Chapter Fifteen

THE ANDERCHRONICLES

By Me, Ellee

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

[SECOND WARNING: The use of this story for purposes other than intended use is strictly prohibited and will be prosecuted to the fullest extent possible—whatever that is.]

“Planting ‘My Little Christmas Secret’”

Prologue

O Chrisssssstmas treeeeeee,
O Chrisssssstmas treeeeeee,
How lovely aaaaaaare thy brannches . . .

Thy branches oooooof the Polymer Worrrrld
How perrrrrfect, straight as you unfurrrrrrl
Each vinyl limb, so brightly greeeeeen
O never loooose your glowing sheeeeen

Well . . . those aren’t exactly the same words that German guy wrote way back when, but then neither is that particular Christmas tree gracing Andy’s library the same one he bought—the words are fake, and the tree is fake. But . . . shhhhhh don’t tell Andy. . . Remember? It’s my little Christmas secret.

[Author’s Note: You can consult Chapter Eight if you can’t remember, possibly never knew, or even actively tried to forget about the tree in question]

Part I

When Andy left after having been a witness to my singing debut, and after having made a confession, which by the way, I don’t think he really wanted to make, about my striking similarities to the world of mold, he didn’t come back until the day before New Years’s Eve. This left me more time alone to try and put the whole incident into some kind of perspective I could understand.

However, after considerable thought and hours of pacing, not up and down as you might expect, but around and around, due to the layout of his place. I couldn’t arrive at anything definitive. The only definite thing I knew was, he hadn't unloaded me when he had the opportunity!

When he finally did return, he didn’t mention the song or the mold, but he did say,

“Mom and I are going out to Quogue in about an hour to plant my potted Christmas tree. Would you like to come along? Molly’s coming, too.”

I gagged, “Whaaaat??? You’re planting that, that . . . tree???? Now??? Today??????”

“Yeah, Mom and I plant my tree every year after Christmas. I mean it's kinda like our tradition. We already have a whole forest of them growing nicely at Quogue.”

“Does it have to be . . . TODAY???" I questioned, becoming more and more frantic as I thought about the prospect of planting a plastic tree— his plastic Christmas tree—the one he didn't know was plastic.

“Yes, it has to be today. Tomorrow I’m working—it’s New Year’s Eve. Do you want to come or not? If you don’t want to, that’s fine. Suit yourself!”

Of course, I wanted to go. With him I’d go anywhere, except maybe Iraq. Besides, I HAD to go to protect the true identity of that . . . tree. So I told him yes, I would like to go, and he told me to be ready in fifteen minutes, which I was.

As we stood looking at his . . . tree for the last time, after denuding it of its seasonal finery, just before removing it to the SUV, he commented,

“I love that tree. Just look at it. The branches are so perfect—it almost doesn’t look real, does it?”

“No,” I responded, biting my bottom lip, “it doesn’t look real at all.”

“Even the color is perfect. You know, I think that’s because I watered it every day with a special evergreen fertilizer that came with it.”

His expression showed just how pleased he was that he had indeed watered it every day. And I indeed knew he had watered it everyday, because everyday I had to syphon it off with a piece of plastic tubing so it wouldn't overflow and ruin the hardwood floor.

“I sent to the North West for this tree—it was a special order—very expensive.” I could see from the admiration in his eyes, he was very proud of that . . . tree.

“It’s a very fast growing hybrid called pinus fastucus. The nursery said they would guarantee a three-foot growth this year alone if watered with the fertilizer they sent.”

But I knew in my heart if that tree grew even a single millimeter this year or any other year, I would personally buy the patent for that fertilizer and sell it on eBay and make millions.

“You know, the real beauty of this tree,” he added, a warm glow now emanating from his eyes, “is that no tree had to give its life so I could have a Christmas tree standing in my apartment for a few days.”

And I was thinking, actually, your tree DID give its life so you could have a tree—this tree—standing in your apartment for a few days. But I didn’t say anything.

In order to ease him into the crushing reality which could become obvious to him at any minute concerning his . . . tree, I asked the following question:

“Have you ever thought of buying a polyvinyl chloride Christmas tree?”

He flashed a quick look of disdain in my direction, so I offered more information to help sway him in the direction of a plastic tree, hopefully lessening the blow when he discovered that his was plastic.

“Andy, are you aware that the plastic Christmas tree industry has made significant progress recently in their manufacturing process by increasing the molecular weight of a linear polydimethylsiloxane polymer? You see, the viscosity at room temperature can be varied from less than 0.65 cP to greater than 100,000,000, which, it turns out, is great news for fake Christmas trees, because you don’t want them melting under the heat of 50 strings of tweecy weency lights, like the ones I placed on your tree.”

“What?????? You mean a PLASTIC Christmas tree? No waaaaay! NEVER!! There’s no tradition in that, to say nothing of the fact that they’re uglier than warts on a baby's nose. Come on . . . you’ve got to agree that they don’t look good?”

“Yes,” I agreed, “but, actually, the way they make vinyl trees now, I mean . . . what with the chemical reaction of ethylene and chlorine combining to form ethylene dichloride, which in turn is transformed into a gaseous vinyl chloride monomer, and then through polymerization is ultimately converted into a very good-looking polymer, which can then be spray-painted a nice forest green to mimic the actual color of a real Christmas tree. The results being, it’s actually quite hard to distinguish the real trees from the fakes ones.”

“I beg to differ here, I can spot a fake one ten miles away!” he said without batting an eye.

“Really, are you sure about that?”

I knew I was skating on thin ice here, but somehow I was tempted to play with his mind a bit—I knew I shouldn’t, but, well . . . it was fun!

“Take this tree in front of you," I continued, "if you had just come into this room, for the first time, and hadn't seen it before, would you say it was a real tree or a fake one?”

He studied the tree for a moment and then offered his assessment.

“Of course, anyone can see that this one is a real honest-to-goodness live tree! There’s no question about it.”

His gaze wandered over to meet mine for confirmation, but as our eyes interlocked, I was trying to squash a little giggle that was trying to sneak out. He looked so convinced of the authenticity of that fake, polyvinyl chloride Christmas tree, it was hard not to laugh, so I knew I would have to look away. Besides which I was feeling a little guilty, so I changed the subject to the Multilateral Debt Relief Initiative of the International Monetary Fund. He became so involved in this subject, his eyes glazed over, and he expounded on it for the next half hour, not even noticing as we wrapped his polyvinyl chloride Christmas tree, mummy-like, for transport.

The trip to Quogue was uneventful, that is unless you consider the SUV break-down we had on the Long Island Expressway in the AM rush-hour traffic. We were traveling along just fine, Molly in the front seat, as happy as any dog can be, her tongue hanging out, dripping, watching vehicles whiz by, occasionally giving Andy a big lick across his cheek while he was driving. And I in the back seat. I guess Andy figured if I were in the back seat I could do no harm. BUT, there at my side was Glo, wearing a light cream-colored ultra-swede coat, very chic, very expensive with soft, silky white fur at the neckline.

When we picked her up at her apartment and Andy opened the car door to help her in, she hesitated momentarily, rearing back slightly when she saw me and realized she would be riding NEXT TO THAT PERSON, (that’s what she calls me). I knew from the look on her face exactly what she was thinking—I was also seeing—deja vu—that same disaster. But, I assured myself, what could possibly go wrong if we were just sitting there in the vehicle, doing nothing other than watching cars whiz by like Molly was doing?

Sometime later, as we were cruising along quite nicely, something happened. It took all four of us by surprise. There was a loud “bang,” followed by a“ger bumpt, fumpt, fumpt” and a “plipt,” accompanied by a puff of black smoke, and then a real loud “hisssssssssssss,” finally ending with a “gerblop.” At this point the car lost power, and Andy barely had enough momentum to drive it to the side of the road, where its final moments were spent in a “shudder,”and then—complete silence, until, much like an afterthought, there was one final blast of smoke. I heard Andy mumble something under his breath, something appropriate to the occasion.

As he got out of the car to lift the hood, the concussive force of the air as the cars roared by almost blew him off the expressway. I got out, too, thinking my assistance might be needed. When I arrived at his side, he was peering into the inner sanctum of this huge, complicated beast which had just declared a moratorium. I sensed this was definitely out of his league, and confirmation of that came right away when he said,

“Get back in the car, I can take care of this!”

After pushing up his sleeves, he shook a few wires and rattled several cables, and then thumped on a couple of pipes. But when he told me to "go crank the engine," and I did, nothing happened. It was as dead as it was before he fixed it. I then asked him a question, but shouldn’t have—it always makes a man fume when he’s asked this question, but I knew if we were going to get out of there, I would HAVE to ask it. So I did.

“Do you have any idea what you're doing? I mean, do you know how to fix a car engine?”

“Of course, I do! Will you just get back in the car and leave this man's work to me?”

He then motioned me off with his hand. I could tell from his attitude that what he didn't need right then was a woman telling him how to fix his car, so I climbed back in the SUV.

Once I was back inside with Glo, she turned to me and asked,

“What is he doing out there?”

“Nothing,” I answered.

“What do you mean, nothing? Isn’t he fixing the car so we can get out to Quogue?"

“No, he’s not FIXING the car."

“Well, what is he doing then?”

“He’s TRYING to fix it, but . . . well . . . ," I turned to look at her directly, "your son doesn’t actually know anything about car engines does he?” She blinked a couple of times, then shook her head from side to side. “Well, at one point he will come to that conclusion. We'll just have to sit here and wait until gets there on his own.”

“Ohhh,” she finally replied after thinking about it for a minute, “but, we do need to hurry. I don’t want that tree to die before we get it planted.”

Well now, I knew that thing wasn’t going to up and die, but she didn’t, so I said, “Trust me, that tree will be fine. It isn’t going to die.”

“How do you know that?" she asked, concern written in her large, brown eyes. "I noticed it isn’t in the pot. The roots will dry out, and the poor thing will go into shock before we get it in the ground.”

“No it won’t—really.” I knew I had to say something here. “Uhhh . . . I wrapped the uh . . . roots in the sheeting, and then moistened it. It’ll be okay”

“Well, I AM worried about it. This is an important tradition for the two of us.”

I was suddenly feeling guilty. I really didn’t want to ruin their “tradition.” But what could I do at that point, except make sure that tree got planted?

A few minutes later, I wondered if Andy had spent the necessary time he needed to arrive at the conclusion he wasn’t able to fix the car himself? So I climbed out and walked around to where he was still jiggling wires.

“Could you go see if the engine will turn over now? I’m almost certain I’ve fixed it”

Well, I thought, as I got behind the steering wheel, I’m almost certain he hasn’t. When the engine failed again, I heard him saying,

“Ohhhhhh maaaaaaan! That should have worked!” Frustration had set in. Now was the moment. I got out of the SUV and swung around to the front just in time to ask him,

“Do you have any tools in this vehicle?”

“What kind of tools?”

“You know, lug nut wrenches, socket wrenches, pliers, and the like.”

“What do you want with those?” he asked, craning his neck to look up at me, his expression revealing that he was certain I must be kidding about the tools.

“Well, if I’m going to fix this thing, I’ll need some tools.”

“What makes you think YOU can fix it?”

This was always the reaction I got from a guy whenever I had to fix his car—every single time. It had become tedious, but it was part of the game plan now, if we were going to make it to Quogue BEFORE that tree dried out and went into shock!

“Look,” I commanded, “just get me the dang tools! It’s cold out here, and dangerous!”

It wasn’t long before he came up with some tools which he found in the back of the vehicle. I went to work straight away doing a 20-point diagnostic check to determine the exact cause of the problem. I did a full transmission diagnosis, along with a ratings sweep of the carburetor mount, the crankshaft pulley, even the intake crossover tube, as well as the left and right cylinder head, plus the rocker arm and accompanying spring. It all checked out. However, I noticed the valve train was out of alignment so I adjusted it. But there was still one more inspection which I had somehow overlooked the first time through. I needed to see if the harmonic balancer was balancing. It was.

I then asked Andy to try the ignition again. But to my complete dismay and embarrassment, nothing happened. Why was this vehicle not working, I asked myself? And then I remembered, I hadn’t checked the upper strut mount and bushings along with the bearings and the shift linkage, or the ballast resistor, either—how could I forget those?

At that point in the diagnoses, Andy climbed up with me and positioned himself across the front of the car under the hood, like I had done. We were then side by side. By this time I was looking more and more like an ‘auto mechanic,’ being smeared with a fair amount grease.

“Can I help?” he offered, looking over at me, obviously having decided that just maybe I could fix the engine.

“Yes, grab that half-inch ratchet wrench over there and help me get this nut loose.”

As he reached across me to get the wrench, his cheek brushed against mine and lingered there for a few moments. It was warm and inviting, and soft . . . well . . . kinda soft . . . in a sandpaper sort of way. However, not a rough sandpaper, but maybe a 220 fine-grit sandpaper, definitely not a 50 grit. Intoxicating, nonetheless. As his mouth passed my ear when he moved away after grabbing the wrench, I heard a quick intake of air—like a piston sucking air when the intake valve is compressed.

“Andy,” I managed to get out—I was somewhat discombobulated after that, “I . . . that is . . . uhhh . . . I mean . . . could you . . . . . .?”

I was struggling to make my thoughts coherent, but it certainly didn't help when he reached over and with long, gentle fingers began skillfully coaxing my face toward him, also making an in-depth study at the same time of my eyes—eyes which by then had become more than a little out of focus. Then he said,

“Just a little reminder, Ellee, my name . . . it's . . . it's . . . A-A-Anderson.”

His fingers were in no hurry to leave my cheek. His voice had dropped to a whisper, and I felt the warmth of his breath as it caressed my face. That was okay, I thought, I didn’t care what his name was at that particular moment, because as my eyes dropped to his lips I just wanted to—

“Ellee,” he broke in softly, “uh . . . which . . . I mean . . . what . . . ohhh . . . what is it you wanted me to do . . . with the wrench?” His eyes were now on my lips. He seemed confused, too.

“I think the problem is . . . ” I was having trouble speaking, finding it difficult, if not impossible, to channel my thoughts into a lucid sentence, “Let me think a minute . . . ” I blinked my eyes and shook my head to clear the visions which had popped up, clouding my thought process. “I think our problem . . . at least from what I can tell . . . the spark plugs don’t . . . they don’t arc . . . ohhh Andy . . . they’re really not arcing . . . at all . . . they’re . . . just . . . not . . . firing . . . ” my voice had trailed off.

But I could see neither of us really cared at that moment—OUR spark plugs WERE firing, igniting our own internal combustion and revving up our engines.

As my respiration rate shot up, matching Andy’s, the world around us began fading away. First our cheeks, and then our noses began to play, teasing and taunting our lips, which were by then only .5 millimeter away from contact.

As we ran off together hand in hand into the springtime field, a harp was playing, “Unchained Melody, while the Righteous Brothers were singing,

“Oh, my lurve, my darling,
I’ve hungered for your touch
A long lonely time . . .”

and the air was warm and light and fresh with the perfume of new flowers. Millions of delicate pink cherry blossoms were dancing around us as they floated through the air, and a happy stream gurgled its way through the soft green of the grasses and the gentle lavender of the heather. The sky overhead was clear and bright in a lovely shade of Andereye blue. And the massive field of white daisies, beckoned us to play there among its carefree flowers, where Andy picked me up by my waist and twirled me around and around as his smile gave way to dazzling dimples.

And when we settled ourselves amongst the exquisite beauty of these daisies, Andy reached over and picked a bunch, weaving them into a graceful little crown which he placed on my head, after kissing my nose. Two love birds winged their way to where we were sitting and landed on each of our shoulders, where they began cooing their song of love.

But when the seagull overhead went “Aaaaawkkkkkkk,” and dumped a big white ‘splat’ of payload between Andy and me, landing on the engine block, I suddenly realized . . . well . . . I suddenly realized reality once more. And the Righteous Brothers were just ending their song,

. . . I need your lurve,
I need you lurve,
Godspeed your lurve to me

The springtime interlude with Andy was over. Our lips, however, were still just .5 millimeter apart, our hearts pounding in unison, our breathing labored, searing heat radiating from our lips as our heads spontaneously tipped in opposite directions just before our lips—


Bye for now,
Love,
Ellee

[Author’s Note: I know what you’re all wondering, did they, or didn’t they? Well, all I can say is, maybe they did, and then again, maybe they didn't. ]

[Another Author’s Note: Okay, okaaaay . . . I understand—really I do. Maybe this will help:

Click on the following link to hear Unchained Melody. When it starts playing, minimize it, and then bring up this story again. Now you can read the Springtime Interlude with the music in the background while pretending it's you and not the heroine, having it end any way you want—either with a kiss or not.

OR, you can just sing along with the music and pretend you’re singing to the our hero of this story.

http://www.links2love.com/music/unchain.mid

“Unchained Melody”
The Righteous Brothers

Oh my love, my darling,
I’ve hungered for your touch
A long lonely time
And time goes by so slowly
And time can do so much
Are you still mine?
I need your love
I need your love,
Godspeed your love to me

Lonely rivers flow to the sea, to the sea,
To the open arms of the sea.
Lonely rivers sigh, ‘wait for me, wait for me’
I’ll be coming home wait for me.

Oh, my love, my darling
I’ve hungered for your touch
A long lonely time.
And time goes by so slowly
And time can do so much
Are you still mine?
I need your love
I need your love
Godspeed your love to me”