Disclaimer: The characters used are the property of David E. Kelley and Ivan Reitman.  No
copyright infringement is intended in their use.


                          Serendipity
                                
                       by Gail M. Eppers

(In and Out/Chicago Hope crossover)

     The ER was quiet that night.  Philip Watters, Chief of Staff, was glad.  He'd been feeling
the need for some hands on work, but he really wasn't in the mood to be swamped with life and
death decisions.  There was a gun shot wound to the thigh, a small child having an asthma
attack, and a few household cuts that required stitches.  He knew that this situation could change
at any time, but he savored the simple cases while they lasted.  But rather than deligating them
as he normally would, he took a few cases himself.  As luck would have it, he had just released a
teenaged girl who needed six stitches for a cut to her arm from a broken window when another
patient was brought in.  He slipped on fresh gloves and directed the gurney into a free cubicle.  
     For a full minute, he stared at his patient.  
     "Hey, Doc, are you gonna look at my leg?"  The patient finally asked.
     Philip shook off his shock and moved closer.  "Of course.  Can you tell me what
happened?"  He listened to the patient while he examined an obvious open fracture to the femur.
     "It sounds pretty silly, and it was really just a freak accident.  I was rehearsing a scene a
few blocks from here and fell into the street, just when a recently crazed horse and buggy came
around the corner.  My leg got trampled and twisted in the wheels."  He winced in pain, either
from remembering the accident or from Philip's probing.  Philip couldn't be sure which.
     "I see."  He told the tall, lithe young man.  "Well, you're going to need traction for a
couple of weeks to straighten out that fracture.  I'll get someone to take care of this.  Take it
easy."
     "Easy for you to say."  The young man muttered.
     Philip stepped out of the cubicle and flagged down Billy Kronk.  Quickly he explained
the injury, and Kronk nodded, knowing what he had to do.  But as Billy tried to enter the cubicle,
Philip pulled him back.  "Just a minute.  Do you know who he is?"
     "Philip, I haven't even seen him yet."  Kronk replied rather loudly in irritation.
     Watters shushed him.  "Quiet."  He whispered, "Did you see 'To Serve and Protect'"?
     Kronk drew a blank.
     "He won for Best Actor at last year's Oscars?"
     "Oh, that chick flick?  I was rooting for 'Snowball in Hell'.  Now, there's a picture!  I saw
it six times!" He was all but grunting in testosterone inspired memory. 
     Watters decided to be blunt.  "That's Cameron Drake, Billy."
     "THE Cameron Drake?"  Billy teased, not particularly impressed.
     "Shhhhhh.  Billy, he's got a zillion fans.  If word gets out that he's here, we're going to
have a security problem on our hands.  I've got some covering to do.  Take care of that leg." 
Philip finally let go and hurried away.
     Kronk ducked inside and smiled.  "Hi!  'Fraid I didn't see your movie --"
     "Neither one?"  Drake interrupted.
     "Nope.  But I'll take care of this anyway.  We'll get you something for the pain right
away."
     "As long as I don't move, it doesn't hurt much."
     "Oh, it will.  It will."  Kronk began working on him.
     From outside the cubicle, they could both hear a female voice asking loudly, "Where's
my husband?  Cameron?  Cameron?"  An orderly's hand pulled back one end of the curtain and
let in a heavy set, red-headed woman.  She rushed to the head of his bed.  "Cameron, what
happened?"
     After explaining it to the EMT's and then to that first doctor he'd seen, he really didn't
feel like explaining it again.  "Let's just say, I'm out of this picture."  He said sadly.
     "They'll wait for you.  They have to wait for you."
     "Ma'am, *you'll* have to wait outside."  Kronk said.  "He'll be fine, but he needs to go to
the OR to have that leg set and pinned."
     "Em, Call the director!"  Cameron called after his reluctantly retreating wife.


     Philip sat in his office and hung up the phone for the fourth time.  He'd alerted security,
the police department, the hospital board, and Daniel Nyland.  He'd called Nyland first, in fact,
with a mystery message designed to get him to Chicago Hope.  By the time Philip hung up the
phone on the hospital board, he could hear Nyland coming in through the outer office.  The door
opened, the young man entered, and the door closed in one smooth motion.  "Okay, Philip.  I'm
here.  Where's the fire?"
     "At the moment, in OR 2."
     "What are you talking about?"  Nyland was angry and impatient and Philip couldn't
blame him.  When he'd last been at Chicago Hope several months ago, Nyland had been at the
losing end of a trumped up legal battle, blamed for the death of a gang member who'd been as
good as dead before he even got in the ambulance.  The publicity had forced Nyland to quit
Chicago Hope, which he'd done very quietly and disappeared.  Philip was glad he hadn't moved
out of town.  Although he must have changed his phone number since Philip's call had had to be
forwarded.  
     "Have a seat, Dr. Nyland."  Philip indicated a chair.
     Danny sat.  "You don't have to call me that anymore.  I'm in a different line of work
now."
     Philip was curious.  "Really?  What have you been doing with yourself?"
     Danny looked like he was weighing his response carefully, trying to decide if Philip
either really wanted to know or meritted the truth.  "I'm a lawyer."
     Watters eyebrows shot up.  "That fast?  I'm impressed."
     Nyland shifted in his seat, feeling a little guilty, "I had some connections, but I'm still a
good lawyer.  Oh, and I got married."
     "Congratulations."  
     It was obvious that Philip actually felt offended that .... what, that he hadn't been invited
to the wedding?  What could he expect? Danny thought.  "Did you lure me in here to update my
records or do you have something important to tell me?"
     "I need you to be a doctor again for awhile.  Coupla weeks."  Watters cringed inside,
anticipating Nyland's reaction.
     "You've got to be joking!"
     "Listen, we have a celebrity patient here, and if I assign him to you it'll cut down on the
curiosity seekers."
     "How do you figure this?  Won't people want to watch me kill him?"  Nyland could not
believe such an outrageous request.
     Watters lowered his eyes briefly before answering, "I doubt anyone even remembers who
you are anymore.  It's all blown over."
     Nyland's dark eyes grew even darker.  "And is there some reason you would think I'd be
willing to kowtow to this....celebrity person?"
     "A favor?"  Watters was getting worried that he was about to be turned down.
     Nyland stood angrily, "Like hell!  What did you ever do for me?  When the shit hit the
fan, where were you?"
     "I tried --"
     "No, you didn't!  You went to bat for Geiger.  You even stood up for Kronk once or
twice.  But you just let them railroad me.  I don't know who this mystery patient is of yours, but
he or she can just take potluck like everybody else, because I'm out of here!  Drop dead, ice
prince!"  As soon as he'd said it, Nyland wondered why.  
     "Ice prince?"  They both said together, hesitating over what it meant.
     Nyland shook off the strange feeling it gave him, "I'm not sure why I said that part, but
the rest still goes."  He turned to storm out of the office.
     "Cameron Drake!"  Philip called out, causing Nyland to stop with one hand on the door
knob.
     Nyland turned.  "Cameron Drake?  'To Serve and Protect' Cameron Drake?"  Philip
nodded silently, letting Danny turn the name over in his head.  God, Dharma loved that movie,
Danny thought.  Cameron Drake ranked right up there with....with.... but that wouldn't matter
because, "I wouldn't be able to tell anyone, right?"  Philip touched his nose, pointed at Nyland, 
and nodded.  Damn.  
     Nyland slunked down in the chair again, thinking hard, glancing at Philip between
examining his hands and shoes.  He squirmed like a little kid as he asked quietly, "How about
after he's gone?"
     "You can call the Enquirer if you want."
     Nyland smiled broadly.  "I'll do better than that.  I can call the Tribune!  I know an editor
there..."
     Watters was smiling, too.  
     "Can I use your phone?"  Nyland asked, pointing to the object in question.
     "To call the Tribune?"
     "No, I have to call my wife in San Francisco."
     "San Francisco?  How did you get here so fast?"
     "Private jet.  Told you I was a good lawyer."  He winked at Philip as he picked up the
receiver and began dialing.  "By the way, I changed my name, too.  I'm Greg Montgomery now. 
Too much flak to be Daniel Nyland.  I just keep my old number and forward stuff in case Billy
needs me."  He listened to the ring.  "Hi, Dharma.  It's Greg.  Look, something's come up here
and I won't be home for dinner."  He paused, listening.  "No, I won't be home for breakfast,
either.  In fact, it'll be a couple of weeks."  Another pause, while Danny glanced up at Philip's
reaction to his conversation, "No, I'm not cheating on you.  Yes, I'll be fine.  You don't have to
come.  I'll get a hotel room.  Love you."  He appeared to be about to hang up, but added,
"Dharma, don't make me....oh, all right.  Bye, Stinky.  Bye, Nunzio.  Love you guys, too."  Then
he hung up and explained, "The dogs."


     It was hard to tell who was pampering Cameron more, the nurse or his wife, the former
Emily Montgomery.   Although he was still groggy from the anesthetic, Emily competed with
the nurse and won the right to fluff his pillow.  As the nurse left, the open door let in a familiar,
jaw irritating whine.  "Caaaaaaaaa-aaaaaaaaam!"
     Emily nudged her husband.  "The director's here."
     Cameron winced.  "I heard."  And sighed.
     A human swizzle stick entered the room.  The woman walked with utmost confidence. 
"Cameron, you said you would do my movie!"  The last syllable stretched on for nearly a full
minute.
     Cameron gestured at his leg, heavily plastered and hanging in mid-air.  "Sonja."
     Standing stock still, arms waving, she glanced at the leg.  "I don't care!  It's just Hamlet. 
You don't need two legs to do Hamlet."
     "'Fraid you do, Sonja.  The film will have to wait."  He shrugged.  There was no getting
around it.  "I'll be in traction for two weeks, and in the cast for a couple of months."
     She stamped her foot.  "I won't wait.  I can't wait, Cam.  Reuben wants it done by the end
of the month."
     "Facts are facts.  I can't do the part."
     "You can say that again."  Sonja muttered.
     "Pardon me?"  Cameron's actor instincts were insulted.
     "Well, that scene you were rehearsing,"  she gestured to the outside wall as if it had taken
place there, "it was depressing!"
     Cameron closed his eyes, apparently counting to ten.  "Sonja, dear, it's supposed to be. 
Hamlet is contemplating suicide."
     Sonja pouted.  "I don't care.  I just want to get my movie made.  You promised you'd help
me.  It's your fault I can't be a model anymore."
     "What are you talking about?"
     "Well, look at me!  I ballooned up to a hundred pounds while I was stuck in Greenblatt
with you, and I'll never get rid of this weight!  I'm hideously fat!"  Nevermind that she could hide
behind a toothpick.
     "It's GreenLEAF, Sonja.  GreenLEAF."  More counting.  "And your agent dropped you
because you didn't call him for six months."
     "On what?  That antique?  It didn't even have a speaker, and it hurt my ear.  And
that...that curly thing got in the way, and the buttons didn't work."  She was still pouting.
     Cameron had been through this argument before, and decided to pass this time.  "It
doesn't matter, Sonja.  I just thought of someone who can do the part for you."  He exchanged a
meaningful glance with Emily, who, with a smile of her own, pulled a cel phone out of her purse
and retired to a corner of the room.  "We're lucky.  We haven't filmed anything yet, so replacing
me will work just fine."
     Sonja looked at him suspiciously.  "You'd better be right.  Who did you have in mind?"
     "Someone you know."
     "Oh, so now we're playing twenty questions again.  I hate when you do that!"
     "Mr. Brackett, Sonja.  He taught me everything I know about Shakespeare, including
Hamlet.  He knows that play backwards and forwards.  He can do this."
     Emily moved the phone away from her ear and placed a hand over the receiver.  "He'll
come.  When do you want him and can he bring Peter?"
     "Tell *them*,"  Cameron stressed, "to get the next flight to Chicago, my treat.  Then wire
the money."  Emily returned to her phone.  "You can start filming tomorrow, Sonja.  I promise."


     When Dr. Daniel Nyland entered the room later that evening, the patient was alone.  "Hi,
I'm Dr. Nyland.  I'll be your waiter this evening."  He went to the foot of the bed and began
paging through the chart.  "Mr. Drake, is it?  Are you in any pain?"
     "No," Cameron said with a yawn, finding it hard to get comfortable enough in the bed. 
"Just tired.  It's going to be hard to sleep like this, though."
     "You'll get used to it."  Nyland went over to the window to pull the drapes closed for the
night.  Glancing out, some flickering light caught his eye.  He looked down and across the street
he saw them.  Dozens of teenage boys and girls standing looking directly at his window.  Each
one held a lit candle, lifting it high in unison, apparently singing.  "It's a shame you can't see out
the window."
     "Fans?"  Cameron sounded bored.
     "Does the phrase 'candlelight vigil' mean anything to you?"  He closed the drapes and
went back toward the bed, checking the traction.  
     Cameron rubbed his tired eyes, "Yeah, it means I gotta get out of this business."
     "Well, for the next few months, you can consider yourself out.  Unless someone needs a
character with a busted leg."  He hung the chart back on its hook.  "See you tomorrow."


     Shortly after he finished breakfast, Cameron was pleased to see Emily, Peter, and Mr.
Brackett come into the room.  The two men winced in sympathy on seeing the heavily plastered
leg.  Emily sat down next to Cameron, "Sonja's on her way."
     Cameron shook hands with Peter and Mr. Brackett.  "Hi.  Thanks for coming."
     Peter pointed to the leg, "Nasty break."
     "Hurt like hell, too.  But they pinned it together and gave me lots of drugs,"  Cameron
said.
     Howard Brackett leaned against a wall, "Now, what is it exactly you need me for?  Emily
didn't say much on the phone."
     "Well," Cameron began, "you know Sonja's a director now.  She's living with this
producer named Rueben and to keep her out of his hair he gives her low-brow movies to do.  At
the moment, it's Hamlet --"
     "Ah!  Hamlet!"  Howard now saw the connection.  He had been teaching Shakespeare for
years back in Greenleaf.  "Low-brow?"
     "Very," Cameron said apologetically.  
     "Sorta like the DiCaprio 'Romeo and Juliet'?"
     "Lower."
     "Uh huh.  And you need a refresher about the play?"
     "Actually, Mr. Brackett, I was supposed to be Hamlet, and then this happened, and the
crew and everything is here already.  They can't afford to postpone filming."
     Howard pushed himself up from the wall, "I'm not an actor, Cameron."
     Cameron laughed, "You won't need to be.  Mr. Brackett, I heard you read those speeches
in class.  That's all you gotta do here.  There'll be the swordfight on the steps of the Art Museum,
but a choreographer will help you with that.  And they cut out a lot of stuff.  Their aiming for a
runtime of 90 minutes, so there's basically the 'play's the thing' thing, 'to be or not to be' and the
swordfight.  It's just gotta get made.  It doesn't have to be good."  He rethought, "In fact, there's
no way it's going to be good."
     "I see."
     Peter Malloy, Howard's companion and a reporter, slapped him encouragingly on the
back, "Oh, do it, Howard.  Sounds like fun."
     At that point, Sonja entered the room.  "Mr. Brackett, this is Sonja.  She's your director."
     Howard remembered Sonja from Greenleaf.  He'd seen her dance with his brother Walter
at his parent's second wedding.  He nodded at her in greeting.  
     Sonja was giving him the once over.  "I don't know about this, Cameron.  He's not right
for Hamlet."
     Cameron rolled his eyes, "Sonja, it doesn't matter."
     "Ooooo.  Ooooo."  Peter said excitedly, "*This* is a story!"  He walked around the bed,
forming a square with his hands to frame Cameron and Sonja in a shot.  "Disaster strikes film
shoot!  Pinned -- and Pout!"  
     Howard stopped him, "Peter, you're not doing this."
     "What?  Major star!  Crippled!  Ex-Teacher!  Savior!"  He grinned.  "It's a natural."
     "No."
     "That's what you said when I tried to cover your wedding."
     "And look what happened!"  Wait a minute, he thought, that turned out to be a good
thing.  He'd found out he and Emily really didn't belong together, and he'd met Peter.  "Strike
that.  Nevermind, but the answer is still no."
     Peter moved close to Howard and whispered something in his ear.  Howard looked him
in the face with an "are you serious" expression.  Peter replied affirmatively with his twinkling
eyes, and a devilish smile.  Finally, Howard relented.  "Deal."
     "All right," Sonja said.  "We're doing the swordfight first.  Films are always shot
backwards.  That's the rules.  Be at the Art Museum by 10:00."  She left without a word or a
glance, just expecting her demands to be followed by the letter.
     "I appreciate this, Mr. Brackett.  And I apologize for putting you on the spot."
     Howard was beginning to feel better about the whole idea.  Peter was right.  It *did*
sound like fun.  "I'd better go brush up my Shakespeare."  He quipped.
     "Oh, one more thing, if you don't mind."
     "Yes?"
     "Sign my cast?"


     Elsewhere in the hospital, Philip Watters was preparing to face a roomful of reporters. 
Despite all his efforts, word had gotten out quickly about Cameron Drake's whereabouts. 
Rumors had sprung up in which he was both dead and/or sinking fast.  Although he'd never
actually spoken to anyone yet, newscasters had reported him in critical condition, milking the
imminent danger for whatever they could.  Philip sighed.  He hated these things.
     Taking a deep breath, he approached the podium and thanked everyone for coming. 
Breifly he explained Cameron's condition and pointed randomly to someone for a question.  
     "How long do you expect him to live?"
     "About fifty more years."  Philip said, in all seriousness.  "I told you, he is not in a
life-threatening situation.  Next question."
     "Will he walk again?"
     "Yes, he definitely will.  It will take at least six months for a full recovery, and he will
need physical therapy.  But his spirits are good, and he's young and strong.  We have every
reason to expect that full recovery sooner than, uh, expected."  He knew he sounded like an idiot. 
That's why he hated these things.  "Next question."
     "What about the film he was working on?  Will it be delayed or cancelled?"
     "I'm not privy to that information.  Sorry."  Again he pointed.
     "Will this end his career?"
     "I can only answer questions regarding his medical condition."  Really, Philip thought,
who did they think he was?  More hands went up and he pointed to one.  "Is this a question about
his medical condition?"  He asked a young female in the crowd.
     "Yes, sir!  Absolutely!"
     "Go ahead."
     "He didn't hurt his adorable face, did he?"  
     Philip peered more closely at the person, "Are you a reporter?"
     The woman giggled, and ducked underneath arms to escape.
     Philip had had enough.  "Ladies and Gentlemen, thank you again for coming.  You now
have all the information that is currently available.  This press conference is over."  He left the
podium, planning to go to his office and take three or four aspirin.
     On the way out of the press room, he literally bumped into Diane Grad and gingerly
stopped the very pregnant woman from falling.  "Ooops.  Excuse me, Diane."
     "Is it true that Cameron Drake is here?" She glanced past him and saw the room of
reporters slowly evacuating, "Damn, I missed the press conference!"
     "Relax, Diane.  He's here.  He had an open fracture to his right femur, but he'll be fine. 
He's upstairs in traction."  He kept his voice low so that no straggling reporters might overhear.
"And please don't go up there and bother him.  I don't want him to think the doctors here are all
groupies."
     "Oh, come on!  Do I look like a groupie?"
     "A very pregnant groupie in a white lab coat."  Philip said with a grin, teasing her.
     "I gotta find Billy."  She muttered, not paying attention, and walked away from Philip. 
Philip rubbed his aching temple, and resumed his path to his office.


     At 9:55, Howard and Peter were at the Art Museum.  A couple of dozen people milled
around adjusting the tons of equipment that went with any film project.  Large trucks were
parked half a block away.  Sonja saw the two and came to the steps, followed by another
woman.  "Here's the choreographer," she told them.  "Do whatever she says."   She pulled Peter
away by the hand and showed him to a chair, then sat in her own luxury director's chair to watch.
     "Don't I need a sword, and a costume?"
     "Later.  First you learn the steps.  Now, watch me."  The choreographer mimed a
complicated swordfight ranging up and down the steps, all around Howard so that he had to turn
to keep watching.  Then she clutched her chest in pain, fell to her knees, and collapsed on the
steps.  After a second, she bounced up again.  "Got it?"
     "Yeah, sure."  Howard said.  "Not a chance."
     For the next hour, the choreographer worked with Howard. It was hard for him to muster
any enthusiasm, since the setting itself was making a mockery out of one of his favorite plays,
but he reminded himself of what Cameron had said and tried to relax.  Finally, he was following
the choreographer exactly.  
     "Okay, we've got the steps. Now we add flare."
     "Flare?"  Howard was guessing he was going to get a sword now.
     She went through the steps again, but began to add flourishes here and there that made
the fight very balletic.  "You see?"  She said, barely breaking a sweat, "more fluid to the eye."
     To Howard, it looked suspciously like out and out dancing.  Howard liked to dance,
himself, but he considered Hamlet to be a very manly man, but he knew that manly men did not
dance.  He wanted to leave the flourishing out.  
     The choreographer threw up her hands, "Ridiculous!  Manly men dance!"
     "Like who?"
     "Have you ever heard of Patrick Swayze, Mickey Rooney, Dick Van Dyke, Tommy Tune,
Gene Kelly?"  She came back at him.
     Howard sat suddenly on the steps.  He'd never thought of that.  It changed his whole
perspective.  He looked up at Peter, still watching happily from his chair, but too far away to
hear the conversation.  But if his preference for dancing didn't mean what he thought it meant,
and the guy on the 'Discovering Your Masculinity" tape was wrong, then --
     He rose and started to go down the steps.  The choreographer called after him, but he
didn't notice.  Approaching Peter in the chair, he said, still stunned from his revelation, "Gene
Kelly."
     "Howard?"  Peter asked.
     Sonja pulled at him to get his attention, "Hey, the swordfight first!  Get up there!"  
     Howard looked at Sonja as if he'd never seen her before.  
     "We're almost ready to start shooting.  Costume!  Makeup!  Let's get him ready!"
     Howard was swept away by four separate people.


     Diane found Billy resting in the oncall room.  For awhile, she watched him sleep.  He'd
been up most of the night in the ER, and hadn't showered or shaved.  But she still smiled. 
"Billy," she whispered.
     "Hmmm?"  He murmured, not really waking up.  
     "Billy," she whispered again, no louder than last time.  
     "Not now, Diane," he turned his back to her and continued sleeping.
     "How come you didn't tell me about Cameron Drake?  They said you fixed his leg."  She
was tired of crouching by the cot, with her overhanging belly tipping her forward, so she sat on
the floor and leaned against the wall.
     Now he rolled to his stomach and opened one eye to look at her.  "I didn't have time to
pee, Diane.  Besides, I knew you'd go nuts.   You been up there yet?"
     She sighed in disappointment, "No.  Philip told me not to."
     "Smart Philip."
     "Oh, come on, Billy.  That's not fair."  She felt terribly jealous of him.  He'd not only met
the man, but treated his leg.  How lucky could he get?  She paused, but he started to go back to
sleep, so she prodded him, "Billy, if it's a boy, let's name him Cameron."
     Billy lifted his head and opened both eyes, crossing his arms underneath his head, "Hell
no!  Billy Junior.  My boy Bill."
     Diane smiled thinking of the song 'Soliloquy' from 'Carousel'.  "What if it's a girl?"
     "Then you can name *her* Cameron.  Now, can I go back to sleep?"
     Diane leaned in to kiss him on the forehead.  "I hope it's twins."
     His hand shot out to grab her, but she escaped with a giggle.  "Just for that, you better
shower and shave before you come home!"
     "Same to you."  His words came muffled through the pillowcase.


     Howard now had his sword as he approached his mark on the steps of the Art Museum. 
He was dressed in thigh high boots and skin tight pants that made him very self-conscious, and a
white blouse with full sleeves that he hoped he would get to keep.  He brandished the sword left
and right, enjoying the feel of it and getting into character. 
     "Places!"  Sonja shouted.
     He saw the other actor, playing Laertes, come up the steps, and he nearly dropped the
sword.  "Sonja!"  He called, then went over to her chair rather than wait for her to come.  "Sonja,
Gary Coleman is Laertes?!"
     "You got a problem wid dat?"  This came from behind him, as Mr. Coleman had
followed him, anticipating an argument.
     Sonja said nothing.  Howard couldn't bring himself to object openly in front of the man,
so he shrugged his shoulders in defeat, "No.  Not at all."  Like Cameron had said, there was no
way this was going to be good.
     They did the swordfight in one take, although Mr. Coleman improvised a duck under one
of the lions that hadn't been in the routine Howard was shown.  Howard got the feeling that even
if they had fallen under each other, Sonja would have left it at one take.  Lying on the steps, he
recited, "Oh, I die, Horatio", ignoring the fact that no Horatio was in attendance, "the potent
poison quite o'er-crows my spirit.  I cannot live to hear the news from England, but I do prophesy
th' election lights on Fortinbras, he has my dying voice.  So tell him, with th' occurrents more and
less which have solicited -- the rest is silence."  And he dropped his head.  
     "Cut! Set up for 'To Be or Not to Be'!"  Hamlet and Laertes rose from the dead.  Laertes
disappeared, and Hamlet was directed to stand by.
     A long red carpet was carried to the top of the steps and allowed to roll down,  and an
elaborate chair was placed at the top.  
     "Places!"  Sonja shouted again.
     "No rehearsals?"
     "Not for this speech.  Improvise the movement.  The choreographer went home."
     Howard went up and sat in the chair, easily pulling the famous speech from his memory.  
When Sonja yelled, "Action!"  he began.  He'd gotten only a few sentences out when she yelled,
"Cut!"  and rose from her chair to approach him.  "Mr. Brackett, could you at least smile a
little?"
     "Smile?  Hamlet's suicidal!"
     "But we don't want to make the audience that way!  Be suicidal without being
depressing!" She demanded, returning to her chair, she sat and abruptly yelled, "Action!"
     Howard began again, smiling hideously as he spoke, and silently apologizing to the great
Bard.
     After his speech, he was quickly escorted back to the costume trailer where he was made
to return to his old clothes and give up his sword.  "See you tomorrow," they said.
     "Can't wait."  He replied.


     Howard hurried back to Chicago Hope, and up to Cameron's room hoping that Emily was
still there.  He burst in without knocking, calling her name.  "Emily!  Emily!"  He saw only
Cameron, lying uncomfortably in the bed.  "Is she still here?"
     "She's here, Mr. Brackett."
     Just then a toilet flushed, and shortly the inside door opened and Emily emerged. 
"Howard."  She said happily.  
     Howard grabbed her by the shoulders and pushed her against the wall, kissing her hard
on the lips.  "Howard!"  She objected.
     "Mr. Brackett!" Cameron objected from his bed.
     "Emily, I've just discovered the most wonderful thing!"  He gasped and kissed her again. 
Yes!  Yes, it was there.  "Gene Kelly!" He panted.
     Emily was about as confused as a person could be.  "Howard, what are you talking
about?"  She pushed him back, conscious of the watchful eye coming from the hospital bed.  
     "Patrick Swayze,"  He added, as if that explained everything.  "Mickey Rooney.  They 
dance!"
     "Well, I knew that, Howard."
     It seemed too much for him to explain, so he told her, "I'm not homosexual!"
     "Okay, so you were straight, then you were gay, now you're straight again?"  Emily
moved closer to the bed to reassure Cameron, who was beginning to look rather worried.  She
took his hand in hers though she continued to speak to Howard.  "What does this mean?"
     Howard waved one hand in the air, "Well, it's not that I'm straight, either, I guess."  He
lowered his voice and spoke the next line mostly to himself, "because Peter really does it for
me,"  then he returned his voice to normal, "I guess I'm *bi*-sexual."  He stepped closer to
Emily, "Emily, I... I think we could have..."
     Emily turned to Cameron and kissed him.  "I love you, darling.  And I'm very happy we're
married."  That seemed to give Cameron a little more confidence, after Howard's unusual display
of affection towards his wife.  Then Emily spun back to Howard, "You don't suppose you could
possibly HAVE FIGURED THIS OUT A YEAR AND A HALF AGO?"
     Howard flinched from Emily's anger.  Reality slowly came back to him.  Cameron and
Emily were married.  Happily.  He and Peter were.....well, happy.  Was this supposed to change
anything?  "I'm...sorry."  He said.  "I just..."  He backed into a chair and sat, quietly trying to
figure out the rest of his life.
     A moment later, Peter poked his head through the door, "Did Howard come back here?"
     Emily pointed to the far side of the room, not visible from Peter's current position
hunkered behind a half open door.  Peter straightened to his full height and entered, peering
around the corner of the wall enclosing the bathroom, to see his partner sitting oblivious in a
chair.  "Howard?"
     Howard lifted his head quizzically.  
     "Another epiphany?"  Peter asked.  He crouched down next to the chair and sat on his
haunches.  "So Howard, are we through?"  From this position, his head was actually slightly
lower than Howard's, so he had to look up with his eyes.
     "Through?"  Howard suddenly recognized Peter and his eyes cleared.   He stared at Peter
for a moment, then very quickly grabbed Peter's head and kissed him on the lips, holding it until
his slipping from the chair broke contact.  "No."  He said with a deep breath, "No, we're not."
     Peter helped him to his feet.  "Glad to hear it."  Peter said, the kiss not phasing him in the
least.  
     "But would you be terribly offended if,"  Howard asked, "just once in a while, I --" He
stopped, seeing the expression on Peter's face.  "Um...nevermind."
     He turned to Cameron and Emily.  "Sorry for the intrusion."  With one arm around Peter's
waist, he looked up at his friend.  "Let's go to the hotel."
     "Oh, Mr. Brackett?"  Cameron asked.
     "Yes, Cameron?"
     "You *are* going to finish the movie, aren't you?"

     Danny Nyland paused outside the door, mentally placing himself back into "Greg
Montgomery" mode.  He opened the door to find his wife, Dharma, lying on the couch, with both
dogs on top of her, looking miserable.  But hearing someone come in, she looked up, then
pushed both dogs to the floor and rushed to him.  "Greg, Greg!  I'm so glad you're home!  I
missed you so much!"  She wrapped her arms around him tightly.
     Greg suddenly realized exactly how much he had missed Dharma as well.
     "C'mon!  Let's go upstairs."  Dharma said excitedly, already halfway up them.  "I need
you.  I was about to have sex with Nunzio!  But I was going to keep Stinky as a backup."  She
stopped when she noticed that Greg had come to a rigid halt at the bottom of the steps. 
"Honey?"
     Greg was slightly embarrassed, but knew that he could not bend any part of his body at
that moment.  
     Dharma got upset.  "You don't love me!"  She cried, coming back to him and grasping his
arm.  She looked into his eyes for any sign of sincerity.  "You met someone in Chicago."  She
guessed.
     Greg saw his opening.  "Well, I did meet someone in Chicago."  He took a wicked delight
in seeing the horrified expression on Dharma's face, "but don't worry.  He's not my type."
     "He?"  She asked.  A second later she realized that his innuendo was all in fun.  "Okay,
Gregboy."  She pushed him toward the couch.  Slowly, gently, he managed to sit down.  "What
happened in Chicago?"
     He thought about what he should say, then chose the direct approach.  "I took care of
Cameron Drake."
     For an instant, Dharma just stared at him.  Then she slapped his chest, "Shut up!  You
didn't!"
     "Yeah, I did, Dharma."  He continued, "Remember my secret that you can't tell anyone,
about my being a doctor?  Well, my old collegues in Chicago tracked me down to take care of
Cameron Drake when he broke his leg in an accident.  They knew I'd keep a low profile."  He
stroked his wife's face, "I was dying to call and tell you about it, but I wasn't allowed."
     Dharma flopped on the couch next to him, utterly stunned, "They said on TV that he was
in a coma!"
     "Um, nope.  Never was.  Just a badly broken leg.  He was in traction the whole time I was
there, but they released him yesterday, cast and all."
     "Well....what about Hamlet?  He was supposed to be Hamlet!"  She began to quote, "To
be or not to be.  That is the question."
     "Dharma, I know who Hamlet is," he said.  "They got a replacement.  Naturally, he
couldn't do it."
     "Oh, pooh," she pouted.  "He would have been the best Hamlet!"
     

     The tux felt tight on Howard.  He sat at his place at the large circular table apparently set
by Martha Stewart herself with Mr. Coleman, Sonja, Reuben, and the Olson Twins, who had
portrayed Ophelia for a total of five minutes screen time, two and a half minutes each.  The
auditorium was crowded but silent as the presenter returned to the stage.  Cameron Drake,
moving like his old self after several months of intense therapy, came to center stage.    "Ladies
and gentlemen, I am proud to announce a special award tonight.  When I was injured, I put in a
call to this man.  He wasn't an actor.  But he knew Shakespeare.  It was a film that no one
expected to achieve any honors.  He knew it would probably never be seen.  It's a wonder that it
didn't go directly to video.  But he knew better.  He took a pretentious, but mediocre part, and
turned it into something special.  Reuben Kinkaid's Hamlet will become another legendary film. 
It will be seen and enjoyed decades from now, because of his efforts.  Ladies and gentlemen, Mr.
Howard Brackett!"  He began clapping, and soon the entire audience was standing and
applauding.
     Howard stood nervously and moved clumsily to the stage.  He shook Cameron's hand and
faced the auditorium.  My God, they were all standing.  He felt himself blush and waited
impatiently for the applause to die down.  When everyone was finally seated, Howard cleared his
throat.  Cameron handed Howard an engraved plaque that read, "The Academy honors Mr.
Howard Brackett's special achievement in preventing the degradation of the film industry".
     "Thank you."  Howard spoke into the microphone, which squeaked and whistled.  He
stepped back, and held up the plaque.  "I believe my acting career is now over, but I do
appreciate knowing that if I ever fail as a teacher, I have something to fall back on."
     The audience applauded again, and Cameron showed Howard off the stage.

THE END