Disclaimers in part 1
______

"It was the kind of desperate, headlong, adolescent calf love that he should have experienced years ago and got over."

~~Agatha Christie -- Remembered Death~~
______

FRIDAY, APRIL 2, 2000
SIERRA CLUB OFFICES
8:30 A.M.

FROHIKE:

Getting Langly out of bed this morning was a chore. Then again, getting myself out of bed this morning was a chore too. We arrive at the appointed hour only to discover that we look no worse than our competition, who also apparently spent their night out getting plastered after yesterday's events. The equipment has been set up for our video tutorial session, we've received confirmation that the regional offices have received their FedEx packages with our software, and Langly and I have worked up the slide show with screen shots and instructions to illustrate the problems and their solutions. One tech is focusing the video camera as I sit behind a table. Langly looks up. "Hey, wait a minute. That's a camera!"

I roll my eyes. "No shit, Sherlock. What did you think a video conference was? Morse code on a telegraph line?"

He looks frantic. "No way, dude! You know I have a philosophical problem with having my image bounced off a satellite." He waves his hands in front of his face and leaps from his seat as though he'd been sitting on hot coals. "Ain't gonna do it!"

"So how the hell do you plan on holding up your end of this conference?" The tech and the assembled drones are staring at us now, and Langly's standing behind the tech, behind the camera.

"I'll do it from here, man."

"Yeah, and how am I supposed to tape you from there?" the tech asks.

"You aren't!"

"What about the stuff you're putting up on the whiteboard?" I ask.

"Just the whiteboard, dude! No pictures of me! None, none, none!"

The tech groans and shakes his head. "This is gonna be a long day," he mutters. By now, half the room is starting to snicker. At least they'll be entertained. I sigh and shuffle my notes. I remember trying to get him to cooperate when we had to talk to Mulder this way, some case about invisible elephants and alien zoo animal abductions. Byers and I ended up doing it all ourselves. Once we get started, things smooth out, but the only part of Langly that's preserved for posterity during this performance is his right hand, as he waves papers in front of the camera, scribbles on the whiteboard, and talks from off screen. We do manage to get our tutorial done, but it seemed to be far more entertaining than anyone expected, and certainly more than we intended.

Through the whole thing, Langly is whining about how soon we'll be done, and when can he get out of here. I try to make him keep it to a minimum while we're actually being taped, but as soon as the camera is off for breaks, he's frantic about what exact minute it is, and when Deb should be arriving. "Dude, she's not going to get here any faster by you whining about it. And she's not going to arrive within ten seconds of the time she predicted, either. You have to take traffic and the weather and whether she has to stop for gas, and whether she's going to be sensible and stop for some sleep first into account as well. I know you want to see her, but she really shouldn't be driving if she's been awake for days already. You do want her to arrive in one piece, don't you?"

"Of course I do, and she's gonna be fine. Don't you even suggest that she might get hurt on the way here. Don't jinx it, man!" He looks like he's about to strangle me. Naturally, I would never wish his lady friend any harm, I just want him to remember that things don't always happen as anticipated, nor on an exact schedule. This is going to be one long, annoying morning.

LONE GUNMEN HQ
2:30 P.M.

BYERS:

I've already been up a while when the guys come back. I'm not going anywhere, so I'm not in a suit, but I did slip into my best pair of jeans and my favorite Irish wool sweater. We'll be having a lady guest later in the day, and I don't think I'd make the most positive impression lying around in my pajamas and bathrobe. More than that, though, I feel energized again. I don't feel like lying around doing nothing anymore. I got up, made my tea, and turned on the news. I'm more or less able to identify my eye medications by the colors on the labels now, and although it's difficult, I manage to do it myself today without getting too much of it all over my face. I'm listening to some panel discussion about gun control, pumped with a lot of passion but very little in the way of facts, when the guys finally stagger in. Frohike looks like something a starving alley cat would reject as too disgusting to eat. "How'd the tutorial go?" I ask him. His response is to snort, roll his eyes, and point to an exhausted, bedraggled Langly trailing him.

"It would have been fine if someone didn't divide his time between whining about being taped, and whining about being late for his lust object's arrival," he snaps, giving Langly the look parents use on children who've misbehaved on a family trip. Langly, of course, is not in the least chastened.

"She's not a 'lust object,' you pervert! And you know how I feel about my image being bounced off a satellite!"

"Langly, we're getting a nice chunk of change from this. The least they expect from us is to do our jobs!" Frohike yells at him.

"Hey, I was holding up my end!" Weariness, tension, and an excess of sake last night have taken their toll. Both of them seem about ready to murder each other.

Frohike groans in disgust. "I'm taking a nap." He turns to me. "If you feel like killing him, be my guest. In this case, I won't mind if you don't wait for me." He stomps off to his room and slams the door. It's likely the only sound we'll hear from him for a few hours will be snoring.

"What a prick," Langly mutters as he tosses his heavy, hung over body on the sofa. "You make any lunch, dude?"

"Do I look like the chief cook and bottle washer around here?" I demand.

"Well, matter of fact..."

"Listen, I'll make something easy if you clean up the kitchen."

"Whoa, whoa man, I just cleaned it!"

"Right. Two days ago. It needs to be done again."

"What do you mean, again?"

"Langly, I'm sorry to report that housework isn't a one-shot deal."

"So like, how often do you have to do it?"

I would burst out laughing if he wasn't so pathetic. "What the hell do you think I've been doing around here every Saturday morning for the past eleven years?"

He has to think about that one. "Well, I know you don't sleep as late as me and Frohike. I kinda thought you watched cartoons."

"I attempt to keep this place marginally habitable, no thanks to you." He just looks puzzled. "Sorry, Langly. Housework is only like sex in that once is not enough. By the way, you got a package from Nordstrom's. I see you're trying to fool your girlfriend into thinking you have some class. Too bad she's about to find out otherwise."

"Fuck you, Byers."

"So let's see what you got."

"Don't feel like it. I'm tired. I'm hungry. I want Deb to get here."

"What time are you expecting her?"

"Around four. She got off at one."

"Three hours is under average traffic conditions. Just remember that she's got to get over the Delaware River Bridge on a Friday afternoon. Last time I checked, that hardly qualified as average driving conditions."

"You and Doohickey, man, you're both a real pain in the ass, you know that? She's gonna be here on time, she has to."

"So are you going to clean the kitchen, or are we both going to starve?" I lean back against the wall with my arms crossed in front of me. I hear him muttering some scatological suggestions as he makes his way into the kitchen. Instead of being affronted, I'm amused. He's in a positively foul frame of mind. Well, for the past few weeks, I've been taking it on the chin about Sari from him and Frohike. I haven't breathed a single negative syllable about his loud, adolescent lusting after Dr. SaintJohn. But while Langly was pouring it on, he forgot one small thing: payback is a bitch. And guess what, Ringo? It's payback time.

"All right, I did it again," Langly sulks. "You gonna make lunch now?"

"While I'm doing that, it might be a good time for you to pick up around here." My vision isn't blurred enough that I can't see Langly's expression. It's one of complete disbelief and confusion.

"You mean it's not just the kitchen you have to do over?"

"You have to do it *all*, Ringo."

"But we don't have that many empties lying around, and we still got coffee mugs. Why should we wash mugs while we still have some?"

I smirk. I'm being unkind and I know it. I'm going to enjoy being an enfant terrible this afternoon. After all, Langly gets away with it enough. "You don't want Dr. SaintJohn thinking you're a complete slob, do you? At least not right when she arrives."

"Jesus fuck," he groans audibly, but he grabs a trash bag and begins to fill it. He'll be amazed at how full it actually gets. Two days can be a long time in the world of housework.

I prepare us a sumptuous feast of tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches. As is his habit, Langly dumps roughly half a bag of Goldfish crackers into the red broth. For some reason, I've always been bothered by the idea of yellow fish swimming  in a sea of red soup. Usually I don't say anything. Today, however, I don't have to follow the usual rules. "Little kids eat their soup like that," I badger him, trying not to smile.

"Fuck you, Byers." This is a phrase I'll hear over and over again today, I'm sure.

"Dr. SaintJohn might be less than impressed."

"She likes the same stuff I do." So much for the myth that doctors have any knowledge of nutrition. Or if they do, that they would consider practicing it.

"Speaking of which, what are you going to feed her while she's here?"

Another confused look. "Feed her?"

"Yes, what are you doing about food?"

"Uh... umm... well, I figured we'd go out, or we can hit the 7-11 if we get an attack of the munchies."

"I'm guessing you weren't planning on cooking." I know damn well Langly can't cook to save his life. "Well, at least she'll live longer that way."

"Byers, you been in lockdown way too long, you know that? You need a fucking hobby." He rises from the table. "I'm done here."

"Forget it, Langly. You are my hobby. And aren't you forgetting something?"

Ringo sticks his tongue out at me. "I ate all my lunch."

"The dishes, Blondie. You have to wash the dishes." I cover my mouth to conceal my amusement as I return to the TV room, leaving him with the mess. Maybe I'll be a little more appreciated after this... Nah. Never happen. I have a wonderful time nagging Langly half to death as the afternoon passes. He's muttering and sputtering, but at least it's keeping him occupied -- and me. I'm having considerably more fun than I expected.

He finally opens the bounty from Nordstrom's. "Whoa, nice stuff. Get a load of this, Byers. Even you'd approve."

I hold the package close to my face and use my one serviceable eye. "310 thread count, very nice. Good color, too." Sari, or more likely her personal shopper, chose a slate blue. He's ripping open a package of towels.

"Wow, get a load of these. They're huge." He's unfurling a bath sheet. "Man, put one of these on Fro, he'd have to wear it like a toga." The image of Frohike in a bath towel toga was not one I needed. "I'm gonna go put these sheets on my bed."

"Langly, you have to wash them first. The towels, too."

"But they're clean. Nobody's ever used 'em."

"They put sizing in them to help them maintain their color and form until you get them home. They'll be a lot softer if you wash them first."

"Oh, like she's gonna care. She sleeps on those horrible gurneys when she's tired. Not exactly my idea of a comfy bed."

"You want her to be impressed, don't you?" I love taunting him. It makes the time go by so pleasantly. My afternoon's been almost bucolic.

"But, it's almost time she'll be here!"

"Fine. Let her think you're a clueless bachelor."

"I am a clueless bachelor."

"That doesn't exactly require further advertisement, does it?"

"But what if she gets here and I'm at the laundromat?"

"Then she'll wait. Unless she develops some extraordinary common sense in the meantime."

He grabs the bundle and stuffs it into a bag. "I hate you, Byers." I thought by sending Langly to the laundromat, I might work in a little bit of peace and quiet, and some relief from his adolescent mooning and moping. This was, regrettably, not to be. The phone rings approximately every five minutes. "Is she there yet?"

On the sixth call, I simply answer the phone, "Not yet."

"That's not what I called for. I gotta know about this Downy shit. What're you supposed to do with it?"

After explaining the finer points of fabric softener usage, I settle in, hoping for a reprieve. Instead, the phone calls increase to approximately every three minutes. No woman in labor was ever such a disaster as Langly waiting for his young lady. Finally I get thoroughly annoyed and turn the phone off. I leave the answering machine on, though, strictly for my own amusement; I'm having too much fun listening to Langly's hysteria on the other end. I haven't had this much fun since the last time I did a good hack and crack. I can't wait to get back to business as usual, but in the meantime, this will suffice for entertainment. A little after half past four, there's a buzz at the door. I check the video monitor to see if it's Dr. SaintJohn. There's a woman standing there. "Dr. SaintJohn?" I ask over the intercom.

"Not today. I'm not working. Is Ringo there?"

"He's on his way back from the laundromat, come on in." I haven't met her before; I'm a bit surprised to find that she's taller than I am. She's attractive -- shoulder length light brown hair, green eyes, and endless legs. "I'm John Byers, one of Ringo's friends and associates."

"A pleasure." She has a firm handshake.

"May I take your coat?" At that moment the phone rings. "That'll be Ringo," I tell her. "Just keep quiet. I'm not going to tell him you're here yet. Let's surprise him." I turn off the answering machine so she won't hear his outburst over the phone. Just the one he's likely to have when he returns to the office.

A few minutes later, I hear heavy footsteps racing up to the doors. "Open the fucking door, Byers!" he screams. Dr. SaintJohn stands up behind me. I think she's as nervous as he is. Langly's in the doorway, clutching a bag of freshly washed and dried laundry. Unfolded, of course. "Goddammit, Byers, you are such an asshole..." he stops cold as soon as he realizes who's behind me. Let's see if she was set off by his juvenile behavior. Nope, this hasn't phased her. He drops the laundry and she just about knocks him over. I step back and take a seat as they engage in a prolonged lip-lock session. I should have made popcorn.

When Ringo finally comes up for air, he leads her back to where I'm sitting. "Deb, this is John Byers, and he's an asshole." Mission accomplished. For now.

End part 9