Frank sat back in his chair and felt his muscles sigh. The sensation of pleasure was strong in his mind from the simple act of sitting down, taking his weight off his legs and back. He watched the fire flies at the tops of the trees flashing green in galactic density. The gentle evening breeze allowed them out in full flight under the springtime full moon. Frank took a sip of beer and listened fondly to the music coming from the covered back porch. It was his favorite combination of musicians playing his favorite songs. He offered a salute and toast with a musical yell as the song welled into a finishing flourish.
     "Hot stuff, hot stuff!" he hollered.
     "Hey, lazy butt!" bellowed the PA. "Get off your overgrown slow can and get up here and play."
     "Turning bird in the pit. Maybe later."
     "Excuses, excuses. Mac will turn your bird."
     "I don't know if I want to let Mac turn my bird." There were cat calls in return, and Frank laughed devilishly with a bow from the chair. "If you're still up there when I put my bird up for grabs, I'll put down my fork and pick up my guitar."
     "You surely have time to come up here and take the empty mike and sing one with us, or are you back to being uppity on us?"
     "I guess I can sing with grease on my hands, if I can get up on my feet. You consumption machines are grinding my legs to a nub."
     "Just one nub?"
     "That far up. I tell you, it's getting dangerous. I ain't tall now." Frank climbed to his feet wincing. He made his way to the porch with a dramatic limp and received mock wails of sympathy. He made a big productions of climbing the four inch rise of concrete at the edge of the porch. He bowed to mock kudos and some raspberries. "What are we doing?"
     "Your pick."
     "Scramblin' for a Livin'."
     Everyone in the group showed conformation, and Larry rapped his drum sticks together to start off the song. Jim hit the opening six chords and then the rest of the instruments came in on cue. The choir of Jim, Sarah, Leslie, and Karen sang the intro softly and building. The music came around and Frank started unleashing his belting version of the song. A few people got up and started dancing about the yard, but most were too tired of the two full days of celebration. They didn't lack for enthusiasm, but most were content to dole out their energy at the party that promised to go another day or two, saving their reserves for when they got called up to play for a while. It was also difficult to dance with a bulging stomach.
     Good food, Iive music, friends, laughter, and endearing smiles is what brought the eighty people together at the annual get together. It wasn't their only affair for the year. Altogether, there were five events yearly where the core group descended on a member's house and ignored moderation for a number of days. Most were musicians, active, retired, or inspiring, or good friends of musicians. If not, they knew how to cook with a flair for a crowd. Frank fit both categories, as did several others. His bird at the moment was chicken, smoking under his own sauce.
     Frank was a writer and photographer by trade, mostly working for magazines on consignment. He traveled about seeking stories as follow-ups to news stories. He'd send them to his agent when completed. He owned a camper with everything in it, including a word processor and darkroom and a utility vehicle in tow. He made enough of a profit to maintain the drive not to give it up and go to a regular job. He made good money, but the expenses were also steep. But he liked the lifestyle. He always made sure that he was in Texas every couple of months to let down home a week before each party. He needed the rest to get ready for the multi- day, energy-burning marathon of sharing company with warm friends.
     There was no party -in the middle of winter, but New Year's usually filled that spot closer to home. But the rest of the year was divided into two month periods with a party dividing them. This was the opening event of the year, and it was going to usual parameters. Frank had barbequed more than sixty pounds of chicken, three turkeys, three briskets, twelve racks of ribs, fifty pounds of sausage, and helped or nosily supervised the pit cooking of one drum, one salmon, and thirty pounds of shrimp. He had made gallons of sauce and was in need of making more.
     He finished the song with a strong ending and then bowed to the hoots and applause, then left the stage in his "brokedown shuffle" with many smart remarks about not being able to cut it anymore at the parties. He smiled and returned to the pit in a war of words over his shoulder, not taking the bait to turn around and rebuke the comments.
     He reached the pit and checked on the chicken. He grabbed the tongs and turned it and then lathered the exposed side with its first layer of sauce. Shena was standing on the far side of the pit when he closed the lid. "You have sure been working hard this weekend."
     "That's what my body has been telling me. I want to sit down and rest my bones, but then I start to stiffen up. Got to stay busy at something if I'm going to survive the party, and you know me."
     "First to arrive and last to leave."
     "And working the whole time. Wouldn't have it any other way. Can't have a party like this being lazy. Good parties are hard work. Don't sleep, don't miss a serving, get your licks in on the porch, and laugh a lot and give others a reason to laugh a lot. Hard work. If it weren't for the enjoyment, I'd rather be in boot camp."
     "You don't see me working that hard."
     "Well, some folk are naturally lazy. We don't overlook it, but it's more trouble to whip a reluctant crew into action than to do it yourself. Would you do me a big favor and see if Jenny brought the cornmeal from the last supply run? I need it for frying the catfish that I caught in the pond yesterday. I don't want to have gone to all that trouble in cleaning what I caught to not cook it."
     "Okay. Need another beer?"
     "Not yet. Pacing myself. I've been in too much of a hurry already."
     Shena left the area of the pit, and Frank found himself surrounded by the most nefarious group the party had to offer. They came with twinkles in their eyes. Hugh called out, "When is that bird going to be done? My stomach is stretched to the max, and if I don't keep it filled, my belly will be flapping in the breeze."
     "That is one I'd like to see."
     The group tried to peek in the pit, but Frank still held the tongs and used the greasy instrument to keep the pit closed and temperature rising. It didn't come without harassment, but he managed to dissuade interference. They finally quit trying. Jesse leaned on his shoulder. "So what is the big surprise tomorrow?"
     "If I told you, it wouldn't be a surprise."
     "It's not those cats you caught, was it?"
     "Nah. That is coming later, after I play a set. What is this I hear tell that you got a promotion?"
     "Yeah, booted upstairs. Henkman developed heart trouble and retired. Spellman was supposed to get the slot, but he was caught with his hands in the wrong set of jeans, and he hasn't had time to redeem himself from the scandal. So it came to me."
     "Youngest head of the department ever, I hear."
     "Youngest head of a university physics department in the history of the state." offered Kirk.
     "Junior!" beamed Frank.
     "Oh, no, here we go."
     The group laughed together.
     "Well, I guess that congratulations are in order. Does the board of directors know that you are a banjo picking fool?"
     "I hope not."
     "Ah, leverage!" retorted Frank, reaching for his reporter's notebook.
     They howled.
     "You wouldn't."
     "No. You know too much about how to ruin cameras for me to feel safe tattling on you. I'll catch you on film, asleep with three days' beard and a bunch of these tarts all around you and send it in anonymously."
     "Oh, my, I see my doom."
     "Don't you know it. If you think that you can shake us off your coattails, you have another thing coming."
     "I need a new Porche." intoned Howie. Everyone broke into laughter, but then their attention was averted by the band that called Frank back up to the porch via the PA. "We hear you laughing, and you don't do that breathing smoke. Get up here and sing."
     "Cruel beasts! Okay, I'm on the way, but only on harmonies. I may have to duck out at any moment."
     He was raspberried in return, but others took the lead vocals. Frank didn't disappoint anyone with his addition to the total sound. Frank had one of those magical voices that could sing any note in his considerable range, reaching deep into bass, with equal power and attraction. He could cajole, dig, soothe, enliven, entice, sorrow, or send into giggles any person within earshot of his singing if he so chose. He instinctively felt the harmonies to perfectly complement the lead, in tone, volume, and texture. He was a true musical talent, singing. He played rudimentary guitar and usually was on some form of percussion: tambourine, maracas, pilancas, chain box, wood box, something going in his hands to the rhythm. Nobody objected to what Frank did. He always fit in, since he was careful, even though he didn't always match the drummer. But this was a musicians' party, and nobody was going to get down on a few mistakes, as long as they didn't come too often from the same source. Someone always cut in to let the fumbler recuperate.
     It was this form of music that drew this crowd together time and time again. They loved each other's music and they loved each other's food, and for the most part, they loved each other. There were the "this party, that party" crowd, those that came to one specific party in their native locale, but most came to all the parties. They were held in a general geographic circle, in three different locations. Two were near Austin, one was on a Gulf coast beach. A couple occurred east and north of the other two, an hour and a half north of Houston. All within four hours of each other, and most of the core group lived somewhere in the middle ground.
     So there were the always-there crowd, the sometimes-there crowd, the local-crowd, and the new-comers, generally dragged along by core members. There was always someone from out of state, and there was always a farthest traveled award. Arrivals from Tennessee were seldom the winners. It was usually east coast or west coast. Most returned home to say, "Texans sure do know how to party right." This time, it was a brother of a core member that had come from Alaska. Australia had been the farthest in their history of throwing parties, but that was more of a case of timing a return home to coincide with the party to claim the award on a technicality. It was still being hotly contested, years after the award ceremony, where everybody flapped their arms and honk like a goose. Frank would step up to the mike and announce the same joke at every party, "I don't know which is tiredest, my wings, my legs, or my brain."
     Everyone, by this time, would reply, "Your brain." in the time honored tradition started by Felicia in a spontaneous retort eight years prior.
     "A party is hard work" was the tradition, originated by the Hard Time Gang, that portion of the core group that badgered each other to death with good nature harassment, cracking the whip when someone fell off their job, and even when they didn't, just as warning that they were being closely watched. There were even field harassments, just to be sure that a person was not easily distracted in their labors. Their motto was, "With our experience, if we all ever lose our day jobs, we can always go into the party business."
     Most that attended these parties made their living honorably, being a rather intelligent crowd. They levitated toward middle age, but there were elderly people and kids and young adults and teens. There was a crowd for every age group. The middle aged were the dominants of the core group, but they never turned away anyone because of age. Good music and good food in abundance appealed to all ages. Anyone that fit in and had a good time was invited back.
     Frank had been attending for fifteen years, getting in on the second year of the genesis of the founding party. A friend had cornered him while he was home from traveling in search of stories and dragged him along, telling him that he had to go to this party, since it was much like the many parties that Frank used to throw before his reporting days. So Frank went in with experience and made himself indispensable in short order, and was quickly one of the Hard Time Gang.
     He was used to working kitchen duty, taking over for whichever musician was called on stage to play. He had yet to ruin a recipe, his own or someone else's He'd been doing that since he started attending.
     But it wasn't until he sang out away from the band with some of the other singers in spontaneous back up that very many in the group knew that he could sing. Only a few that had known him from years before the parties were started knew that he could sing. He managed to back off those that knew with an excuse of not knowing all the lyrics. After fourteen years, it was no longer an excuse, and he sang. He had no choice if he wished to remain at the parties. "Frank to the mike!" was an often heard call over the PA. Having climbed to the level of major cook, there was often a sassy fuss following the call.
     Frank finally bowed out after four songs, when he saw key members of the Hard Time Gang peeking in the pit. He returned to the pit with his caught-in-the-act routine. He selected the biggest and least done looking piece and carved it to the bone of the thigh. He tasted a section and contemplated, then tasted again. About three tastes was all he could manage before the other Hard Timers responded in impatience.
     "Hush, now. These things take time." He left for the kitchen to retrieve his absconded serving tray, eating the thigh as he went.
     "Chicken ready yet?" asked Margie.
     "It's done. I don't know if it will last those banshees out there, as hungry as they act. You'd think that they hadn't eaten for days."
     "The concept is foreign to me, Frank. Run that by again. People not eating for days?" They laughed. "You must trying to outdo yourself."
     "You're not conspiring with the 'Give It a Breakters', are you?"
     "Moi? Slacking? Surely not. You come looking for trouble or something? Those words will get it for you."
     "No, just a serving plate for the chicken, and there one is. Come on out when you get done and sing with us. If I have to take the spotlight, I'm dragging you with me."
     "If you insist."
     "Adamantly. So get finished."
     "Yes, sir."
     "That's more like it."
     She popped him on the rear with a salad spoon as he passed.
     "You keep that up, and I'll start thinking that you have this thing for me."
     "Ha! In your dreams." She kissed his cheek and let him return to the chore of getting the chicken out of the pit. He retrieved the platter and went back out and bulled his way to the now open pit, avoiding collision with the hot barbeque already removed and being consumed. He made quick work of filling the tray precariously full and getting it inside on one of the serving tables. He went to the bathroom line and decided that hassling the kitchen staff would be quicker in getting his hands washed.
     He shuffled in on Sam who was busy constructing one of his ever-new recipes. Sam was never afraid to go out on a limb, even though he was never allowed to live down his few failures. This was primarily because Frank was too busy to be back-up chef or because of mechanical failure. His treats were always a delight. They were by no means the only good cooks in the group. But they were the most notorious, as they were both hard core Hard Timers. Their sass sessions were well attended by those in earshot and always drew laughs. But this time, they started singing together when the next song started. Those between them and the group on the porch heard the song in stereo. Frank bumped Sam hip to hip and dried his hand.
     "You keep up the good work, or I'll be back and run you all over the kitchen."
     "Think you're tough enough to run me around the kitchen?"
     "What do you think?"
     "I think you're a fire hydrant that dogs find irresistible."
     "Impossible, I'm too tall." Frank replaced the dishcloth and went out to the porch singing. He was applauded at his arrival at the end of the song.
     "Well, it's about time you showed up." greeted Sarah.
     "Lampasas Boogie, and give me no lip. I, unlike some others, have certain responsibilities to discharge."
     "Quick, call his shrink. He's slipping deep into his indispensable syndrome again."
     "You want indispensable, I'll show you indispensable."
     "Some men talk, others deliver."
     "You want delivery? One, two, three, four." The band came out of the gate smoking, and Frank was even stronger in voice than before. He finished off the set with the songs that traditionally included him and had been saved for his appearance. Then the band broke to get at the chicken that was still to be had in limited quantities. Frank was about to leave when Kemp cornered him into singing with him in the next set.
     They went through the songs that he had performed with them in the past at the first of the set. Only then was Frank allowed to bow out, when those songs ran dry. They knew each other musically quite well, and it was no trouble in knowing that Frank had been exhausted for the moment.
     He went inside and plopped down on the couch and sighed, once again feeling the intense pleasure of getting off his feet. Gina came over and sat beside him. "You look like you're planted for the rest of the evening."
     "No. Can't sit still for too long or I'll stiffen up. Got to keep moving if I'm going to make it the rest of the night."
     "Speaking of which, is anyone sleeping in your camper tonight?"
     "Need a sleeping space?"
     "I got displaced by Bill and Martha and their kids. I could sleep on the floor."
     "Nope. No one has yet claimed a berth. The fold-down bed is yours. Reservation confirmed."
     "I appreciate it."
     "Nada, as long as you don't wake me in the morning. I was definitely on short rations last night when it came to sleep. I'm going to need more than three and a half hours tonight if I'm going to cook tomorrow."
     "I'll be quiet. When are you going to bed?"
     Frank shrugged. "When I drop. Probably near sunrise. I have some secret work to do tonight while everyone else is out cold."
     "Tomorrow's surprise?"
     "Tomorrow's surprise."
     "Do I get a hint?"
     "No. Sharing my roof does not give you privileges."
     "Isn't that supposed to be my line?" she asked. "So we won't see each other awake in your camper."
     "I'll be quiet when I go to bed so as not to wake you."
     "And what if I want to be wakened?"
     "Not with me in the condition that I'll be in. I'll be ninety percent asleep at the door and ninety five percent when I climb in bed. The rest will vanish when my head hits the pillow. I will not lie in bed in physical agony waiting for sleep to come."
     "An old poop."
     "One very hard worked boy. Age doesn't slow down a person's party activities, only their stamina and recovery time."
     "An old poop."
     "That's it. Give me a hard time. I love it."
     She smiled at him. "Great party, huh?"
     "Very nice. One of the best yet. Keeps getting better as we get the habits and details down pat. Food gets better, music gets better, friendships grow older. Can't help from getting better."
     "You know the one thing that impresses me about the parties is that people never get into serious confrontations. There has never been a fight to my knowledge in all the years that we've been together. I know of no other circle that can claim that."
     "We're just careful about whom we invite. We invite people that we think will fit in well. We're a smart crowd, and not just in cognitive levels. We all know how to live well and enjoy life. There is a tolerance to us that many people never find. There is a generosity that makes us all want to give and achieve the best feeling that we can manage. That's all."
     "Yeah. I'm just amazed that this many people can be that way in one place. Not in today's world."
     "It is because we live in today's world that we gather like this. And the warring factions don't show up simultaneously. The feuds never last very long because they never are that serious. We respect each other as a talent much like ourselves."
     "I know."
     "And I'm starting to babble. A bad sign. I'd better go for a walk. I'm getting stiff again. I'd better go hassle Sam again. I've been light on him thus far into the party."

     The music finally died in the wee hours with the now traditional a cappella session, consisting of Frank, Sarah, Karen, Leslie, and David. They sang old tunes to which everyone knew from years back before they became interested in playing music. There was a selection of old pop chart songs from western and rock. The harmonies were rich and full, being sung by the five best singers that still retained their voices at this late hour. They had mostly supplied back-up vocals during the day and were still fresh enough to get their vocal cords to respond as desired.
     It was a time when fingers were too sore from a second day of playing instruments and brains too foggy to hit the right notes. It was the party lullaby session, giving those on nervous energy in the late night a soothing channel to unwind the notes and key changes and chord progressions from their minds. The music was familiar and nostalgic to all, and it proved to be the finishing touch for many party nights when everybody but the singers were glued to non-standing positions. It had proved to be the perfect night cap, though it was not viewed as perfect in the beginning when Frank assembled the songbook for it. Everyone thought that he was a bit off for picking the music he did, since it was not the standard fare of the parties. But once proven, Frank was never let off the hook of the a cappella sessions. He was the unofficial leader, though Sarah was strong with a quick veto when a song didn't sit well with her mood.
     After the session, which lasted better than an hour, it took less than half an hour for everyone to find horizontal. Only a few of the hard core curious stayed up to see what Frank was up to. This was also an old game, but Frank was flexible with his hours, often writing and photo processing at night when he was sure not to be disturbed in his reporting work. But they saw that he was willing to wait them out, and they gave up to more sensible longings, such as sleep. Frank was finally alone in the kitchen. He made a quick survey of the immediate area and found it dead to the world. He started on cleaning up the kitchen before preparations.
     This party, he was working on a special recipe of jambalaya. He took the twenty gallon pot and started water to boil for the rice, which took some time, even on the special high output burner. He was in the kitchen preparing shrimp, oysters, sausage, and chicken, along with the spices, when Lisa came strolling into the kitchen for a drink of water.
     "I'm not even looking. I wouldn't want to go and spoil your surprise jambalaya for tomorrow."
     "No extortion?"
     "Not at this hour. Maybe in the morning when I could appreciate the rewards of my skulking."
     "You're such a tease."
     "You are one to talk. Good night. I won't spill the beans until we talk further." She wandered off back to the bedroom she was occupying.
     The rice took little time to cook, once the water was boiling, and he soon had the pre-cooked contents going into the mixture. He let the mix set for half an hour to assure that the rice had a chance to soak up the flavor before he put the huge pot into an even larger drum of ice water for cool down. He placed a cross bar that ran from handle to handle and locked with a key lock that kept the lid from being opened. He hid the warm up juices in the refrigerator and was ready to call it a night.
     The cooking had given him a streak of wakefulness, and while he was past physical surrender, his mind was still going too strong to allow any immediate sleep. Frank had always found getting to sleep difficult, even as a small child. In kindergarten, he had laid on his mat during nap time, but he never did sleep. He had quit taking naps at the age of two, much to his mother's inner disappointment. He was a person whose mind simply didn't want to sleep. It had wanted to avoid sleep all his life, deploring the wasted time of unconsciousness.
     He decided to let his body and mind contend the dispute with a walk out into the woods. He ignored the fight and thought of the immensely gratifying two days that he had spent here at the gathering. He came here to recharge his spiritual batteries, to bath in music, excess, and precious friendship in a country setting where the rest of the world didn't invade.
     He always came away with a new urge to write, his mind filled with ideas from the hours of conversations. Not all the talk was huff and gruff. Many words were spoken on ideas in general, of world events, prevailing attitudes, bits of new information from many people of above-average intelligence that attended the party. Someone was always bringing something for show and tell. There were several anthropologists in the group, as well as lawyers, scientists, other journalists, and those from other professions that sparked seeds for future thought for Frank. It kept him fresh in his job, reminding him what life should and can be while gathering facts from people. It made him far more sympathetic and human in approach to his job. It allowed him to speak with those he interviewed in a way that more often than not gained the receptivity of the persons involved in his stories. His ability to understand in depth was what kept his stories selling.
     He walked halfway up the driveway toward the road, then turned off into the woods. The moon was still in the sky in the west, supplying light for his stroll. There were still a few fireflies flaunting their green periodic phosphorescence, but most had found that little pinpoint of light nestled up in the crevices of the trees' bark and drained their chemical mating batteries.
     "You guys didn't do so well tonight, did you?"
     A voice replied. "I think we did rather well, considering."
     Frank stopped in his tracks. The voice was unfamiliar to him, not just in tonal variance, but in texture, like a child's voice spoken by an old man. "Okay, fun and games. Give me a hard time. And I thought that I was the only one left on my feet. I should have known better."
     "That's news. I didn't know that you knew about us."
     "What are you talking about? You're not making sense. I know I'm tired, but I'm not that tired. At least my brain isn't."
     "Your brain is full of poop."
     "Oh, I'm tired of games for the evening. The least you could do is show yourself."
     "Are you sure you want to see me?"
     "If we are to go on talking, I would at least like to know to whom I speak. Not that I'm not one for games, but I've done too much cooking and walking for one day to play."
     "Suit yourself."
     "I usually do." Frank was about to say more when a man about two and a half feet tall emerged from the side of the path, disturbing none of the wild shrubbery from which he stepped. "Who, or should I ask, what are you?"
     "I am Uthuro, and I live here. What is your excuse?"
     "You live here in these woods?"
     "Well, where else would you expect a wood sprite to live? Downtown Dallas? Are you always this slow on the uptake?"
     "No, but the last two days have been rather demanding on me."
     "Excuses, excuses."
     Frank chuckled. "You sound like a few of my friends."
     "Purely coincidental."
     "So what are you doing here?"
     "I told you. I live here."
     "Alone?"
     "Hardly. I'm not the type to bury myself off away from others."
     "Do you have a family?"
     "I have quite a few kids, but us sprites aren't known for settling down with just one nymph like you ground-pounders do. Are you married?"
     "Not currently and not for quite some time. I live on the road too much for a steady relationship."
     "Well, that's not my fault."
     "I didn't say that it was. Where do you live?"
     "Here."
     "I mean, what do you use as a home?"
     "The woods, dummy."
     "You sleep on the ground?"
     "With all the dogs that live around here? Are you nuts? I sleep up in the trees, like any intelligent sprite."
     "Finally, the answer I sought. Any particular tree?"
     "None of your business. Now don't go getting ideas. I'm not in the mood to catch the public eye."
     "Then why talk to me?"
     "Because I like the way that you sing. We have a request."
     "We?"
     "Yeah. There are my friends and family here. Not that they'll show themselves. I was drafted to be the spokesperson."
     "You got picked to ask me to sing you a song?"
     "Yeah. We like your voice. Is that a crime?"
     "I guess not. I just never thought of myself as the sprites' choice."
     "Actually, the nymphs favor you more than us sprites. We sprites would rather hear the woman with the yellow hair."
     "Leslie?"
     "Whatever her name is."
     "So you have a sexist bias."
     "Hey, now look. You don't have to get nasty about this."
     "If you're going to dish it out, you better be ready to take it where I'm concerned. Smart mouthing is no one-way street at this party. Either take it or wash out your mouth."
     "If we didn't have to pamper your ego to get you to sing, I'd tell you what I think of that in no uncertain terms."
     "Don't let me stop you."
     "No. Then you wouldn't sing."
     "What makes you think that I would sing for you anyway?"
     "We have means of persuasion."
     "Threats don't make me sing."
     "What a touchy attitude. I wasn't threatening you."
     "Then what were you doing?"
     "Hinting that we're willing to make you an offer if you'll sing."
     "What kind of offer?"
     "Where is your brain? Don't you have any idea what a wood nymph is?"
     "I'm familiar with the mythological symbolisms involved, but if you think that I'm going to assume that such myths hold a semblance of the truth, then you underestimate me."
     "I'd never do that."
     "You could have fooled me." snipped Frank.
     "Look, what the myths say is true about nymphs."
     "That they trap men in trees and never let them go free, using them until they die to satisfy their desires, then bury them to feed their tree?"
     "What books have you been reading? I never heard that one before. Boy, you really do have some screwy ideas."
     "Then spell it out for me."
     "Look, they have this thing about your voice. Your singing does something to them. Turns them all jelly-like when you sing. Any of them would be delighted to make you a happy man for the night, what little is left of the night."
     "And I had a prior offer from a real woman that I turned down already because I'm too tired from working the party. I'm not interested. Besides, I don't know what I could pick up from creatures like you. No telling what infections you carry that might be harmful to the human body."
     "Are you calling us unclean?"
     "I'm just inferring the fact that we might not be compatible in the symbiotic microbes that exist within our bodies. I'm not willing to risk it, even if I were interested, which I am not. I might, on the other hand, be interested in non-disputable proof of your existence."
     "No. No dice. We are not fools."
     "That is debatable."
     "No proof that we exist. That is out of the question."
     "I figured as much."
     "Then why ask?"
     "Just wanted you to state the fact in no uncertain terms."
     "What are you, a reporter?"
     "As a matter of fact, yes. I'm a free lance."
     "Oh no. We would have to pick a nose."
     "Without proof, I have no story. After two days of exhausting work at keeping a party going, having denied myself my usual sleep while doing moderate drinking, I met a wood sprite. Some story, like I would really be believed by everyone without question, especially at this party. They'd pat me on the back and sit me down in a chair with mock concern and say, 'Right, Frank, wood sprites. Uh huh. We understand.' I'm not an idiot."
     "All right, all right. So what do you want from us to sing for us?"
     "Well, I make it a point not to sing for hidden audiences. The first prerequisite is that you show yourselves as a group."
     "Hmmmm. That is for everyone to decide upon their own. I'm not a commander, but a spokesperson."
     "I never said that you were."
     "What else do you want?"
     "That for each song I sing to you, one of you must sing a song to me in return."
     "We could live with that, but I'm not sure that you could. The nymphs have singing voices that cloud the male mind."
     "Then the songs will be sung by the sprites."
     "Okay. What else?"
     "That's enough."
     "Then you have a deal."
     Frank saw himself suddenly surrounded by sprites and nymphs, all about the same height. "One more question. In your first offer, how would you deal with the size difference between us, me and the nymphs?"
     The sprite signaled to a nymph, and she walked up to him, then rapidly became a svelt five feet nine inches tall, standing before him nude, flashing her alluring eyes to him in the shaded moonlight. Frank took a deep breath.
     "Okay. Question answered. Down, girl."
     She pouted and became small again.
     "So how do we do this? I sing a song, then one of you sings a song?"
     "That will do."
     "Any requests?"
     There was a flood of words, some of which he managed to recognize as lyrics to the songs he had sung in the past two days.
     "So you have been listening closely to the music."
     "We are quite musical. We pay attention. We have heard some of the songs before, but the ones where you are the main singer are ones that we had not heard before."
     "That is because they are originals and not covers."
     "Meaning that you wrote them?"
     "Yes. They are my songs."
     "And you never got them on the radio?"
     "Hardly. I'm a reporter, not a professional song writer. I work where I know that I can succeed."
     "You are not good enough to be a singer?"
     "I prefer the lifestyle of my current profession. I've known too many musicians to want to travel that path through life. Many try, only a few make it. So, one request at a time. Which song do you want to hear first?"
     "Laughter in the Evening." said one nymph before the others could speak. There followed a round of approving murmurs.
     "Okay." He cleared his throat, sat on the ground, and began to sing.

     So good to see you once again, so nice to see your smile.
     It's been too long since we have been together for a while.
     And the night is young, we have our catching up to do.
     Laughter in the evening till we're through.

     Laughter in the evening when the good times come around.
     Laughter in the evening, oh, such a glorious sound.
     Oh, our hearts lift up until we're miles above the ground.
     Laughter in the evening we have found.

     It's not the same since we went our ways, so hard to keep in touch.
     I find myself often missing you so dog-gone very much.
     But we'll make the most of the time that we have here.
     Laughter in the evening ringing clear.


     He continued on with the song until he finished. "Okay, your turn."
     "What do wish to hear?"
     "I don't know your songs. Sing the ones that you enjoy most, as long as they aren't songs that you picked up from humans."
     "Okay. Here is one called I Found a Piece of Candy."
     Frank put his mind to work trying to remember what he was hearing, putting in the keys and chords as the music went along. He became aware that he would never be able to remember any of the songs in entirety, since they were far more complex that he had first imagined, but he tried to do his best in his tired state.
     The music went back and forth among them, song by song. His training as a reporter not only let him remember some of the lines of the songs, but also gave him an insight into the way that they lived, the things that impressed them, the things that they most liked. He found them to be free spirits in comparison to humans. They were more concerned with the delights of living than were most people. Their songs were not ever based upon trouble, as human songs so very often were, but instead were based upon luck and happiness. Their requests from his repertoire were all from the light side, being songs that emphasized happy love, friendship, good fortune, and peace of mind. They stayed away from the life-is-hard songs that many people liked to hear him sing. Frank stayed away from crying-in-your-beer music, and he began to feel that that was part of the reason they had wanted to hear him sing, rather than someone else.
     He had sung seven songs and was on the eighth when the entire crowd of sprites and nymphs vanished into the surrounding woods with only a slight sound of a breeze. Then he heard footsteps approaching.
     "Frank, is that you? What in the world are you doing out here singing to the trees? Or do you have company back there?"
     "Oh, I'm by myself now. I was just out to unwind for the night." He looked up through the trees and noticed the first sign of dawn tinting the sky. "I didn't want to wake anyone at the house after cooking."
     "Is your surprise finished?"
     "Yes, it's finished. What are you doing up?"
     "Nature called. Too much beer before bedtime. I heard you singing and I had to see what you were up to."
     "Just singing to the woods."
     "Do you do this often?"
     "In my travels, I have been known to stop and sing at pretty places. Helps me unwind and clear my mind."
     "If you say so. Wait until the Gang hears about this." There was a chuckle and the sound of retreating footsteps. He sat and waited to see if the sprites and nymphs would return, but with the growing light of dawn, they chose not to reappear. He sang another song quietly. When he finished, sleep hit him between the eyes. He rose and headed toward his home on wheels, wondering how well he was going to handle the harassment when he woke, from everyone that had been told that he sings to trees.
     He opened the door to the camper and climbed in to find the fold-down bed opened but empty. Then he heard the sound of the chemical toilet being flushed. The door to the closet opened and Gina emerged.
     "Hi there. Boy, do you look whipped. Did you finish cooking?"
     Frank nodded. "Yes, finally. All set for tomorrow. I am ready for bed without question."
     "Want some company?"
     "It will make absolutely no difference to me. I'm about two minutes away from dead to the world."
     "You're no fun."
     "Not at the moment. Plumb ran dry for the day. Good night, Gina."
     "If I climbed in bed with you, would you kick me out?"
     "No. I wouldn't even know that you're there. I don't kick in my sleep. Nothing would wake me at this point. Good night. I'm dead till the p.m." Frank crawled up into the sleeping space above the driver's section. He kicked off his shoes, but bothered with nothing else. His head hit the pillow still covered with the bed spread, and he was out cold.
     Gina flipped the spread over him and sighed. A poke to his back revealed no reaction. A squeeze to the arm got none better. "Wore yourself out, like usual. Ah, Frank. You really make yourself indispensable. Costs you everything you have, but it wouldn't be the same without you. You're a funny man with funny needs."
     She kissed his cheek, turned back to the fold down bed, and went back to sleep.

     Frank woke to heat and got groggily out of the cubicle. He hadn't set up the air conditioner to run when it got warm enough, not being switched over to the generator. He had been too tired to set it up. It wasn't a baking heat, being spring, but it was a considerable warmth above body temperature. He jumped into the bathroom and showered and shaved. He got into clean clothes, his mind still sluggish, his body a bit stiff. He climbed out the door and saw Rachael.
     "Ooooo, it stirs."
     "Very funny."
     "What's the surprise?"
     "You mean it's still a secret? Will wonders never cease? You'll find out. It will be worth the wait."
     "Boy, have you been the butt this morning. Were you really sitting out in the woods this morning singing to the trees?"
     "I was wound up and I wanted to relax. I didn't want to wake anybody up. The woods was away from the campsites. I was just singing to the inhabitants of the woods. People aren't the only beings that enjoy music."
     "I'm glad I'm not you this afternoon."
     "Let them fire at will. I'm ready for them. They don't intimidate me. Others they do, but not me. I know them too well. Duck if you're not well armed." Frank smiled and bowed and headed for the porch and the music that had started hours before.
The moment he arrived around the corner, there was an outbreak of applause. Sarah stopped and trilled, "I sing to the trees when I should be sleeping." to the melody of The Sound of Music.
     "You should try it sometimes. Never know what you'll find."
     "What did you find last night?"
     "That is mine to know and yours to wonder."
     "If you put it like that, I don't think I want to know."
     "Suits me just fine. Where is breakfast?"
     "Long gone. What's in the pot?"
     Frank smiled. "Who's manning the fire?"
     "Sam."
     "Ah, just the man that needs more trouble."
     "Now wait. You need to get up here and sing."
     "Not until after breakfast. The night air affected my vocal cords, and they won't work until I eat."
     "Right. I'm a believer."
     "Besides, I was the first to sing today."
     Jim interrupted. "Go eat and let us play."
     "Gladly. I was just responding to abuse that would follow me when I left. Keep them here, and I'm gone."
     Frank found his way into the kitchen.
     "Ah, the tree man!" greeted Sam.
     "You are stepping in it, talking like that."
     "You bet."
     They laughed. "Feed me!" insisted Frank.
     "Feed yourself. What's in the pot?"
     "Today's surprise. What did you think?"
     "Ah, just the man I wanted to see." called Lisa, walking into the kitchen area. "We have a topic to negotiate, now that you look healthy."
     "You got something on Frank?" asked Sam.
     "I know what the surprise dinner is."
     "You do?"
     "Oh, yes."
     "Then tell us."
     "Are you nuts? I finally get this guy over a barrel, and you want me to take the screws off? Ha!"
     "Yeah. That's much, much better, come to think of it." Sam grinned at Frank. "I love it. Take him for everything he's got and then some." They broke out in laughter around Frank, patting him on the back, suggesting to Lisa that she leave something of him left for everyone else to divvy. Frank growled and went into the kitchen.
     "Hey!" called Lisa.
     "After breakfast." he grumbled as he started looking for something a bit more breakfast-like than the luncheon on the table. He found some tortillas and refried beans and felt that he just might survive the day. He managed to find enough extras to fill out the tortillas, then microwaved them. He sat, giving everyone just as hard a time as they gave him as he ate. They never managed to get his goat. When he finished, he was led away by Lisa. He planned to fight her, but she turned to reveal his surprise. He had to cover her mouth with his hand to stop her. After that, she led him without dispute and cat calls at their backs.
     "Okay, what's it worth to you?"
     "You don't want to tell them. You enjoy being in on the secret as much as I like the challenge of keeping it secret."
     "Okay. How about those kids you were singing to last night?"
     "What kids?''
     "Out in the woods. I followed you out there last night. I thought I might be able to twist your arm, since you weren't going directly to bed, and I was awake and not getting back to sleep. I grew up in the country and I know how to be quiet while walking in the woods at night. I saw you singing to kids and the kids singing to you. It got kind of fuzzy when they sang. I don't remember what they sang, though I remember that they were singing."
     Frank took her arm and led her further from the house. "No one is to know of that. That didn't happen. Okay?"
     "Something wrong?"
     "That didn't happen. Okay?"
     "Okay. I won't tell anyone. What is this about?"
     "They are creatures from the forest, as they told me. Sprites and nymphs. They live in the woods."
     "You've seen them before?"
     "No. It was my first meeting. They wanted to hear me sing up close, having heard me up on the porch through the PA. I think that I sang their kind of songs."
     "Well, you are a ruby throat."
     "But their songs that they sang back to me were happy and cheerful, as some of my songs are. I guess it was a mixture of the two, maybe. But I'm not saying a word about it, and I don't want you to, either. Think about it. You tell them that you see little people of the woods and imagine the treatment that they'd lay on you. I do know this. They must seek us, we can not seek them. They are too elusive."
     "You mean that you are going to do nothing."
     "Not until after the party and I can manage get back here on a private visit. Until then, any discovery at large could affect any future contact. I can see the gang out there on a nymph hunt, scaring them away from further human contact. Not to mention that I'd never hear the end of it for decades to come. So for the rest of the party, it's business as usual. Now I want you to barge into the house and announce that my surprise is jambalaya. I'm about to start on getting it warmed up, so I'll be unlocking the lid.      But if you want the honor of revealing, do it now."
     "You are very serious about these beings."
     "Extremely serious and extremely cautious about hurting their feelings in the near future. They'd know if I told anyone. They may be listening to us right now. I don't know. I would like to pick up where I left off last night. I'd like to get their songs down to where I can remember them."
     "Why don't I remember their songs? I remember yours but not theirs."
     "Because the sprites sang them. You'd have remembered the nymphs songs, I suspect, though I wouldn't have, which is why only the sprites sang to me. But this has to stay quiet."
     "Okay. Your secret's safe. I'll stay quiet. Thanks for telling me."
     "If you were there, then they knew about you being there. I get that feeling, so you are not a risk in my mind. You're in this with me."
     "Thanks, Frank."
     "Go squeal on me, grumbling on the way there."
     "You sly rascal. Never know what goes on in that brain of yours."
     "That's between me and the Shadow."
     She smiled at him and huffed, "Why, you stinking jerk!" She turned around and stalked out of the private area which they occupied. Frank went for the pot to pull it out of the makeshift cooler. He knew that there would be a crowd waiting for him to apply pressure. He looked forward to it with a smile.
     He was pulling the pot out of the drum when he heard "Jambalaya?" He took the key from his pocket and unlocked the lid for people to peek. He left it off the edge of the porch and went to get the warm up juice. He pulled it from the refrigerator and poured it into a pot and set it on the stove top.
     When he returned outside, he found the band area empty and most everyone sampling the cold recipe. "It tastes better warm."
     "Tastes pretty good as it is." replied Jim.
     "Tastes like dishwater compared to what it will taste like when it's done. Now fingers out and close the lid. I still need to reheat it."
     He set up the burner as everyone went back to what they were doing or on to something else that caught their eyes. He lit the propane burner to let it warm up, barricading it to prevent someone from setting fire to something. He returned to the kitchen and pulled the pot from the stove and took it out to the burner where it would heat more quickly. He sat by the pot and watched it head for a boil. Gina came up behind him and listened to the band for a moment before squatting down next to Frank.
     "I thought that you had died last night."
     "Who says I didn't?"
     "You were certainly dead to me."
     "Parties are hard work."
     "So I noticed. It's not like you never mention it."
     "Don't you love it?"
     "Not all the time."
     "Like last night?"
     "I was in the mood to talk."
     "Wish I had been capable."
     "Maybe later, we can take a walk."
     "After the after-dinner set. I have a feeling that I will be called on to sing, having slept so late. This afternoon."
     "You doing okay?"
     "A bit slow, but enduring. I haven't let a party kill me yet."
     "I mean how are you doing? Are things worrying you? Are you doing well? Are you happy? Is life good to you?"
     "It's interesting, and seems to be getting more so all the time. I can't complain. I'm making a living. I'm meeting people, learning a lot, seeing new places, breathing different air. I can park at a lake and fish for a few days when I get tired of rolling. I can't complain. It still suits me. I'm free to roam and explore. There are always people willing to talk to travelers. I'm lonelier at home than on the road. I like it."
     "You don't get lonely for a companion? Someone there throughout the time, someone that you know well?"
     "It would get in the way and make me quit. Travel is hard when you do a lot of it. Alone, I get things off my chest without dumping on anyone. Then I'm ready to see people without having my attention split. I work better alone, and if I didn't work as well as I do, I'd drop into the red. So I can't afford it. I get to see the gang here five times a year. This recharges those batteries in me."
     "You don't ever get lonely?"
     "Sometimes. But when I consider the alternatives, it doesn't hit me that hard. And I don't go that long without a party. I make them all and leave with a smile, knowing that people do care about me. It's not a bad substitute and takes away the worst of the sting. After this long, I really don't miss it that much. I like what I get from people at large, and the scarcity makes every encounter a happy one."
     "Still, I don't see how you do it."
     "To each his own."
     "If you say so."
     The juice came to a boil and Frank poured it over the jambalaya, then set the pot over a low flame.
     "Won't that burn it?"
     "Not while the juices are still in the bottom. The steam from it boiling will heat the whole pot, what the drenching I just did didn't. It needs stirring toward the last."
     "That's a lot to stir."
     "Parties are hard work."
     "Oh, hush."
     Frank opened his first beer of the day and tended the pot until it was ready, fending off the impatient and the self- proclaimed starving. He removed it from the flame and set a portion into a serving bowl. This he sent to the table and started filling another. The music stopped and everyone ate. Frank was complimented repeatedly. He graciously accepted, no matter how left-handedly the compliments came.
     After the repast, there was a period where everyone was too full to play music, and conversation was the rule. But eventually, the urge for music returned, and Frank was dragged to the stage and placed before the microphone. He requested the they start the set with For the Little Guys.
     "I haven't ever heard you sing that before, long and tall." responded Sarah. "What do you know about little guys?"
     "I meet them everywhere I go."
     "Sorry I asked."
     The music started and Frank sang to the woods, knowing that they were listening.