Chapter Forty-three

THE ANDERCHRONICLES

By Me, Ellee

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

"Boxes"

“You see that over there?” Andy asked as I sat down opposite him.

My eyes followed his finger pointing across the room—I gasped as the wind was punched right out of my solar plexus!

“You know what that is?”

Yes, I commented to myself. I could see exactly what it was.

“It’s a box, Ellee! And do you know what kind of box it is?”

It was unmistakable.

“It’s a FedEx box,” he said, “but not just any FedEx box . . .”

He leaned across the table to get closer, sooooooo close his nose touched mine.

“Ellee . . .” he lowered his voice an octave, “it’s a BIG FedEx box.”

His eyes narrowed, as if he had just revealed something important. And the level of emphasis he had placed on the BEEEEG struck fear into my soul. I started coughing.

“It’s soooo BIG in fact . . .” he continued, leaning back in the chair, folding his arms across his chest, his head and body moving in affirmation, “ . . . that if you had to . . .” his left eye started flickering as a little twitch took over, “you could stuff a human inside!”

I didn’t like the direction this was taking, and I was beginning to feel a little uneasy about our conversation—except, well . . . I wasn’t even part of it. I hadn’t said a word. Maybe it was time to say a word . . . or even two. Possibly I needed to say a lot of words at this point. But when I opened my mouth to say,

“Andy—,“ he threw up his hands stopping me and said,

“Ellee, shhhhhh. Keep quiet! Don’t talk! I shall talk.”

He shifted himself in his chair and pushed the steaming oatmeal far away from him.

“You, my dear girl, have been here loooong enough! It’s finally time for you to leave!”

And before I could put up any argument as to why I shouldn’t leave, he was out of his seat, had dragged the box over to where I was sitting, had picked me up and was stuffing me inside. But I wasn’t going out with a whimper. No way! I would go out with a BANG! So I started kicking and screaming,

“NO, ANDY, I WON’T GO! YOU CAN’T MAKE ME LEAVE! ANDY! ANNNNNNDY!!!”

I yelled like that all the way into the box, and long after he had folded the four flaps in place. I even yelled like that as I heard him slam the packing tape dispenser to one side of the box, and then rip the heavy-duty cellophane tape up and across the top and down the other side. And when his hands rubbed over the tape eight times to make sure it wasn’t coming off, I was yelling still. But all that yelling didn’t work. He went right on slamming, ripping, and smoothing, not just two strips, but twelve, six going one way, and six going the other, making absolutely, positively certain there was no way I could get out.

It was dark inside and I didn’t have my blankie or my iPod.

“Andy,” I called out, “I don’t have my iPod!”

“I’ll mail it to you!” he said, picking up the box, and as he did so, I slid to one side, shifting the balance. The sudden weight slamming into him must have knocked him over because both of us went crashing—him first, me in the box next—right on top of him. At least that’s how I figured it from the way he shouted out *******!!!!! And then he thumped on the box and yelled,

“Ellee, dang it all, you’re STILL causing me trouble!! You’re more trouble than a festering pimple on an eyelid! The sooner you’re gone the better!”

And with that he threw the box off him, jostling it violently all the way across the room, me inside bouncing around. But even after the box came to a stop, he continued shaking, and kicking and thumping on it.

“ELLEE, ELLEE . . . ELLEEEEEEEEE!” he was screaming, only he sounded an awful lot like Harriet. “Ellee, wake up! ELLEE—WAKE—UP!"

When my eyes flew open, I was no longer inside the box. I looked around for the box, but all I saw was Harriet. And Andy was nowhere to be seen.

“W-where, did Andy go?” I was confused.

Harriet must have been confused, too, because her eyes . . . well . . . the blue one was spinning counterclockwise, while the brown one was jumping up and down. I had never seen that before, even on her.

“Ellee, you have to help me,” she begged, fiercely shaking me by the shoulders. “Now wake up! You’ve been dreaming . . . Come on, get up right now. I have your oatmeal waiting for you.”

She had my oatmeal waiting for me? Something was up.

“Harriet,” I finally said, my vision clearing, realizing where and when I was, thankful the box thing was just a dream, but worried about it nonetheless, “what’s going on? What do you want?”

When the answer came, I wasn’t prepared for it, but it came anyway.

“I’m going to the singles’ bar again tonight, and I want you to make me look exactly like you!”

Given the eighty-some-odd-years age difference, I wasn’t sure how that would work. She was expecting a lot, and she was searching my eyes intently, waiting for my reply, then she said,

“You can do it, can’t you? A make-over—for tonight?”

My eyes scanned the formidable sight in front of me from top to bottom, taking in everything that IS Harriet. A make-over??? There was nothing to make over. One can’t make over what isn’t there already. I would have to start with all new stuff, and if I had a deadline of tonight, there simply wouldn’t be enough time.

“Harriet, tonight????”

“Yes, can you do it?” She was anxious

“I . . . well . . . we need more time, Harriet.”

“How much time?”

Like about a million years, or however long evolution takes, I was thinking.

“Welllllll . . . let’s see . . .” I began my reply as I walked around her to examine all the individual components which had somehow managed, against all odds, through some misalignment in the time-space continuum, to come together to create this . . . this . . . person standing before me.

Starting at the top, there was her proud mound of henna-red hair, reaching skyward, like it was vying for Tallest Hair Award at the Oscars; then came the deep chasms lining her cheeks, chin and forehead, and all those little wiry hairs glinting in the late morning sun as they caught the light, announcing exactly where they were growing, which happened to be in the fertile pots of those red and brown moles fighting for attention, each trying to outdo the others by standing a little taller, and a little wider than all the rest; then there was her wide . . . uhhhh . . . really wide mouth to consider, as well as her behemoth nose, which by the way, could host a tailgate party for an Oakland Raiders' football game in its colossal cavity; and her eyes— well even if I could do something with the rest of her face, what could I possibly do with those eyes—the ones now spinning in unison, bursting with expectation; also you can’t forget her refrigerator hips, and lastly, the two straight columns stuck at the bottom of everything which she used as legs.

“Uhhhhhhhhhhh . . . ummmmmmmmm . . . well . . .”

“Ellee, I’m waiting . . . how much time?” she barked.

“Not long.” I finally lied, not wanting to get into the argument which was sure to take root if I told her the whole thing was not only a very bad idea, but downright impossible.

“Then let’s get started!!”

“What about my oatmeal? I’d like to eat that first, that is, if it’s okay with you”

It was okay with her, as long as I didn’t take all day. So I showered, dressed and made my way to the kitchen, where I dished up a big, steaming bowl of yummy oatmeal, and then took it to the table.

As I approached the table I noticed a little box at my place. It had a tiny card attached to it with my name written on it in Andy’s handwriting. My heart skipped a double beat, not because of what you might think, but because I just knew, somehow, he was about to give me the boot. In fact, maybe this was the boot!—A little miniature boot all wrapped up inside that box! Of course . . . Andy would think of some clever way to give a subtle hint about my departure.

My box dream , I now realized, had been an omen—a very bad omen. Ohhhhhhhh, I sighed. DANG!!!

I studied the little box for a minute, noticing the iridescent paper in which it was wrapped, how easily the colors changed as I turned it over and around in my hands. One second it flashed blues, the next greens, followed by yellows, then reds and golds.

Then I started thinking, if it turned out to be a miniature boot inside, would I cry? Would I be mad and sad? Dejected and rejected? Downhearted and destroyed? Morose and melancholy? Grim and glum? Yes . . . I decided—I would. And at that precise moment, I dropped the box like a hot potato, quickly shoving it as far away from me as possible . . . to the other side of the table. There it stayed, where I stared at it until the steam from my oatmeal had disappeared.

Slowly I began eating, but my eyes didn’t leave that box. As long as it stayed over there, out of reach, I couldn’t open it. And as long as I couldn’t open it, I couldn’t find out what was inside. And as long as I couldn’t find out what was inside, my heart couldn’t wither and die.

Bye for now,
Love,