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SHORT STORY: Hunger, Hunger, Sister Anne
Copyright 2017 by Haro James

One rainy Tuesday, Anne cruised the library stacks, looking for something saleable. Finding herself at a stack of plain-cover reference books, she turned away to find better pickings. Something behind her buzzed, then flashed pale blue. The glare was bright enough to cast her fleeting shadow on the opposite wall. Looking back, she saw a fading brightest near the floor. Then it was gone.

Anne squatted, feeling among the books on the bottom shelf until she found one oddly warm. Tan hardcover, with chocolate letters identifying it as a biographical dictionary of 20th century literature. Fanning the pages revealed only dense double columns of text, no illustrations. That decided it. She had come in looking for something that could be converted for a Thai noodle bowl. This wasn’t it.

She shoved the volume back in its slot, then, on a whim, pulled it back out. She flipped to the K section. Damn. She read the full page entry for Annie Kort (born Anamarika Louise Shorten) three times. The front matter publishing data told her this edition was/would be printed six decades in the future. In a world that seldom made sense, this was just one more irritant. Her stomach growled. That she understood.

*** *** ***

In both scholarly and aficionadol circles almost every significant point about Kort is subject to vitriolic debate. Everyone at least agrees that she wielded a blue sharpie most of her waking hours. She wrote songs, poems, stories, slogans and doggerel. When she wasn’t writing, she graffitie😛 everything from amorous aardvarks to pompous politicos to zoomorphic Zambonis.

The beginning of her obsession was known only by her, and she never talked. The truth was she had been driven to keep a pencil in motion since early childhood. Before she could write, Anamarika drew on every surface within reach. One year, her scrawls during summer break covered most of an inside garden shed wall. Later, she turned to drawing on any piece of paper available – notebooks, library books, newspaper margins, government legal notices. At first her parents smiled, shook their heads and called her “our little doodlebug”. As the years went by, they would sigh, look resigned and say “Oh, Anamarika. What now?” In grade four, a teacher introduced her to the wonder of using words to create a different sort off picture.

Mr. and Mrs. Shorten sought help of every sort, which invariably failed. One counsellor completely missed the significance when the little girl answered “why? Because the pressure is going to kill me. When I write it lets off the pressure for a little while. If I don’t, it will just keep pushing until I rip open from here to here”, running a hand from sternum to throat. In desperation, her parents even brought in an Evangelical Community Behaviour Prayer Specialist.

When all available behavioural, perceptual and spiritual therapies failed, the adults settled for a chemically-induced faux normality. Through the numbing flatness, Anamarika still suffers the tearing pressure, with no ability to fend it off. She sensed madness and death to be just around the corner. Yet the adults did no more than push more pills at her. One night, after palming her meds for three days, she slipped out the kitchen door to thumb a ride to Vancouver. She disappeared into the seediest part of town, where she fared better than most sixteen year olds. Neither stupid or vulnerable, Anamarika just wanted the elbow room to apply her sharpie without interference.

She left behind a confounded family, their church, a creepy boyfriend who stayed only because “everyone knows crazies are great humps”, and all the other aspects of small Valley town clingy closeness. She found her place in the Downtown Eastside, where she amused her fellow denizens, sassed the cops and aggravated owners of the buildings she graffitied. The shelter staff got way more leeway. They really tried, without judging, and provided physical and social shelter. And it was there she truncated Anamarika and resurrected the pre-immigration version of her family name: she became Anne Kort.

Whenever she shared her writings, there were thoughtful, puzzled silences. Her graffiti, on the other hand, drew instant and gut-quaking laughter. Luckily, nothing could be proven, for she could have been jailed for defacing a mailbox with an image of the prime minister ... well, that is best left to the imagination. Suffice it to say, the virtual aardvark, if not harmed, would have been more than a little traumatized.

At her rare best, Anne was self absorbed and indifferent. At her usual worst, she was obsessed and angry. Either way, she was always hungry. For her, there was a deep correlation. Her primary work in progress, “HU/A: an NGRY epic”, was a spastically-evolving sixty-two hundred line rhyming screed on that relationship. Donna, a friend and reliable fence, once made thirty eight bucks reciting Part 2 outside a poverty conference. Donna bought her a dozen sharpies, then snorted the rest – a good deal for both. It might have led to better things, except for Donna’s terminal run-in with some bad shit a week later.

Anne’s non-sharpie life revolved around the Stephanie Primrose Welcome Centre and a handful of last resort “jobs”: panhandling, turning the odd trick, picking litter for the DBA’s Sidewalk Pride Initiative. None worked all that well for her. She despised the contemptuous passers-by, was disgusted by the johns (though acknowledging it was the best quick turn around cash work), and hated taking direction from any suit. What did work was selling stolen goods. She preferred items she chose herself – never anything dangerous and no split in the profit. Which brings us back to the Nelson Square branch library.

After ensuring there was no hidden security strip, Anne tucked the book into her backpack, then made for her favorite thinking place - a tangle of branches fifteen feet up a century-old cedar close to the Stanley Park seawall. The adjacent parking lot usually yielded pretty decent food discards. As she arrived, she smiled to see a departing SUV with a couple of kids secured in the back. She whooped with glee at finding most of still-warm burger and half a small shake. She scaled the tree, squatted on the double plastic-wrapped book, feasted, then thought about things.

The next morning, Anne wrapped the book in yet one more layer of plastic (a heavy duty garbage back provided as rough shelter for times when the Centre was full. She had used it as a windbreak overnight). She secured the package to a branch, then returned to the streets. Following an hour-long wait for a turn on the public access terminal, she wrote up a submission in the community free paper under Lost and Found. The ad was no more than the title of the book and page number for her entry. With nothing else to do, Anne undertook a round of graffiti along Water Street, between the Steam Clock and Pender. This was becoming more and more challenging, as the best places already sported illustrations. Among street illustrators, it was frowned upon to cover existing work. But that made things more interesting.

A week passed before the pair came through the Welcome Centre’s main entrance. Both exuded a ‘cop-ness’ that provoked instant hostility from volunteers residents alike. An unfriendly circle of residents formed around the man and woman, who seemed neither impressed or intimidated.

Coming down the rear stairs, Anne spotted the woman first. The somewhat chunky brunette looked nervous at first, them solemn, finally determined. Anne knew that progression from the faces of other rookie cops making their first rounds in the Downtown Eastside.

Anne made directly for the knot of people. She assured the crowd that things were OK, that she wanted to see these two, then ushered the visitors out to the sidewalk. “You guys make people nervous, no matter where you’re from. Or when. Whatever.”

“Hello Animarka. We would like to talk about your advertisement.” The man was far more practiced than his colleague. She bet he had rousted the street dozens of times.

“It’s Anne. Buy me a sit down breakfast and we can talk.” That was her standard line on those infrequent occasions when she was in a position to bargain. His response was not surprising. “Well, this won’t take long, and I think...”

She gave a brief look that wandered between contempt and disbelief. “I’m hungry, not stupid. Breakfast is the price to talk.”

The man persisted “Don’t they feed you here? I mean...”

“Well, fuck you and the whore you rode in on. And since you’ve obviously never lived in a place like this, yeah, they feed us – best they can, anyway. Sports like you are always pretty budget conscious when it comes to the street.” She exhaled hard “So, no food, no talk. I gotta see my worker in few minutes. If you’re serious, meet me up at the corner about ten thirty.”

Anne walked away without a backward look. Throughout the exchange, the woman stood quietly, eyes bright, suppressing a faltering smile.

“Easy Betsen. Don’t take it personally. The individuals we deal with have some pretty rough edge.”

“It’s fine sir. I think you misunderstand. How familiar are you with the works of Annie Kort?”

“Limited to the necessities for this retrieval. My primary concern is her personal stability and what we might be up against. The very little I have read is, like Kort herself, not much to my liking. Why so?”

“My cross major was modern literature. I’ve studied every piece she wrote. That line, um, that line, it’s from the poem Rookie Gets a Pair. Imagine, I heard an Annie Kort insult first hand. And the only sad thing about this is the Prohibition. I can not even tell my boyfriend about it. Really sad, as he’s a bigger fan than I am. One thing that never came through in documentation is that she goes by Anne rather than Annie. I think the interesting thing...” something in his eyes and posture brought her up short. Sudden insight sharpened her tone.

“By the Great Sow. You know perfectly well what my background is and what I’m talking about. You’re not training me. I’m a one-time content expert. There’s a termination notice with my name on it, waiting our retrieval. Deny it, you bastard.”

Caroline Betsen was now on very familiar ground. North America’s modern literature academic community of the 2060’s was viciously competitive to a degree that would frighten the toughest outsiders. She continued in a biting hiss. “You know what? Your win-loss record is the whisper of our training cohort. As an example of what not to do. So, things change. Right now. Or we go home empty handed. How many more zeroes can your career survive?”

Ten minutes later, Betsen set the pace on the walk to the corner. When Anne arrived, Caroline leaned in to start the conversation. Kort looked at both of them, then grunted “Rookie at the wheel, oh my. OK missy, show your cards.”

“Food first, talk after.” Caroline spoke with the first genuine assurance in what she was sure was her very brief police career.

“Oooh, real good Rook. I like you. What’s your name?”

The diner was between coffee break and lunch rushes. The were seated, and orders were taken shortly. There was surprisingly little time between orders and arrival of meals. Anne ignored them as she used precise cuts and efficient bites to clean her plate. She spilled nothing, left nothing behind. When they finished, she shoved her plate to the side, with a reproachful glance at the smear of egg Michaels left behind. She looked at Betsen, pointedly ignoring the man. “So Rook, what’s the book worth?”

“Well, we have a small cache of currency, and a few other valuables. Mr. Michael could offer you a few tips on the stock market, but that strikes me as of little use to you. What are you thinking, Annie?”

“Anne, please. I don’t need much to get by with while I write. Stuff mostly gets in the way. First, correct that book for my name. I’ve never ever gone by Annie. Then set up an account at the EZ Mart on the corner so I can get notebooks and sharpies when I need them. The book says there is a big fight over what is really mine an what might belong to others. Maybe whatever I write, the Mart can make some sort of time travel photocopy. You get one, I get one. Hell, you can the originals if you want. It doesn’t matter to me. I just make the words happen. Once they’re out, they go off and do their own thing. You know, you can’t own words any more than you can own the air. Oh, and I want a couple of burritos whenever I pick up supplies. That should do it.” She smiled, then frowned deeply. “And someone get that skinny ass perv manager to stop pawing at all the little teenie girls that come in.”

Michaels sat looking unhappy during the meal and the conversation until that point. With the air of trumping what Betsen might offer, he jumped in “We thought you might want to live in a more comfortable – and safer – place. Maybe a decent room with a laptop and a living allowance.”

“Uh huh. If I wanted that kind of life, I coulda stayed in the Valley – and gone crazier. No, no thanks.” She looked from one to the other.

“What I said. Is that a deal or what? Easy question. Look, they’re not making any more time, and there is a whole crapload of things I gotta write.” Anne shrugged. “Yeah, I paid attention to how much time I’ve got to get all this shit done. Whatever, we only live til we die. Deal or not. Either way, I gotta get going.” They nodded.

“Great. Say Mr. Mike, you mind grabbing me some takeaway for our little trip?”

Betsen barely suppressed a snort of laughter at his stony face.

Anne ate from the package as they drove the rental sedan to the park. She scaled the tree to retrieve the package. The agents hesitated to take the grubby bundle. Anne snorted as she stripped away the wrapping before tossing the book towards them. Ignoring their scramble to catch it, she walked towards the litter bin, twisting the plastic into a tight ball. As she lifted the lid, she automatically checked for edibles. Finding none, she crammed the wad down and replaced the metal top.

The three stood in an awkward silence, almost shook hands, but instead, stepped back to go their separate ways. Anne paused. “Hey, I wanted to ask you...”

“We really can not talk about where we’re from or exactly what we do.” Michaels made a last effort to assert some sort of authority.

“Christ, with such a string of wrong assumptions and wronger answers, how did you even get on this job? I know you gotta be from at least twenty fifty something. Only two things I wonder about - do you guys have flying patrol cars. That, and are all cops from future such dicks?” The second question was directed to Bentsen. “Honey, you may be travelling with detective Ivan Yurkinoff here, but you ain’t one of them. You and me both know that.”

“Anyway, just wanted to know if you had a few bucks. I want to grab the Sea Bus and go walkabout on the North Shore. You know, get that different view of the city, like the book mentioned.”

Caroline nodded. “Lets check the travel pack for change.”

Michaels frowned, pointedly turning his back on them. The two women headed to the car, speaking quietly as they went. Anne laughed once, then whispered a few words. Betsen laughed in turn. They found almost six dollars in coin. Bentsen produced a five from her pocket. “Enough?”

“Just fine. You have a good day, Caroline Bentsen.” Tilting her head in Michaels’ direction, she added “Watch your back”, and was gone. An hour later, so were they.

*** *** ***

The agents returned the errant volume to where/when it belong, with a recommendation for better training of clericals to reduce incidents of temporal misfiling. It was determined that the filing assistant (Grade III), with an otherwise exemplary record, would not benefit from a formal reprimand. He was encouraged to greater attention to detail in his duties. Of course, there was nothing as vulgar as a negative comment with regard to the Directorate itself.

Betsen was mostly right, in that they had no further use for her. A recent in camera committee review of her application determined that she had been granted a cadetship improperly. The committee further determined that her lack of standing ruled out any form of appeal. The powers that be were pleased enough that Betsen was not just out, but had never really been in. Special Advisor Dellas Wood called them fools of the first order. They countered that she was still subject to the Prohibition. He tiredly told them that any silence would be by her choice, and that they would certainly pay for their action against her.

Caroline Betsen returned to academia to launch an exhaustive study of the works of Anne (not Annie) Kort, starting with a hands-on examination of nearly two thousand pages and fragments from the so-called Kort-Okell-Turner decade. Based on previously overlooked embossing of stylized bunny faces on many of the pages, Bentsen revised downward the number of authentic Kort works. She contended the indents were consistent with the use of the cap of a sharpie marker – the sole creative instrument of Kort’s regrettably short productive life.

In the following decades, Doctor Betsen was often asked how she recognized the indents for what they were. Her unvarying line was that it as if, during a private chat, Kort casually revealed her habit of phantom embossing with the pen’s plastic cap. Journalists looking for a scoop, academic rivals hoping to trap her in an inconsistency, or young women seeking inspiration all came away dissatisfied. Was her answer whimsy, condescension, delusion or some bizarre combination thereof. It was the perfect tactic for an academic skilled in skating the fine line between tenure and termination.

For all her instincts and insights, Anne was off the mark on two counts: that, in fact, more time was being made – but only on authorized and tightly controlled basis, given how expensive it was; and that in Betsen’s place and time, air was a hotly traded commodity governed by planetary commerce regulators. But how important would any of that be to a self-respecting writer intent on finalizing her NGRY epic?

THE END