(warning: this episode may gross you out, so stay away if you are sensitive to descriptions of bodily functions performed by middle-aged scotsmen)
A week later, a similar scene was playing itself out for the two house members who managed to wake up before noon. Spock was sitting at the table, and Kirk was trying to slip out before Spock noticed that he was not wearing his work uniform. He had plans to go see a movie by himself and escape the claustrophobia of living in a ratty apartment with six other people, none of whom could be called a decent housemate.
"Tonight I'll be playing at a local open mic. I would be pleased if you would accompany me there. Perhaps we could even sing a duet?" Spock's face looked about as hopeful as a Vulcan's could.
"Oh, I'll have to check my calender. Might have a date or something." Please let me have a date or something, Kirk thought to himself. Anything to avoid the open mics Mr. Spock frequented, which were always infested with hairy-legged women who played guitar badly and sang even worse than Scotty. Worse, Spock had taken up the autoharp as a replacement for his Vulcan harp (they did actually have some similarities), and often crooned haplessly optimistic Pete Seeger songs when he was practicing in their room. Kirk would not be caught dead singing along to Pete Seeger.
They heard the television blare into life in the other room, with the sound of "The Price Is Right" providing a perfect bit of distraction for Kirk.
"Scotty's up. Well, guess I'm headed out. See ya later." Kirk beat a hasty retreat out the door and sighed in relief once he was outside. For a minute there he thought he had been cornered. Spock realized that he had been tricked, but since there was nothing to be done, he went back to their room and set about to practicing for tonight.
Eventually Chekov stumbled in through the front door, looking much worse for the wear. He sat down on the couch next to Scotty, who looked shocked that anyone else had dared to intrude into his territory. Chekov took the remote from where it lay next to Scotty's leg and flipped the channel to "The Young and the Restless." Uhura heard from the kitchen and ran in to sit on the chair and join in. Scotty looked between them, flabbergasted, and tried his best to passive-aggressively make them leave. He had been watching a most interesting show on the History Channel about airplanes from the 1940's.
First he just slumped further in his seat and opening his legs, hoping to push Chekov off the couch out of deference for personal space. Chekov showed no signs of even noticing the intrusion, so Scotty decided on a more direct approach. He took the remote from Chekov's lap and flipped the channel back to what he had been watching before. Chekov and Uhura said nothing, and they sat in silence for five minutes watching the making of the big bombers that carried the nuclear bombs dropped on Japan. Scotty still wished that they would leave so he could stretch he feet out on the couch again, but at least they were silent. He relaxed and put the remote back down, confident that he had won the channel war. There it stayed for the entire run of commercials in the break of the show, but then, just as it came back on, Chekov snatched the remote, changed the channel back to "the Young and the Restless," and quickly tossed it over to Uhura, who caught it and held it hostage.
Scotty was irate. And an irate Scotsman was a dangerous one. This one chose to exact revenge on his housemates by frightening them out of the living room for the rest of the day. He took his cue from several of his television heroes, most specifically Al Bundy, Mary Catherine Gallager, and Adam Corrolla from "The Man Show." He started by spreading his legs again to make Chekov uncomfortable. Luckily he hadn't showered all weekend, so his next task was easy. He stretched up really big and moved his arm over the back of the couch, behind Chekov's head. This served the double purpose of making him wonder if Scotty was somehow hitting on him, and also placing Chekov's head about six inches from his armpit.
It was starting to work. Chekov was definitely looking uncomfortable and inching away from the former chief engineer. But it wasn't enough, and there was still Uhura to deal with. Luckily, he already wasn't wearing any pants, just a grimy pair of Starfleet issue briefs (he was still in bed, after all). It was a simple matter to take the hand that was currently holding a can of Pabst and slide it, starting at his navel and slowly working his way down. There was a particularly steamy scene on the TV and Chekov and Uhura both were trying to ignore the unwashed and pantsless engineer that seemed about to stick his hand into his underwear. Chekov in particular looked panicked, and Uhura was trying very hard to keep her eyes on the screen.
With a swig of his beer (he had to temporarily move his hand out of his underwear to do it) he had fuel for the next assault. As his hand slid back down and the others tried not to look, Scotty let out a rip-roaring belch, one of his finest ever. THAT got their attention. His hand crept into his underwear and Chekov went a little green, rather like Spock blushing. There. That was it. Now he started scratching, lightly at first, and then more vigorously. Uhura was even starting to look green, which was difficult for a complexion as dark as hers. Finally, his stomach gurgled and he knew he had reached the grand finale. He grunted a little, as only a gross old man can grunt, and farted. It was a glorious fart, unintentionally the loudest fart he ever remembered making, and he tried to note what it was he could have eaten to produce such a beauty. He would have to keep it in mind for future attacks on his dominion.
Both Uhura and Chekov immediately jumped out of their seats and ran from the room, leaving the forgotten remote behind. Scotty chuckled to himself and patted his beer belly in gratitude, and leaned over to pick the remote up off the floor. He switched the channel back to his airplane show and stretched his legs out on the couch, satisfied that they would not come back and try to bug him. They might not even speak to him for a week or two, but he decided that that wasn't such a bad thing anyway.
*****Kirk spent the day job searching and then bar hopping. He was sick of all the blue-haired grandmothers and hokey tourists asking about the damn lake monster. He had never been very good at diplomacy, and yesterday he'd used some rather choice words when asked for the millionth time if Champ really existed. He was sure his supervisor would be hearing about it, and then he'd have to give some sort of explanation. It was time for a change.
Unfortunately, job searching is a most disheartening way to spend the day, and he decided to drown his sorrows in a local club. It was eighties night, and he threw back shots of whiskey and watched the pretty girls dance. He realized with a grim sinking feeling that he had lost it (it being the ineffable quality that had made women fall at his feet back in the day). Perhaps it was the issues of sharing a room with a fastidious Vulcan that held him back. It was more difficult to convince women of this century to let strange men into their apartments for nights of wild sex. So he sat and watched and felt helpless.
Eventually the alcohol (being a depressant after all) made him, well, depressed. So he paid his tab and walked out into the street, headed for home, looking forward to nothing more than Rosie Palm and her five friends to ease his overactive libido. He was still young, and he hadn't been laid in, God, almost six months. But besides the obvious physical need for release, he knew his heart really hadn't been in it to find a date. The alcohol burned in the back of his brain, and he heard a voice in his head chanting "loser" in time to the rhythm of his footsteps as he walked. In this distracted state, he was eight or so blocks from home when he walked past a coffee shop filled with young people in dirty clothes carrying guitars and smoking hand rolled cigarettes. And one Vulcan, with autoharp, sitting by himself at a table outside, sipping iced tea. He froze.
Kirk looked about for an escape route that would not involve screaming at the top of his lungs and sprinting down the street to avoid being dragged in for a duet. None presented themselves, and Kirk had consumed a few too many to really think his way out of it. In fact, while he'd been standing there like a deer trapped in headlights, Spock had turned his head and spotted him. The Vulcan rose from the table and walked the short distance over to Kirk. He winced, praying to any and every deity he could think of that Spock would not ask him to accompany him.
"Greetings, Cap....Jim." It was amazing how a brilliant mind like Spock's could not give up the ghost on calling Kirk 'captain.' Kirk started to wonder if Spock was damaged in some small, previously unnoticed way.
"Uh, hi Spock. How's the open mic?"
"It went well. People seemed to appreciate my rendition of 'Ruby Don't Take Your Love to Town' and several of the other acts were quite talented."
Kirk invisibly relaxed--Spock had already played.
"Oh, great." He tried not to sway, but the whiskey was catching up with him a little. "I was, uh, just on my way home."
"I see. Well, in that case, may I join you?"
"Sure."
They walked together in silence for most of the way. Kirk no longer felt like a tryst with Miss Rosie, and instead decided on a cold shower and a long nap. The last leg of their walk took them through a slightly seedier part of town, and they were walking past one of several dive bars when they came upon a most unexpected sight. Spock squinted and looked at a figure standing on a street corner, dressed to the nines and smoking a cigarette.
"Is that Mister Chekov?" He pointed.
"Huh?" Kirk squinted too. "Why, so it is. I wonder what he's doing there. Wasn't he supposed to be at work?"
"You know his reputation for maintaining jobs and showing up consistently, Jim."
"True." Just then a car pulled up in front of Chekov, and they watched as he leaned into the open window in apparent conversation. "Who does he know that owns a car?"
"Unknown, Jim." They watched Chekov apparently finish the conversation with a handshake and then jump in the front seat and take off. "Fascinating."
Kirk gave Spock an amused glance to acknowledge the science officer act, then patted him on the back to indicate that they should continue on home.
"Let's go. I'm confused and very tired, Mister Spock."
"Indeed. I'm sure the mystery will solve itself in time." They walked, two men out of time, along the poorly lit streets of the working-class North End, back to the dumpy and crowded apartment they now called home.
(stay tuned for the next episode: Kirk confronts Chekov, Spock has a hormonal problem [read: pon farr] and the whole house is horrified)
