Chapter One - The Visitors
Chapter One - The Visitors
Not so long ago…last week in fact… in a very common and ordinary house next door there lived a very common and ordinary boy named Milo. Two days ago Milo woke up. The very moment that he opened his eyes he knew something was peculiar… different… sketchy. He peeked hesitantly out from under the covers and sniffed. A strange smell was drifting up the stairs from the kitchen and into his bedroom. Milo had always been very suspicious of foreign smells that came from the kitchen. With the stealth of a hiccuping elephant he tumbled from his bed to the floor and landed in the middle of a whole village of plastic animals and circus figurines. The smell was even stronger out of bed. This called for special precautionary measures. He pulled a giant sweater over the top of his superhero pajama pants, shoved a pair of glasses onto his nose, and made for the door.
In the hall he paused warily and leaned out over the banister. His mother’s prattling voice floated lightly up to him from the kitchen. She was chattering away to someone. Visitors? Milo scowled. There was nothing he hated quite as much as visitors. Drawing himself up to his full height (which wasn’t very high at all) he marched down the stairs and into the kitchen doorway. There, perched on the very tiptop of a very tall kitchen stool, was a very fat woman in a purple dress. The purple dress was covered with obnoxious orange polka dots, and Milo couldn’t help thinking that the woman looked a like some kind of oversized virus or perhaps a very large beetle from the deepest, darkest part of the jungle. The whole thing sounded unsanitary, and he was disgusted. The woman had piggy fingers and Milo counted nearly five and half chins!
“Good morning, Son!” his mother cried merrily, waving her batter covered spatula in greeting. “We’re having pancakes for breakfast. Take your seat. There were some things in the mail for you that I set at your place.”
“What’s the occasion?” Milo asked as he scooted into his chair. He stretched his toes down toward the ground, as he did every morning, to see if he had grown any during the night. As usual he still couldn’t reach the floor. Oh well! He folded his hands in his lap.
“What’s the occasion?” his mother parroted with a giggle, “Your Aunt Pickles is in back from Morocco and on her way home she decided to visit.” Visitors…ugg! Just as he thought.
“I’m not enthusiastic about visitors…” Milo ventured, peeking at his mother. His mother’s pretty smile evaporated into disapproval.
“Milo! What have I told you about enthusiasm?”
“You’ve told me that it’s not always about what I’m enthusiastic about…but really Mother! I don’t think little boys should be required to do things unless they are enthusiastic about them. It causes stress! Stress is proven to be a leading cause in stunted growth for little boys. You don’t want me to end up a midget in later life do you? People will give me funny looks as I walk down the grocery isle, and I will be forced in inform them that my mother was the cause of it all. ‘She pushed me into such stressful situations’ I’ll say. The disapproving eye of the public will be upon you! You, Mother, who thrust a 4’6” man into a cold, cruel world!”
“Stop it, Milo!” his mother interrupted harshly. While Milo had been speaking Aunt Pickles’ face had blown up like a balloon. Milo had to admit that while he may have expected a reaction out of her because of his boldness he did not expect her to inflate. He had half a mind to find a pin and poke her just to see if she would pop. Was she holding her breath? Aunt Pickles continued to grown rounder and rounder. She became, by degrees, a deeper and deeper shade of fuschia. If there was one thing Milo really didn’t like it was fuschia visitors. They were positively atrocious!
All this time Milo’s mother had been chattering on and lecturing him harshly on manners and enthusiasm and all those sorts of things. At length, however, even her attention was attracted by the inflatable Aunt Pickles.
“Good Lord, Phoebe… are you feeling quite well?” she asked, the spatula in her hand and her dissatisfaction with her son completely forgotten for the time being. Aunt Pickles’ eyes were beginning to pop out a little bit. She waved her fingers and waggled her toes (toes that didn’t touch the ground either I might add) and just kept getting bigger and bigger and more fuschia by the minute. Just as the situation seemed to become a matter of life or death Aunt Pickles opened her mouth and out came a gigantic whoosh of hot air. Milo watched, almost truly interested, as she deflated back to her normal size. With a sigh of relief she patted her orange polka dots, and then turned two goggly eyes on her little nephew.
“Milo…” she said, leaning forward precariously on her stool, “I think it’s time that I told you a story…” Milo was tempted to say that he was not enthusiastic about stories, but one look at his mother and he thought better of it. She was frowning over a pan full of blackened pancakes that had burnt to a crisp in all the excitement of an imploding Aunt. Instead Milo said, quietly,
“I haven’t eaten my breakfast yet.”
“Breakfast-shmekfast! I didn’t get any breakfast the day that I ran away with the circus.” Milo wondered if she stole the circus tent for the dress she was wearing, but he didn’t say so.
“You ran away with the circus Phoebe?” Milo’s mother asked tossing the dirty dishes in the sink and pulling out the cereal boxes.
“I most certainly did!”
The doorbell rang. Milo rocketed out of his chair.
“I’ll get it!” and without waiting for an answer he clambered to the door. Whew…a narrow escape. He laid his hand on the doorknob. Just as he was opening the door he had a terrible thought… perhaps it wasn’t the UPS man or the milkman or the ice cream man or the candy man or the catnapper or the IRS? Perhaps it was…more visitors?
“MILO!” His thought had come too late. He was suddenly swamped by four little boys who smelled like an odd mix of popcorn grease, sidewalk chalk, face paint, and cotton candy.
“Milo! Milo! We just went to the carnival, Milo! We saw the elephants and the orangutans and this freaky woman who could bend herself in shapes like this, Milo! Whoa! Whoa! And the muscle man…and a clown…and there was a tiger thing who was like ROOOAAAR!!! Oh wow, Milo! Oh wow!” The four little boys chattered and jabbered and squawked all over top of each other with wild demonstrations and gestures.
“Hello, Milo.” A tall, black haired man looked down solemnly and patted him on the head. “It’s nice to see you again. Come along, Dear.” The tall, black haired man swept into the kitchen and his small, wife followed with the light, airy, steps of someone who is terribly nervous and fidgety by nature. Milo felt himself sinking into what he was certain where the deepest darkest realms of despair. Why oh why oh why? What had he done to deserve this? The little boys were jumping up and down and making a human tower out of themselves when Milo’s mother swept into the living room smiling gloriously.
“Oh, isn’t it just fabulous! Uncle Ballard and Aunt Millie with Joe, Jonah, Joab, and Job the quadruplets! Aunt Pickles here too…what a glorious coincidence. It’s just like a family reunion. Wait until Patrick gets home!”
“Daddy will die…or run away with another woman who doesn’t have so many relatives!” Milo said pessimistically, but no one heard him. In the mad frenzy of hugs and reuniting he slipped away quietly, up the stairs and into the quiet sanctuary of his room. This would never do! Goodness only knew how long they would stay. The peace and orderliness of his home life would be entirely ruined. If his mother tried to cook breakfast every morning like a good hostess must, she would probably burn the house down! Then where would they be? Up the creek without a paddle and that’s for certain. Milo sat on the edge of his bed and looked down miserably at his rocketship pajama pants, now smeared with peanut butter and jelly from his nerve-wracking encounter with the four cousins. Why…what if his mother decided that she really loved the cousins more than she loved him? What if he was disowned and tossed out on the street to fend for himself. He was still only four feet and a few inches tall! No one would give work to someone who was only four feet and a few inches tall. He couldn’t even ride the big roller coasters yet. Oh the sorrows! Oh the agony! His whole world was crumbling.
While Milo sat on his bed thinking all these heart-breaking things he almost drove himself to tears. The thought of himself hopelessly wandering the streets with a broken violin, playing barefooted in the snow for a few meager pennies that he could buy a lump of old cheese with made him pity himself and his horribly plight very much. In an ocean of sorrow he wrapped his arms around himself and shivered, just imagining the cold and the hunger. A tear dropped onto his cheek and he wiped it forlornly away. Something must be done. He must take action to save himself from the humiliation of being disowned by his own mother! He had also better save her the trouble of breaking the hard news that she didn’t love him any more. It would be emotionally taxing even if it was the cold honest truth in her cold hard heart. What must be done? “I didn’t get any breakfast the day I ran away with the circus!” Aunt Pickles had said. The pathos of the statement struck a theatrical cord in Milo’s heart.
“That’s it!” he declared aloud, “I’ll run away with the circus!”
Not so long ago…last week in fact… in a very common and ordinary house next door there lived a very common and ordinary boy named Milo. Two days ago Milo woke up. The very moment that he opened his eyes he knew something was peculiar… different… sketchy. He peeked hesitantly out from under the covers and sniffed. A strange smell was drifting up the stairs from the kitchen and into his bedroom. Milo had always been very suspicious of foreign smells that came from the kitchen. With the stealth of a hiccuping elephant he tumbled from his bed to the floor and landed in the middle of a whole village of plastic animals and circus figurines. The smell was even stronger out of bed. This called for special precautionary measures. He pulled a giant sweater over the top of his superhero pajama pants, shoved a pair of glasses onto his nose, and made for the door.
In the hall he paused warily and leaned out over the banister. His mother’s prattling voice floated lightly up to him from the kitchen. She was chattering away to someone. Visitors? Milo scowled. There was nothing he hated quite as much as visitors. Drawing himself up to his full height (which wasn’t very high at all) he marched down the stairs and into the kitchen doorway. There, perched on the very tiptop of a very tall kitchen stool, was a very fat woman in a purple dress. The purple dress was covered with obnoxious orange polka dots, and Milo couldn’t help thinking that the woman looked a like some kind of oversized virus or perhaps a very large beetle from the deepest, darkest part of the jungle. The whole thing sounded unsanitary, and he was disgusted. The woman had piggy fingers and Milo counted nearly five and half chins!
“Good morning, Son!” his mother cried merrily, waving her batter covered spatula in greeting. “We’re having pancakes for breakfast. Take your seat. There were some things in the mail for you that I set at your place.”
“What’s the occasion?” Milo asked as he scooted into his chair. He stretched his toes down toward the ground, as he did every morning, to see if he had grown any during the night. As usual he still couldn’t reach the floor. Oh well! He folded his hands in his lap.
“What’s the occasion?” his mother parroted with a giggle, “Your Aunt Pickles is in back from Morocco and on her way home she decided to visit.” Visitors…ugg! Just as he thought.
“I’m not enthusiastic about visitors…” Milo ventured, peeking at his mother. His mother’s pretty smile evaporated into disapproval.
“Milo! What have I told you about enthusiasm?”
“You’ve told me that it’s not always about what I’m enthusiastic about…but really Mother! I don’t think little boys should be required to do things unless they are enthusiastic about them. It causes stress! Stress is proven to be a leading cause in stunted growth for little boys. You don’t want me to end up a midget in later life do you? People will give me funny looks as I walk down the grocery isle, and I will be forced in inform them that my mother was the cause of it all. ‘She pushed me into such stressful situations’ I’ll say. The disapproving eye of the public will be upon you! You, Mother, who thrust a 4’6” man into a cold, cruel world!”
“Stop it, Milo!” his mother interrupted harshly. While Milo had been speaking Aunt Pickles’ face had blown up like a balloon. Milo had to admit that while he may have expected a reaction out of her because of his boldness he did not expect her to inflate. He had half a mind to find a pin and poke her just to see if she would pop. Was she holding her breath? Aunt Pickles continued to grown rounder and rounder. She became, by degrees, a deeper and deeper shade of fuschia. If there was one thing Milo really didn’t like it was fuschia visitors. They were positively atrocious!
All this time Milo’s mother had been chattering on and lecturing him harshly on manners and enthusiasm and all those sorts of things. At length, however, even her attention was attracted by the inflatable Aunt Pickles.
“Good Lord, Phoebe… are you feeling quite well?” she asked, the spatula in her hand and her dissatisfaction with her son completely forgotten for the time being. Aunt Pickles’ eyes were beginning to pop out a little bit. She waved her fingers and waggled her toes (toes that didn’t touch the ground either I might add) and just kept getting bigger and bigger and more fuschia by the minute. Just as the situation seemed to become a matter of life or death Aunt Pickles opened her mouth and out came a gigantic whoosh of hot air. Milo watched, almost truly interested, as she deflated back to her normal size. With a sigh of relief she patted her orange polka dots, and then turned two goggly eyes on her little nephew.
“Milo…” she said, leaning forward precariously on her stool, “I think it’s time that I told you a story…” Milo was tempted to say that he was not enthusiastic about stories, but one look at his mother and he thought better of it. She was frowning over a pan full of blackened pancakes that had burnt to a crisp in all the excitement of an imploding Aunt. Instead Milo said, quietly,
“I haven’t eaten my breakfast yet.”
“Breakfast-shmekfast! I didn’t get any breakfast the day that I ran away with the circus.” Milo wondered if she stole the circus tent for the dress she was wearing, but he didn’t say so.
“You ran away with the circus Phoebe?” Milo’s mother asked tossing the dirty dishes in the sink and pulling out the cereal boxes.
“I most certainly did!”
The doorbell rang. Milo rocketed out of his chair.
“I’ll get it!” and without waiting for an answer he clambered to the door. Whew…a narrow escape. He laid his hand on the doorknob. Just as he was opening the door he had a terrible thought… perhaps it wasn’t the UPS man or the milkman or the ice cream man or the candy man or the catnapper or the IRS? Perhaps it was…more visitors?
“MILO!” His thought had come too late. He was suddenly swamped by four little boys who smelled like an odd mix of popcorn grease, sidewalk chalk, face paint, and cotton candy.
“Milo! Milo! We just went to the carnival, Milo! We saw the elephants and the orangutans and this freaky woman who could bend herself in shapes like this, Milo! Whoa! Whoa! And the muscle man…and a clown…and there was a tiger thing who was like ROOOAAAR!!! Oh wow, Milo! Oh wow!” The four little boys chattered and jabbered and squawked all over top of each other with wild demonstrations and gestures.
“Hello, Milo.” A tall, black haired man looked down solemnly and patted him on the head. “It’s nice to see you again. Come along, Dear.” The tall, black haired man swept into the kitchen and his small, wife followed with the light, airy, steps of someone who is terribly nervous and fidgety by nature. Milo felt himself sinking into what he was certain where the deepest darkest realms of despair. Why oh why oh why? What had he done to deserve this? The little boys were jumping up and down and making a human tower out of themselves when Milo’s mother swept into the living room smiling gloriously.
“Oh, isn’t it just fabulous! Uncle Ballard and Aunt Millie with Joe, Jonah, Joab, and Job the quadruplets! Aunt Pickles here too…what a glorious coincidence. It’s just like a family reunion. Wait until Patrick gets home!”
“Daddy will die…or run away with another woman who doesn’t have so many relatives!” Milo said pessimistically, but no one heard him. In the mad frenzy of hugs and reuniting he slipped away quietly, up the stairs and into the quiet sanctuary of his room. This would never do! Goodness only knew how long they would stay. The peace and orderliness of his home life would be entirely ruined. If his mother tried to cook breakfast every morning like a good hostess must, she would probably burn the house down! Then where would they be? Up the creek without a paddle and that’s for certain. Milo sat on the edge of his bed and looked down miserably at his rocketship pajama pants, now smeared with peanut butter and jelly from his nerve-wracking encounter with the four cousins. Why…what if his mother decided that she really loved the cousins more than she loved him? What if he was disowned and tossed out on the street to fend for himself. He was still only four feet and a few inches tall! No one would give work to someone who was only four feet and a few inches tall. He couldn’t even ride the big roller coasters yet. Oh the sorrows! Oh the agony! His whole world was crumbling.
While Milo sat on his bed thinking all these heart-breaking things he almost drove himself to tears. The thought of himself hopelessly wandering the streets with a broken violin, playing barefooted in the snow for a few meager pennies that he could buy a lump of old cheese with made him pity himself and his horribly plight very much. In an ocean of sorrow he wrapped his arms around himself and shivered, just imagining the cold and the hunger. A tear dropped onto his cheek and he wiped it forlornly away. Something must be done. He must take action to save himself from the humiliation of being disowned by his own mother! He had also better save her the trouble of breaking the hard news that she didn’t love him any more. It would be emotionally taxing even if it was the cold honest truth in her cold hard heart. What must be done? “I didn’t get any breakfast the day I ran away with the circus!” Aunt Pickles had said. The pathos of the statement struck a theatrical cord in Milo’s heart.
“That’s it!” he declared aloud, “I’ll run away with the circus!”