Little Ivory Black Book

Little Ivory Black Book

Lenora sits in a room with no windows. They wouldn’t know this because the room is pitch black and she is perfectly silent, but she is there. They wouldn’t know she is there at all because They’re still tucked in bed, but here she is, in perfect darkness, in pitch-less silence, sitting ever so still. She does this every morning she wakes up here. She… sits. Legs crossed, palm cupped over her eyes creating darkness in the dark. She is art, and she knows it, which is why she feels her way to this pedestal every morning she wakes up here, in a dark silent room where so much lonely art lives. Pages flutter open, eager to find light, and Lenora, just as eager, takes them to it. She knows her way through the Auction House just as well as she knows the dark itself, and soon her favorite book is presented to the light of the restoration room.

“They wonder much to hear that gold, which in itself is so useless a thing, should be everywhere so much esteemed, that even men for whom it was made, and by whom it has its value, should yet be thought of less value than it is.” “Well, that decides it. Sir Thomas More says I get to stay another day.”

Her smile greets an even larger room sheltering countless art desperate to be seen, and the one desperate to not. She has lived here, unbothered, for more than a week. Not to mislead, people come in and go away every day, but she is not bothered. Sometimes she paints them. Sometimes she sleeps and hopes she doesn’t snore. But usually, as usual as someone so unusual can, she simply blends in with the rest of the art.

Her first night here, she chose Utopia, a choice she’s felt she’s made every night since she found it. It looked so frail with its broken binding and embossed letters that once held gold, and it was her every intention to keep it company and bring it back to life. And once she did, she did not sleep but gifted each page its share of the light. Of all the nights to get no rest.

She places the book in a place of honor, her Jansport backpack, and searches the room for more treasure. Her eyes move quickly to a small box that is much heavier than it looks.

“Ivory Black. Made from charred ivory or bones. 1899.”

“Disgusting” she smiles, as she reaches for an antique camp stove and cauldron. She lights the stove and finds the most modern antique in the room: a boom box keeping an unlabeled cd. “Don’t worry. I won’t hurt you. I only want you to have some fun.” So says Prince. How apropos. It is New Years’ Eve after all. Her laughter is drowned out by this anthem of potential armageddon some 20 years ago, that day. She drops wax into the cauldron. Intoxicated by its shapeshifting, she drops another,…and another… She takes drawings from her backpack and sews them together with yarn dipped into melted bones. “Don’t worry. I won’t hurt you.” ‘1999’ plays again. She presses next, but each song is the same.

Burning an entire CD of one song is the work of a special kind of evil. Rather than choosing evil, she chooses silence. Lucky thing, too, since several patent leathered footsteps are descending upon her, heralding the aforementioned horsemen. Lenora extinguishes the flame and grabs her treasure, bumping the remaining Ivory Black Wax into the cauldron. They… are here. The Aging Silicone Valley Non-Starters who inherited Lenora’s paradise, have returned with The Intern who howls at every racist and sexist joke but is remarkably silenced by their homophobia. When he grows up, he wants to be just like them.

“I researched the era, but I could only do so much since I wasn’t even born.”

With the clearing of the eldest Non-Starter’s throat, the Intern opens an armoire, climbs in, and is promptly locked within. With only art having witnessed their misdeeds, they return to party planning. Lenora peeks out at… him.

“You okay in there?”

“Who are you?! What are you-?!”

“That’s hard to explain… I have wild dark curls and skin that make everybody say I look like momma, though with my hair pulled up and this humidity slicing jawline, people say I look like my daddy… Let’s say I’m Lenora. Let me get the key.”

“No!”

She’s already unlocked it. The Intern lunges, tackling her.

“Are you crazy?! How will I explain how I got out?! Wait. Are you here for the party?”

“Party?”

“If you didn’t come to party, then what’s with the outfit?”

“I was born in the 80s, grew up in the 90s, and decided to stay there.”

Lenora’s eyes fix onto the still bubbling cauldron just in time for her and Intern to watch familiar faces disappear into black wax. Her hand sinks in and returns them smelling of burning flesh. The hair on Intern’s arms stiffens. He shoves Lenora backward, knocking her unconscious, but veiling her.

She wakes to a song future generations will recognize as a classical masterpiece, Blaque’s ‘Bring It All To Me'. Her pupils dilate at the sight of creatures adorned with oversized flannel and oversized denim, mini skirts with baby tees, all perched atop doc martens, crowned with multi-colored sunglasses and butterfly clips, and bathed in glitter. Has Lenora found Utopia?

She searches the crowd for Intern, unknowingly blocking The Perfect Selfie.

“Have you seen Intern?”

“Aren’t you a little old for you to be an Influencer?”

“Isn’t your outfit a little flammable for you to be so rude?”

The rude one is summoned to a makeshift VIP room, which a well-trained eye can see is simply a poorly lit break room. Lenora will spare her, this time.

She ruins another future museum piece.

“What is this party?”

“A party for Influencers, which you obviously aren’t.”

Lenora cracks open her Little Ivory Black Book and furiously sketches him as he tries desperately to unlock eyes with her. She can sketch and eavesdrop at the same time, which is how she overhears-

“@CamoCreature2003 here, calling on all my little concealers! I need your thoughts and prayers, cause if they call my name before 11, I will DIE.”

“I’m at Lenora. You don’t want to go inside. No one comes back.”

The VIP doors swing open and an Influencer emerges.

“@YaBoiDunGud is back!”

The crowd is un-ironically happy to see him.

“Aren’t you gonna draw that in your weird little black book?”

She snatches the heart-shaped glasses from the girl’s face, squinting as she peers through them.

“These are NOT prescription, but I’m certain that’s not him.”

“Sure thing, Ma’am”

“First up this 11 o’clock hour is-” With a smug look on her face, Lenora’s new friend enters the portal to Influencer Heaven… and Lenora’s Hell.

“Ya boy needs to moisturize because he has the skin of a 50 year old. Crap! She didn’t hear me.”

Lenora studies @YaBoiDunGud, flipping through sketches. Her eyes fix on one.

Back in the restoration room, Lenora stands amidst signs of a struggle.

“Intern?!”

The antique is locked again. When she opens it, Intern falls to the floor. She checks. He’s breathing.

The vibe has significantly changed in Lenora’s Utopia- as well as the crowd. There are no more Influencers, just Non-Starters… who are not pulling off the impersonations, in her humble opinion. She stands behind them, a deer in headlights, as they Livestream the hijacked followers. She flips through her Little Ivory Black Book and the Aging Silicone Valley Non-Starters turn to her.

“We missed one.”

“Intern! Oh, wait. We… dealt with him, right?”

“Right?”

“Right?”

“Which one are you?”

“I’m the one who posts about racial injustice, universal healthcare, climate change-”

“Yeah, we made sure none of those were invited. Statistics show they tend to not have as many followers.”

“You sound just like Intern!”

“So… glasses weren’t a great disguise? Every 90s movie lied to me!”

“Plus, you’re a little old to be an Influencer.”

“As if! You need two mirrors just to see your hairline.”

The Imposters quote her repeatedly.

“As if!”

“As if!”

“As if!”

The lead imposter Livestreams.

“As if! You need two mirrors just to see your hairline.”

The other imposters surround him, screaming-

“Oh!!!”

Lenora’s only way out is through Hell.

She bursts in and it is exactly as she imagined- coated in Influencer body glitter. She slips. Unable to stand up, she crawls, glazing her clothes till they shimmer and hiding among the unconscious youths. The door before her creaks open and Intern crawls through, laughs gurgling through slurred words. The Non-Starters storm in.

“Her little black book. She drew all your faces.”

They race into the restoration room, stepping over him.

“Who do I speak to about my letter of recommendation?”

Squatter takes Intern’s phone from his pocket.

“How do I stop them?”

“I’ll tell you if you promise to delete my search history.”

“Your Internet Service Provider will still know…”

“My password is the year I was born…”

“Whatever!”

She crawls through the empty party room to the exit, opening the door to the oblivious world and her freedom. Britney Spears’ ‘You Drive Me Crazy’ plays behind her.

“Oh snap. That’s my jam.”

She turns back.

Once again in the restoration room, she peers through an African mask as They search for her. She inches behind a painting whose eyes were cut out when it was donated to a haunted house. She slinks into the antique that imprisoned the intern and slowly closes herself in.

“The front door is open! She escaped!”

“Doesn’t matter. Intern timed the email to un-send the invitations. No-one will know they were ever here.”

“We may not know how to use smartphones, but we know how to use interns.”

“The internet generation, destroyed by the internet.”

Lenora might have applauded their wit if she weren’t busy Googling ‘Gen Z Birth dates’.

“1997-2012?! Intern is a baby.”

She types 2012 into Intern’s phone. 2011.

An alarm sounds.

“Almost midnight.”

Champagne is poured and ‘1999’ plays. Again.

2010, 2009, 2008?

“Almost out of tries…”

The Non-Starters watch the ball drop on a box tv, screaming the countdown.

“7, 6, 5”

She types 1999 and the phone unlocks.

“Well, no duh.”

The lights go out.

“Oh no! Y2K is real!”

“Wee-tah-kah-wee-loo. Tell me a story.”

The swan song of a glitter-soaked Furby draws them into Lenora’s Hell.

The flash of a disposable camera reveals Lenora, armed with a Bop-It. She swings and repeatedly makes contact. Amidst blinding flashes, They hear-

"Bop It! Spin It! Flick It! Boing! Pull It!”

Lenora holds the light of the phone under her chin, illuminating her face.

“You've betrayed us all beyond. Way frickin beyond.”

By the time police sirens are heard in the distance, she is tying them up with VHS tape.

“Our name is on the building. Who do you think is getting arrested when the police arrive? The squatter or-”

“The identity stealing murderers? …Crap. You’re right. Next time, ask your grandkids to show you how to murder, okay?”

Intern emerges, coated in glitter.

“OMG. Twinsies!”

Intern is not amused. The remaining Influencers emerge.

“Kids really are built different these days.”

Lenora strolls down the street, her Jansport spilling over with $20,000 in treasures that would make both the most prestigious art collectors and the most nostalgic 90s kids giddy.

“I never thought a New Year's Eve party could change my life. I made friends. I kicked butt. I saved the day. What was it Sir Thomas Moore said? Screw Capitalism? Well… I’m sure you’re asking yourselves… Would I do it all over again? No way. It’s way past my bedtime.”

[Dial Up Internet Screeching]

“You’ve Got Mail.”