Sunday, December 27, 2015

Fifty Shades of Parody (Chapter 26a)

I wake with a Jolt.
     That's a high-energy soda made by the fine people at Coca Cola, and I'm not just saying that because they promised to hook me up with a lifetime supply of lard. It's highly caffeinated, and so am I. Which is why I probably dreamt...
     I was dreaming, and in my dream I was falling down an up escalator. It took me an hour and a half to reach the bottom. As I was bouncing upward off of the moving stairs, I remember thinking, "Haven't I already written this before?" But it doesn't matter, because, even if I have, I'm writing it again. When I finally hit the bottom, I bolt upright in Christian's bed. Am I a woman in Christian's bed who dreamt I was falling down an up escalator? Or am I a woman falling down an up escalator dreaming that I'm in Christian's bed?
     I start to get up. Well, isn't that odd. My panties are down around my ankles. I wonder how that happened. I look around suspiciously for Bill Cosby. When I don't see him, I pull them from the top back up to where they should be, up around my armpits. I get up to open the bedroom window for some fresh air. We're twenty stories up, and the view is magnificent. As I turn to walk back to bed I stop suddenly in my tracks.
     Somehow that cute little mangy cat survived being crushed by the giant penny and being smashed by the heavy mechanical foot of the gigantic robotic dinosaur.
     "Meow," Fluffy purrs, sitting on my bed.
     With her little paw, she gently pushes a little red ball towards me. I immediately recognize it from the photo shoot Kate and Jose had with Christian at the beginning of this book. Ah, good times.
     "Oh, you want to play?" I ask the cat, so happy she's alive.
     "Meow," the cat answers.
     I pick up the ball and bounce it gingerly to the foot of the bed. The cat pounces and, carrying it in her mouth, brings it back to me. Oh, how cute. I've never known a cat that could play fetch. I pick up the ball again and toss it across the room. Fluffy pounces again, jumping energetically off the bed, and once again retrieves the ball for me.
     "Meow," Fluffy says, with a tone of challenge in her voice.
     "Oh, you want to play some more?" I ask her playfully, but rising to the challenge.
     "Well, let's see what you can do," I say, and give the ball a hard toss. It bounces off the wall, hits the night table, and flies out the open window with Fluffy close behind.
     "Me-oooooooooooooooooooow!" I hear Fluffy howl down the twenty stories to the sidewalk.
     I look guiltily around for Christian. Fortunately, he's not there. That's when I hear music playing in the distance. Someone is playing the piano and playing it beautifully, I might add. Since it's just me and Christian, I'm pretty sure it's not me.
     The music reminds me that I'm famished. Well, not really, but I am. Famished, that is. I put on my bathrobe, then wander quietly in the direction of the kitchen. To get to the kitchen I have to pass the great room, which is a name as well as an accurate description. When I first saw it, I thought to myself, "Now THAT'S a great room." Unfortunately, the great room is where the music seems to be emanating from. I take a peek around the corner and see Christian shrouded in darkness sitting in a bubble of light, which I know is impossible according to the known laws of physics.
     So he's the one tickling the ivories.
     I bet I can sneak my way past him and get to the kitchen.
     He saw me.
     My stomach would pick the wrong time to rumble. Traitorous digestive system. My subconscious twitters delightedly behind her hand like a Japanese geisha.
     Caught, I have no choice but to join Christian. Malala Yousafzai has nothing on me, as I bravely sit on the piano stool next to Christian and make a musical contribution of my own.
     Whoopi cushion!
     Christian and his practical jokes.
     "Sorry," Christian says, but I don't think he is. Not really, at least.
     And then another odd thing happens. Christian gets up from the piano, but the beautiful piano music continues to play. It's The Flower Duet from Leo Delibes' opera Lakme. With a press of a button, it stops.
     "You mean, you weren't really playing the piano?" I ask him.
     "Ana," Christian tells me, taking the soundtrack from The Hunger out of his CD player, "to learn how to play the piano would take hours and hours of hard work and dedication. I've never had time for that. I've always been way too busy finding women to spank."
     I sit there. Dumbfounded.
     "I learned," Christian continues, "at a very young age, that it's easier to pretend to do something, than to actually do it. When I was a student at Hogwarts, my parents insisted I play sports, but they never went to any of my quidditch games, so I eventually quit the team and just told them that I was playing. That way, everybody was happy."
     "And all your trophies?"
     "I bought them all."
     Again, there's that vague feeling of deja vu. Still, I don't know whether to be disappointed by his deviousness or impressed with his cleverness.
     "Stick with dumbfounded," my inner goodness recommends, so I do.
     I shift positions, so I can get up and complete my trip to the kitchen, but Christian mistakes it for something else and scoops me into his lap.
     "Do you know what I'd like" he asks, salaciously.
     "Bacon?" I suggest.
     "No, but it does include eating. Do you know what I'd like to eat?" he teases, lasciviously.
     "No, that's not on the menu, but a kind of fatty meat is close."
     Menu? Hmm... that's my cue.
     "Speaking of menus, Christian," I tell him, menu-speakingly, "I want to get something straight."
     "You already have," he says, mischievously, gyrating his hips underneath my kind of fatty meat.
     "I'm talking about the sexual menu you want me to agree to. There are a lot of things in it that I'm uncomfortable with."
     Christian, surprisingly enough, has the menu in his hand. He offers it to me, and I notice a lot of the "items" have already been crossed out.
     "As you see," Christian tells me, "I've even taken out the Pink Sock. That one disgusts even me, if you can imagine. There's just one thing I have to stand firm on, and that's the stipulation that you must fast before every sexual encounter."
     "That's right."
     "I think I've already answered in the affirmative."
     "You expect me to fast?"
     Hey, them's fighting words, and my highly-caffeinated metabolism agrees with me. I stand up suddenly and slam my two fists on top of the piano. Wood splinters everywhere and the legs shatter from the force of the blow, causing the piano to crumple to the floor like an accordion. A broken accordion.
     Christian jumps out of the way as I grab the piano stool he's sitting on and throw it against the wall. It smashes into a million little pieces, just like James Frey's writing career. The framed painting it hits falls to the floor, broken, torn, and unrecognizable, but that last one is mainly because it was a Picasso.
     I HATE Picasso!
     "You expect me to fast?" I scream at Christian. "To go without food? That... Makes... Hulk... MAD! And when Hulk gets mad, Hulk SMASHES!"
     I pick the couch up over my head and hurl it through the wall. It crashes into the kitchen, where it crushes the refrigerator and destroys all that beautiful ham.
     Christian raises his hands in front of his face in a protective gesture against the force of my wrath. When he sees me advance toward him, he tries to hide behind the drapes.
     "Pay no attention to the man behind the curtains!" he squawks. "Pay no attention to the man behind the curtains!"
     I stomp over to the drapery, grab two big fistfuls of cloth and tear them down from their rods. They fall on top of Christian like the trash they've become.
     "Ana! Please!" he wails, trying to calm me down, to reason with me, but I'm beyond calming down and being reasoned with.
     I angrily clomp over to the bookshelf and start firing off the books left and right like missiles. One goes crashing through a window. Another sticks in the wall like a literary work of modern art. Christian has to duck to keep from being clobbered by a third.
     "A first edition Edgar Allen Poe?" I yell, glancing at the book in my hand. "I LOVE Edgar Allen Poe!" and immediately tear the book into confetti. "And THAT'S what I do to the things I LOVE!" I shout at Christian, who's cowering in the corner, waiting for the tempest to subside.
     Oh, my goobers!
     Have I gone too far?
     I just tore apart a priceless literary artifact. It's irreplaceable, and now it's no more. I pick up some of the torn pages from the floor and try to stick them together using a little bit of spit.
     They fall limply to the floor.
     And so do I.
     I sit there, crying.
     "I'm so hungry," I wail. "Oh, Christian, don't you understand? I'd never be able to fast."
     "There, there," Christian says, joining me on the floor. He takes me in his arms, trying to comfort me. "Well work something out. We'll find a compromise."
     "No," I say wiping away some snot with the sleeve of my robe. "Can't you see, we'll never be able to work things out. We're too different. I'm coffee, you're tea. I'm beer, and you're a fine wine. I'm rubber and you're glue, everything you say bounces off me and sticks to you."
     I look at Christian. He looks so lost, so heartbroken. Fifty shades of sadness. The J. Geils Band was right, love stinks. Yeah, yeah.
     "I'll return everything you've given me," I tell him. "Everything, that is, except for that car you gave me, the Adobe SNL. It rained and now it's just a puddle of mud.
     "Surely, you're joking," he says, pleadingly.
     I shake my head.
     "No," I say, "and my name's not Shirley." I stand, straightening up, and prepare to leave. "If I don't leave now, we'll regret it. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but soon, and for the rest of our lives. I'm no good at being noble, but it doesn't take much to see that the sexual problems of two little people don't amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world. Someday you'll understand that."
     Christian stands up and holds me close.
     "Here's looking at you, kid," Christian tells me, and with that he gives me a hard slap on the ass.
American Chimpanzee

Friday, December 25, 2015

25b: Merry Christmas!

I make my way to the bus stop, although "bus stop" is a bit of a misnomer. El Paso is building a trolley system it doesn't need for people who don't want it. Today, however, it comes in handy.
     I sit on the bench and wait for the trolley to make its stop. And I wait. And I wait. I don't know what's taking so long.
From: Christian Grey
To: Anastasia Steele
It's because the trolley system is under construction, as in "not finished yet."
     Christian informs me, when I write him on my DingleBerry to complain. And then he writes:
Stay where you are. I'll send Crockett right over.
From: Anastasia Steele
To: Christian Grey
But I don't know where I'm at.
     "Not a problem," Christian writes, and then signs off.
     Well, I guess I'll be here for an even longer while than I've already been here already. There's no way Crockett will be able to find me in a city this large. It would be like finding the proverbial needle in the proverbial haystack proverbially. My stomach rumbles. I should have eaten something. I'm in for a long wait.
     Crockett pulls up and stops right in front of me.
     "Need a ride, Miss Steele?"
     I just sit there, mouth agape.
     "How did you find me?" I ask him, stupefied.
     "Your GPS transmitter," he tells me, quite matter-of-factly.
     "My GPS transmitter? I don't have a GPS transmitter," I say.
     "Sure you do," he insists. "Christian had it inserted one night when you were... Hey! Look at that!"
     "Look at what?"
     "Oh, nothing. Now, if you'll excuse me, Miss Steele, I have to concentrate on my driving."
     "Please, Crockett. Call me Ana."
     Twenty-five minutes later, he drops me off at Christian's. Christian's back is to me and I can see that he is on an important business call.
     "Our Joe wants to know," I overhear him saying, "if your Joe will lend our Joe your Joe's banjo. If your Joe won't lend our Joe your Joe's banjo, our Joe won't lend your Joe our Joe's banjo..." Christian turns around and sees me. He smiles. "...when our Joe has a banjo."
     He pauses and listens, all the while his eyes not leaving mine.
     "Well, keep me informed!" he yells, and hangs up.
     Putting down the phone, he walks over and takes me in his arms.
     "I missed you," he tells me.
     "I missed you," I tell him.
     "I missed you more," he tells me back.
     "I missed you more," I tell him back.
     "No, I missed you more."
     "No, I missed you more."
     "No, I did."
     "No, I did."
     "I did."
     "I did."
     "No, me."
     "No, me."
     Hmm... maybe I should cut to the future by about a half hour. The thing about dating a Control Freak is that they always have to get the last word, and ding-dang-doodle if I'll let them.
      "Shower with me, Ana."
     "I haven't showered with another person since I was a toddler and my step-father was babysitting a cousin of mine. We both needed a bath, so my step-father filled up the bathtub with Mr. Bubble, sat my cousin in front of the TV set, and jumped into the tub with me. I guess that's more of a bath than a shower."
     "Is that a yes or a no?"
     "Are you saying I need a shower?"
     "I was trying not to."
     "You could have just said something."
     "I thought it would be more romantic if I asked you to shower with me."
     He undresses me, and then himself. Naked, we walk into the shower together. We get stuck in the entrance, which wasn't built to accommodate two people entering at the same time. The shower is nothing but white and stainless steel.
     "You know what I like about stainless steel?" Christian asks me.
     "No stains."
     "You mean like dirt and grime?"
     "Those, too."
     "You never struck me as a soap-on-a-rope kind of man, Mr. Grey," I tease him when I see a longer-than-it-is-wide soap dangling on a rope from the shower head.
     "Put your hands on the wall, Anastasia, and I'll show you what this soap-on-a-rope is for."
     Squeaky clean, we exit the shower. Christian goes into his room to dress, and I go into mine. Did I tell you Christian gave me my own room in his house? If I didn't, pretend that I did.
     Once dressed, I am supposed to meet Christian in his Red Room of Pain. I have to tell you, I am very nervous. I haven't told Christian, but I'm allergic to pain. I get these red welts on my body when I'm hit.
     I go into the Red Room of Pain and kneel by the door, as instructed. My heart is in my mouth. I wonder what else I'll have in my mouth before the night is through.
     Christian comes in. He's dressed in a tuxedo. My, but he looks devilishly handsome.
     "You look lovely," he tells me.
     I blush, but, of course, he doesn't see it. Christian is not one to notice such things.
     "Stand up," he orders.
     I get shakily to my feet. I have no idea what I'm in for tonight.
     He presses a button on the stereo. I guess he likes to have music playing while he does whatever it is that he does. I wonder what will play. Bolero by Ravel? Principles of Lust by Enigma? Deep Forest by, um, Deep Forest? No, what comes on surprises the crap out of me. It's You Don't Know Me.
     Christian takes my hand in his as Ray Charles begins to sing.

You give your hand to me
And then you say hello
And I can hardly speak
My heart is beating so
And anyone can tell
You think you know me well
But you don't know me
     Holding me close, we begin to dance. With a firm hand at the small of my back, he guides me from side to side, slowly, each of us melting into the other.
No, you don't know the one
Who dreams of you at night
And longs to kiss your lips
Longs to hold you tight
Oh, I am just a friend
That's all I've ever been
'Cause you don't know me
     We sway rhythmically in each other's arms. I bury my face in the nape of his neck. He smells heavenly.
I never knew the art of making love
No, my heart aches with love for you
Afraid and shy
I let my chance go by
The chance that you might love me, too
     I can feel the warmth of his body and the strength of his arms. Our movements are so in sync with each other. I wish this dance would last forever, but I know it can't.
You give your hand to me
And then you say goodbye
I watch you walk away
Beside the lucky guy
Oh, you will never know
The one who loves you so
Well, you don't know me
     The song comes to an end. We stand there, both afraid to move. He doesn't seem to want to let me go. He brings his face in close to mine.
     "Why, Ana," he whispers in my ear, "you're blushing."
American Chimpanzee

Sunday, December 6, 2015

Fifty Shades of Parody (Chapters 24d & 25a)

I don't know how he knows, but he knows.
     Under Christian's guidance, Crockett lands the hot-air balloon right in front of my mother's house.
     "Would you like to come in for a bit?" I ask Christian.
     "Yes," he answers.
     "Really?" I squeal in happiness.
     "No," he says.
     With that, the hot air balloon starts to rise, taking my boyfriend par ardua ad alta upon a hazardous and technically unexplainable journey into the outer stratosphere. Christian looks at Crockett, who looks back at Christian. Crockett raises his shoulders in the international sign of I-Don't-Know-What-Just-Happened-Boss.
     "This is a highly irregular procedure! This is absolutely unprecedented!" Christian declares, as he falls upward into the distance. "And it ruined my exit!"
     My mother and step-father run outside to see what all the hub-bub is about. Seeing Christian, they wave goodbye.
     "Who's that?" my step-father asks my mother.
     "I have no idea," my mother answers back.
     "Oh, come back!" I cry to the wind. "Don't go without me! Please come back!"
     "I can't come back!" Christian cries out, too. He looks at Crockett, who again gives him a shrug of helplessness, as opposed to a shrug of helpfulness. "I don't know how it works!"
     "Oh," I cry out in disappointment.
     Using his middle fingers, Christian gives the thumbs-up sign with both hands to my parents and the rest of those of their neighbors who've come out of their trailers to see if the government was handing out free cheese again.
     "Goodbye, folks!" Christian says, waving.
     They all wave back.
     "Goodbye! Goodbye!" they say to the man floating away in the balloon.
     "Yes, Ana?"
     "Christian won't be staying for dinner," I tell her.
     "No kidding," she says. "Well, that's okay. It gives you and me a little mother/daughter time together. What would you like?"
     "Believe it or not," I tell her, "I'd like a proper cup of coffee from a proper coffeepot. Tin coffeepots or iron coffeepots, they're of no use to me, so I'll have a proper cup of coffee in a proper coffeepot, or I'll have a cup of tea."
     "Sounds like just what the doctor ordered," she tells me. "Do you suppose when a doctor gets sick and another doctor doctors him, does the doctor doing the doctoring have to doctor the doctor the way the doctor being doctored wants to be doctored, or does the doctor doing the doctoring of the doctor doctor the doctor as he wants to do the doctoring?"
     "Some biscuits would be nice," I say, purposely ignoring her blatherings.
     "Why, isn't that a coincidence," she tells me. "I bought a bit of baking powder and baked a batch of biscuits. I brought a big basket of biscuits back to the bakery and baked a basket of big biscuits. Then I took the big basket of biscuits and the basket of big biscuits and mixed the big biscuits with the basket of biscuits that was next to the big basket and put a bunch of biscuits from the basket into a biscuit mixer and brought the basket of biscuits and the box of mixed biscuits and the biscuit mixer to the bakery, and then I made a pot of coffee in a proper coffeepot."
     I don't know what's gotten into my mother, so I say, "That's nice, mom," and get on my phone to send Christian a quick text.
     "How's the weather up there?" I type.
From: Chistian Grey
To: Anastasia Steele
Whether the weather be fine or whether the weather be not, whether the weather be cold or whether the weather be hot, I'll weather the weather, whatever the weather, whether I like it or not.
     "What's that contraption, dear?" my mother asks, looking at the rectangular object in my hand.
     "It's a phone, mom," I tell her.
     "Oh, sure it is, dearie," she says. "Sure it is. And did one of your imaginary boyfriends give it to you?"
     "As a matter of fact..." I begin, but my mother interrupts.
     "You know, it's so good you're here," she tells me. "We haven't talked in ages and have so much to catch up on. I can't wait to..."
     "In a minute, mom," I say, typing off another text to Christian.
From: Anastasia Steele
To: Christian Grey
Where are you now?
From: Christian Grey
To: Anastasia Steele
We've caught a bit of a tailwind. We're practically in India now.
     "Indianapolis?" I type.
     "No," Christian types back.
Indianapolis isn't in India, Ana. Indians are in India and Indians are in Indiana, but the Indian Indians and the Indiana Indians aren't identical Indians. The Indians in India are Indian Indians and the Indians in Indiana are indigenous Indians.
     "Come sit at the table with me, Ana," my mom interrupts again. "I'm so anxious to talk with you."
     "Sure, mom," I assure her. "After this."
From: Anastasia Steele
To: Christian Grey
I miss you so much, Christian, I'd be with you right now, if I could.
     "Yes, Ana," Christian writes back, "I would be with you too, if only I hadn't dropped you off at that homeless shelter."
     "Homeless shelter?" I write back. "That was my mother's house!"
     "Of course it was, Ana," Christian writes. "Of course it was."
     "Oh, Ana," my mother interjects, "you being here is such a blessing to me."
     "What did you say, mom?" I ask, as I get right back on my phone to fire off another message to Christian.
From: Anastasia Steele
To: Christian Grey
You're not judging me by where my parents live, are you Christian?
From: Christian Grey
To: Anastasia Steele
A gentle judge judges justly, Ana. A gentle judge judges justly.
From: Anastasia Steele
To: Christian Grey
From: Christian Grey
To: Anastasia Steele
Are you growling at me, Miss Steele? I possess a cat of my own for growlers. Come to think of it, I haven't seen Fluffy lately. I wonder where she's off to?
From: Anastasia Steele
To: Christian Grey
Um, gotta go. I can't wait to talk with my mom.
     "Understood," Christian types back and signs off.
Chapter 25a
     "Now can we talk, Ana?"
     "Sorry, mom," I say. "Gotta go."
American Chimpanzee