Chapter 3: The Runaway Bride Crisis, Part 3 of 8
Marshall Eriksen gripped his beer mug, the cold glass grounding his large hands. The air in MacLaren's thickened with fry grease and academic tension. He eyed Ross Geller across the table, lanky and earnest, his dark hair perfectly combed. He's a good dude. Just needs to get his head out of the Cretaceous period. Marshall's optimism braced for a challenge.
Ross slammed the table, rattling the salt shaker. "Bigfoot isn't science! It's cryptozoology! It's a fictional narrative created by mass-market folklore!" "Marshall, you're a lawyer. You deal in facts, in precedent! You can't seriously believe a giant, bipedal ape is wandering around the Pacific Northwest!"
"Dude, Bigfoot is just a friendly giant who's shy about showering," Marshall retorted, his Minnesota sincerity warm. "You're telling me that in a world where we've found, what, three new species of deep-sea squid this year, there's no room for a Sasquatch?" "Science is about asking questions, Ross! And folklore is just science that hasn't been proven yet!"
Monica stepped in, placing a napkin like a referee's flag. "Okay, that's enough. Bigfoot is a subject that is currently off-limits at this table. It's making the cutlery nervous." She adjusted her gold necklace, her leadership firm.
Carol Willick smiled gently from across the bar, her nod a silent support. Carol's good. She still roots for the big lug. Ross calmed, the heat fading as he remembered his chaotic history.
Marshall breathed deeply, the adrenaline ebbing. We're not fighting. We're just having a spirited debate about the nature of truth. "Look, Ross, I get it. You love facts. I love wonder." He patted Ross's arm gently. "But somewhere, deep in the Montana woods, there's a giant, misunderstood ape who just wants to be loved. And I will find him. And then I will hug him." He laughed warmly, his loyalty intact.
Marshall leaned back, his pendant swinging slightly. Ross sipped his coffee, a faint smile breaking through. The bar's murmur softened, a gentle lull in the debate. Marshall traced a pattern on the table, lost in thought. Wonder keeps us alive.
Phoebe felt the energy shift, a light, sparkly vibe emerging. The moment calls for a dinosaur opera. She leaned close to Lily, the scent of her cardigan mixing with incense memories. She's a beautiful, non-judgmental kinship.
"Okay, so the T-Rex can't use its arms to hold the sheet music," Lily whispered, doodling swiftly. "Maybe the Velociraptor is the conductor?"
"Oh, no, Lily-pad, that's boring," Phoebe said, tapping her chin. "The T-Rex sings, but only in interpretive silence. The sound is in the audience's heart. And the conductor must be Timmy."
Lily paused, puzzled. "Timmy from my class? Phoebe, he added the chaotic ideas that the Triceratops should only sing show tunes and the volcano is also the lighting director."
Timmy leaned in, clutching his toy triceratops. "The volcano has to be purple! And when the triceratops sings 'Memory,' the volcano has to make sad smoke! Sad, purple smoke!"
"See? Brilliant!" Phoebe declared, gesturing wildly. "He is channeling the volcano's truth! The dinosaur opera needs its soul, and its soul is purple sadness!"
Chandler adjusted his hair, amused. "I'm sorry, but this conversation is dumber than the plot of The Flintstones," he said. "A triceratops singing Broadway. I think I just lost two IQ points."
Phoebe ignored him, turning to Lily. This is bigger than kindergarten. This is art. She saw the opera's potential, tied to the plaque's tension.
Robin sipped her beer, eyeing the stylish package on the floor. She has that Long Island Lilt confidence that says 'I am better than you.' Her Canadian pragmatism bristled against Rachel's glamour.
Rachel nudged the package with her flat. "Ooh, that's cute. What did you get? Is that new?"
"It's nothing. Just a new winter coat for work," Robin replied, coolly.
"Right. Because that flannel you're wearing is, like, so drab," Rachel tossed her hair back. "I mean, it's New York. You're a reporter. You need to dress like a woman who could interview the Mayor, not a lumberjack."
Robin's cheeks tightened. Drab? My flannel is comfortable and professional. "My flannel is warm, Rachel. It's also durable. It says 'I can file a report from a blizzard and still look put together,' not 'I need Daddy's credit card to buy a matching scarf.'"
Ted jumped in, running a hand through his hair. "Hey! Leave Robin's flannel alone! It's awesome. It's… rugged. And it shows she's practical! It's a great piece of clothing!"
She is my enemy. My gorgeous, high-maintenance, non-working, flannel-hating enemy. Robin's resolve hardened. Dammit. Now I have to look at fashion blogs.
Mrs. Flaxman shuffled in, smelling of mothballs and gossip. "The plaque," she whispered to Phoebe. "The one in the lobby. They say it's cursed. Says it right on the back. It causes bad luck. Divorces. Bad jobs. That's why the lights flicker."
Phoebe gasped, high-pitched. "Oh! A curse! I felt it! The indigo streak! It was the curse!"
Ross slammed his cup, clattering sharply. "Mrs. Flaxman, with all due respect, that is completely unscientific. There is no such thing as a 'cursed' plaque." "The flickering lights are clearly an issue with the building's pre-war wiring. The only thing that plaque is doing is accumulating dust!"
Mrs. Flaxman smiled slyly. "That's what they want you to think, Dr. Geller."
Phoebe turned to Ross. "Ross, you're hurting the plaque's feelings. It's sensitive."
Ross rubbed his neck, anxiety knotting. I hate being contradicted. I hate chaos. The rumor took root, amplifying his paranoia.
Phoebe strummed an imaginary guitar, her eyes dreamy. Lily sketched a triceratops, her pen soft on the page. The bar's hum faded, a brief stillness settling. Ross traced a coffee ring, his breath slowing. Maybe there's wonder in the chaos.
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