Chapter Text
The new year came and went swiftly. Porky’s work was steady and engaging—hectic and fast-paced, as was the norm, but he felt better equipped to handle it ever since his interactions with Daffy.
Every director he worked with noticed the same: he received praise for being more outspoken, more confident, and his willingness to engage and suggest more changes to scripts.
Porky himself struggled to see the full extent of what they saw, but there certainly was some difference. These cartoons were evolving, and so was he. It would have been nice to have more concrete proof as to how this was the case—that small, persistent nag itching the back of his head told him that he was merely being buttered up—but he tried his hardest to accept it as a fact of life. His face was adorning more posters and publicity photos, his name clustering in press releases. There was an unidentifiable movement of some kind.
Things were routine. Though his filming schedule was dense, it wasn’t unmanageable; his bargaining had been successful, and he managed to nab longer rehearsals and comparatively reasonable filming sessions. As a result, he seemed to bumble over himself less and swallow, rather than choke, on his insecurities.
Perhaps he hadn’t actually gotten more confident at all, and was instead reacting to the new circumstances of his filming. That part, he still didn’t know, and the spiral of rumination was quick to suck him back in when the thought flitted past his mind. He supposed be had come a ways since he first started acting, but those concerns remained consistent until the end. Concerns of feeling like he was just being humored and sweet-talked into complacency.
The truth was difficult for him to gauge. Five months had passed since he had last seen Daffy, and not a single word had come of his whereabouts. This was incredibly odd to Porky; Daffy had clung to his heels for practically every moment they were together, breathing down his neck and showing no concern for personal boundaries. To believe that he would disappear from the studio once his obligation was fulfilled was dubious at best. Especially since he had done such a phenomenal job on their cartoon together—surely that couldn’t be his only engagement with the studio.
In all of the time that had passed, Porky tried to adhere to his word and be open and ambitious. Doubts and concerns and anxieties still flooded his mind, but he hadn’t forgotten how Daffy made him feel. He couldn’t if he wanted to; the memory of those echoing, hoohoo-ing shrieks serenaded him to sleep every night and jolted him awake in the morning.
Even so, the length of Daffy’s absence was growing more potent. Was Porky really carrying the torch left by Daffy, or deluding himself into thinking he was? Was he really being inventive, brave, outspoken, or was he finally rising to meet the bare minimum?
Once more, he found himself without a clue. And that upset him. And Porky instinctively found himself going out of his way to avoid what upset him. This may have lent itself to a more controlled visage on his part, but it didn’t reduce the turmoil and emptiness he felt within. An emptiness exacerbated by the feeling of what—who—was once there. It was harder to recuperate knowing what he had lost, than it was to go on without the knowledge that he was missing something to begin with.
Those first few weeks without Daffy had been particularly rough. All of his conversation with Petunia and Penelope had amounted to wallowing and complaining, endless cyclations about how could he have been so foolish to let Daffy go. Gabby received similar earfuls at work.
Then, there came a point where he seemed to understand—vaguely—that Daffy had come and gone. Internalizing and accepting it was a different story, but enough time had passed, and he had received enough grumblings or dismissals from Gabby and Petunia when he brought it up that he had to drop it eventually.
All he could do was take it one day at a time. Outwardly, his pleas and questions pertaining to Daffy trickled to a mutter. Inwardly, they remained in a despairing roar—merely tucked away in a place that was harder to hear.
It was a temperate spring evening. Porky had just wrapped on another cartoon, and wouldn’t get his next assignment until the following Monday; it would be the first free weekend he had to himself in quite awhile. No script to bury his snout in and give a flimsy excuse as to why he couldn’t tend to any social obligations from Petunia and Penelope.
Always one of the first to arrive and always one of the last, Porky’s timid hoofsteps creaked solemnly on the wooden floorboards beneath him as he trekked to his dressing room. Since he had just wrapped filming, he was still dressed in costume: a black sportcoat and cherry red bowtie.
This had been the second cartoon to feature him in such an outfit. In spite of Petunia’s insistence that he looked “handsome” in it, he felt a bit ridiculous; it was revealing, plain, but also stuffy and dinky. He’d been shunted into far more embarrassing, but the recurrence of this getup made him uneasy. Perhaps it wasn’t the outfit that bothered him, but the significance behind it; it indicated that he was settling into a new persona, and one he wasn’t sure what represented.
As he finally approached his dressing room, the tug of the doorknob was joined by a tug in his chest to find the dressing room empty. The short he had wrapped on today was another joint with Gabby, though Gabby himself had finished filming a day or so before him. There were some additional scenes that needed to be shot with Porky, as well as a few cosmetic retakes. This was normal, but he had been seeing less and less of Gabby during that time.
While it was undoubtedly nice to have some comparative peace and quiet, the detachment he felt in the wake of Daffy’s absence was manifesting into a form of loneliness. Petunia made for pleasant conversation in the workshop, and he had been visiting her more recently for this reason, but he could see her any time he wanted to. Gabby, when he was present, offered the same effect that one might get from conversing with a brick wall. More of the same grunts and groans and insults. Porky could only think of how Daffy would respond and humor him instead in his own idiosyncratic but receptive ways.
Newspaper clippings and publicity photos were his only company tonight. As his name and figure continued to take off, he had amassed more memorabilia and obligingly saved it all. But what good was his own company?
Just as Porky was contemplating using some of his earnings to buy a radio for the room, something caught his eye.
A sliver of crumpled paper was lazily strewn onto his vanity. Creases ran along its spine, indicated that it had been folded at some point, but the paper itself lay flat–as flat as it could for being so crumpled–as if the sender had given up on trying to keep things neat.
Out of instinct, Porky cautioned a look over his shoulder, as if the perpetrator of his paper would be lingering behind him with an explanation. No such luck.
Caution guiding his steps, he slowly meandered over to the source. A contemplative frown flickered on his face before he slipped a thumb beneath the note; his movements were ginger, hesitant, as if he was afraid that the paper would bite him if he disturbed it.
It didn’t. That would be too much excitement, and he hadn’t had the luxury of any excitement within the past five months.
Nevertheless, when he guaranteed that the paper wouldn’t burst into flames under his care, Porky cautiously turned the note over to confront the contents. Smothered over the back of the paper were hasty, scraggly scratches of graphite angrily swarming the page. Its penmanship was crude, quick, and heavy; there was a moment where Porky thought it to be a letter from a young fan that, somehow, had made it into his personal quarters.
In a way, it could be described as a letter from a fan. It was, at the very least, from someone Porky rather well. A brick of lead was rudely dropped into his gut as he began to read it:
Porky
You're a nut. A complete nut. But this entire rat race is built on complete nuts. I'm sure in no time, you'll be the biggest nutcase of them all. If you're not already.
Don't forget me when all the fame goes to your head (haw) or when you finally lose it and become even more of a mental case than you are now. Whatever comes first. I have my bets.
Can't wait for your smiling mug to be following me all around town on billboards and in lights. Maybe one of these days it'll be a real smile.
You're a nut, but you're a good nut. Good enough to get me to bother with this. So. Good job.
You know what I'm getting at.
Don't go off the deep end
Gabby
Considering Porky’s immediate instinct was to lob a curse at Gabby within the sanctity of his head, that in itself was indicative of how powerful Gabby’s blessing was. How like Gabby it was to up and quit on him without even telling him in person.
A bitter, wry, but fond grimace contorted his face as Porky stood in the middle of the dressing room. The crumpled letter in his hand slumped in his grip. He felt as though he had swallowed a lead brick and chased it down with a gulp of hot tar. His temples squeezed in anxious protest.
The most overwhelming feeling that hit him wasn’t the pounding of his head, the twisting of his gut, or even the itch behind his teeth as mournful curses begged to slither through. Instead, it was the blast of helium that leaked into his chest–gratitude and fondness that Gabby had finally gotten his wishes.
He had been ranting about how much he hated being an actor for as long as Porky knew him. Likewise, though Porky knew it was selfish, he was alleviated by the realization that he would be able to focus more on his own pursuits. No more awkward accommodations with Gabby’s refusal to cooperate. No more insults or snide remarks.
Though they never really talked outside of work–Gabby refused to give Porky his number or address, arguing “I get enough of you as is!”, though Porky offered his instead–Gabby was the closest thing to a friend that Porky had, in terms of co-stars. Daffy would take that spot instead if he weren’t missing in action. Beans was cordial, but kept to himself; Porky had been so incapacitated by his own anxieties that he wasn’t able to make any pleasantries during their time together. That was another one of the dull regrets that coated the lining of his stomach.
Gabby uncooperative, jaded, tactless and hard to work with. He was prickly and distant, and would get upset if Porky called him his friend, and would share the same reaction if Porky didn’t call him his friend. He was the only person more high strung than Porky was himself. He was also the only person more unwilling to open up than Porky was.
So, in spite of such difficulties, Porky had to admit that he enjoyed his company–because at least it was company. Perhaps it was selfish, the desire to hang around someone who was even more difficult than he himself. Maybe he just liked Gabby because he made him feel better about himself in comparison. Maybe he just liked Gabby because he was fond of the idea of not being the underling for a change.
Whichever the case, he did feel true relief for Gabby. He was happy that he had finally bit the bullet and was now closer to pursuing something that made him happy… assuming, of course, that such a quest was possible for someone like Gabby.
Regardless, the slightest pang of resentment gnawing at his sides refused to be quelled.
Resentment was a harsh descriptor. Moreso, it was miscalculated grief at having yet another co-star he–debatably–got along with slip out of his fingers. Beans had. Daffy had. And now Gabby had, who he had been working with for the longest amount of time. A selfish, juvenile voice protested deep within the recesses of Porky’s head. He knew it was illogical and childish to ask, but he still longed for an answer: why does he have to be the exception?
Porky’s eyes found themselves wandering to the paraphernalia adorning the walls around him. His grinning, rosy-cheeked mug gawked vacantly back at him, all sporting a menagerie of frumpy, demeaning, or embarrassing wardrobes. Noodles of text made vague proclamations about his rising popularity and extended contracts.
It was his face on these posters. Not Gabby’s. Not Daffy’s. Not Beans’.
His eyes drifted back down to the note in front of him.
Maybe one of these days it'll be a real smile, Gabby chided from the security of his graphite.
A real smile was etched onto Porky’s face, alright; one of bitterness, remorse, envy… and genuine good humor. More affectionate but mournful curses tickled the back of his tongue.
When the desire to vocalize these curses swelled–much to Porky’s shame, his ears growing pink at the thought–he extinguised them by folding the note into the squares that Gabby had, at one point, considered doing. Hanging the note next to a smiling publicity photo felt cruel, both on his behalf and Gabby’s–a way to show off how successful he was and how Gabby had flaked out of the industry, a symptom of the opposite.
Just the same, it would be an effective reminder of how Gabby could bask in an independence and free will that Porky was doomed to only dream of.
Shoving the note into his drawer of unmentionables–more stacks of publicity photos, lobby cards, and the magazine article that still aroused an angry flush to his face at the thought–seemed too cruel. Gabby’s legacy, flimsy as it was, didn’t deserve to be shoved into a dark, cramped box.
Gabby had to have known that he would spend all this time fussing over his note. Surely it was written by design. Porky could just see that bitter, twisted grimace spidering on his gangly, bearded face. The idea of working up Porky one last time was too good. Just something else to give him to get flustered over before he gave a goodbye. After all, it’d be easier for the both of them if he had never said anything at all–
A sigh caught in Porky’s throat.
Making such assumptions was childish at best and scathing at worst. It wasn’t nice to curse at Gabby for leaving him, and it wasn’t nice for him to fantasize over trading places. It certainly wasn’t nice of him to assume his motives for doing so.
But it wasn’t nice of Gabby to leave without warning, either.
So, after some more belabored thought, he placed the folded square of paper between the glass and wooden frame of his vanity. It was visible enough to serve as a reminder of their partnership–a reminder to keep him humble–but not flashy enough to induct Gabby into a hall of shame next to Porky’s paraphernalia of supposed success.
Mournful, indignant, yet grateful eyes lingered on the new addition to his vanity before undressing into his normal clothes. His thoughts serenaded him as he slipped his buttons through his shirt, swapped out ties, buckled his belt.
This was a day that Porky knew was coming for months–ever since they had started working together, really. Gabby was incredibly vocal about his disdain for acting. He was talented enough, but he hated it even more than Porky once had.
Even so, he couldn’t buy the “lousy way to make a buck” line. There were many equally lousy ways to make a buck that Gabby could have turned to instead… but what? Though this day was inevitable, why now? Why not after their first cartoon? Why not after Porky had spent weeks sulking over Daffy’s absence? Porky had finally mellowed out–comparatively–in the past few weeks, keeping his turmoils inward and forcing himself to adhere to his routines. Did Gabby like him better when he was hysterical?
Up until the very end, Gabby was impossible to get a read on. This endeared and frustrated Porky with equal ferocity.
Porky gave his necktie a few final tugs after he had neatly folded his costume. He knew he should make the trek over to the costume shop and return it proper, but just didn’t have it in him. It would be more steps to walk, with gave him more time to ruminate over the intentions of Gabby’s absence and what that represented for his own career.
Thus, he gingerly placed the jacket and tie onto his wooden chair. As he pushed the chair into the vanity, his eyes flickered to the paper wedged against the mirror once more.
Closing the door to his dressing room felt more significant that day.
So again did he trek through the barren halls of the studio, accompanied by himself and himself alone. Hopes of shutting out the possibilities and questions and comments on Gabby’s leave were quickly dashed as his mind ran back in loops.
He should be grateful for the security and notoriety that he had. At the very least, he was now able to acknowledge it rather than shun or deny it. All he felt was apathy.
Apathy was safe. Apathy was familiar. His fame was something that merely existed–it could be stressful, but it wasn’t bad. It wasn’t good. It was only an obligation, just like getting out of bed or brushing his teeth.
It certainly felt good to hear the directors give their praise, but not good . He knew what good felt like, and he only ever felt it once, thanks to a darn fool duck. And, in spite of his attempts to preserve that feeling, to try to be more outspoken and carry off where Daffy left, the reality of the situation grew louder within him. It was increasingly unlikely that he’d feel that good ness again.
The desire to hear those ear splitting whoops once more, in their proper, live, undistilled form, was debilitating. He heard them–every day–but they had grown stale with the decay of time. Was it really Daffy he was hearing, or was it being warped into his own impression of what he thought Daffy sounded like? If only he could just see him in person, one last time, to get a proper assessment. He could never forget the jubilation and sheer force of those shrieks; maybe that desire was simply greed.
Straining to hear those whoops once more prompted Porky’s temples to squeeze. His blood rushed as he languished in the utter joy and catharsis that had so careened out of Daffy’s mouth, body, and mind.The mere thought of it, accurate or otherwise, was still enough to make Porky’s blood run cold.
Granted, that may have been due to the realization that soon followed.
Accurate or otherwise, fresh or stale, the whoops that had bounced in Porky’s head were consistent in their sound. Consistent in their imagery, too–the image of that scrawny, spritely little black duck skirting around on the water was propelled by an exacting rhythm of his routine. A rhythm that Porky had memorized, even at the risk of it slowly transforming into a game of telephone.
The routine thundering in his ears as he trodded down the hall was different. Its sound was more distant, hollow, as if it were coming from a different room. Most telling was the difference in rhythm in tone–it was simply different than what he heard when filming. It was unmistakably Daffy, but a different, unmistakably Daffy sound. Quicker. Smoother. Different.
Had he not known any better, it sounded as though Daffy were right there in the soundstage, just a ways down from where Porky stood.
And he didn’t know better. An awkward, clumsy, panicked sprint involuntarily escorted Porky as he stumbled to find the nearest soundstage.
That muffled shrieking, albeit distant, never ceased as Porky bumbled down the hallway. His clopping footsteps and frantic breathing threatened to drown it out, but it was still there, thundering and shrieking and whooping a-plenty. It being muffled through the walls only made Porky crave it more. His sprinting quickened in reflection.
Finally, after an indeterminate distance of nearly falling over himself, Porky managed to stumble to the soundstage entrance. No thought or consideration accompanied him as he threw his fists onto the door handles and tugged them open. Normally, he would have been much more conscious of the noise hazard he posed–they still hadn’t fixed the lack of soundproofing with the stages–but that wasn’t a thought that occurred to him.
His ears had not deceived him. Porky stood frozen in the doorway, his neck craned; far into the depths of the cavernous stage was the real thing. From where he stood, it was difficult to make out, but it seemed like the little spindly duck that had eluded him for so long was performing in front of a prop wall. Porky could only see its side, but he was able to make out Daffy bounding in front of it–the hysterical shrieking exploding out of his beak made him easy to follow.
Standing a comfortable distance away from the wall was a small camera crew, accompanied by the director of the duck hunting cartoon. Evidently, Porky had just made it–a few straggling whoops slipped out of Daffy’s mouth as he disappeared from Porky’s view. Then, the laughter stopped. Daffy re-entered his field of vision as he landed to his feet in front of the wall.
Porky remained frozen. Someone could have tapped him on the shoulder and he would have toppled face first onto the ground. A film of sweat coated his palms, whereas his temples squeezed and pounded.
Ambient declarations of encouragement bubbled out of the camera crew. Porky was too far away to make out any coherent conversation, but the director seemed pleased. He stepped forward to give Daffy an affirming handshake, who reciprocated it eagerly. And, in spite of not being able to discern what they were saying–both from Porky’s distance and the roar of blood rushing in his ears drowning out all coherent thought–a familiar, fizzy timbre tickled his forehead in accordance to Daffy opening his mouth.
It took every iota of impulse control not to call out to Daffy. That, and the fact that his agape jaw refused to move, his knees refusing to unbuckle, his fists refusing to unclench. All he was able to do was gawk, frozen, and hope that he wouldn’t make any commotion if he were to suddenly collapse onto the floor.
Some more indistinguishable conversation between duck and director was shared–then, after a moment, they shook hands once more and exchanged affirming nods. Daffy stuck a tiny little hand up to wave goodbye as he and the production crew parted ways. He looked behind him, turning his heel on a swivel as he began to approach Porky’s direction…
…and stopped.
Porky was able to regain some movement as Daffy made eye contact; he had to dig his hooves onto the cold floor beneath him to really prevent from being knocked unsteady. Sharp, biting prickles seared right into the very back of his head–hot, freezing, suffocating prickles.
They were probably separated by a distance of 100 feet, but that didn’t muddle the clarity of Daffy’s delight. Just like old times, he seemed to inflate right on the spot: the widening of the eyes, the puff of his chest, the stretch of that grin tearing through his tiny, orange beak. The spark in his eyes could have caused an electrical fire. All blindingly visible from such a distance.
“ Porky! ”
Before the last wisps of that jubilated shriek could whisk out of Daffy’s beak, Porky’s feet were instinctively rushing over to Daffy. Or, at least halfway–the sprint that instinctively sprang out of his hooves bumbled to a wobbly, awkward trot as Daffy engaged in the same impulse, practically galloping over to Porky like an excited puppy dog.
They met halfway on the soundstage, with Porky stumbling to an exceptionally uneasy stop. Daffy sprang into a halt with insulting ease.
This time, Porky was more than ready to anticipate the forceful, shoulder-dislocation-prone handshake that followed. Particularly because he was complicit in initiating it. Daffy was prepared to carry it through, slapping his tiny, feathery hands atop Porky’s and shoving his arms up and down with full force. Porky’s breath huffed in broken, almost desperate chuckles that weren’t far divorced from the beginnings of a sob.
Despite being just a little bit taller and feathery spikes of hair being a bit more pronounced, Daffy had hardly changed. This comforted Porky greatly. He still devoured Porky with starving, fiery eyes, and the manic energy so poorly concealed made it look like he was utterly glowing. Like Porky, he had his own excited breathlessness; it seemed like he had to alleviate an ecstatic vapor out of his body somehow.
After a moment of sputtering and chuckling to himself, Porky was finally able to choke out a greeting: “Ihh-weh-wee-ehh-ih-weh–what on earth are you ehh-deh-deeah-deh-doin’ here?”
“Filming!” Daffy’s answer arrived in yet another shriek. Neither he nor Porky made any sort of effort to disentangle their grips. “ Lookit you! ”
Unable to discern what he had meant by that, Porky’s eyes darted to his chest before eyeing back at Daffy. He’d waited and mourned and despaired for too long to not spend every moment of this reunion staring at him down. Maybe it was because the last time they saw each other, he was drowning in a hideously starchy hunting suit. He’d also lost more weight as a result of fretting over Daffy, being too busy to get proper meals in, and because the studio had asked him outright. Choice words certainly ruminated in his head on the matter, but they were thoughts he could never vocalize. After awhile, he had convinced himself that he stopped caring. The safety of apathy.
The weight of Daffy’s spitty words finally hit him.
“Feh-eh-filming?” Finally, Porky was able to disentangle his fingers from Daffy’s, who used this newfound freedom to jab a feathery hand behind him.
“They called me back t’ film a li’l somethin’ for the end of the cartoon.”
Again did Porky crane his neck, now at a better vantage point to see what he had been filming in front of him. Diagonal from them was a large, sprawling backdrop. Hanging in front of the spackled grey background were large blocks of white letters–it was the ending tagline that had closed out every cartoon. From what Porky understood, they used to have the stars of the cartoons close out each short by saying the tagline. He had tried it when he was new, but was too nervous to get the words out, and the amount of retakes just weren’t worth it.
Admittedly, this still embarrassed him to the day, as he felt he’d be much better equipped to handle it now. He had been debating bringing it up, but didn’t want to be reminded of his past inadequacies.
Nevertheless, he was grateful that Daffy was given a shot. Both because he most certainly deserved it, but because it might have hinted that he would be brought on for more shorts. Gabby certainly was never asked to do such a thing.
“I-eh-’meh sorry I meh-ih-missed it,” Porky breathed, more to himself than Daffy.
Then, another pang of realization hit.
“ Filming! ” Porky’s thoughts about the significance of Daffy filming the tagline finally hit him. Daffy never broke eye contact, gazing up at him with curious, hungry eyes. “Eh-deh-deeah-ihh-deh-di-eh–did they… deh-does this mean ye-ih-yeh-yee-ehhh-... ye-you’re…eh…”
“They still wanna see how the picture plays out,” Daffy blurted excitedly. That look flashed over his beady eyes for just a moment–that on-and-off remembrance of his manners, and that it wasn’t polite to interrupt others. It left just as quickly as it came. “If it does its job then they want me back! I’ll get a contract an’ everything!”
Porky found this to be politely asinine; if he were in charge, he would have made Daffy sign a lifetime contract as soon as they had wrapped. Nevertheless, he was no less elated–it took all of his energy not to indulge in some ecstatic backflips and whoops of his own.
“Next week.”
Daffy’s voice cut in through his inner monologue. Porky gawked vacantly, caught off guard. He had forgotten what he even wanted to say.
“Next Saturday!” he urged, which only exacerbated the confused vacancy of Porky’s stare.
Then, finally,
“ Th’ cartoon comes out next Saturday! ”
Instinctively, Porky’s eyes widened. The first “Oh…” that leaked out of his mouth was stunned, quiet. Then, a hitch in his breath has his thoughts caught up to him. His next declaration was more enthusiastic, bordering on a shout as he gasped “ Oh! ”
His hands found their way back to Daffy’s on instinct. “Oh, ih-deh-Daffy!” he breathed, the spark of Daffy’s eyes now transferred to his own. “That’s wih-we-eh-wehh-wonderful—ih-ceh-congratuleh-lee-ehhh-leh… cih-eh–congra-ehh-gehh-eh… ih… cheers! ”
Helium welled in Daffy’s chest as his posture straightened, his grin widening. He reciprocated the pump of Porky’s arms with another ecstatic shake.
“You, too! It’s your cartoon!”
A bashful grin broke on Porky’s face as he looked down at his feet, suddenly embarrassed at the attention. Daffy looked at Porky’s feet, too. He failed to see what was so interesting.
A part of Porky found it odd and perhaps even insulting that Daffy knew the release date before himself. Then again, he supposed it made sense; knowing Daffy, he probably pressed for the date at hand. Porky never asked or even knew the dates of his own cartoons–the only time he had ever seen himself on the big-screen was his grand debut, and that was only at Petunia’s insistence. Even now, he made a point to avoid the studio screenings.
“It’s a good thing I ran into ya!”
Porky snapped his attention back up at Daffy, who continued to beam at him. He was very flattered to hear this, considering it was the understatement of the year on his own behalf, but a part of him wryly commented that it was he who ran into Daffy.
Again, Daffy pressed on. “Let’s see it together!”
The bemused, curious, and utterly relieved expression on Porky’s face stiffened. It melted into a quizzical, shy stare. He began to recoil instinctively, stiffening his posture, weighing the gravity of Daffy’s words.
“The short!” Daffy insisted, cutting Porky’s train of thought with a pushy, overly exuberant knife. “I was wonderin’ if you wanted t’ see it with me.”
“Well, ih-really, I, eh—“
Again, Daffy cut him off with persistent but annoying innocence.
“I’m gonna be seein’ it, an’ you’re gonna be seein’ it, so why don’t we jus’ cut our losses an’ see it together?”
Porky didn’t know how to tell the expectant, little black duck in front of him that he didn’t have any plans to see it. And, as soon as he thought about that, the lead weight that had knocked into his gut in the dressing room made a return.
How could he not see it? Not just out of courtesy for Daffy’s screen debut, but to satisfy the screaming hot itch that seared within him every day for the past five months, begging to soak up every ounce of film that had flaunted every ounce of Daffy.
He hadn’t been aware in the slightest, but he’d already made a pact to see the cartoon even before they had finished filming.
But, somehow, miraculously, the reality of the situation never even occurred to him until that moment. Certainly not the idea of seeing it with Daffy, either. Daffy, who was finally in his presence once more, eyeing him down with unblinking, unflinchingly analytical eyes, devouring Porky like a meal. The innocent grin on his face. The idle bob as he rocked on his heels, clearly unaccustomed to standing in one place for so long.
Porky knew he couldn’t say no–that was the easy part. But how could he say yes? He knew he had no choice but to say yes, and it’s not as if he wanted to say anything else… but how? This would be his first time seeing himself on the big screen in over two years. Would he be made a laughing stock? Would he come to hate this film, the experience ruined by seeing how he himself bumbled on screen? Wouldn’t he be recognized out in public? Would it be vain to go to his own premiere?
The turmoil of Daffy’s absence rang in his head. There was always the possibility of the short flopping. It’d be curtains for Daffy, and Porky would be too busy to ever see him after work, and then they’d never see each other ever again, and all of the stress and worries and hypotheticals of the past half year would be more coagulated inside him than ever.
Just as Daffy’s expression began to soften in polite confusion at Porky’s silence, his impulses took over.
“Ah-I’ll ehh-geh-give you my a-address,” he blurted out without thinking. He had remembered his desire to correct his mistake in not getting Daffy’s information. This was his way of accepting Daffy’s invitation.
Daffy swelled up with so much excitement that Porky thought he would burst. In fact, he practically lept off of his feet as he gasped “No kiddin’!?”
A frantic buzz of excitement and remorse and fear and relief and gratitude droned incessantly in Porky’s head. He patted his pockets quickly, feeling all over himself, hoping that the pat of his palms would summon both a scrap piece of paper and pen upon his touch.
“Eh, that way, ihh-weh-we-eh-wih-we can all go to the-ehhh thih-the-theater together,” he was saying, a preoccupied mumble slightly buttoning his words. In addition to the distracting mental cacophony humming within him, he struggled with the task of looking for his paper and talking to Daffy at the same time.
He was looking down at his shirt, still ambling for a piece of paper. “Penny and-eh peh-Petunia won’t mind,” he continued, speaking more to himself. The excitement of the past fifteen minutes was catching up to him–too much information to process at once. Even Daffy’s company wasn’t enough to completely offset his spaciness.
Daffy’s curious, expectant “Whozzat?” at least jostled him back to attention.
“Some fri-free-eh-friends,” Porky answered, a bit shyly. For as much as he was dying to reconnect with Daffy, he was suddenly aware of the star status he held over him. It felt exceptionally intimate to bring up his personal life to him. Then again, he was already hunting to give Daffy his address, and it’s not like the alternative of not introducing him to his personal life was an option. He’d spent so many months lamenting over that very outcome. Just the same, Daffy certainly wasn’t a fellow to worry about the etiquette of intimacy.
“Will I get t’ meet ‘em?” he urged. The grin on his face contorted his chewy words into a gleeful pinch.
“If I can ih-wre-ree–ih-write my uh-address down.”
Finally disengaging from his one-man body search, Porky turned to head to his dressing room. He expectantly cocked his head behind his shoulder as he did so; an unspoken invitation for Daffy to follow along. Daffy took the hint in stride, practically breaking out into a leap.
Together they made the trek back down to the hallway. Porky was fighting a grin off of his own face–one that smarted with the rhythmic pat-pat-pat of Daffy’s webbed feet slapping behind him. For as absolutely ecstatic as he was to see him after all this time, he still found his bashfulness taking over. He had forgotten just how much of a struggle it was to act like a person in front of Daffy. A part of him felt as though he needed to act cordial; he was Daffy’s superior, technically, and should act like it. Maybe he just felt like he needed to be more quiet and calculating to offset the balance of Daffy’s prying nature.
Or, Daffy just had that effect on him. Whatever that effect was.
At last, they approached Porky’s dressing room. The room that had been filled with solitude and emptiness at the news of Gabby’s departure just minutes before was now reinvigorated with new life and purpose as Porky whisked himself to the side, opening the door and gesturing for Daffy to go in first. Daffy halted, yet again stiffening his posture out of pride and gratitude before accepting the invitation.
Following behind, Porky’s path veered over to his desk in search of some scrap paper. Daffy hung back, craning his spindly neck to assess the collectibles on Porky’s walls.
“You got more!”
Porky, who was now rifling through one of the desk drawers, paused. Daffy was standing on his tip-toes, eyeballing a press release that had just come out at the start of the year. He hadn’t even considered how his compulsive need to hoard his own face–as much as he was averse to looking at it for too long–would have benefitted Daffy’s prying eyes.
A crimson washed over Porky’s face as he muttered “Oh. Eh, ye-yeah.”
His eyes found themselves drifting to Gabby’s note, still wedged in the corner of the mirror. If Daffy had seen it, he didn’t say anything.
Porky, now eager to distract himself, was finally able to fish out an index card and a fountain pen with just enough leftover ink. The familiar sting of burning eyeballs branded themselves in the nape of his neck as Porky leaned over the desk, breaking up the white of the card with his respectable laces of black ink.
“Here you are,” he said at last. The pride in his voice was unable to be quelled, a jaunty hitch in his voice as he amicably handed the card over to Daffy. Daffy yanked the little card out of his hands immediately.
“Ee-i-i-it’s right at the ck-ih-ccorner of the ih-seh-street,” Porky continued, observing as Daffy ogled at his penmanship. “There’s a neh-nameplate if you’re still leh-lih-lee-ih-lost.”
Just as Daffy had done when he received Porky’s autograph all those months ago, he breathed the contents of the note to himself over and over again. His eyes darted back and forth, his beak rapidly mouthing the words scrawled onto the card. Porky half expected for him to ask if he could sign the date on that, too.
His petrified, awestruck expression morphed into one of pure joy. His spindly little arms thrust the card out in front of him, holding it like a trophy. He reared his head back to get a better look.
“Saturday matinee good?” he asked, not once breaking eye contact with his prize.
Porky’s own chest began to fizz in response to Daffy’s intoxicating exuberance. “Uh… y-yes!” he bumbled. This time, he couldn’t quell the grin that splintered onto his face. His own voice began to match Daffy’s confident, squeaky timbre as the finalization of their plans nestled in his chest. “Just feh-fine.”
The expulsion of air in Daffy’s “ Swell! ” ricocheted off of the walls. Having met his obligations for reading the card, he now held it behind his back. One arm was traded for the other as, yet again, he extended into a handshake, which Porky had no problem taking with both hands.
“Innat case… see ya then!”
Wide, wild, yet innocent eyes burnt into the bridge of Porky’s snout once more before the handshake was broken. Instinctively, Daffy whipped his neck back down to look at the card; his exit out of the room–a tepid walk that broke out into yet another sprint–had his eyes staring down at the card the whole time.
A strangled noise caught in Porky’s throat as memories of their last interaction hit him.
“Deh-dee-ihh-don’t lose it!”, he called after him, unsure if Daffy had even heard him. Surely there couldn’t be another 5 month absence–their plans were set, and Daffy finally had a way to reach him. Things would be different now. Porky felt it in the air. In his chest.
Either way, that nagging fear still chided him from the depths of his skull.
At any rate, the workday was done. And what an absolute turnaround to cap it off. That dull thud in his gut still lingered in response to Gabby’s absence; mournfully, his eyes yet again wandered back to the note in the mirror.
Just as he felt guilty about hanging it up on the wall, and just as he felt guilty about hiding it in a drawer, he felt guilty about letting it rot in the mirror of his dressing room. Keeping it in the studio at all just seemed to be a cruel reminder of the circumstances that led to Gabby’s departure. So, for additional safekeeping, Porky fished the note out of the mirror and placed it in his shirt pocket, intending to take it home.
Confusion. Aimlessness. Grief. Gabby’s absence prompted a turmoil of emotions to nibble at the insides of his gut. He knew it was a net benefit for the both of them, but the idea of change still scared him.
Yet, just the same, it excited him. Daffy was a product of change, too.
A thick wash of dizziness simmered in Porky’s head. Already, he felt as though he had wasted their interaction for the day, unable to appreciate it enough, unable to get out what he wanted to say.
But, this time, he had another day to look forward to in which he could correct his mistakes. And one that wouldn’t even be in a professional environment. Though a part of him rebelled against the idea of seeing himself on the big screen, the prospect of seeing Daffy in action–both on the screen and in his company–made any complaints of his null and void. He knew that this was something he had to do.
It scared him. Yet, just the same, it excited him.
Thus, as Porky locked up for the night, his fingers wandered to the note folded in his pocket.
If there was one thing he was certain of, it was that the smile flickering on and off of his face–mimicking the rhythm of his thoughts as so many contradictions and possibilities and questions and hopes and answers jostled in his head–was a real smile.