Making Amends

Fozzie Bear?? Really? Damn Facebook game thing decides what Sesame Street Muppet you're most like, and I get that flippin' guy. Even after the second time. Consumed by my wish to be seen as Kermit, I hopped on my bike, hoping for the appropriate soundtrack. Again, no. But I had to be at my non-Fozzie spot on time, so I was able to bear the disappointment and head off to the coffee shop.

Finding my place and fame as a barista took time, but I was happy to land in that particular shop on the city's eastside. Customers often became my friends, or I, their confidant. The tip jar seemed heftier following especially witty exchanges (I imagine myself, sometimes, as a stand-up comedian). That said, too much down time, especially during mid-day when folks cease to realize the value of coffee in their lives, leads to the true time-suck: Facebook. And its freaking games. Too often I can't even distract myself from that crap with my groovy blues-inspired Spotify.

However, on that quiet Sunday, bored by the droning public radio voice, i decided to stare out the window, rather than at my cellphone. (With this choice, I felt rather more mature than usual.) Of course, I needed to ponder the "why not Kermit??" issue, and started quietly singing, " It's not easy, bein' green..." The old fella who'd insisted on public radio perked up beyond what I thought seemed possible for him, set down his espresso cup. "You are exasperating!" And with that remark, he pulled a little black book from his coat pocket, and tromped over to the counter.

"My dear barista," he intoned, "truly you neither endorse nor appreciate the importance of that little side-kick!" I replied as intelligently as a I could manage, "Um...whut." The gentleman (I was feeling a bit more respectful at this point) took off his pork pie hat, set it on the bar. We both wore classic 'WTF?' facial expressions. I spoke first, "Sir, what are you talking about? Side-kick...?"

Without the hat, he looked even more like Ed Asner, who plays gruff and endearing equally well, and I wasn't certain what type I was facing. In return, he scrutinized my face, likely taking in the extraordinary number of freckles. "My dear, allow me to show you this book." Its well-used soft leather cover enclosed pages with edges frilled by age.

"It's time I explain a few things to you, my dear. As one might assume, I am retired. What is likely unknown, my career was inspired by the generosity of the fellow you openly denigrate, one Fozzie Bear." As I sat down, the stool whined and backed up a bit, perhaps reflecting my feelings.

The old fella took a deep, grumbly breath, and sighed. "Yes, just allow me to proceed with my story. Back in the day, Fozzie Bear acknowledged he was a failure as a comedian, utterly lacking talent as a writer. His personality...well, in today's vernacular, he'd be labeled a "doofus." To save his beloved "Muppet Show" career, he accepted his limitations and quietly hired joke writers. In his rather endearing way, Fozzie decided to pay his writers per laugh..."

I realized I'd been looking sideways for an escape, at the same time wishing I had paper and pen to take notes. "Um, who ARE you...?" He raised one bushy eyebrow, reached into his breast pocket, and handed me a card. "Samuel C. Fletcher... Joke Broker, at your service. You can call me Sammy."

Pouring each of us a glass of water, I settled back to listen to his story. Apparently, while my beloved, elegant Kermit retired to an island somewhere, Fozzie's stardom sky-rocketed, as his feigned comedic talent and remarkable reviews fully engaged the world he inhabited. As for me, aging out of Sesame Street and its scenery, I'd not heard the evolution of the doofus' career. In fact, as Sammy somehow knew, whomever I saw as failed former stars often took the brunt of my jokes. Somehow, Sammy had been paying attention...

Sammy continued, admitting he was one of Fozzie's original writers and, rather talented himself, he was able to earn a substantial amount of money. Sammy sighed again, looking down at the counter. He looked toward the door, then hunched closer to me. "As time went on, I tired of the work, though not the income, and learned I could easily steal jokes written by others, and sell them as my own. So, traveling around to smaller clubs, I was on my way."

I looked toward the door momentarily, glad to see there weren't customers approaching the cafe. Those few scattered around the room remained hunched over their coffee and laptops, but I raised the public radio guy's volume a bit anyway.

"A dozen years ago or so, I discovered other ripe venues: a bar or a countertop served as stages for those gifted with stories and anecdotes clearly amusing to their audiences, as it were. Up and coming comics on real stages were none the wiser, and I sold them 'my' jokes."

I still thought of Fozzie Bear as an idiot, but did find Sammy intriguing, if not unethical. Even so, that he could use "as it were" in a sentence increased my respect for him.

"Now, my years left on this good Earth are few, and I am rather filled with remorse." Sighing again, he announced, "It's time I make amends."

My eyebrows were tired of all of the raising and lowering, my eyes nearly worn out by squinting in quiet questioning. My ears though? Fully open.

"You, my dear, have been quite the lucrative source for me. I've been a regular here for several years. If you did notice my daily presence in the corner there, you did not see this little book." He handed it to me. "There are scores of pages littered with your one-liners, hilarious stories, frank but funny insults of anyone you didn't like--including far too many featuring my old friend Fozzie Bear. Though I ignored those directed at him, I found most worth at least a chuckle, at best, quite the field of laughter in this room. That field was extremely lush for me."

Randomly thumbing through its pages, the book was, indeed, a treasure trove of my own voice. I was amazed, impressed, grateful to see the voice of a comedian in there. Tucked into the back cover, I found an envelope with my name on it. Looking up at Sammy, my eyes held my question. "Um, whut...?"

"You have become, one might say, my Fozzie Bearista. I finally admit that. And as I said, my plan is to make amends, and share the benefit of your work back to you."

In the envelope, a check for $20,000, written out to me. I stood up, sat back down, spun the stool in a circle. "WOW!!" With my shriek, customers glanced up, some fully staring at me. However, having already revealed myself as rather quirky, my Sunday morning regulars quickly returned to their own interests. I stammered, soundlessly leaving my mouth open.

Sammy chuckled. "You? At a loss for words? Perhaps this is the funniest schtick of yours I've ever witnessed."

"Sammy, sir, I don't know how to thank you." Taking my hands in his, he shook his head, saying, "No, my dear, it is you deserving of thanks, me to you. And, thank the stars, you are the last of those to whom I've made amends. Now, I can rest easy, live out my days on the island with Fozzie, and his wife, Bearrah Fawcett. Oh, and when I get there, I'll give Kermit a big hug from you."