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The older Scooter gets, the more not quite he feels. It’s not like he feels wrong, or sordid, or cruel or dirty or evil, just…not quite. Like he isn’t sure of something, like something isn’t sure of him. It’s kind of like trying to push a shopping cart where one of the wheels is the wrong way round, and it jerks and stutters, but it’s too small a thing to be a real bother. It just nags at him. Bothers him in a small, insistent sort of way.
It’s been negligible for a long time, since he was maybe about seventeen, but now, the perpetual nagging is starting to turn into something like an ache, like an itch, and he isn’t sure what to do about it. He wants something—boy, does he ever—but he just can’t figure out what.
Scooter thinks he might be going a little crazy. In fairness, it would probably help him fit in at work.
*
Scooter is speaking with Kermit, and Kermit is in a terribly good mood. Listening intently. Nodding, eyes bright and keen. He gives criticism and compliments with ease, looking over Scooter’s clipboard and back to his face with a calm expression. Scooter finishes, and Kermit lays a hand on his arm.
“Y’know, Scooter, I really do care about you a lot.”
“Uh—“ Scooter blurts, because he wants to say something but his brain has gone a bit fuzzy because that’s his dad—not really—don’t say that!— “You—I—I do, too. To you, I mean.”
Kermit smiles.
“I’ll always care about you, y’know? Even if you want to do something different.”
With that, he pats Scooter’s arm, stands, and walks off to go and speak with Fozzie. Scoter frowns.
Is he meant to be doing something different? Does Kermit want him to stay the same? He has no idea what it means. He just doesn’t know.
*
“—And I was out on this date—“
“With who?”
“What?”
“Who with?” Skeeter audibly pops her gum down the phone line. “Meet someone you like?”
“Yeah, actually. A while ago. Chelsea Handler! You know, the—“
“The comedian? You went out with comedian, talk show host, all-round cougar Chelsea Handler?”
“…Yeah.”
“You went on a date with Chelsea Handler?”
Scooter just said that. He’s getting pretty agitated at having to repeat himself.
“Yes. Why does everyone find this so hard to believe?”
Pepé and Rizzo had had an absolute field day with it, and gone into even greater raptures of delight on learning that when they had agreed to keep their relationship to phone calls, Chelsea had petered off after about two weeks on the road. They had been in hysterics. There’s a reason Scooter’s only telling his sister now.
Skeeter bursts out laughing so loudly Scooter has to pull the phone away from his ear.
“I’ll bet you did. You so would…”
She finally drawls, sounding exasperated, amused and completely sincere. For some reason, that annoys Scooter more than her typical sarcasm.
It’s just not quite right. That’s the consistent feeling.
*
Dreams mean very little, is the most logical conclusion anyone can come to. That’s what Dr. Honeydew says, and he’s one of the smartest guys Scooter knows. The Electric Mayhem are not some of the smartest guys Scooter knows, and they say the exact opposite; Your dreams, like, totally say a lot about your mind, fer sure.
Scooter isn’t sure just who to believe, because sometimes, his dreams seem to have a lot of meaning. Sometimes, they haunt him in the waking world.
*
“—I ran it by Scooter.”
“Which one’s Scooter again?”
Scooter peaks around the doorframe, mildly offended. He’s worked with Miss Piggy for years. But, then again, she’s asking. She’s trying to remember.
“Scooter. Gofer. Uh, big glasses. Orange hair. Used to have that lovely jacket.”
“Ohh, gay Scooter.”
Scooter opens his mouth. He sees Kermit’s face scrunch. Is Kermit—
“There only is one Scooter.”
Oh.
“I hate how he dresses.”
“That’s not very nice, Piggy.”
“I just hate it. Yuck.”
*
Walter has just submitted a sketch, and Scooter’s doing something in it, and Walter is so violently excited he keeps flapping his hands and wiggling at the shoulders. Scooter likes watching him do it, almost like dancing.
“Ah, ok, sorry! Sorry! Put your arm up like this for me?”
Walter reaches up, moves Scooter’s arm into the desired position, feels something like static jolt up and down his hand where Walter’s fingertips brush against his felt.
“Very nice.”
Walter says, and Scooter feels all gooey.
*
“Skeeter, you like girls, don’t you?”
“Best in the business.”
“Does that mean—“
“Yeah. I do. Why?”
Scooter stares at the wall, picking at the edge of his phone case.
“Skeeter, I—I don’t know if I do.”
“Oh.” Her voice softens, but she doesn’t sound surprised. “Ok. You like somebody else?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s okay.”
He can hear Skeeter smiling.
*
“I have lots of things I want to do with you.”
Walter says, smiling gently, bashful. Scooter fidgets with the hem of his shirt, suddenly unsure of what to do with his hands at the thought of Walter, thinking about him, having plans.
“Like—like what?”
“Well,” Walter tilts his head, looking off to the side, eyelashes fluttering—he’s so cute—“You still have your old jacket?”
*
It’s a curious, wonderful thing, to be loved. Scooter is loved, of course, by his mom and his sister and his whole Muppet family, and even, God help him, by Ken. But romantic love is a little bit different, he thinks, a new thing. It’s something that makes him feel like the king of the world when Walter leans up against his shoulder and falls asleep after spending all day at work together. It’s something that makes him feel right.
Scooter wears his jacket. Gets his ear pierced. Buys the old fashioned candy he knows Walter likes because he enjoys how Walter beams at him, the strange appearance of powdered sugar on his little felt hands. Because he likes kissing sugar off his boyfriend’s fingertips. Because he likes Walter, really. Loves him.
And he wants to. That much he’s sure of.