Look Deep Into The Parka
The evening of 13th February started like every other evening. Howard stayed in to see a documentary on Howlin' Jimmy Jefferson and Vince went to check out yet another new club. And, just like every other evening, Vince had tried to persuade Howard to go too.
"Come on, Howard!" the electro-poof had whined. "You're like a hermit, you only ever leave the flat for Jazzercise. You need to get out more. This club, right, its genius. Instead of a normal floor you have to walk on a frozen lake of champagne! And the waiters are all Adam Ant lookalike horses. Imagine that! A horse that looks like Adam Ant on ice! That is pure entertainment that is. Loads better than getting sweaty with Lester Cornflakes. Please? I'll fix your hair and stuff, no one will even know that you're a jazzy freak from Leeds!"
But, like every other evening, Howard had refused. And so, as the clock struck midnight and Valentine's Day began, Howard and Vince were apart. Vince was dancing with various girls; Goth girls, Electro girls and what Howard liked to call the Common or Garden dolly birds. Among the ranks of Vince-worshippers were Anthrax, Ebola, Euthanasia, Neon, Krystal, Ultra, Chardonnay and one unexpected visitor. A tiny man, completely enveloped in an arctic coat. It was a Parka Person. The little coat shuffled through the crowds to the dancing Vince and tapped him on the elbow. Vince looked around a bit, seeing no one.
"Down here." A voice came from the hood.
"Oh. Alright?"
"Look deep into the parka, Vince Noir. There are many things in here."
"That's Vince Noir Rock and Roll Star. What sort of things?" Vince asked nervously. The last time he had seen one of these Tundra-dwarves he had ended up tied to a post about to be frozen to death.
"There are many things in here. Things you could never dream of." The Parka Person proclaimed dramatically.
"So... what exactly are you supposed to be giving to me?"
"Letter." The Parka Person threw a small envelope at him and shuffled off into the crowd, disappearing completely. Vince shrugged, chuckling at the memory of that day in the tundra. The day he had annoyed Howard by laughing when he had said he loved him. It wasn't his fault he laughed. He had just found it funny. There were so many circumstances where he had imagined Howard saying he loved him, but about to die in the arctic hadn't been one of them.
Vince sighed, going to sit down and read the letter. He would never hear Howard telling him he loved him again. The one time he had been lucky enough for it to actually happen, Vince had messed it up and spoiled what would have been one of the best moments of his life. Bloody typical.
He tore open the letter absentmindedly, thinking about Howard, wondering how his evening was going. Then his brain disconnected and he gaped at the letter in complete shock.
Vince, it said.
I hope you're enjoying yourself tonight with the Camden dolly birds. This letter is a confession, sir .A confession that should have been made a long time ago. Jurgen Haabermaaster once said that the soul is like a dying zebra speeding through the Serengeti, but I don't think you want complicated metaphors here. If this was a film, this letter would be full of poetry but, although I am a great writer of cream related poetry, it is unneeded here. All I need in this letter, Vince, are these words: I love you, Vince. Actual proper love, not how I meant it in the tundra. Real love.
Happy Valentine's Day.
Howard
Back at the flat, the Howlin' Jimmy documentary was drawing to a close when there was a knock at the window. Howard rose to peer out onto the street, expecting to see a gang throwing stones, or maybe Naboo had flown into the window on his carpet again. Instead, he came face to face with a Cheekbone ninja.
"He isn't here." Howard shouted through the glass. "Vince has gone out, sir."
"Message for Howard Moon." the ninja replied gruffly.
"Oh. Fair enough." Howard opened the window, wondering how on earth a Cheekbone ninja would know where he lived.
"Your address is on your trumpet sock. Fool."
Great, Howard thought. They read minds to.
"Of course, ballbag. We are ninjas."
"Don't be mocking me, sir. I come at you fast like a toaster." The ninja smirked. "Well, what's the message then?"
The ninja gave him a small package, before leaping out of the window and promptly landing in a skip. The entire neighbourhood was impressed with the profanities that followed.
Howard removed the brown paper packaging curiously and discovered a framed photograph. It had been taken years ago, when he and Vince had worked at the zoo. Vince had just won his first porpoise derby and was waving his trophy proudly, his other arm around Howard's waist, who was looking straight at the camera, with a rare smile that didn't make him look like a paedophile. Underneath the photo was a small note. 'What happened to the no touching rule?' On the back of the frame was an even longer note, written in glittering purple eyeliner.
To Howard. I don't like writing. I think I'm actually allergic like with jazz but you like clever stuff so I thought I would have a go. Howard, I ain't posh and clever like Mrs Gideon and I don't like jazz or stationary like the pencil case girl but here goes. I love you, you jazzy freak. I laughed in the arctic and I said you were mad on the roof and I wrote you would bum people silly on the shop window and I broke that record and I always upstage you and I let them be horrible to you on Xooberon and I let that crack fox into the Nabootique. But honestly, I never mean to Howard it always just happens. So I'm really sorry that I always mess up. If we could be up on the roof again I wouldn't call you mad. I don't really know why I did that. I guess I was scared you were joking. But I love you. Seriously, I do. If you get all creeped out with this it's okay, I'll move out so it ain't awkward.
Happy Valentine's Day Howard. Love you loads forever. Vince x