In Which Ansel Avoids the Land of Hungry Ghosts, and Finds Lou
(ed: lunaboca takes over)
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"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.
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