Uh oh, everybody.  Ann Marie alert.  She coming over on Thursday, and she's in one of those moods.  You know what that means:  Say bye-bye to my New Year's Resolution.

She does this to me all the time, you know.  Shows up at my doorstep and then hauls me around town from one consignment shop to the next.  Ann Marie claims that she's on a mission to find the ultimate armchair.  I believed her at first, but now I have my doubts.  'Cause whenever we get to a shop, she hits the jewelry counter, and somehow, it becomes my job to scout around for her armchair.  Ya know what?  Ann Marie is a foot taller than me.  What am I doing testing out armchairs to fit her?  I think it's just a diversionary tactic so I don't scarf up any of the jewelry that she wants to buy. 

She should know better by now.  I don't do jewelry, for starters.  At least, not the stuff that she chooses.  Besides, I'm perfectly capable of distracting myself, thank you.  If you don't believe me, just check out my condo.  I'm the one who gets those "Clients coming down the hallway, please don't open your door today" messages from realtors.

I can't help it.  I have an insatiable desire to stuff my tiny condo with antique tables.  One of these days I'm gonna get some past life regression therapy to find out why I have this problem.  But in the meantime, it's a real pain being a table collector because Ann Marie insists that we walk to all the consignment stores.  Naturally, none of these places deliver, so I have to put up with all her moaning and she has to put up with all my "I told you so's" as we drag my tables across town. 

What does all this have to do with my soon-to-be-broken New Year's Resolution?  Mainly that I lost my job at the end of last year.  So, I promised myself that I would avoid all impulse buying until I get a steady paycheck again.  But no, Ann Marie has to call and dangle the consignment store idea in front of me.  And silly me starts thinking that I could have lots more room in my place if I just stack the smoking table on top of the telephone table that's already stacked on my kitchen table.  Applause to whoever invented high ceilings.

Well, here we are, Ann Marie and me.  Fourth stop on our consignment shop tour.  Already, Ann Marie has purchased enough necklaces to circle Cuba three and a half times.  And I've bought a whopping.... nothing!  Boy am I proud of me.  But to tell you the truth, I'm getting bored.  So is the salesperson.  She wandered into the basement about 40 minutes ago, and I haven't seen her since.  And then there's Ann Marie.  Can you believe her?  She's talking, actually TALKING to the jewelry.  "Aren't you special?  Such wovwey colors."

Wovwey?  I remind you that Ann Marie stands six feet tall in stocking feet.  She's got broad shoulders, a deep, booming voice, and papers tracing her family members all the way back to Leif Erikson.  Can you just picture a Viking saying "lovely" in an Elmer Fudd voice?"  I can't listen to her any more.  So, I circle the store for the umpteenth time and, no surprise, I find myself drooling in front of a magnificent roll-top desk.  For all you non-table people out there, let me say that the roll-top desk is the ultimate in tables.  All those tiny drawers give me goose pimples.  The brass knobs make me giddy.  The glorious sound of wood on wood when you roll the top up....

Ann Marie isn't impressed.  "Don't even think about it," she calls over her shoulder.  "I'm not helping you drag that home."

No worries there.  I just checked the price tag.  I'd have to skip lunch for the next 42 years.  On the other hand, if I sold the couch, I'd have room for... Nah.  I gave the desk an affectionate pat, and I turned around to face the front door.  Maybe I'll just wait outside.

Hang on a sec.  I closed my eyes as a nasty chill spilled down my spine.  And now warm breath is tickling my ear.  Definitely not Ann Marie.  She doesn't wear my favorite incense, Temple of India.  I inhaled the spicy scent and felt a strange calm.  Which is a good thing.  Being relaxed keeps you from screaming when a silky voice whispers in your ear. Genteel.  Manly.  Definitely British.  I blinked, and the mystical mood disappeared. 

I turned slowly and checked out Ann Marie.  "Oh you nice kitty," she jabbered to a Tiger's Eye pendant.  Okay.  If she can talk to jewelry, I can talk to furniture.  I put my hands on my hips and faced the roll-top desk.  "Pardon me for bothering you.  But did you just tell me that I didn't need a bedpan?  'Cause if you did, I might have one or two questions for you."

Well, the desk just kept up this wooden expression (sorry, but it's true!) and didn't say a word.  We had ourselves a nice comfy little standoff, the desk and I.  Then I rolled my eyes and said, "Fine.  If you don't want to explain yourself, I don't have to talk to you anymore."

I whirled around and started to leave.  The desk would have none of that.  The whispery voice teased me again.  "You don't need a horoscope or a microscope to see the mess that you're in."

I glanced over at Ann Marie.  "Aren't you precious?" she cooed to an earring the size of Rhode Island.

I grimaced and faced my nemesis again.  "What mess?"  I hissed.  "You're the one that's a mess.  Look at you, saying weird things to people.  Nobody wants to buy a desk with an attitude."

The desk offered no reply.  Meanwhile, my temper started to flare.  "Oh, aren't you all high and mighty when my back's turned.  But you can't say it to my face, can you?  Come on, insult me right to my face, I dare you!  I double dare you!"  I folded my arms.  "Well?  Speak up, be a man."

I have this habit of tapping my foot whenever I feel peeved.  And yes, I was tapping away right then.  Friends always complain that my tapping gets annoying, so I've actually figured out a method of tapping without making a sound.  I'm not one to give away my secrets, but here's a helpful hint:  the right footwear makes all the difference.  Anyway, there I was, tap-tap-tapping, supposedly not making a sound.  But I did hear it anyway.  A most definite tapping sound.  You know, I don't like it when old standbys, like silent tapping suddenly fail me.

Gets worse.  I discovered that the actual tapping sound didn't occur when my foot hit the floor.  The noise sounded whenever my toes pointed up.  Weird.  I had this sudden flashback to Paul McCartney's last tour.  You remember that show?  He was playing in this New York stadium that was so huge that my seats were located in New Jersey.  By the time the sound reached me, Paul's image on the big screen (applause to whoever invented the big screen) had already started singing something else. 

Darned desk.  I pretended not to notice that the sound and the foot were out of synch.  Instead, I just stood there with arms folded and foot tapping as I let my eyes rove over every inch of that thing.  Middle drawer? Nah, too obvious.  Underneath the desk?  Behind it?

Wait a minute!  How could I have missed it?  Inside the desk cavity, a mahagony box hopped around in synch with the tapping noise.  I whipped out my index finger and pointed at the box.  "Gotcha!" I shouted with glee.  "How dare you go disguising yourself as a poor, innocent desk.  I should have known that a gorgeous piece of furniture would never sink to your level.  So, come on.  Own up.  It was you all the time, wasn't it?"

Box didn't say anything, but I knew I was right.  The tapping sound stopped and the box stood still.  I took a couple of steps forward.  If I collected boxes, this one would definitely be a keeper.  Elaborate flower carvings covered the box's tops and sides.  I guessed that it was about twelve inches long, six inches wide, and four inches deep.  The box had three silver latches; two small ones on the top and a larger one in the front.  A white tag declared that this was an "Indian Prayer Box."  A bargain at $100.00.

Slowly, I crept up to the box and took a moment to inhale.  I smelled old wood and a hint of mold.  Same smell that pervaded the whole the shop.  No incense, voices, or any other nonsense, so I figured it was safe.  I squared my shoulders, lifted the front latch, and opened the thing. 

"Crème tangerine!"  The box exploded.  I shrieked and slammed the lid down.  The box stood silent.  I sneaked a glance at Ann Marie.  What would she have to say about all this?

Ann Marie gave me this big, sloppy grin.  "What does this remind you of?"  She held up something that resembled a flaming cockroach on steroids.

"It's you!"  I gushed.  Heaven only knew what it was.

Ann Marie grinned  "I thought so too."  She dropped the object atop a growing pile of who-knows-whats and continued to hunt. 

I shook my head and eyed the prayer box.  "You wanna try that again?"

"It's all too much," the box said calmly.

"Excuse me?  What's too much?  That $100.00 price tag?  Yes, that's way too much for an annoying and insulting box.  Now it's my turn to annoy and insult you."  And with that, I unhooked the front latch and lifted the lid again.  Box behaved this time so I had the opportunity to study its innards.  Quite pretty, and well made.  The inside was covered in red velvet, with white lace around the edges.  I couldn't tell how old it was, but there was definitely some wear to the velvet.  "You're very attractive," I told the box. 

"You thought that you knew where I was and when," the box whispered.

"Oh, no shouting this time?  Getting a little hoarse, are you?"

"I'm a dark horse," the box agreed.

I sighed.  "I don't know what to make of you."  I nodded towards Ann Marie.  "And I don't know what to make of her, either.  She's kissing a frog pin."

"He loves your big refrigerator," the box empathized.

"So are you gonna tell me what those two latches do on the top, or do I have to find out for myself?"

"Cahuenga langa-langa-shoe box soup."

"Yeah, that's what I would have guessed." 

"Tala mala sheela jaipur dhoop."

"Tough, I'm gonna do it anyway."  I unhooked the two latches at the top of the box, then carefully lifted the wooden flaps.  I gasped in delight as I figured out the puzzle.  The two flaps folded out into a V-shaped stand.  "Cool, I get it.  The prayer book goes inside the box for safekeeping.  And when you're ready to pray, you flip up the top and then rest the book in the little stand.  Did I do good, oh most annoying one?"

"Don't bother me.  I'm happy just to dance with you."

Did you ever hear the joke about the fellow who sells another fellow a horse?  The buyer gets on the horse and gives it a nudge but the horse won't go.  So he complains to the seller and the seller takes out a sledgehammer and bashes the horse on the head.  "He's a great horse," says the seller.  But first you have to get his attention." 

Okay, okay.  Maybe I am a little dense.  But I finally did get it all figured out, didn't I?  Indian prayer box. Liverpudlian accent.  Dry sense of humor.  "George quotes!  You're doing all George quotes!  How did you know I was a George fan?"

Ay yi yi.  Then it really hit me.  It's not terribly normal to carry on a conversation with an inanimate object, is it?  What does it mean?  Did I make up the whole thing?  Was I simply bored, or did Ann Marie drive me over the edge?  Time for a sanity check.  "How are you doing over there, Ann Marie?"

"Do you think I can get away with this?  She held up a ring with an alligator's foot stuck on the top.

"Ah, put that in the maybe pile."

She nodded and continued pawing through junk.  Pardon me.  I meant to say treasures.

"Okay, box.  Now spill.  Are you George, or are you a figment of my imagination?"

"It's all within yourself."

"That doesn't exactly answer my question, Mr. Box."

"Sue me, sue you."

I could feel my foot threatening to tap.  "Can't you answer a simple question?  Are you George?"

"Think for yourself."

"Okay, okay, I'm thinking.  I'm thinking that it would be a lot easier to talk to John Lennon than to you."

I figured that that would get a rise out of him.  And it did.  Literally.  One of the top latches unhooked itself and one side of the V-stand stood up at a 45 degree angle.

I narrowed my eyes.  "Are you giving me the finger?"

The V-stand quivered insistently, and the box took a hop or two sideways.  Uh oh.  There was that chill snaking its way down my back again.  I turned my head in the direction where the box was pointing.  I guess I made a kind of strangled sound because the box took another leap to the side, and landed with a forceful bang.

I dragged my feet over to the object in question.  "Please please me and don't be John."  Folks, if you thought that roll-top desk was huge, you should have seen the cabinet that I now faced.  Seven feet tall, at least.  Four feet wide.  Glass shelves from here to Oshkosh.  Four drawers at the bottom.  A price tag that equaled six months of mortgage payments.  How could I possible squeeze that into my condo?  How would it fit through the door?  How would I afford it?  How would I carry it home?

Even so, I considered my options.  Like selling the car and getting a second mortgage.  Well, after all, this is John Lennon we're talking about.  I got it from a reliable source.  A talking George box. 

"Hello John," I whispered.  Then I cocked my head to the side.  Music?  It sounded rather tinny, and very hushed.  I couldn't name the instrument for sure, but I definitely recognized the tune:  "Mind Games."

I straightened up, and I felt this crooked grin on my face.  "I see you've been taking George lessons.  So, Mr. Lennon, how am I going to get you home?"

The bottom drawer shot outwards and kicked me in the shin.  Charming.  Before I could protest, a harmonica piped up with "I Should Have Known Better."  How can you get mad at a cabinet that plays one of your favorite Beatle tunes?

George Box seemed to be enjoying himself too.  He was hopping around in time with the music. 

"Well, Mr. Harrison?"

"He loves your fuel injection," George informed me.  "He loves your service charge."

"George, you're not helping."

"I get rattled every time we meet."

Ann Marie slapped her palms on the jewelry counter.  "I made my decision!  I'm taking everything!"

I grabbed George and gave him a gentle shake.  "George, I can sort of afford you, and I can definitely carry you.  But what about John?  Help me out here."

"Thanks for the pepperoni."

I wagged my finger at the box.  "Just for that, I'm not paying full price for you!"

I scrambled over to John without waiting for George's reply.  "Come on, John.  I don't have time to fool around.  Tell me how I can possibly afford you!  Tell me how I can carry you home.  Tell me how I can fit you into my living room!"

Being John, he didn't bother answering any of my questions.  He just opened one of those cabinet windows and jumped into my arms!

"A harmonica!  I didn't see you sitting on the shelf!  Bravo John!"  I picked up George and met Ann Marie at the cash register.  She eyed my treasures and sniffed.  "A dusty old box and a rusty harmonica?  That's all you could find in an hour and a half?"

I grinned.  "Yeah, yeah, yeah.  I'm a loser."  I tossed the harmonica inside the box and latched it shut.  "Have a nice chat, guys."

Ann Marie laughed.  "Why are you talking to that box?"

"Why are you talking to your jewelry?"

"That's different."  Ann Marie wrinkled her nose.  "Do you hear music?  Catchy sort of tune, but I don't recognize it."

I shrugged.  Ann Marie blinked at me.  "What did you say?  Lemon, you're giving me a wah wah?"

I smiled.  "Something like that."

"You're weird, you know that?  Maybe we need to get some food into you."

"Maybe."

Ann Marie grabbed my arm and propelled me out the door.  We actually walked two whole feet before she yelped, "Oh, I forgot about that place."  She released me and went over to gawk at another shop window.  "Look at those gorgeous cufflinks." 

"Cufflinks?  Ann Marie, you don't need cufflinks.  Let's go to lunch, my stomach is rumbling.  Besides, I don't have much money left."

My shopping bag emitted a polite cough.  "What?"  I hissed. 

"Step Inside, Love," George whispered. 

"Step Inside Love?  Ha!  That's not a George song."

"Linda's inside, you dolt!  And some man's got a deposit on her!"

"Oh, please don't do this to me, George."

"MOVE IT!"  George ordered.  The harmonica sounded the charge.  What choice did I have?  "I changed my mind!"  I yelled as I bolted past a startled Ann Marie.

Inside the store, I ran around like a maniac until I realized I had no idea what Linda looked like or where she was.  I opened the bag and stuffed my face inside.  "Where's Linda?"

"Far left corner!"  George instructed.

I pulled my head out of the back and zipped over to the far left corner.  Taking a deep breath, I lifted George up so he could see the object that stood in front of me.  "George, it's not this one, is it?  Please say it's not this one."

"This one this one this one," George echoed.

"George is having a big Macca-ttacka," John said calmly.  His voice had an oddly sounding musical quality to it.  I guess it's tough to talk through a harmonica.

Resignedly, I let Geroge slide back into the back.  I shook my head as I studied the object.  "Oh no."

"What, is Yoko here?"  Lennon piped up excitedly.

"No, you ditz.  I meant 'Oh no, that can't be Linda.'"

"Course it's Linda," John reprimanded me.  "She loves Appaloosas. "

"But it's life-sized!  Where am I going to put a life sized horse?"

"Get a move on!"  John commanded.  "We've got to get Brian next!"

"Don't forget Maureen," George added.

"And Mal" John interjected.

"And Stu..."

"Stop it, stop it!  I'm unemployed!  Where am I going to get the money for all this?"

"With your newly discovered Lennon Harrison recording!"  Lennon decreed.

"I'm not writing any songs with you," George protested.

"Shurrup, ya git and start composing."

"Ach, go compose yourself."

I gave the box a good shake.  "Stop arguing and help me!"

"You heard her George, she needs some help."

"Hey," Ann Marie sided up to me.  Oops.  I had forgotten all about her.  She reached into her purse and triumphantly pulled out a wad of bills.  "Look!  This is the paycheck that I cashed last week.  I didn't even miss it."

"I love you A.M.!"  I grabbed the bills out of her hand and shoved them into my pocket.  "Stop gaping at me and get the sales lady over here."

Ann Marie bit her lip.  " Where are you going to put that thing?  You don't even have room in your condo for a dumb old box."

"For your information, this dumb old box is going to buy me a new condo."  I gave the box another shake.  "Right, dumb old box?"

"I need an aspirin," George complained.

Ann Marie's jaw dropped again.  "Did your box just talk?" 

Picture a five-foot me giving the Viking lady a shove across the store.  "Just get the salesperson."  Ann Marie raised her eyebrows and sailed away.

"She's gonna get stuck at the jewelry, I just know it," I mumbled.

"Let's start on a G string," John hummed.

"I'll string you up by your G string, I will."

"You're gonna enjoy writing with me again, George."

"I never wrote with you."

"Oh sorry.  Confused you with my wife."

"That's it.  I'm leaving."

"Where are you going to go, ya nit?  You're a box!"

"Nobody told me I'd be reincarnated as a bloody box."

"Quit sulking and start writing."

"Boxes can't write can they?"

I stroked the horse's nose.  "Linda, can you help me out here?"

"Neigh neigh," Linda whickered.

I squeezed my eyes shut.  "Give me strength."

"Sorry," Linda giggled.  "Couldn't resist.  I'm on wheels you know.  You can just push me along."

"Mal's not on wheels," George groused.  "Can't put wheels on a cow, can you?"

I felt my heart lurch.  "A cow?  As in a living breathing animal cow?"

"I was supposed to be a cow, you know.  They get a lot of respect in India."

"They don't get a lot of respect from my condo association."

"It's alright Mal being a cow and all," John informed me.  "'Cause Brian's a barn, ya see.  Works out rather nicely, don't ya think?"

"What's Maureen doing nowadays?"  George asked.

"She's a Bosendorfer," Linda replied.  "Isn't that lovely?"

I grabbed Linda's neck as my knees started giving way.  "Bosendorfer?  As in piano?  As in $40,000 concert grand?  As in I already have two uprights crammed into my condo not to mention that I'm unemployed piano?"

John sniffed.  "Forget writing the single, George.  I think it needs to be a whole album.  Video and everything."

"Grand idea," George grumbled.  And while we're at it, let's do a tour then, alrighty?  Ladies and gentlemen, here they are.  The Boxels." 

John blew a rather musical raspberry.  "Don't be silly, George.  We're ex-Boxels.  Anyway, I'm sure it will just involve a couple of interviews." 

"Maybe I could get Paul to join you," Linda mused.

"Yeah," said John.  "And we could invite a few others along, too.  Like Buddy Holly.

"Don't forget Carl Perkins."

"Hendrix, wouldn't that be cool, Georgie?"

"Morrison."

"Joplin.  I'd fancy having a bird in the band."

"I'm a bird."

"You're a horse."

The really sick part is that I started thinking that if I sold my condo and my car and I moved in with Ann Marie....  Then I had another brainstorm.  Figures.  "Hey.  Do you guys know Beethoven?  And Mozart?"

"Sure," said John.  "Famous Beethoven and I go famously together."

"You know, there's a few Indian musicians I'd like to invite along..."

"Well as long as everybody else is making requests, I'm sure Paul would like me to bring back Martha."

I scratched my head.  "Okay, let me rethink this.  If I sold my condo, my car, and my couch, and I convince Ann Marie to sell her house...."

Lisha Goldberg is a freelance writer and editor. She also writes a newsletter for a Boston piano studio. Lisha has won several prizes for her writing, including the Boston Herald Star Trek Competition (write a eulogy for Captain Kirk!), CompuServe's Beatle Essay Contest, and Writers Digest Magazine Award for best Inspirational Short Story.