Blazing Addles

Morning sun filtered in through the slats of the horizontal blinds. Denny tried to sit before he remembered that he shouldn't, and pain shot through his ass all over again. His eyes flew open to see that Alan's recliner was empty, the hospital issue blanket rumpled in a wad.

"Alan?" he wrenched his neck to check the bed behind him, memories of Nimmo Bay foremost in his mind.

"Guess again."

His neck whipped towards the doorway. Shirley stood there bathed in the soft glow of early light. Now he was no longer in Nimmo Bay but Morningwood Court, and as his hand went between his legs—just to check if needed—he wondered if he was dreaming.

Not likely. She had all her clothes on, she wasn't talking dirty, and there was nary a whip in sight.

"Shirley! You came!" Denny struggled to prop himself up on an elbow.

Shirley's pumps clipped across the tile. "Yes. I thought, in case you didn't pull through, you should see what that expression looked like once."

"You can't fool me, Shirley; you're not an Academy Award winning actress. That night after the Fourth of July picnic—the fireworks—that was the real thing that I saw and heard."

"Number one: that night after the picnic, that was gas that you saw and heard. Number two: I might not have an Oscar, but at least I don't have to claim a Razzie or two under my professional belt. And number three: as for what I do have under my belt, well, let's just say every day is Independence Day for Schmidt." She set a potted plant on the window sill—purple pansies—moved the blanket and sat down in Alan's chair.

"Then why did you bring me flowers?"

"I didn't. They're from Chuck in word processing. He says, 'Get well soon.'"

"Come on, Shirley." Denny fluffed the pillow and patted it in invitation. "For old time's sake. It'll be fun. Look, they've given me a little thingie to make the bed go up and down." Denny pressed a button on a console, and with a whirr, both the head and the foot of the bed began to angle up.

"And if that button could make your little thingie go up at will, your suggestion might be worth my while. As it is, I have a dinner meeting in twelve hours, so I don't have the time to spend stroking your…ego, and other affiliated accoutrements."

"Shirley, I know you; you're just saying that. Admit it: I had you scared."

"Perpetually, Denny. Perpetually."

"Psychologists say that fear and sexual arousal are the same response expressed differently based on contexts. So, given your druthers, which one would you rather…experience?" Denny held out his arms.

"Psychologists also say that men who smoke giant, putrid cigars to completion would like to fellate engorged phalluses to their heady culmination. Since we're playing Sigmund Says, you tell me: which one would you rather…experience?"

Denny chuckled. "Aw, Shirley, you always knew I like 'em feisty. Lock the door. Call the nurse if you want. I know you like to have another woman to order around. And she's just your type: she wants to have sex with me too."

The best thing about Denny was that he actually seemed to believe every ludicrous thing he said. And somehow he managed to make them come true, need be.

Shirley sauntered over to his bedside. She dropped her voice to a sultry tone and heaved her bosom in the direction of his face. "There's no need to call the nurse," she purred into his ear. "We don't need her."

"We don't?" The elevation of Morningwood Court was increasing by the second.

Shirley reached for his hand and Denny sucked in his breath. "Go easy on me, Shirl. I've lost a lot of blood; I could faint."

"Mm." Shirley caressed his hand with two fingers, then slipped them under the bands that wrapped his wrist. "See, this is why we don't need that silly nurse. The nice thing about hospitals is that if you forget who you are, where you are, or which room you belong in—voila! It's all right here. No need to ask. Isn't that great? We should start something like this for you at the office. Maybe with a GPS so that the postman could return you if—no, make that when—you get lost at lunchtime."

Her fingers went to the second band. "Look, it even has your blood type, useful for the next occasion on which you forget how to handle a gun."

"Not useful. Denny Crane: A+. Who would expect anything else?"

Despite herself , Shirley laughed. That hadn't been at all the effect that she'd been going for, but easier to patent a sunbeam than to try to funnel Denny Crane.

Denny slid over, and Shirley sat down beside him on the edge of the bed. She tried to let go of his hand but he held hers lightly. She waited for the next inappropriate remark. And waited. And waited.

Was that water she heard running in the bathroom? Shirley glanced over to the closed door.

"So." Oddly, it was Denny who was not laughing now. "For the sake of argument, working on the unlikely theory that you aren't here to have sex with me, what are you here for?"

"Can't I visit a sick friend?"

"I've been sick before now."

"Maybe I hadn't noticed."

"How's your father?"

She looked at the floor. "The same. And 'the same' for him means worse than last time I saw him."

"I know."

Of course he knew. Trial lawyers don't ask questions they don't know the answers to. It's much too dangerous. She had to remember not to underestimate him. Sick…or not, he was still Denny Crane.

"That's all Alzheimer's ever means."

Shirley cleared her throat. What had he asked and why? "Alan tells me you were very helpful with the Holman case."

"Did he? Well, Alan tells me that you and Paul want me out. So tell me again, Shirley. If it's not for sex, why are you here? Either tell me the truth, or take off your pants. Personally, I'm hoping for the pants. Truth is overrated. That's why I became a lawyer."

Shirley pursed her lips and considered. "I am going to tell you a secret, Denny, and if you repeat it, I will go out in the hallway, grab the biggest orderly I can find and have him draw a pint of blood out through your penis every hour and contribute them all to the Obama for President Charity Blood Drive.

"The rumor mill holds that I came back to Boston because Paul told me that the firm was in trouble. That isn't true; I came back because you were in trouble."

"I know." Denny sounded unconcerned.

Shirley rolled her eyes. "Yes. I assumed that there was room for no other conclusion within that bloated ego structure of yours. That isn't the secret. What you don't know—at least I pray to God you don't know judging by the way you treat the man—is that Paul never told me that the firm was in trouble; he told me that you were."

Denny did a double-take. Even now, it was very seldom that he was truly caught unawares. Shirley was one of the very few who could tell the difference between that and Denny just being…Denny.

But the occasions were becoming more frequent. She decided to keep that knowledge to herself.

She didn't think Paul deserved the satisfaction of knowing he had won, so she decided to keep that to herself, too.

"Every single person in that office adores you, Denny. Especially Chuck in word processing. And yes, despite the posturing and bluster, you are quite right: in a very real way you are the firm—or at least a controlling interest therein. If you aren't okay, then the firm isn't okay. If you're going to be an active part of Crane, Poole and Schmidt, then we need you to be okay. Or at least to do a better job of acting okay than you have been. Can you do that?"

Denny shrugged vacantly. "Easy. I have an Oscar."

"Don't start, or I'll invite you up to compare Emmys, and I don't think you'll like where that leads."

Shirley dropped his hand and rose up from the bed. She paced aimlessly around the room. "I'll be keeping an eye on you. I need you to be okay, and I'm Schmidt."

That had been water running in the bathroom, but now the sound had stopped.

Shirley's tone brightened. "So, Alan says he wants you—"

Denny waved her off. "Alan's a weirdo. Don't mind him; it has nothing to do with you and me. Two men don't have to be gay to love each other." His eyes widened. "Is that why you wouldn't take your pants off?"

"—wants you to take a deposition with him this afternoon." Shirley made a tiny sobbing sound. Not everything that could be done in this world was worth doing, and sometimes she wondered why she tried.

"Are you sure you're up to this?" Shirley asked.

"Take off your pants, and I'll show you what I'm up to."

Shirley put palms on the edge of the mattress and leaned over into his face. "Do you have any idea what the case is about?"

"Of course; it's the one where I slept with the client. The pantie one."

"Ah! Now that is the quintessential Denny Crane response: clarifies and reassures to exactly the same degree. And they were afraid that surgery might have changed something crucial. Those fools!"

Denny grabbed her shoulders. "Shirley, trust me. Have I ever let you down?" In that moment, he looked deep into her eyes just the way the old Denny would have done.

"Only in bed." But it took a lot more effort than usual to summon the automatic joke.

"That was a long time ago; here's your chance to see if anything's changed." He patted the mattress, and everything was back the way it should be again.

"No thanks," she said softly. "I believe you."

Denny cleared his throat. "You know, there is one thing you could do to help…our case. How about a kiss to make it better?"

"A kiss?"

"Sure. Your lips used to be able to work miracles with my body."

"Those were very tiny miracles."

"Give it a try." Denny flipped up his gown. "What've you got to lose?"

"My breakfast?"

"Shirley, mad cow. I need to collect all the memories today that I can."

Shirley's eyes darted to where the bathroom door had opened behind Denny's back. "All right, but close your eyes. It helps the magic fairy dust." She puckered up and exercised her lips in preparation.

Denny squeezed tight, and a feather-soft mouth brushed against his buttock cheek. He groaned, and lips nibbled delicately around the wound, stinging just enough to make him feel it, but gently enough to let him know they cared.

"Say, it. Say it, please," Denny clutched the pillow to his chest. He mouthed his own name into the foam.

"Denny Crane." It wasn't Shirley, but Alan's modulated that voice pronounced the words.

"Wha?" Denny jerked away.

Alan straightened in his a bathroom towel—a rather small hospital issue bathroom towel—and nothing else but a little mousse and steam. "Ah, look! It worked. With one kiss your…vitality has come screeching back." He nodded to Denny's groin.

"That doesn't count!" Denny blustered in dismay. "I was thinking of a girl!"

"The battle cry of many a married man picked up on the fens on a Saturday night," said Alan.

"What are you doing here anyway?" Denny asked.

"I live here. Don't you remember?" Alan gestured around the room. "His and his towels, hospital corners, tiny cakes of antiseptic soap, overhead pages just as one is nodding off, and 9PM bowls of Jello in two different flavors that both taste the same." He noticed the pansies and fondled a petal. "Pretty. Chuck?"

"Mm. Yeah," Denny grunted. "I hope I don't have to break his heart him."

Shirley blew out a breath. "Actually, you're both going to have to make other arrangements for your Jello and floral appreciation seminars. You've been discharged. Apparently the nursing staff expedited the arrangements—gee, I wonder why. That's why I'm here. I thought I'd give you a lift. No, that's not true either. Some woman named Pamela called and said there was $200 in it for me if I had you both out of here before her shift starts at 8:00."

"She wants me," Denny intimated to her. "I drive her crazy. Can't do anything else while I'm around."

"I'm sure that was the subtext; only my poor cell connection prevented me from picking up the subtle cues in her voice." Shirley tossed her head toward the door. "Get dressed. My car's waiting downstairs."

"We did have this covered, Shirley," said Alan with a cold and fishy stare. "I have my car. It has wheels, gasoline—all the requisites. I see no reason it is not as useable as yours—aside from not being, if you will pardon the pun which I do not find at all humorous, a vehicle in the employ of Crane, Poole and Schmidt."

"I have more room. Including a rear seat. Considering the location of Denny's injury, I thought it would be a more comfortable ride than your Viper."

"But it's a chick magnet," Denny protested. "We were going to pick up women on the way."

"You can't pick up women the day after surgery," Shirley said.

"Sure I can. I asked for heavy duty stitches. Told him I had a lot of sex. Is that why you wouldn't take off your pants? Gotcha covered. The only thing that'll split open will be your legs. Let's go. Alan won't mind. We settled that; I sat on his head." Denny motored the foot of the bed up and down in little jerks.

"Thank you, Shirley, for your concern, but I have made certain considerations for the situation." Alan picked up a pink furred donut cushion from the nursing supply area. "Your vehicular services will not be required. You may leave. Alone."

Shirley drew herself up. "Alan, since you and your inadequate linen have probably spent a less than restful night, partially at my request, I am going to deliberately overlook your tone. But I will remind you that because I am Schmidt, of Crane, Poole, and—oh, yes—Schmidt, I am your boss, and I do make the rules."

"It need not remain that way." He challenged her with unblinking eyes.

Brow furrowed, Denny looked between the both of them.

"You don't trust me?" Shirley asked.

"Last we were in the same room was at a certain meeting to which I was pointedly not invited. I have to wonder, what other meetings have occurred in the interim while I was conveniently—for you—here and not there," Alan said.

Shirley grabbed his wrist and pulled him farther from the bed. She spoke in a harsh whisper. "Alan, I am sorry. I do realize that for forty years your entire world view has been predicated on the presumption that everyone you meet is either dead set against you or willing to bed you, and that the fact that I am neither must be deeply unsettling. Nonetheless it is true. I am here because my car is bigger than yours. If you wish to turn that into a bathroom contest, feel free. Considering that your performance is tied to a forty-three year old prostate and mine is not, it's likely I can win with either criteria. But that's the only reason I'm here. Nothing nefarious. Catching you in—or partly in—a towel has been only a fringe benefit. Word of honor." She made a Boy Scout sign.

"If I were here to do any one ill, you would not have to cast about for suspicion, innuendo and suggestion. You would know immediately," Shirley said.

The towel slipped a little more.

Alan bowed his head, but did not adjust his wrap. He put his left hand to his breast. "I can and I do. And in that case, Shirley, with our relations restored to their former state, may I say that you are looking a wee bit under the weather yourself? Perhaps a kiss to make it better. As you may have seen testament, my skills are—" He gestured to Denny's lap. "Monumental."

"Ha! Down, tiger. They don't bottle enough mouthwash to compensate for where those lips have been."

"Hey! My ass has been surgically scrubbed," said Denny.

"In that case, all my other body parts are available for your perusal." Alan put his hand to where the fold of his towel was gradually coming undone.

Shirley looked at her watch. "Tell you boys what. If you're down in the car with all your body parts, monuments, stitches and pansies inside the next twelve minutes, I'll split that $200 bucks with you."

"Oh!" Denny hopped out of bed. He grimaced as his bad leg took weight.

Alan dropped the towel in a heap and picked up his briefcase. "Ready."

"Alan!"

"What?" He turned to her in perplexity.

"Clothed," said Shirley.

Alan heaved a melodramatic sigh. "You might have included that in the initial oral agreement. Sometimes it's hard to believe that you're a lawyer."

Denny stood at the window plucking at his pansies. "He loves me; he loves me not…."

He looked over at Alan and tossed the final petal down on the sill. "He loves me."