Red Light Plywood

I must have been quite a sight, standing in front of a boarded-up storefront on 42nd Street with my only "business suit" and a starched white blouse on, touching an indentation in the plywood under the fading red paint they'd slapped on it, with my worn leather bag on my left shoulder and a crowbar in my right hand.  If that wasn't enough, the brown leather work gloves clashed with my dark blue suit!  I was still absolutely soaring from my meeting at the bank. The 90's were gonna go out with a bang for me after all.  I was now a businesswoman, ready to hire a staff! The sight of him, as he turned the corner, shattered my moment of pride, my moment of joy.  Now walking slower, with a cane, he headed in my direction.  I was sure he wouldn't even know who I was.  So how would I remember this day?  Would it be the start of a bright, exciting new future for me and my dear friends, or the end of my life as I know it for the sake of justice, to release years of anger with a moment of revenge?

I wasn't the only poor girl in Manhattan who took on the position of stripper.  You can dismiss me, but I probably made more than you!  In my 18 years in the business, starting in the 70's, I've met so many sisters who I grew to love - but you also learn not to get too attached, because they tend to be transient, always looking for a better opportunity.  It was only natural that I became most fond of the full-time staff that made their careers here as well.  I remember the day I had my interview, first with the owner, then with Dear Miss Amanda, the House Mother.  The title has great meaning, since she was the only mother for many of the girls who passed through.  She took care of us in and out of the house, and was an amazing makeup artist as well.  When she first saw me, Miss Amanda told me how beautiful I was and how my slim waist and young boobs would take me far.  I asked how much girls made.  She said the house paid $26 a night.  From your tips, you had to make a contribution to the house, and one to the non-performing staff.  Typically a girl would take home about five hundred a night.  My heart jumped.  Five hundred dollars a night?  Did I really hear this?  Then she took me over to a corner table in the empty house and sat me down.  She was so good at this.  I came to learn that she was from Cuba, which is why we could talk about anything and she could never offend me.  We were two colored girls.

"Dear," she said, "you're a beautiful thing, and men with money come here to drink and look at the bodies of beautiful girls.  But even though you have such a smooth light skin, you're a colored girl.  For the men, you're a dilemma.  You're part of every man's fantasy, a near-naked beauty within arm's reach.  But you're not white, and some will have a problem with that.  Each one will be different, you'll just never know what to expect.  For some, the thought of being close, or getting excited over a colored girl, will make them feel uncomfortable.  I know, darling, it’s not a simple planet for us.  Men want to treat strippers well, and they do, but many won't let you into their dreams.  You'll constantly feel the excitement that some girls can generate, that you may not.  You'll be reminded every day that you're a colored girl.  I just have to tell you the truth, hon.  A pretty white girl will walk away with $500 a night easy.  Black girls, maybe $200.  A light-skinned beauty like you, I just don't know what to tell you.  Maybe $250.  But if you attract a following, if they grow to love you, you could pull in $800-900 a night.  I've seen both.  Either way, you'll pay your bills."

I took a deep breath.  Will this crap ever change?  Well maybe society will be slow to deal with the color of my skin.  Maybe it’s all up to me, a stripper, because when we shook on it, that's what I became.

I was terrified, but I had to tell my Grammy what I had done, and I was so pleased that she didn’t scream!  I don't think anyone knew, but she was actually a stripper for two years (or so she said)!  She had some interesting stories of her own, and swore that stripping was invented by Negro slaves in the United States.  Of course, she'd tell you they were the first to do most everything.  I think they even invented the Big Mac.  I love her so.

I assume you have some basic picture in your mind of this job.  Everybody thinks they know what it's like to be a stripper.  We run around naked a lot, do each other's makeup, constantly talk about our routines, perform a bunch of 15 minute sets between 9 PM and 2 AM six nights a week, and we deal with sweet, luscious men, drunk men, angry men, confused men, sweet women, crazy people, whoever looks like they want a smile from us.  When we're not dancing, we're "meeting" our guests, making them feel like they almost have us, helping them to spend money. 

Each of us has a stage name, one that we often change, and our lives hang on three coat hangers, each with a plastic bag attached, to keep the pieces of a complete outfit together.  I've been lucky to have seen it all.  We were a go-go bar for a while and I danced for hours in a bathing suit.  I've worn pasties on my nipples.  I've danced topless.  I've danced in a G-string, which is the absolute best because the men love to slide a dollar bill into your string.  You'd think they'd all be grabbing you but most are nervous and perfect gentlemen, thinking they're getting away with a little something as they slide a folded bill under the elastic.  So often, they're cute.  It was hard in the beginning, not knowing what to do when those fingers would get a little too big, but I learned to push them away, or kick them away, and flash my biggest smile while doing it.  I grew confident that I could deal with whoever came along, you know?  I was, after all, their goddess on stage.  I was in charge of them!  I've done some flash dancing, we called it, where they would get an occasional glimpse of pussy during the dance, but only "by accident", since full nudity certainly wasn't allowed.  And of course, as the costumes changed, the girls changed.  The new young things that came in always had more curves, bigger boobs, and skinny legs, and were willing to do anything for money.  They gave stripping a bad name.  Yes, we older girls had to step aside and let it happen, but they weren't us.  They didn't know how to do it right.  They saw a few music videos and thought they were pole queens.  Still, you just have to let the art evolve.

I can't let you in the back room, but I'll describe it for you on a typical night, around 8:00 PM.  It's New Frigging York, for God's sake.  Floor space is at a premium, so don't expect much.  Boobies bounce as girls run back and forth, asking to borrow your boa or big hat for the night.  Miss Amanda is curling a girl's hair with one hand while putting rouge on another girl!  Two bathroom door mirrors have been mounted sideways on the wall, with a plywood table under them, with old, numbered barstools for each of us.  We're very sensitive about our stools.  They are all we can call our own. The chairs are arranged by number.  Each week, you'd sit according to how much you grossed for the past week.  Every girl, of course, wanted chair #1!  However there was a chair before #1, which they "lovingly" numbered zero.  That was my chair.  I was always in chair number zero only because I can be so easily squished up against the wall.  It seemed like the place for my skinny body, and it was quite a wall!  Plywood.  Does that even count as real wood?  I don't know.  We offered countless times to do the work, paint the place, put up some hooks and things, if the management would give us a few dollars for the materials, but it never happened.  So on a typical night I'd be naked, putting on makeup, smooshed up against the naked wall.  I decided to make it my wall, something good for me, not a problem.  I'd thumbtack pictures on the wall out of Cosmo if I thought they could be an idea for a new outfit for someone.  I always had a picture of Carol Doda up, the patron saint of strippers, who performed topless in 1964 and completely nude in 1969 in San Francisco.  The woman had balls.  She was a trailblazer.  She is worthy of being displayed every day.  Whenever Miss Amanda spotted Carol she'd start telling us stories of burlesque days and the Condor Club.  They were just her memories, but some of our best shows were based on ideas that came from her stories.  Art lives on!

The first day I was performed, I found a carpenter's pencil and drew a line deep into the plywood, to remember that day.

The first time I had a $500 day, I drew a line on the plywood, above the first.  On the first Monday of every month, I would touch the first line, and recite the date and event.  Then I would move up to the second line.  It was my way of recording turning points, and to keep my life fresh in my mind, since Grammy told me the worst thing you can do is make the same mistake twice.

You'd probably see Ed walk through our little room.  It's embarrassing that, as good as he was to us all, we all only knew him as Ed - never thought he might have a full name like the rest of us.  He was the House Father, if there was such a title - the bouncer, our drunk handler, and street barker.  He could read a lone gentleman from a block away and come up with just the right thing to say, to make him stop and turn into The Strip Shop.  They all wanted a reason to come in, but most wouldn't on their own.  So he'd tell them about a special performer of the night, or about the chance to spend some time with a pretty lady who likes tall men, or maybe just to provide them with the alibi they wanted - just stop in for a drink! 

"The girls love to perform for you.  These girls could be acting in Hollywood, but this is what they want to do.  Make them feel appreciated, would you please?" 

He barked when he needed, he talked like a friend when it's what they needed.  He was our Ed.  He also knew when tits were peaking in the back room and it was always when he just had to "cut through". 

I made the third line on my wall the day after my first softball game. Yes, strip joints have softball teams!  I must admit we were pretty good.  We always looked forward to playing the Blue Boys, the team from the homosexual strip joint.  We would just laugh the whole time, watching boys swing and throw like girls.  Our laughing would make them laugh.  We looked like a bunch of drunken ex-lovers who decided to have one last softball game.  We'd hug them and they'd pinch our bottoms, and we'd flash them when they were supposed to be watching the ball.  They gave us such a sense of relaxation and freedom - God bless their oiled little bodies.

I had a few lines on my wall for what seemed important events at the time, but within a week they weren't so special - like the first time I danced topless. The seventh line on my wall, one that I recited and relived the first Monday of every month, was longer than the others.  He came into the Shop one night around 11 PM.  He made it known he was from Milwaukee, looking to settle and start a business in the City.  He flashed some money around and quickly got the best table.  He wasn't necessarily good looking, but money makes them look better, and he was certainly smooth if nothing else.  He was particularly attentive to me, and was slipping 20's into my G-string which lusciously clashed with the one's.  He whispered in my ear, "You take my breath away."  I looked into his eyes, and could tell he was sincere.  His smile was so attractive, so genuine.  Between sets he bought me drinks.  This was at a time when the management realized they could make a lot of money on alcohol, so put up "Hey honey, can I buy you a drink?" signs in the bathrooms, and encouraged the clientele to treat their favorite dancer with some champagne (available by the bottle only, of course).  He was happy to do so, although I was working and wasn't supposed to touch it.  Maybe I did taste test it a little more than I should have.

He was addictive.  He never actually asked for sex.  He just smelled like sex with him would be heavenly.  His hand on my arm made me feel warm down there.

"Please come back to my hotel room with me.  I'm so alone.  Just a short visit.  I have a television!  We can have a drink and relax, watch some TV.  I so enjoy being with you.  It will be nice to have company."  He was good.  He described all the things that I wanted.  I wanted to be pampered a little; wanted to take a night off for a change; wanted to kick off my shoes, watch TV and have a drink, and yes, there's always the fantasy that this could be the one, the real deal.  He handed me $400 as we walked out the door, and put his finger to my lips before I could object, before I could ask what it was for.  As we strolled down the street he slipped his arm around my waist and I felt so good.  This was so right.  He was the perfect gentleman as he held his room door open for me.  When it closed, the first punch sent me flying across the room.  I knew that was gonna leave a mark.  I don't remember much after that, just bits and pieces of him grunting, pumping me with his little cock, then some of the others.  I think, just like he'd promised me a special time, he'd promised a little something special to a few male hotel staff, who happily took what was offered, then held me up against the wall and beat me and beat me and picked me up when I collapsed so he could hit me some more - all in silence.  There was not a word of why.  The staff then efficiently threw me into one of the dumpsters in the back alley.  I think that night he decided that New York City was the place for him.

Perhaps you can't understand, but my first and biggest feeling was not anger, but embarrassment.  I didn't want to tell anyone what happened, but I had little choice. Nobody wants to see this many bruises - not the girls, not the clientele.  I was shocked when someone first used the word rape.  It was my stupid mistake.  I trusted him.  My mistake.  But yes . . . it was rape.  I can be important enough to myself to call it rape.  My saying the word was the start of my becoming stronger.  I wouldn't report it, for fear of being killed, but I found enough of myself left to label it.  Still, I was just a stupid colored girl.  That's how I felt inside.

I was certain that no one wanted to see a black and blue stripper.  There probably isn't much of a crowd waiting to see a pregnant stripper either, I assumed.  Yes, I'd gotten more than bruises from my stupidity.  As my bruises healed, my belly grew.  Jack, the manager, felt uncomfortable when I asked to do a set, but he agreed.  Stripping was what I did.  It's how I paid the bills!  Plus, I had to go back.  If I didn't, HE'd have beaten my soul.  Jack didn't like his girls to ever be hurt in any way, and probably even would have let me buy paint, if I'd asked with my belly sticking out!  I warned Ed.  Instead of trying to talk me out of it, he ran out the front door.  The Barker man went to work! 

"The only stripper in town brave enough to let you see her naked pregnant body, and we have her!  It won't last forever folks!  This is something you'll be telling the boys about around the water cooler!  Hell, this is something you'll tell your grandkids about!"

And, thanks to big mouth, I actually developed quite a following.  As the music would start, the spotlight would focus on the ratty velvet curtain at one end of the stage.  I'd start to come out, always belly first, and they would cheer!  So many men, daddies for sure, would put an extra $5 in my G-string and whisper "A little something extra for the kid," with the sweetest looks on their faces.  They cared about me. The bar stocked a drink called "Baby Faced", which clients could buy to have a drink with me.  It was a pitcher of orange juice, and a bottle of whiskey (for the man to add to his).  They made more on juice then the bottles of cheap champagne they were selling. 

Ed was right.  It didn't last forever.  In answer to my prayers, sweet Jesus lovingly blessed me with a stillbirth.  I was so relieved.  I named her Julie, and as soon as I did she became real, and I sobbed, and I begged for her forgiveness, and begged my Lord to never do anything I ask for again, ever.  All I could see were tiny baby faces, and tiny baby fingers, in my mind.  I made myself small and stayed there.  After weeks of self-isolation, there was a knock on the door.  It was Ed.  He handed me a ratty book called "Get in Shape in 30 Days".  He took my face in his hands and said “She died.  You’re alive.  We need you back now.  They’ve been asking for you.  Find any reason you need to come back.  Live for yourself.  Live for her.”  Then he reached behind him, pulled a softball out of somewhere, threw it to me, and left - no hug, no smile, no words of encouragement.  He’d said what needed to.  He knew not to help.  He knew I had to do this alone.

I spent a night saying goodbye to those images of little fingers.  They just wouldn’t wrap around a ball.  I started to picture all the loving faces who gave me extra money “for the little one”, and swore that I would make it right with them.  I knew I had to do this.  My life was not going to become a series of bad turning points.  I was better than that.  My Grammy taught me so.  “Even when you got nothing, girl,” she’d say, “you got your strength.  Use it.”  I’d just forgotten for a minute.  And so I worked with that stupid book, worked for a killer body, better’n before.  I knew my goal, because the first game was ten days away - a ball game in the real world - a ball game in my world.  Mine!

And so, through a door built with sit-ups and push-ups and jumping jacks, I pulled myself from out of the shadow and into the light that felt  . . . different . . . but good.

For some reason, Ed wanted to give me a new stage name, so he called me Betsy Ross.  "Your flag pole will never be the same, my friend, my countryman!" he'd yell, as he ambled around in front of the place.  Too funny.  My first day back, tummy tighter than ever, I watched lots of my regulars come in.  I peeked through the curtain as they took their usual seats.  When the music started I stripped down, fast!  They whooped when they saw me in a G-string and a big, filled (!) lacey bra.  As I danced around the center stage, I told my regulars to reach into that bra for their present.  Their eyes got wide, and I got a big smile from all of ‘em, as they found that it was filled with rolled-up $5 bills, each with a little pink ribbon tied around it.  On every bill, I wrote, "bless you".  I was giving something back to as many of them as I could.  I couldn't ever return the love I felt, but it was a start.

Do you understand how much family love you can feel in this job?  Those on the outside just thought of us as dirty, degrading exotic dancers.  It's too bad they don't know how much the performers and the regulars become such a close family - always there for you.  It is true that New York City had become quite a stripper Mecca, and since we attracted people with "vices", an unsavory crowd slowly grew around our street.  The pushers came in.  The first sign of that was when drink sales went down and the smell of pot went up.  Crime did go up in the area, as local thugs would roll our clients (on the way in, when they still had money).  I'm sure there was a little Puerto Rican boy, who owned a big knife, not far from here, who paid cash for a used Cadillac, and counted out the money, all in one's.

Rudy Giuliani.  Mayor Rudy Giuliani.  Perhaps he did the right thing.  He decided to clean up New York City which meant get rid of us.  He declared all adult establishments a threat to public health, safety and welfare, and said we made New York City sleazy.  Rules were passed, ordinances they called ‘em, which said that no adult establishments could operate within 500 feet of a residence, school, or place of worship.  There were ratty high-rise apartments above all of our places.  And so they started to shut us down - the strip clubs, the adult movie theatres, and the stores.  Some said Mr. Giuliani Disney-fied Times Square, and while everyone in the business was fit to be tied, I knew it was the right thing.  It was too bad for the strippers and the go-go boys, who really had no other skills to fall back on.  But, hey, I was a taxpayer too, baby.  This hurt New York!  It took a few years to chase us out, and we were among the last to leave.

Even before we got our final eviction notice, the Shop had become more of a bar with dancing girls than a strip joint with a liquor license.  It was over and everyone knew it.  Most of the girls stopped showing up altogether, but I came every night, whether we did a show or not, and touched the lines on the wall, and recited every turning point in my life, including the line I'd drawn in for tomorrow, when we would be out of business.  When the time came to go, I turned up the music ("Girls, Girls, Girls" - God, I how we grew to hate Motley Crue), turned up the lights, and I slowly swung a wide circle on my pole.  Miss Amanda leaned on the wall and watched. When the electrician walked by I slid a screwdriver out of his belt, got up on a chair and took the screws out of the plate that held the dance pole to the ceiling.  Then I pushed it over.  Surprisingly, I found myself sobbing and crying as I pushed and pushed, until the screws in the floor creaked and gave way.  As the pole fell, the power went out, the room went quiet, with only a few worker lights remaining on.  As we walked out the door, I hugged and kissed Miss Amanda, and turned back for one last look.  The pole was gone.  It wasn't a strip club any more. 

I noticed that the carpenter was standing in front of my wall!  Gently he eased it off the 2x4's it was nailed to.  I stood by the door and watched as he hauled it out past me and hung it onto the store front, boarding it up.  All the bars and stores on the whole block - all boarded up.  Time there had stopped. 

I didn't like unemployment, so I looked hard for a job every day.  It kills your savings account, and I had a pretty good one going for a while!  I printed my resume on business cards.  They had my name on the front and said "ex-stripper" on the back.  It made people smile, which made them talk.  I did, after all, have some schmooze abilities! 

For three years, I moved around, mostly as a Kelly Girl, working a few months in an office here or there, then a few months stuffing envelopes in a cold warehouse, then, I don't remember, it was a blur.  One Monday morning, I picked up an old, dog-eared copy of the Sunday Times and read an article about how there was a block on 42nd Street of boarded up storefronts, and some local artist had been hired to brighten it all up.  So he painted each one a bright primary color, so the one-block walk wouldn't be depressing, but "uplifting" for visitors who wandered around Times Square.  The article reported that the block still sits, still painted but a little less bright and shiny, undeveloped, three years later.  The writer wondered if anyone would ever risk trying to reinvent this real estate.  The city was even willing to help!  There was also a story from San Francisco.  A new idea was sweeping the Bay Area - New Wave Burlesque Halls.  They were classy, upscale, modern, rooted in the basics of pure Burlesque, but updated with smart new looks, intelligent humor, and magic!  Low on the strip, big on the tease!  And fun!  As soon as I saw "Neo-Burlesque", in the time it took to read the phrase, I knew exactly how I was going to do it.  It would be fantastic - not a place for drunks, but for hip couples and groups.  And not cheap either!  There would be no walk-ins.  You'd have to buy tickets for this one, baby.  We were going theatre!  I remembered a Miss Amanda story of a girl named Charmion, and I looked her up because I thought her act would be a great classic to recreate!  She was actually in vaudeville, a trapeze artist, and Thomas Edison made a movie of her way back in 1901 called Trapeze Disrobing Act.  Is that sweet or what?  I didn't know who to turn to so I found a lawyer who helped me write up a business plan.  I found Miss Amanda, my bottomless pit for the history of Burlesque.  I found Ed, who now had a job as a machinist, who knew about how to run an entertainment business in New York.  He'd done everything from working with distributors, running a loading dock, maintaining stock - all the things he did by day; to being a people mover - a schmoozer to the kind, and a bouncer to the ornery - at night.  He was a licensed bartender too!  Once we talked, I had no idea how much he actually had done!  Both agreed to help me, if I could get money to buy a space and hire a staff, and we all agreed that The Strip Shop and the store next to it was a pretty nice little starting point, with ample floor space, high walls, and what was probably, at one time, a beautiful bar and kitchen. 

I was 40 minutes early for my appointment at the bank, and practically peed my pants, I was so excited, as I made my presentation to two of the staff.  They listened like they had no face muscles.  It was hard to go on, but they had to loan me money.  This was a great idea, a sure thing!  After I was done, they thanked me.  I expected them to go out in the hall and probably talk about the Yankees for five minutes before they came back in to tell me they couldn't help, but it's not the way it went down.  I finished.  The suit on the left wrote something on the back of a business card, slid it over to the suit on the right who nodded.  Then he slid it across the table to me.  It was an amount, with a big check mark after it.  It was everything I asked for plus 10%.  They stood up (so I did as well, not sure why).  The suit on the left broke into the warmest smile I'd ever seen.  He (professionally) gave me a hug, told me he wished he had 5% of my energy and excitement, and the suit on the right gave me his business card and told me to call him in 24 hours to get the account set up, and the contract signed.  He thanked me for picking them, and said that they were excited to be part of re-energizing Times Square.  Only a few years ago, we were a blight in the neighborhood.  Now a burlesque house was going to be part of "re-energizing Times Square!"  They didn't know how I'd managed to line up such an amazing staff, but with them in place, it was a sure-fire investment for them!  If I were white I would have run out in the street and thrown my hat up in the Minneapolis air!

The Strip Shop (possible new name Bottoms Up Burlesque) was mine!  I walked 14 blocks back to 42nd Street.  I'd not seen it since.  I stopped in a goofy little junk/hardware store that had old tools in the window, and bought a used crowbar.  There was some young kid behind the counter who claimed it was a valuable collectible antique.  I handed him a ten, and he took it, and without expression, he reached under the counter and slapped down two ratty workman's gloves (they must have been a set).  Then he went back to reading a magazine.  I tried on my new fashion statements, and they fit! Off I went.

So there I was.  The storefront had been painted red - nothing fancy, just a fingernail-polish red.  I could see, under the thick coat of cheap paint, faint indentations in the wood.  My lines.  My diary.  My turning points.  My finger slid slowly over the first one as I started to recite the history I knew so well.  After that, I was going to oh-so-gently remove my wall and take it inside, because it was a part of me and I just wanted it!

I must have been quite a sight, caressing painted plywood on a boarded up storefront with my only "business suit" and a starched white blouse on, my worn leather bag on my left shoulder and a crowbar in my right hand.  If that wasn't enough, the brown leather work gloves clashed with my dark blue suit!  I was still absolutely soaring from my meeting at the bank.  I was now a businesswoman, ready to hire my staff!  And I was ready for this.  I was a different person now.  I felt strong.

The sight of him, as he turned the corner, shattered my moment of pride, my moment of joy.  Now moving slowly with a cane, he walked in my direction.  I was sure he wouldn't even know who I was.  When he was six steps away, I reached into my bag and released the safety on my handgun.  I'd bought it after he assaulted me, and always had it with me.  My little 9 mm bodyguard!  When he was five steps away, I imagined taking aim and pulling the trigger.  When he was four steps away, I decided that this gun was never me.  I choose a better life.  This is my decision. 

                        Let him go. 

                        Let him pass by. 

                        I didn't get this far to throw it all away. 

At three steps he looked at me, a stranger to him, smiled and said, "you take my breath away."  I actually started to feel something, the feeling of melting into his smooth line, a line he'd used on me years ago.   

                        He violated me. 

                        What he did to me was unspeakable.

                        How many other women had taken his breath away? 

                        How many more will there be?

When he was two steps away, I reset the safety, and let the pistol slide out of my hand and back into my bag.  I calmly and deliberately took my best batter's stance, both hands in place at one end of the crowbar.  One step away - it was my best homerun swing - going for the left field wall.  I swung through his fat head.  I heard the crack of the cranium, and was amazed at the speed at which his head and aging body flew, almost two feet!  His head stopped when it hit the dumpster that was on the edge of the sidewalk. 

"Did that take your breath away, asshole?" I asked.  He didn't respond.

His fresh blood was a perfect match for the cheap, fading paint.

His body had crumbled onto the sidewalk and his head flopped over the curb, with his blood nicely draining into the sewer grate.  He looked good.  I bet that one will leave a mark! 

I realized I was shaking.  I ran over to my plywood wall and slammed the crowbar into it, making one large gouge above my other turning point marks.  Blood ran into the gouge as it blended into the paint, disappearing from casual view.  It was magic.  It was a sign from Saint Carol.

The sound - people running, shoes against cement, people yelling,

"I saw her, stop her!" 

I strained to hear the sound, but I didn't.  There was only silence.  I looked around.  The street was empty except for a small group headed in the opposite direction.  I spotted the bulge of his wallet in his back pocket, threw it down the sewer grate, and watched its shadow rush off with the flowing water.  If his wallet was missing, they'd assume he'd been robbed.  My mind raced - what to do with my sweet metal bat?  I looked at it, and realized that these gloves were so soft; I'd forgotten I'd been wearing them.  No prints, only his red blood cells on the crowbar, which I just dropped beside him. 

I slipped the gloves into my bag and went down the nearest subway steps.  As I got to the bottom I thought I heard a woman's scream from the sidewalk.  I thought of my Grammy and silently explained to her that I chose not to shoot him.  "I made that choice," I told her.  "In the end, I did what I had to do.  I won't feel guilty about it.  I promise Grammy, I won't make the same mistake twice - but I did allow myself to make it once." 


© 2012 John Allison

Future Pooh

FYI - None of these stories are fiction.  Thank you.

Book 1.  They don't like it when you say "Winnie"

Chapter the one

Being a science fiction reader made me feel déjà vu-y. I'm sure I've read this story beginning at least a dozen times.  I don't recall the titles of the books it was in, but it was all just too familiar.  I was walking down Market Street in the city of Brotherly Love, heading for 4th and Arch, where my office/lab is.  I was slowed down by an unknown person who had grabbed my backpack and pulled me to a halt.  He had a nice suit on.  His green tie was a little strange, but I'm hardly a fashion critic. 

He said, "I have four questions for you." 

It sounded so familiar.  I scowled at him for touching my backpack.

"One.  Are you married?"

I just knew.  If it wasn't a book it was a TV show.  I knew the drill.  Isn't that peculiar?

I said, "I'm not married.  No (I lied), I have no living family like parents.  No, I don't have children, and yes I enjoy a good adventure."

He practically jumped back, or would have if people really did such things, but people are only described as jumping back in books and short stories.  He would have jumped back if people did.

"How did you know?" he asked.

"Nerd!" I proudly proclaimed.  That only confused him.

"Come with me," he said.

I didn't worry about being late for work at this point because, according to this story in my head, he and his peeps would take care of making the call to my office, indicating that I would be late, perhaps very late.  For some reason I worried about Rosemary, my Catalina 250 sailboat, docked not far from here in a marina on the Delaware.

He pulled me into a flower shop.  (I see the look on your face.  Of course there are flower shops in Philadelphia.  OK, is - there is a flower shop in Philadelphia.)

"We're looking for someone to make a dangerous but important trip in time."

"Time travel?" I asked.  "We've made an advance in that area?"

"You think?" he replied.  "We finally figured out that time passes according to a clock, established by the speed of light.  Change the speed of light and you can change the rate at which time passes."

"So you make light go faster and slower than the speed of light?" I asked.

"That's part of it, yes."  Appearing bored with my questions, he moved on. "I have many other questions, of course.  What is your highest degree?"

I told him I was a perfect choice, with a Ph.D. in Chemistry. He salivated (figuratively).

"Do this for us, please?" he begged.

"You must have millions of people who would like to travel in time.  Why do you need to recruit a nobody off the street?"

"Well, we think it hurts really bad.  We're not sure.  Also, we do have some trained temporalnauts who might be required to be sent out for a rescue.  We prefer someone who knows little about the details of it all."

"It all."  I repeated.  "Ugh."  I followed up with a deadpanned, "temporalnauts, eh?"

He threw his little clipboard on the ground.  (I guess I should have told you earlier, he had a clipboard.)  "That does it," he said.  I refuse to use temporalnauts any more.  Everyone makes fun of it.  I told them it was a stupid word."

"I won't do it unless you call me a time traveler," I stated, not knowing whether I had any say in the matter, certainly not believing that much of this was real.

"I know, right?" he said.  "Works for me, but its technically incorrect."

Being unable to elaborate on that last comment, he simply walked away from me, across the room, then came back to start a different conversation, like he'd just arrived.

"So what is it?  Back in time to kill Hitler?  Back to talk to Jesus?"  I asked, warming up to the idea.

"Future."  He said.  "Five thousand years into the future."

"Why?" I asked.

He shrugged.

Chapter the two

I stood on the "launch pad", having just been told that my travel uniform is "naked".

"We have no idea what people wear in the future.  We don't want you to stand out," he explained.

"Naked won't stand out?" I asked.

"You'll find clothes,” he said casually.

"What a typical government operation!" I snarled at him.

"Not really," he said casually, as he casually handed me a green file folder full of paper.

"I wear paper?" I smart-mouthed.

"No," he casually continued,  "These are instructions for building another machine.  So you can come back."

"Can't you send me with one already built?"  I asked.

He paused and seemed to be thinking.  "That's one for the suggestion box!" he said, as his eyes lit up.  Apparently no one had thought of it before.

"So this hurts you say?" I asked, as he was positioning my feet over the correct markers on the floor.

"We think,” he said.

"Well, when they return do they say it hurts or not?" I pressed.

"Return? .  . . well . . ." And at that, he gently lunged for the big red button that said Easy on it.

(Kidding, it said something but it was in Japanese, of course!)

Chapter the third

It hurt.

Chapter the fourth

I "landed", still naked of course, on a red brick circular pad.  A woman was sitting in a booth, and jumped when I appeared.  (I wouldn't want that job - wait for an occasional time traveler to appear?  Yawn.)  She casually walked over to me, wrapped her hand around me, and slid a red furry sock sort of thing over my penis and testicles.  (By the end of the last sentence, "wrapped her hand around me" should be clear.)

She was wearing a miniskirt and a long sleeve top that showed part of a photograph of her wearing a miniskirt.  She smiled as I looked at her and she looked at me.  She touched her wrist and started asking me questions.

"Occupation?" 

"Time traveler."

"Not a temporalnaut?"  She snorted.  I saw no need to answer.

"Time of origin?" she continued.

I told her what had been today's date.

"Searching" she chimed.

"Well big boy, you may be the oldest we've gotten.  Maybe one of the first group of time travelers.  Are you here for a reason, purpose, any goals?" she asked.

I shrugged.

"Ever seen a heffalump?" she asked.

"Isn't that some kind of elephant?" I replied. 

"Bother!" she said, then moved on.

"Green folder?"  She asked, holding out her hand.

I had none.  (Did she think I had it concealed?)  I looked around to see if it had dropped somewhere.

Pretty typical," she smiled.  "Paper travels poorly if the humidity isn't just right."

"So I’m screwed?" I asked.

"Ah, I love old colloquialisms!"  She purred.  "Come with me."

"Taking me to your leader?" I inquired.

"You got it, tart!"  She replied.  "We're going to walk about half a mile to a silver building, then you can meet with some of the experts and the interested, if anyone is in."

I waited for her to start walking, or flying, or something, but she stood still.  "Visitors first," she said, pointing in some random direction.  So I walked.  We didn't talk.  She maintained her place about 6 paces behind me.  I hadn't appreciated the "behind" part at the time.  We walked and walked and eventually came onto a campus of sorts, with a silver building in the middle.  (Note to self, buy stock in silver if you get back.)  As I started passing people, I noted that all of the females had miniskirts and long-sleeve tops made of pictures of them wearing miniskirts.  All the men were in coats and ties.  Both men and women seemed very interested, staring and smiling at my furry condom, and other things.

I stopped and turned to her.  "Why am I wearing this thing?  I guess I assumed it was what men wear in this time.  What's this all about?"

She deadpanned, "I enjoyed putting it on you, and I like to look at bottoms."  There was no offer of a suit.  She opened the silver door of the silver building and I walked in to find a desk where a girl was seated in a silver chairy thing.  She was painted silver.  (Or maybe not.  Could be just a Goldfinger assumption.  Anyway, she was silver.)  She looked at my red furry and smiled.  "Oh, so you've met Melinda?"  She held up a finger, which flashed.  She asked me to turn around, which I foolishly did, and another flash bounced off the silver walls.

Chapter the five

Silver girl took me to an office where a man attempted to slap me, and then opened a side door filled with suits and lots of red ties.  "What an idiot!"  he proclaimed.  "I can't believe you fell for that thing."  Then as quickly as his mood flared up, it disappeared.  "You look like a size BR,” he said.  "Please, act your age, you just got here.  Nobody needs to parade around naked."  He pointed to the suits.

I obediently found a suit, size BR, and put it on.  I put on a tie too.  After I went from furry to looking pretty good, I walked back out to Mr. Man and stood there.

"Whatcha wanna do?" he asked.

"Well, give me the tour!" I suggested.

He touched a cube and two bikes appeared.  OK, they didn't actually appear, they were brought in by two people, but I'm sure they could have teleported them or something.  We got on the bikes, and a side door opened, large enough for us to ride through.  We entered the bike traffic on the street and in a few blocks we were, as he explained, downtown.

This is where there's supposed to be a paragraph about MacDonald’s with 1x10³⁴ burgers sold, but I just can't do it.

We stopped at the light (they're pink, cyan and an amazingly bright black now) and I looked over to a really big silver cube building on the corner.  It said "The House of Pooh" on it.

"The House of Pooh," I read aloud.

"Oh, are you from the House of Pooh," he asked, eyes lighting up as much as eyes actually light up.  Actually he raised his eyebrows.

"Is it like a rock and roll bar or something?" I asked naively.

"You'll find I just won't respond to sentences with too many words in them that I don't understand.  We find it hard to answer questions here, or now, or .  .  ." 

Apparently I'd crossed that line.

"I'm from the House of Pooh," he offered.

"Swell," I replied, hoping that would deny a response.

"Pooh?"  I asked, trying to figure it all out.  "Winnie-the-Pooh?"

He fell off his bike, and then did something that looked like placing a phone call.  In a minute, an eight-seat bike appeared, mostly suit-occupied, and I was quickly whisked away to a Flower Shop.  The sign said Market Street.

Chapter the 6

A florist-looking guy came out, from the back, into the shop, wearing only an apron and a red tie.  He was different from those I'd met so far.

"What the fuck is your problem?"  he inquired.  "Are you from the House of Pooh, House of Eeyore?  You can't be from when you say you are.  What the fuck is going on here?"

"What the fuck are you talking about?" I asked, trying to get into the moment.

"You said the name Winnie.  What a fucking troublemaker.  Do you know who I am?" He screamed.  Well, sorta screamed.

Guessing, I said, "Peggy?"

He nodded, but he continued.  "And how did you know to say Winnie-the-Pooh, instead of Winnie the Pooh?  How could you know?"

I didn't quite know the answer, but he was right.

Chapter the seventh

Weary of the trip already, even though I was surrounded with the most amazing sights and lights and moving things, my thoughts drifted to the last time I got a wrong number.  They are always bill collectors, looking for someone who gave a random phone number on some credit card application, and now they start harassing me.  Tired of spending an hour trying to convince them that I am not Fernando and did not know anyone of that name, I came up with a new response.  I found it more efficient to just agree to be whoever they wanted, agree to all of their demands, and tell them that I was repentant, had just gotten a job, and a check would be sent out today.

I don't exactly know how this relates, but I know that my phone escapades popped into my mind, and for some reason they prompted me to say, "I have a message from Winnie."

"Bullshit," the florist replied.

Chapter the eighth

A rose was held up to my nose.  It was glossy and had writing on it but looked real.  Following the natural response of smelling flowers when placed under your nose, I did.  Oh!

I awoke strapped to a large piece of silver paneling with six men, always men, in aprons and ties, talking in low tones, standing about 10 feet away from me.  One sprayed what I hope was water on my face to help bring me back to consciousness. 

"Tell us what you know," the tall one said.  He paced back and forth (and my view changed - apron, ass, apron, ass).

I decided that, since this was too strange to be real, I'd go into my secret agent mode.  Bond, James Bond.  WWJBD?  I said, "No.  Tell me about the House of Pooh.  You tell me first, then I’ll tell you what you don't know."  I even said it in my best English accent.  It went unappreciated.

He stopped mid ass-view and spun around.  He walked up to me, his unshaved face inches from mine, and said, "OK."

He let out a long sigh.  "Three hundred and twenty one years ago Silas Mariner, a resident of New New York, was digging in his back yard to plant some parapalangia, and he found a steel box.  In that box was a paper book.  It was a gift from the past, for the human race.  It was a documented history of a most unusual place and time.  There were living toy animals, who had the most amazing, although at times cryptic, things to say.  They spoke to a single human.  Their words, no matter who you follow, can be studied for years.  We continue to learn.  One hundred and fifty years ago, the search began for the location - where they lived, where it all took place.  There were many hints in the sacred book, and many are confident that we have found that part of the world, and the area where the house and the stream and the trees all had been.  We know the location to within 0.8 square miles.  It's south of New New New London.  Further refinement continues as things are found.  The obvious response to such a gift is to follow Pooh's teaching, hence The House of Pooh.  However some have reasoned that the important character is Christopher Robin - the boy to whom they spoke.  Some have reasoned that the important character is in the background, which resulted in the House of Eeyore.  So we do have other splinter groups, and facilitators for each one who present lectures and lead discussions on the words of each, and the conversations between each.  It was just what our society needed, and while not everyone has a House, most do. It has brought the world together just in time."

"What do you know about the world of 5000 years ago?"  I asked.

"Not much at all.  Once everything had been digitized and we had the great magnetic storm in 2832, when a meteorite hit our sun, everything was erased.  But long ago is long ago, you know?"  I watched his ass walk away, pensive (He was pensive; his ass showed no emotion.).

A much shorter florist spun, much as did the first, and said to me, "your turn."

I raised my eyebrows.  It seems like I had information that they didn't.  Perhaps I need to save it for now.

"I'm sorry that I’m moving slowly here, my friends.  I'm just trying to assimilate.  Let me say a few words, and you respond to them.  Tell me what they mean.  OK?"

Oddly, they all nodded eagerly.

"Apple," I said, starting off anywhere.

Hands went up.  I was in second grade again.  "Yes, you with the apron!"  I snickered.

One in the front, who didn't see hands in the back responded.  "It's a fruit.  It grows on trees," he said proudly.

"Christian," I said. 

No hands went up.

"Priest," I said.

No hands went up.

"Religion?  Philosophy?"  They were clueless.

"MacDonald's," I said.  I may tell you the answer later if I have time.

Suddenly one of the florists exploded.  They calmly cleaned him up as another one burst out at me.  "Enough of this!" he screamed.  "We have learned nothing.  Why did you say you had a message from Winnie?  You think you are clever.  Those who are clever, who have a Brain, never understand anything," he proudly proclaimed.  They nodded in unison.  The way he capitalized Brain made me think it could have been a quote.  "We work very closely with facilitators at the various Houses to dispense the word of Pooh but not the book.  I don't think you have a message at all, but how on earth could you know the name of The Pooh?"

"The Book is called Winnie-the-Pooh," I stated.

Their faces went white.  Well, not actually white but they did all look a bit sick.  I was going to use "the blood drained from their faces" but that just isn't a possibility either.

A particularly saggy butt turned, walked up to me, and punched me in the stomach.  It hurt.  My hands and feet were restrained and the surface behind me was hard.  An unusual moan came out of me, and I had a bad feeling that he'd broken a rib.  He punched me again and again.  He released my hands, which seemed like a good sign, but it was so he could swing at my head.  Blood ran from my nose, a stark color contrast to the room as it dripped on the floor.  It would have made a nice color for a rose, but apparently roses have moved on.  He hit me and hit me, he battered my head, and I sensed that the aprons had gathered around to watch this animal beat the crap out of me.  Fade to black.  WTF?

Chapter the 9

I was cleaned up, apparently, and even had a fresh suit on when I awoke.  Yes, I could barely move and the pain was substantial, but I was alive, and alone in a very big empty silver room.  One could have easily stacked four or five basketball courts on top of each other to make up this room.  A single candle sat next to me.  A candle!  It was even burning.  It wasn't bright enough for me to see what I just described to you, but as I became conscious the walls started to slowly emit light, illuminating the room just enough for me to see where I was.

Well, this little vacation, this adventure, was not going well at all.  I had expected an exciting look into our future and so far I've been cock-furry humiliated, knocked out more times than I care to count, and now I'm .  .  . well, I don't know where I am now.  Is this a prison?  A holding cell?  The lighting slowly crept up, intensity-wise, until I could clearly see the edges of the room.  At a certain intensity it became clear that there was something for me to investigate.  It looked like a ball, in the corner farthest from me.  As the light continued to creep up, my rods, which only generate a black and white image for one's brain, allowed my cones to start working, and I could see color.  In the far corner was sort of an orange ball.  Well, it was a ball until it started to move.  It looked like it was slowly unfolding, which it was, until it looked like it was standing up.  It started to walk towards me.  It was a funny wobbly walk, with arms stretched out to its sides.  It lumbered toward me.  It was difficult to determine in this room, so large, what dimensions we're talking about here, but as it approached I could see the orange furry body, the face.  It was him.  I smiled.  He didn't.  I quickly realized that there was a second creature, walking directly behind him so as to remain hidden from me, but I could see the shadow of some kind of four-legged animal hobbling behind - behind The Bear.

Book 2.  If you're interested . . .

Section 1

Hey, I'm home again and they're asking me to make another trip!

It's been two years - I've been describing to them everything I saw and heard and experienced, over and over.  Just to fill you in, there are other time travelers who have stayed at that place in the future, and one is Pooh, which is still a bit confusing to me, but he had constructed a way-back machine and was kind enough to let me use it.  Actually, he was the one who suggested that I return to my present (no honey in the future, you see, so he was ordering take-out).

Section #2

This time I prepared my own "stuff" to take.  The way-back machine® plans were printed on silk and soaked in water as I was about to leave, so they would accompany me for sure.  I went to a fabric store and bought some red faux/fun fur, and made some shorts out of it (hahah - Melinda!).  I decided to almost stay out of the Pooh-is-fiction discussion since I wasn't sure I had anything to contribute.  Also I know that religions (philosophies?) can keep some people "good", or "better than otherwise".  Still, I mean WTF, this Pooh thing shot my fiction theory all to hell.  I was constantly thinking about every step I took, everything I saw, and I had a long list of things I wanted to take.  Then I had to do the hard work of paring it down.  I bought some new white Nikes, remembering that the first walk was a long one.  I packed a solid green tie, to contrast with the red ones (Merry Christmas!).  I took some LED flashlights, a box of Tastykakes, and my iPod, loaded with books and tunes and movies.  Why I only had shorts, shoes and a backpack on, I don't know.  I could have worn a suit!  I think it meant that they didn't have great confidence in the system and pin-point/time-point accuracy.  Ugh.  My launch pad operator smiled at me, not looking authentic in the least.

Easy button.

Pain.

Brick landing circle.

Melinda!

Section 3

Melinda, with the dick warmer in her hand, looked very disappointed.

So we went through the routine.

"Take me to your blah blah."

"Put on a suit, will you blah blah."

I opted to keep the Nike Airs, even with the suit, and did put on my green tie as planned.  I walked out of the sweet suit closet.  Mr. Man started to say something but stopped short when he saw the tie.  I think he did a most peculiar thing.  It was almost like he dropped to one knee, "before me".  It was hard to tell since, as soon as he got "down there" he "looked at my feet" and "fainted dead away". 

OK. Awkward.  A passed out guy, big office.  What am I to do?

Well what was there to do besides the obvious.  I rifled through the compartments in his desk - nothing but (possibly) food, office supplies and a box of Melinda furries.

Section number four

OK, now I'm really bored.

It was pretty apparent that Mr. M was thrown for a loop over the tie and/or the shoes.  I'm guessing both.  I sat on the floor next to the breathing body and my foot fell close to his.  It looked like he had a similar shoe size.  I swapped shoes with him, anxious to see what would happen if and when he comes to.

I had my iPod ear buds in and was listening to some Green Day, watching "him", when he first groaned.

"What happened?" he said, rubbing his head.

"Donno," I shrugged.

He sat up and stared at my green tie.  "Why all the deception?" he asked.  "And why now?"

Shit.  Times like this I hate being such a smartass.  If I tell him I don't know what he's talking about I'll lose whatever edge I may have over this guy. "Why now?" he'd asked.  How do I fake a response to this?  I rambled, searching for some kind of confusing high road.

"Now is my decision, not yours, and not for me to explain but for you to accept," I stated.

He became small.  Well not really small but if he could have he would have.  His dimension seemed to sorta change - actually it felt like we just changed places.  He was quiet, almost looking at me for guidance on what to do next. 

I'll take it.

"Get up," I said.

He started to, and realized he had my shoes on.  He froze.  It seemed like forever that he stood there, like a statue.  (Well, without pigeon poop.)  You get the idea.

He shyly bounced a little on his feet, my shoes.  If faces could talk he would be saying "springy!"  Without warning he jumped into the air. 

Big smile!  Big laugh!  Overly long hug.  Awkward hug.

"Why me?" he asked as he slowly lowered his grinning self back to the floor, where I still sat.

"Whatever," I replied, deciding I didn't understand the words.  At this point I feel like I'm at a bit of a dead end - probably just digging a hole for myself.  However, in a what-the-hell move, I tried something else to extract information from him.

"All right," I said slowly, "I want you to tell me your version of everything that happened since I walked in.  Every observation, every thought.  Leave nothing out."

And so he did.  He was very good at it, so as I watched the sun lower in the sky, he went into hour number four.  He had a very good memory of details.  Boring!

I did, however, learn bunches.  Red is sorta the school color of the planet, except for some group of wise ones, decision makers, behind the scene societal members who, when appropriate, allow themselves to be noticed, with a green tie.  Ooh!  I'm in good company!  I'm the man!

Second thing I learned is that these people in the future are in sucky shape.  Bad bones, sore muscles, they live in pain, and when he wore my Nikes there was no pain.  They were some kind of cloud for him.  Apparently they lived with constant discomfort but had never thought to do anything about it.  Hence, the hug.

So you've read stories like this before where an ordinary person whose "stuff" looks extraordinary in some situation is recognized as some sort of a god by a certain civilization.  I know the stories.  It’s always a white guy walking into an isolated area of Africa where the locals are amazed.  It never works out well in the end.  The white boy almost always almost dies and/or is eaten.

But I feel sorry for these pathetic people.  If Pooh was providing philosophical support, no one appeared to be providing physical support.  Maybe someone other than a bear would be more appropriate.

Reader, did you ever see the planet that the Enterprise stumbled over on the original Star Trek?  The people had become so advanced they were mostly energy fields or something, and thought mighty fine thoughts, but their physical plant started to fail, like planetary air conditioning, and no one remembered how to fix it, so they were dying.  Well if you don't remember, you should.  I felt like I was there.  It made me wonder if Gene did a little time travelling for some of his story ideas.

I told my new friend that we were going to make a difference, and that through him, the world was going to be a better place.  I gave him a list.

1.  Thou shalt not tell anyone about me and the things we do (heheh).

2.  Thou shalt get me a nice place to live and provide all reasonable needs to live.

3.  Thou shalt get some engineers or scientists or something together and show them your invention, my Nikes.  You give them permission to disassemble them, and start making them in mass quantities for everyone on the planet.

4.  Thou need not constantly thank me.

5.  Thou shalt be humble in all of the accolades, being aware that there will be more to come.

Section 05

It's been more than a year that I've been here.  It's been an amazing time.  Even Winnie is wearing Nike's!  Looking out my penthouse window to see suits walking by, all with white shoes on, feels pretty good.  Along the water front (we're on water, somewhere - they don't have maps) there are dozens of little fabrication facilities building parts for me, based on drawings provided to them via Mr. Man.  I should have paid more attention in my normal life, but when I realized we were on water I walked out, on a balmy summer kind of evening, to look around, and saw there were no boats!  I was hoping to see what a sailboat from the future looked like!  So that's my big project.  No one knows what we're doing, and even though there is a hull on land, no one knows what it may be.  I thought I knew how pulleys and other things worked, but I realized there were some more components that I didn't really understand well, mechanically.  These people are pretty good at inventing stuff that performs well-defined functions, so I think we'll make it.

In the past year I've also been making a list of all the crap these dodo birds need.  Pencil and paper - now long gone!  I want it!  They'll liked it/them!  This is going to be fun.  I'm thinking pretty seriously of getting a second worker to introduce and produce amazing inventions.  There's this girl I met.  Actually, it’s Melinda.  She really is a sweet girl and has a nice touch, and she's the reason why I decided to stay.  If I can find time to write more, you'll understand why.  Sex in the future is, well .  .  .

(Yes, that big smile actually did light up my face.)

Book 3.  Like it actually matters to you . . .

CHAPTER 1.

Four years - four years I've been here.  We did shoes, pencils and paper, boats, calculators, algebra, toothpaste, hats, chairs with backs, bow ties, movie theatres, movies for movie theatres, crappy actors, watches, a sense of time, days of the week, and calendars.  It was good.  They were accepting without discussion.

My life with Melinda was good.  We had a lot to teach each other and both saw the benefits in a simple life.  This was truly an enjoyable experience, although I felt bad for leaving my parents without warning or explanation.

I was (seriously) trying to teach Melinda how to moan on a lazy Radday morning when the front gate opened and six gentlemen, all wearing green bow ties with their suits, impolitely walked in.  They looked around and, apparently trying to generate a tough-guy appearance, pushed over some furniture with their feet.  It was then that I realized that I hadn't seen my iPod in some time.  Apparently they had been watching some of my movies.  It was mildly entertaining, mildly annoying, but their attempt at "bursting in" did squeeze a pretty sweet moan out of Melinda.

They awkwardly tried to manhandle us, until I told them to just tell us what they wanted us to do and we'd cooperate.  Confused, they handed me a red furry cock cover and her a short skirt with a long sleeve shirt made of a picture of Melinda wearing a short skirt.  I looked at the cock cover and scowled at Melinda, who shrugged.  They all shrugged, not expecting cooperation from us, and escorted us outside to a 10-seater bike, which quickly whisked us off to (I know this is becoming less believable by the page) a flower shop.  Never a good thing, I'd learned.

CHAPTER 2.

As I sat on the floor they spent a while randomly pummeling Melinda, demanding to know what was going on.  "How are you coming up with these brilliant ideas of yours, Miss?" one barked, after he stripped off his suit, down to his tie and apron.  He hit her hard.  She looked at his bow tie and then gave him a sweet look of superiority. 

"I'd suggest you stop now," she said.  "You still don't understand everything about that thing around your neck."

They stopped.  They thought.  "You win," a short one said.

I was surrounded by idiots.  Didn't the population know time travelers were showing up?  Don't they keep records or anything?  How could they not know it was all about me?  Jesus!

"Same with your foot clouds," she added. 

They scowled at her in unison.  What a beautiful sound!

"How far in the past did you come from?" an asshole hunk asked her.

"Why?" she replied.

They all agreed that hers was a legitimate question, and the answer was of no use.

"Why are you giving us these things?  Is it a plan for world domination?" two chimed in together.

It was clear; they again had picked up a phrase from one of my movies.

She glanced at me and I nodded so she said, proudly, "Yes!"

I got up and paced back and forth amongst them, stroking my chin stubble, of which I had none.  They stared at the gesture, perplexed as well. 

"Gentlemen, why are you worried about your lives becoming better?" she inquired.

They looked at each other and decided to all sit on the floor, leaving me standing.  A look of sadness swept over the bunch.

"Pooh," one said.  "Pooh has left us."

"Well, no surprise," I replied.  "You guys are just boring."

"No, no, the Pooh has died.  Passed on.  We have no one."

CHAPTER THREE.

Hmmmm.  Serious stuff.  I demanded to see him right away, and they actually took me to him!  I had no idea how you check vitals on a stuffed bear, but he seemed to be merely a stuffed bear at this point, so apparently they were right.  I hope he liked the honey.

"Did people know he actually existed here?" I asked.

"Oh no, no.  It was his wish."  One had finally stepped up to talk to me.

"But he was very interested in the House of Pooh, and the other houses, and contributed to their evolution." he explained.  "Now there is no more.  No new contributions.  No direction."

He attempted his best puppy-dog eyes as he looked into mine.  "But you, now it will be you, yes?"

For once in my life I'd thought ahead.  Thank me!

I'd spotted my iPod sticking out of one gentleman's suit pocket.  I snagged it, and turned it on.  It was fully charged!  They had been working hard.  While I was home, I'd downloaded some audio books.  I'd found on the Apple store web site some very nice unabridged recordings, read by Peter Dennis, of the four Pooh books.  They were still there - When We Were Very Young, Winnie-the-Pooh, Now We Are Six, and The House at Pooh Corner.

I waved my contact close to me, slid the ear buds in his ears, and started up the first book.

He cried.

"I am here to do Winnie's job," I said for some reason.

"Is this the message you said you had when you first arrived?" he asked?  Apparently they had kept records.

I nodded.  So did Melinda.

Then I lost his attention.  He was staring at my iPod screen.  It was an audio book but it did have a thumbnail of a happy Pooh, laughing in his red t-shirt.  He smiled a big smile, and said he understood.  Too bad I didn't.

CHAPTER FOUR

I'd said earlier that such stories rarely end well.  I decided to take that chance.  They were a nice people, just not bright enough to figure things out.  If they need an occasional new Pooh line, I think we could distribute them for at least a decade, maybe long enough to introduce some new characters!  Maybe it will turn out that Christopher Robins will have a friend - me!  Then finally a conversion from Pooh-speak to people-talk can begin.  Jesus.  It felt like a big job, but I wasn't doing anything anyways.  Plus I had Eeyore to help make the future a better place (I hoped).  As a plan formed in my little brain, someone rushed in to tell us there was news from the south of New New New London.  They'd found what?  Who?

After talking to the guy holding my iPod for a bit, much of my future became clear.  A few of the drawings of Pooh had been released, but they were all line drawings in black and white.  I had something new for the masses - a color picture, and Pooh isn't just wearing a t-shirt, it's a red one.  I decided that it would be symbolic, allowing me to transfer philosophy from something owned/taught by the few to something owned by the masses.  They'd learn.  Maybe for the first time - find a way to think a bit more on their own. 

I told them all that things were going to change, going to be OK, going to be better than OK.  I only had one request.  If there was anyone else from the past, like Pooh, in another room, another secret, I really don't want to know. 

At my request, a 20-seat bicycle appeared, and 18 suits took us to a location from which we transported to a hundred acre forest, south of New New New London.

(I just have to tell you one last thing.  When I got off the bike, as we were preparing for our historic trip to New New New London, I was so excited that I wasn't looking where I was going.  You'd be surprised how many people have dogs in the future, and how little the owners seem to care about cleaning up.  Of course, I stepped in a big, fresh pile from a little dog with a big digestive system.  I looked at the 18 biking suits and said to them "Watch your step, there's poo everywhere."
They became silent.  They were suddenly all looking at me with big sad eyes.  Some started to cry.  Several of them pulled out their recently acquired paper and pencils to write it down.  Individually, they approached me, and hugged me.  One said he had never been so touched by such an inspirational thought from a person.  I looked across the street where a House of Pooh stood, and watched the display out front change to read "Watch your step, there's Pooh everywhere."
I was so proud.  He would have been too.)


© 2012 John Allison