Chapter Two

THE ANDERCHRONICLES

By Me, Ellee

[WARNING: The following story has been rated FNF*]
*Fiction NOT Fact

“Confession”

A
fter we finished drinking the large bottle of San Pellegrino, the whole room took on a rather subtle glow of green. I had never noticed this before when drinking San Pellegrino— even in Italy. When I mentioned this to Anderson, he said, “What?”

“I said I’ve never noticed a green glow after drinking San Pellegrino before. Have you?”

“What are you talking about?”

He seemed a little annoyed, since he was busy on his laptop, and had told me not to disturb him. I told him I was sorry, but wondered why his face seemed so green.

“My face isn’t green,” he replied, still tapping away.

“Yes, it is,” I corrected. “Look at your hands. They’re green, too. And look at my hands they’re also green. And what about my face? Is it green?”

I moved up close so my face was right in front of his. That way he could see for himself that truly I WAS GREEN. He took a deep breath, closed the lid of his laptop, turned toward me, and let his eyes scan my face for several seconds. Then, allowing his breath to escape slowly and patiently, a certain amount of controlled annoyance manifesting itself, he said,

“Noooooo . . . your face is NOT green.”

He had taken particular care to say each word so I couldn't possibly misunderstand. Then he calmly picked up both my hands, turning them over and over to make a thorough examination. When he had finished, he transfered his gaze to my eyes, and then raising his right eyebrow added,

“See, they’re not green. Trust me. I’m not green and you’re not green." I could sense quiet exasperation. “Now, could you please just go somewhere else? I neeeed to finish this work . . . Please.”

Since I didn’t want to be a problem so early on, I decided to wander off and explore his place. I was feeling quite lucky that he hadn't yet kicked me out, and I didn't want to give him any cause to do so.

Some time later I found my way back into the library where Anderson was still hard at work. As I entered the room he looked up,“Oh, there you are. I wondered if you were still here.”

Did he expect me to leave, I wondered? Or was he hoping I had already gone? But that didn’t really matter because I wasn’t planning on leaving any time soon. I walked over and sat down beside him. He turned off his laptop and placed it on the side table, all the while studying my face. He appeared to be mulling something over in his mind. And then he leaned over, looked me straight in the eye and said,

“I want to tell you something.”

This seemed like it might be serious. Maybe he was going to INSIST that I leave. So, I braced myself and said,

“Ok, go ahead, shoot. I'm ready”

“ I have chicken legs . . ." he declared, "and they're very white.”

My eyebrows shot straight up, as my eyes widened in response to his confession. Now I don’t know how you feel about this, but we had only met for the first time just four hours previously, and somehow that didn’t strike me as something you would want to admit to right away. I wasn’t sure how to respond. However I was flattered that he was trusting me with this bit of personal information. My mission here, or at least one of them, was one of fact finding, and that certainly qualified. I was considering saying something like, “Well, actually my legs aren’t that great either,” to make him feel okay about himself, when he said,

“Do you want to see them?"

“Ummmm . . . well, ok . . . sure,” I answered, surprised by his remark, not knowing what that would involve.

So, he got up, motioning for me to follow him—which I did—leading me through the living room, down a long hall, past a pad-locked door with a sign which read, “Caution: Do Not Enter,” and into the kitchen where he walked over to the refrigerator, opened the door, and pulled out a large pan. Peering deep inside, he beckoned me to look in, also.

When I did, much to my surprise, I saw twelve pairs of chicken legs—raw and terribly white, all laid out in a uniform configuration. They looked simply ghastly! Like maybe those chickens had spent too much time playing video games, and not enough time playing out in the barnyard.

“My mom always sends food over with her chauffeur—never cooked, "he explained. “I think she believes I'll learn how to cook if she sends enough UNcooked food. I never know what to do with it, though. I was actually going to throw these in the microwave with a little ketchup, but if you know how to do anything . . . anything at all, I mean . . . can you cook? It’s got to taste better than what I would do to them.”

At that, his piercing blue eyes took on a pleading-little-boy look, as a dimpled smile broke out. I wondered if he thought that would get him what he wanted—it did.

For the next sixty-eight minutes, I flew around that marvelous kitchen of his, causing my magic cooking fingers to perform wonders on the sickly palor of those anemic chicken legs, transforming all twenty-four into bronzed epicurian treasures, which I served with a new bottle of San Pellegrino, on a table which I had adorned with candle light and flowers I had found earlier in the library.

And exactly seventy-two and one-quarter minutes later, Anderson had licked his fingers for the last time, after throwing the final chicken bone into the silver bowl I had set in the center for just such cast offs. Whereupon he said,

"Whoaaaa . . . I'm stuffed like a Tongan pig dressed for his first—and last luau."

All during the time we were eating, he told me over and over how wonderful the chicken legs were, and that he had never—no never tasted better. I felt that I had made a few points with him over that dinner. However, those points wouldn't last.

Shortly after that, he left and didn’t come back. I had no idea where he went, probably to work.

I must have fallen asleep on the couch, because I didn’t know a thing until morning when I felt something licking my fingers. As I turned over in response, I fell off the couch crashing to the floor below. My eyes sprung wide open in surprise, and right there in my face was—a DOG! Her tongue was hanging out like a dog’s tongue does. She began licking my nose and my eyes, and started on my ears when I realized this must be Molly, Anderson’s beloved dog. I had met Molly! Or she had met me. She seemed to like me right away, so I reached up and started scratching her ears and her back. And then she rolled over with all four paws in the air, waiting for me to scratch her tummy, which I was doing at the moment Anderson appeared in the doorway.

“W-What are you DOING ? That's . . . that's my dog!" he protested.

“Come here, girl,” he called, slapping his thigh, but Molly didn’t move. “Molly, come here!”

He was more insistent now. She still didn’t respond to her master. Instead she got up and put her head on my lap and looked up at me. This was not what Anderson expected.

“What did you DO to MY dog?”

“I didn’t DO anything to her! I guess she just likes me.”

I could tell he was less than pleased. He walked over to her, and fitting his finger under her collar, lifted her up and away from me, dragging her across the floor and out the door. I was almost certain my chicken leg points had just gone out the door, too.

I didn’t see him or his dog for quite a while. But I DID see Henna-Happy Harriet!

Bye for now
Love,
Ellee