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(nena in)
"Go ahead eat it! I dare you. Gippy's in NO mood and if she sees you handling all the cookies and putting them back theres going to be an ass whooping and it ain't gonna be mine"
"you HEARD him" shouted Gippy. Being a good boy Ansel inhaled the cookie, sat down as to be noticed less and started to sculpt with the scraps before him. Soon his jacket was off and his shirt sleeves rolled up and ignoring the rumble in his stomach worked off it. Some lady started singing while sliding her hefty figure into the long table from which they all sat. He really didn't know why but the song ,the softness of it sent tears
(elsemore in)
> No one seemed to notice Ansel walk in.
"Now this," Ansel thought to himself immediately, "is a good place." Although he wondered if he was overdressed.
Winslow stopped whistling "Me and My Arrow" and looked up from the kite that he was working on. "A very good place," he said.
"Hold it!" Said Ansel, who was starting to realize that he had much more control over his confusing new world than he'd once thought. "If you'd please back up, let's see, two paragraphs. I think you'll find that I did not say this is a good place, I thought this is a good place."
Winslow stopped whistling "Me and My Arrow" and looked up from the kite that he was working on. "Why, hello there," he said. "Please have a cookie."
Ansel saw that there was a plate of cookies on the table beside Winslow's kites. They looked like molasses. Ansel took one and was surprised, but hardly, to find that it had the word "Ansel" stamped into the bottom of it. He put it down and picked up another. On the bottom of this one was stamped a number, and the letters "lbs." Ansel noted that the number did, in fact, represent his current weight. Or, at least, the last time he was weighed. He winced when
he recalled standing on the scale next to the beautiful nurse with his bare ass peeking out the back of a powder blue hospital gown.
Ansel looked from the cookies to the kite maker and formed a question with his eyebrows. Winslow said, "Well, I suppose it means you've been here before."
Ansel was starting to get that schizo feeling again, as if multiple gods were trying to simultaneously define and invent both himself and his reality, pulling him at once in different directions according to their own whims. Geek gods all of them! But then he remembered that he was in control.
"What did you mean when you said that this is a very good place?" Ansel asked Winslow. With the hand that was not holding a half-eaten cookie, he made rapid little circles, a motion correctly interpreted as Rewind.
Winslow stopped whistling "Me and My Arrow" and looked up from the kite that he was working on. "A very good place," he said. "And very good places can be found almost anywhere." Ansel noticed his T-shirt, on which was written "My Life is Inspired by a True Story."
"Nice shirt." Ansel said.
"Nice tux," said Winslow. "Now take the Internet. Some people might tell you that it's corrupting our children, that it's a breeding ground for hate and racism."
"Nazis, porn freaks." Said Ansel.
"Right," said Winslow. "But, I would propose to you that two people could sit side by side on separate computers, one searching the internet for good and the other searching for evil, and that for every hate-filled chat room, user-group or web site that the latter discovers, the former can easily find a dozen sites that are dedicated to goodness. To poetry. To music. To helping children. To peace . . ."
"To curing diseases," said Ansel.
Winslow nodded. "I guess you see what I mean. And life is the same way. No matter that all the problems get the attention, there are good places everywhere. If you keep your heart and eyes open and follow the right links."
Ansel picked up another cookie and examined the bottom. It
read "www.verything.org."
sorry, only in regards to these last dozen or so posts.
this is a collaborate story written by several people around the u.s., for a teenager in england while he was rehabbing from a bone marrow transplant.
if no one else's name appears at the beginning of an entry (eg "evelyn in") it's my writing.
constraints of this blog: the posts appear online as most recent last-- which i realize is puzzling if you came in late. trust us-- it's puzzling if you were there in the beginning.
back to our story--
lunaboca
Meanwhile, in Ansel's parallel universe, the other Ansel-one of the other Ansels?-stood still in his slightly shiny, somewhat used conservatively cut black tux, in front of door number three.
He thought to himself: what is the very thing I need?
The door opened.
It was a living room. No, a kitchen. One of those giant farmhouse ones. Huge harvest table. Seated at it were an assortment of gendered and generationed persons, scribbling in notebooks.
At the grill, Gippy flipped burgers, hashbrowns, and fried eggs, assisted by a slightly disheveled looking women with frizzy hair and beat shoes. "Order up, mofo!" Gippy yelled, and a thin bent man, looking a bit like Jesus, reached a long arm over for the plate. In a corner another thin man created kites, out of birch bark and willow, little escher buildings. In yet another, who else but Florence P, doing the downward dog.
No one seemed to notice Ansel walk in.
(just try to keep up, will ya?)
Ansel felt a strange yet sickly familiar suffocating feeling. Burgandy fabric engulfed him like the mouth of a giant, tongue squeezing his body until it ached. Ansel relaxed. Another transition..."I'm getting used to this," he thought. He was spat out back onto the beach. The tux was replaced by shorts and an apron. An overweight man will loose jowls and a baseball cap that said "Ford Faith" was staring at Ansel impatiently. It was clear to Ansel that something was expected of him. "Uh...you want anything? "Ford Faith's face was screwed with annoyance. "Extra long with an onion bun." Ansel looked down. Bags of hot dog buns were strewn across a white vendor cart. He opened a door and was assailed by steam and the stench of hotdogs. He chose a long one, popped it into an onion bun and handed it over to the man. "Keep the change," Ford Faith said, as he handed Ansel a dollar.The next customer was a woman with two teenaged daughters. She looked tired and the teenagers were bickering. "Why can't I borrow the coral cashmere? Every time I ask you, you say 'no' but then you don't even bother asking me. You just take what you want. Remember the prom and those lacy seamless stockings? What about that time you loaned my favorite shorts to Marlene? She ruined them. You are so mean and I know people don't think you're very smart! "Ansel looked into the mother's eyes. Her sad and tired beauty pierced him. There was something important about her. "Aren't you the nice boy from the hospital?" she asked. Of course! This was the woman who came to wash the floor now and then. "Don't you look handsome in your shorts and flipflops. And look, you hair has grown out so nicely." The teens stopped their squabbling and studied Ansel. He felt his face flush as the girls gave him the once-over. He watched them both grow embarrassed. Embarrassed? Huh? Why suddenly are they acting so strangely? Then it dawned on him. It's me! They think I'm a teen-aged boy. Wait, I am a teenaged boy. He noticed a change in how one of the girls was standing. Her weight was all on one hip, her chest stuck out. The lower part of her back made a beautiful arch. He became lost in the examination of this pretty girl's shape. It took a second to realize that someone was talking to him...
this is the trouble that comes when you try to write a story on the net-- like organizing jello. below is zenna's entry, which arrived near simulatenous to mine, but put ansel in a BLUE suit. then evelyn chimed off that one before seeing mine--sad to say, i ignored it all-- luna
-------
Wally Sends His Regards (zenna in)
Ansel looked in the direction the finger was pointing, which was towards Wally the Singing Bass. Beneath the plaque upon which Wally was mounted, someone had taped a sign that said, "Try Me." "Why not," said Ansel, and he pushed the button. "King of the Road" shot forth from the rubbery lips of Wally while the white-trash art contorted in a way usually reserved for fighting death on land. "Cute" Ansel thought. Again, the pulling vortex - warm and welcome this time and mercifully lacking the muzak version of Brittany Spears' "Not that Innocent". Just as soon as he had settled into the comfort; a tightening, starting at his toes. It may have been soft Italian leather but it was still a mutating dress shoe. Higher to the cumberbun - too high? too low? Ughh! Finish off with a bow tie, just a little too tight - supposedly regal but causing a restricted glow in his cheeks. Even the hair was stiff, Vidal's best creation. But why all blue? Not navy but cornflower - simultaneously blending and clashing with the miles of burgundy fabric below......
(ed: lunaboca takes over)
------
"In every life there comes some trouble", sang the fish, wriggling left and right and mouthing alarming at eye-level at Ansel. "Tell me about it" Ansel thought. "And as for you, that goes double" sang the fish, giving Ansel a long, direct stare. The door on which Wally wriggled swung in, revealing a long dim corridor lit by a single naked bulb. Ansel took one last look at the fish, who now lay still
against its wood-grain plaque, shrugged, and walked in the hall. The door closed behind him.
On the left side of the corridor was an unbroken sweep of
institutional green concrete. On the right, three doors, marked aptly: Door Number One, Door Number Two, and Door Number Three. He gave a tentative knock to Door Number One. What was that scurrying sound? A few seconds later, it was opened with a flourish.
"Welcome, Anselin. Won't you come in?" Before him stood a vision in starched white, her blonde curls cascading down her lab jacket, a gold stethoscope lain suggestively about her d??colletage. Behind her, rows of hospital beds facing a wall of home theater sized TVs were filled with nearly handsome young men, each attended by a similarly buxom and beautiful nurse. Nearly handsome, because each stared slack-jawed at the TV in what appeared to be a hypnotic stupor. Each was attached to an IV that somehow appeared to
originate at the television set. Each TV showed a different episode of "Baywatch".
"This is hell, isn't it, lady?," asked Ansel.
"Call me Anastasia", said the nurse breathily. "Show you to your bed?"
"Oh, wow, thanks, but I was just-- uh-- you know, I'm pretty sure I'm at the wrong address."
Quickly he exited, and just in time, as the vaguely mentholated smell of the nurse's perfume was starting to dizzy him. He fairly fell into Door Number Two, hitting the buzzer in the process. An annoyed "So? Come in already!" greeted him, as the door swung open and Ansel fell to the floor.
His one open eye registered the short, balding, rotund visage of Lou.
"Forever I've been waiting. You think a man might be able to take a lunch break, but God forbid, the customer comes first. Or in your case, last. Suit's ready."
"Uh, I, er..." stuttered Ansel.
"You don't say. Kids these days. For what are we sending you to school anyhows? Speak up or forever hold your schnitzel, schlomo."
"I was told to call you," Ansel said. "By-- well anyway, here I am. For some reason." Ansel looked around the room. Mannequins in the likeness of celebrities stood on pedestals. Frank Sinatra in a gray Italian silk tuxedo. Sammy Davis Jr. in a houndstooth doublebreasted, heavy on the cummerbund. Elvis in a --what else-- Powder Blue.
"Hmm. You're a little taller than they told me. Problem with the age. You grow. I was lenient though, thinking I'd be hemming. It's in the dressing room there. Good thing you got here. I was thinking pastrami in a bad way." Lou grabbed a cigarette from his breast pocket. "Smoke?"
"Not unless I'm on fire. Look, do you know what this is all about? I mean, why I'm here, why everything keeps changing, what's the verything and all that?"
"It's about a 38 long, but I can alter if I need too. Look, bub, I'm a Tux man, not a philosopher. Try it on or take it home, it don't matter to me, it's paid for. But if I was you, I'd ditch those pajamas. Ya look like a nutcase, and ya smell like a retirement home, for crying out loud."
"It's paid for? By who?"
"Oh, Mr. Look-The-Gift-Horse-In-The-Mouth. Why do you care? Come on, it's lunch time, give a guy a break already. Get the suit and skedaddle. If I'm gonna have to alter, you gotta come back tomorrow."
Ansel walked into the tiny dressing room. The suit hung on the wall. It was not ominous. It was just a tux. A little shiny for his liking, but conservatively cut. He peeled off the pajamas. Lou was right, they did smell. When was the last time he had them off? Hell, speaking of time, what day was this anyway? Seemed like a week since he opened the journal and saw the odd entry. He put on the pants, one leg at a time, like any regular time-traveler. The fit was -- well, it was like they were tailor made. Right, he thought.
He put on the shirt and cummerbund. He slung the tie around his neck, tried hopelessly to bow it, and left it to dangle. There was no jacket. As if reading his mind, Lou shouted in "The jacket's out here, bub".
Anselin, resplendent in his bare feet, pants and shirt,
walked out to see Lou removing the dry-cleaning bag from a tux jacket.
"Yeah, the jacket's used. But it's a good one. Very, very special. Worn by some of the best, and given only to the best. You get a 75% refund if you bring it back when you're through", he said, slipping the jacket over Ansel's shoulders. Knotting the tie, he continued: "This jacket, I made it myself, 1969. For this poet guy, good Jewish kid, Bob Zimmerman, to wear to some music award deal.
Funniest thing, changed his name, made tons of money. Speaking of which, you should check the pockets. For change. Dry cleaner will leave it in if they find it. You never know," he said, guiding Ansel out the door. "Enjoy. Me, I'm gonna enjoy the pastrami. Goodbye and Godspeed." Lou shoved a pair of spats and black socks into Ansel's hands, and shut the door firmly before Ansel could form a thank you.
"All dressed up and nowhere to go," said Ansel aloud, putting on the socks and shoes. "Now what?"
He looked at door number three.
(ed. note-- first nena has the phone answered):
"LOU'S TUXEDO EXTRAVAGANZA.....Marty speakin'........"
(ed: then elsemore wrote...)
"Tuxedos?" said Ansel?
"Lou's Tuxedos extravaganza! I'm Lou!" said the voice on the
phone. "Why don't you take a look for yourself?"
"What would I do with a tuxedo?" Ansel scanned the phone booth for cameras.
"You don't have to purchase. You are perfectly welcome to simply browse."
"Here we go with the internet analogies again," said Ansel.
"Well," said Lou, sounding hurt, "it works as well as anything."
"I don't know," said Ansel. "To put it in terms you might relate to, I'd say that, as analogies go, that one is Powder Blue." Ansel realized that he was taking out his frustrations over the recent onslaught of baffling transitions, and the continued absence of Flo, on this person on the other end of the phone line, about whom he knew absolutely nothing, and he felt just a twinge of guilt. "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean it to sound that way. It's just, there's the Internet and then there's Life. Come on."
"Right then," said Lou. "Let's not get our knickers in a knot. Why don't you take a look around and see what we have to offer. Everything must go!"
"Well, where are you located?" Ansel asked. "Not that it would matter the way today is going. Let me guess, 2nd rabbit hole on the left? Something involving a train platform with a something and a ?? number?"
"Look down," said Lou. "Do you see that little mouse?"
Ansel sighed. "Not another . . ."
"Follow him!" shouted Lou, followed by the sound of his receiver slamming down.
Ansel looked down. Indeed, a brown mouse was running figure eights between his bare feet. Ansel jumped back, startled, the mouse scurried out of the phone booth, and Ansel followed. They sped through the electronics section (yes, they were still in Walmart . . . but Ansel did not allow himself to be suckered into a false sense of transitional security), past automotive, and then, right in front of the George Forman grills and right before Ansel's eyes, the mouse began to morph. Its body turned into a cartoonish hand, its fur turned into a white glove, its cute mousy nose turned into a pointing index finger. And it spoke. It said, "I always wondered what it would feel like to become an Icon."
Ansel looked in the direction the finger was pointing, which was towards Wally the Singing Bass. Beneath the plaque upon which Wally was mounted, someone had taped a sign that said, "Try Me."
"Why not," said Ansel, and he pushed the button.
I think, thought Ansel, I had better find a phone.
(eric in)
---------
the neartest phone was by the men's restroom at the back of the store, and of course, he had to walk past a maze of bedding apparrel, home and garden designs, and a full-sized cardboard replica of Martha Stewart, in which, by the way, Ansel detected a slight resemenblance to our Picadilly madman with the orange handbill.
The paper with the phone number on it was sweaty in his hand and his mind was running wild, like a long road out to God Knows Where. Other shoppers were going about their business, as if computers were not communicating with them in bizarre, unexplainable ways. No one looked at him, except some young boy who told his mum that he wanted "pajamas like that man is wearing". The mom looked right at him, but seemed to give the boy a bewildered look, as if he was talking to some imaginary friend. Ansel shrugged if off and marched on to the phone, determined to get to the bottom of this. He glanced down at his palm, the numbers 837 98 44 64 began to smear ever so slightly. After what seemed an eternity under the dazzling and dizzying lights of the department store, he approached the red-caged phones. He picked up the receiver, took a deep breath, and hung up quickly, as if the receiver was burning hot. this was fucking ridiculous! once more. with the phone on his ear he pushed the numbers with slow deliberation, realizing, quite mystified, that they spelled out:
V-E-R-Y-T-H-I-N-G.
the operator abruptly broke through, like she was on the other side of the wall, and prompted him back into reality by gently reminding him to put in the required amount of change (curse those bloody crooks at british telecom) and after about eight bewildering rings that sounded more like a chimpanzee roaring in delight, a voice began speaking....
Ansel rubbed his eyes.
This had the startling result of making that orange/black effect referred to in the opening pages. It also had the what-was-now-becoming-less-startling-but-more-annoying effect of changing the scene.
Ansel appeared to be in a KMart. At least that's what the greeter, a beautiful hispanic woman with a pierced nose, was welcoming him to, with a beautific smile and a flyer thrusting from her hand. "Welcome to KMart! Computers on sale today! Blue light special!" Ansel was getting dizzy from all this. He started to close his eyes for a deep breath,then thought better of it. "Don't I know you?" he said to the woman, who looked suspiciously like Flo. She winked and said "Only 12 minutes left on the Blue Light! Don't delay!"
Ansel took the Calming Breath and headed for Electronics.
The very first laptop was glowing the same spooky orange black. It blinked at him as he passed, a startled electronic lizard.
PASSWORD PLEASE.
Ansel leaned forward, and tentatively tapped a key, as if
it might explode.
TRY HARDER!!! the screen flamed.
Ansel typed WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME? the screen went dim. A bored salesboy in a blue polyester vest glaced at him, then went back to his half-hidden issue of Sports Illustrated, Swimsuit Edition. Ansel thought.
He typed.
www.verything.com
NOW YOU'RE TALKING! the screen read, in a font that could best be described as Times New Psychotic.
It flickered. A picture of Ansel, pre-chemo, faded in, dissolved. A picture of Flo, post ankle-wrapping, faded in.
Ansel again, at least it seemed to be Ansel, in his twenties maybe, drinking coffee and staring off at nothing. Fade out. Ansel again, maybe 18, in the mountains somewhere, laughing. Flo pouring water on his head.
The screen went black.
Then: a phone number.
Ansel was reeling.
I THINK YOU BETTER WRITE IT DOWN, flashed the screen. The number came up again. Ansel felt in his pajamas for a pen. There was none, of course. LOOK TO YOUR LEFT. A pencil lay next to the keyboard. Ansel looked around. Even the bored clerk had moved on. He picked up the pencil, wrote the number down. The screen dissolved to black. Ansel hit the keyboard. Nothing.
I think, thought Ansel, I had better find a phone.
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