That was the problem with not being able to speak, he thought. Your species tries to make up for it by giving you extra-sensory abilities - like equipping you with a better sense of hearing, or better toothbrush techniques, or making your nose go all atwitter at the detection of potential yummy somethings. It was more of a curse, really. Ah well, it couldn't be helped. Best shake the head adamantly, he thought. That'll do the trick!
It always does the trick.
But it didn't this time. Phyllis still saw the nose all atwitter, even through the frenetic head-shaking fog that was meant to hoodwink her.
"You can't fool me, Mr. Crimb. I see that you are indeed smelling something. That reminds me. I can smell too!"
So she sniffed.
"Hmm, I don't smell anything, except for those flowers over there. Oooahhh"
You could tell she was very much drawn to them, but her will was good. She continued.
"But wolfies have excellent taste buds.. and that helps them to hear. And their hearing alerts them to possible food vibrations, also known as 'odors'. And their sense of touch feels the odors through the ground. In short, they can smell real good! And the only thing to get a wolfpup this excited is the smell of a yummysomething!"
Realizing that the cat was out of the bag, Mr. Crimb dropped his beguiling disposition and drooped himself down to the ground, haunches and all, resting his nose there in concession. He felt a little dizzy from all the bobbing, whistling, prancing, and head-shaking. It was some small consolation, he realized, that he could now relax. Oh, the price of deception.
"Hmm.. this window appears to be slightly ajar. That's odd! Could the smell be coming from there?", Phyllis asked.
"I wonder if there are bugs in the wastepaper basket. Lots of flighty little bugs, like butterflies and bees. I once had a pet bee, but he stang me. I stang him back. We had fun. I miss her. Oh, to be a bee."
The Director off-camera, reacting to Gorget's lines, shot a look at the Script Supervisor, who - in response to the Director, glanced down at the script to check, and having confirmed the lines were correct, shot a shrug right back at him, following it up with an incredulous nod. No need to reprove the starlet, his gestures suggested - Gorget was not improvising. She was saying the lines as written. The Director and the Script Supervisor exchanged sympathetic rolls of the eyes and shared furtive glances directed at the Writer (who was currently looking quite pleased with Gorget's enactment of his Bee Speech).
Their mirthful disparagement over the Writer's skill (or lack there-of) distracted them to the point where they failed to notice Gorget ad libbing again, for real this time:
"I like Veronica Salspa. She lives at 476 Newbed St. Her phone number is.."
The Writer, who was not distracted, noticed the ad lib, and immediately shot a concerned look at the Director and Script Writer, who in turn, thinking they'd been caught in the act of deriding him, tried to act like they hadn't been by returning once more to their positions concentrating on the scene.
Flustered and embarrassed, they never realized Gorget's "non-compliance" with the script, because Mr. Crimb (always the adaptable and improvisational thespian) had done so already. He quickly responded to her waywardness by managing to covertly chuck a nearby rock at Gorget's legs as a means to persuade her to stop. It worked, and Gorget, as Phyllis, went back on track speaking the correct lines of the script by the time the Director and Script Supervisor regained enough composure to actually pay attention.
"I really must have a go at this window", Phyllis said. And she started to jump up and down. But just like Mr. Crimb, she was unsuccessful. What neither seemed to realize was - you don't get into windows by jumping up and down a lot.
"Oh fiddley-dee!", said Phyllis, another Gorget ad lib, but no one seemed to mind. "Whatever will we do, Mr. Crimb? We can't get to the yummy something. And I would have given you a bite, too!"
Mr. Crimb sighed. He tried bending his long ears to cover his eyes in disappointment, but realized fairly quickly that his paws could do a better job. They conveyed more pathos.
Was all hope lost for Furnitures' pals? Would no one enjoy the yummy something?
Who should walk by just then, but Yetso the Fiend! He had heard whistling (back when Mr. Crimb was trying (but failing) to appear casual) and had walked over from the Shipyard (that nobody had ever seen) to investigate.
He stopped in front of Mr. Crimb and Phyllis.
"What ho, children!?"
Yetso always called everybody children. He even referred to his ailing great-grandmama as a "juvenile tot".
"What a sad looking fellowship? What's the matter with you lot? Such dejection I have never seen! Can I be of any help? I do say.. Aaarrrr."
The "Aaarrrr" placed so emphatically at the end of Yetso's lines was a contribution of the actor's. Sir Washington Crabula, a published historian, was well aware of the pirates' (one of which he was supposed to be portraying) penchant for saying "Aaarrrr" and "Jolly Good" and "Quite, Quite" and "Rather!". Historical accuracy was always a goal for Sir Wash.
Phyllis (was she supposed to be sad? - it was hard to tell) said:
"Oh Yetso! I think it's good that you came here! Mr. Crimb smelled a yummy something coming from the window, but no amount of jumping up and down a lot is doing any good! I promise to give the bite I promised Mr. Crimb to you, if you will help us."
And Yetso raised his eyes and stroked his chin. His eyes betrayed a glint of amusement.
"Oh-ho, children. That's a belly of a pickle. Indeed. Rath-er! I say.. Aaarrrr. Well, I'll help you. I can see poor Mr. Crimb is need of some cheering up! I am always in pursuit of the augmentation of jocularity in little children, especially *young* wolfpups such as Mr. Crimb here."
There was deep-seated rivalry between Sir Washington Crabula and Mr. Crimb off-stage and outside the show, in real life.. and it sometimes found its way on set during the performances. This was indicated in this case by the particular way Sir Wash emphasized the word "young" to Mr. Crimb.
Mr. Crimb could barely restrain a growl.
But back to what Crabula's character Yetso was saying about wanting to spread good cheer to his friends - it was certainly true. Every tall-tale he told and every song he sung and every jig he danced was all for the deliberate purpose of raising spirits and making merriment, especially in the Youth he saw all around him. Even his great-grandmama had her jocularity augmented. He was just that sort of happy chap. It's a characteristic of most pirates, especially fiendish ones like Yetso.
Yetso continued:
"So we must get to the yummy something inside. We've tried the window. That obviously doesn't work. Have we tried anything else?"
Phyllis shook her head, no. They hadn't. Mr. Crimb did not reply (either because he was upset that he had to share the yummy
something - or due to anger as a result of Sir Washington's ruthless jeer, it was difficult to tell).
"Then I suggest we try something else. Are there any other ways to get inside?"
Phyllis shook her head no. She didn't think so. Mr. Crimb turned to look behind him at nothing in particular, seemingly disinterested in the exchange. Was his action done out of indifference, or contempt?
Who knew?
"How about the front door? You haven't tried that, have you? Ha-ha! I say.. Aaarrrr. Jolly good! That's a kipper of an idea. Children these days are smarter than a dodo bird. I'm glad I don't have to be in school with you. I wouldn't stand a chance!"
And not without a certain amount of coercion, Yetso managed to motivate Phyllis and Mr. Crimb to gather around him in front of
Furnitures' front door.
"Excellent! Now, children, we'll see if your little brilliant plan will work! Let's all take a gander at this doorknob here! Excellent craftsmanship, I must say. Should I turn it? Should I? Should I? Oh-hahahhahaha! What fun!"
Yetso laughed heartily, but he stopped short when he noticed his audience wasn't sharing in the merriment. He hadn't amused them. He'd bemused and possibly 'abused' them! This would not do for Yetso the Fiend, Buccaneer of the High Seas, and Inducer of Jollity and Mirth in even the most somber child. Immediate action must be taken.
"Right, ho! Through the door we go!"
And with a flourish of his cape, Yetso turned the doorknob (the one with the admirable craftsmanship) and swung the door wide open. He took a step to the side (not without a certain amount of pageantry in the action) and gestured for his children to cheerfully (he hoped) march through to retrieve their much-desired yummy something.
They did, though less than cheerfully. Inside Furnitures' room was Furnitures himself, sitting on the floor, his head covered in what looked like honey. It was dripping down to the floor. He looked sad. Sadder maybe even than normally. A shattered ceramic pot lay overturned on the floor nearby.
Everyone broke character and all eyes (even the crew) turned to look at the Director, unsure of what to do. Confusion permeated the air. This was not in the script.
KEEP ROLLING. WORK WITH IT.
..said the Director.
And so Sir Washington Crabula, Mr. Crimb, and Gorget returned once more to their roles and proceeded to attempt improvisation. Mr. Crimb, with little to do but leap around, was the first to take action. He jumped over to Furnitures on the floor and began to lick up the honey.
Yetso said:
"Ummm.. my, my! Ummmm..."
Sir Wash was no extemporizer. The most he could do impromptu acting-wise would be an interjected "Aaarrr". And maybe a "Jolly good" or a "Rather!" - but he said that sort of thing normally in real life, so it wasn't challenging.
Gorget was a little better at this whole thing. Her whole existence was one big spontaneous invention, or series of them. As she prepared to speak, the cast and crew grew nervous. Giving her the opportunity to ad lib was asking for trouble. You don't give a crocodile permission to bite your head off.
Phyllis spoke:
"Yummy Something! Yummy Something! It's here! It's here!"
An almost audible sigh of relief came from everyone, as it became apparent that Gorget's improvisation was still within the limits of the script and human decency.
Phyllis ran towards Furnitures, but instead of directing her attentions on the honey as everyone expected her to, she turned to the pillow on Furnitures' bed. Placing her small hands on it, she clenched it tightly and lifted it so that everyone could see.
Yetso looked at her in confusion. All merriment drained from his face.
Mr. Crimb tried to shake his head adamantly from side to side and gesture to the honey, but she ignored him, and there were no nearby rocks to chuck at her legs.
Furnitures continued looking sad and stared at the floor. Occasionally he'd glance at the overturned ceramic pot, his eyebrows furrowed in a vague sort of bewilderment.
As she held the pillow aloft, Phyllis began to speak.
"Behold the Yummy Something! We've got it! Heeee! Heeeeeeeeeee! And now I will whistle."
Everyone shouted "NOO!!" as she began to assume her elaborate physical positioning conducive to her whistling. Even Mr. Crimb, normally too mature and professional to break character, screamed with his normally-ignored vocal chords to get her to stop.
CUT! CUT! CUT! yelled the Director.
Even Furnitures' looked over at Phyllis with an earnest expression of desire in his eyes for her to desist, his melancholia (brought on by mysterious honey mishaps) forgotten for the moment.
But everyone's protests were to no avail. They all had to endure another round of shrieking. This time, no intelligible words within the noises she made could be agreed upon. Most knew the shriek was coming and had covered their ears, so no one had enough accurate data for any conclusive results. When it was finally over, the Director yelled, "THAT'S A WRAP!" and everyone sauntered off the set into the sunshine.
Nods were exchanged, even some characterized as "emphatic" and "adamant". The mood was cheery and jocular, sentiments inspired by Yetso's antics. Handshakes, back-pats, and even some tips of the hat were executed. It had been another great day's work.
Everyone dispersed and went to their respective places, the dressing rooms and prop closets, the kraft services table and the local bars, and in the case of Gorget, the morgue.
Everyone except Furnitures.
He sat.
Forgotten.
Covered in honey.
Staring at a shattered ceramic pot.
Thinking about the sea.
THE END.
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