The Switch
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Chapter Three: Howard and Vince Split Up
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The night air outside the shop wasn't exactly cool; though the world around them was muted in blues and grays, suggesting the crisp chill of nighttime, there was a warm heaviness that lingered about them courtesy of the summer sun's long day of work. The warmth threatened to be fickle, however, like that first few seconds of hot water from a sun-warmed garden hose. 'Vince' unconsciously rubbed his arms a little at the thought—no wonder Vince was always wearing jackets in the summer, Howard realized. Was the reason this body was so white because Vince had no circulatory system?
"Howard!"
Hearing his name jolted 'Vince' right out of his reverie and he turned—but the figure in the night had not been addressing him.
"Thank goodness you're here!" Lester Corncrake exclaimed scratchily, grabbing the man who was actually Vince by the arm. 'Howard' jumped, startled. "I've been lookin' everywhere for you!"
'Howard' balked at the contact, regarding the old man warily.
"Maybe we can shelve this for another night, Lester—we're actually in the middle of something right now, yeah?" 'Vince' spoke up in a very Howard-esque, matter-of-fact tone.
"Howard, why's your creepy jazz friend hanging round the shop in the middle of the night?" 'Howard' whispered to 'Vince,' sounding more than a little unsettled. Lester somberly took off his hat and tipped it in 'Vince''s direction.
"Lovely evening to you, Vincent. Excuse me for intruding on your promenade."
He leaned in close to 'Howard', who was clearly still uncomfortable with the fact that Lester had not released his arm. "I know you've probably got a nice evening planned for your handsome companion here, but this is really important."
'Vince' rolled his eyes.
The real Vince extricated himself from the jazz guru's grip, trying out a different tactic.
"Sheep a doopa deep, Lester," 'Howard' scatted in his best Howard impression. He hid a short cough in distaste before continuing. "How 'bout you come round tomorrow to funk out, I've got some new Jimmy Jazz records in that are just dynamite! But I can't hang tonight—my best mate Vince and I are going to the corduroy emporium. It's sure to be, er… the bee's knees. Pow!"
'Vince' heaved a condescending sigh. "Honestly?" he asked, sounding just a hint betrayed but not at all surprised. 'Howard' broke character to lean back, obviously impressed with his own apparent skill.
"I bet I could fool your mother like this," he noted.
"You're an idiot—you know that, right? Besides, the emporium closes at five sharp, just like the bank."
"Have you been possessed?" Lester suddenly exclaimed in shock. He paused long enough for 'Howard' to sober up and 'Vince' to nod smugly. However, his face soon blossomed into a delighted grin.
"…That was the best scattin' I've EVER heard outta you! Did you put a little extra skeedily-doo-wop in your coffee this mornin'?"
'Howard' only laughed at the murderous look the real Howard was fixing on the blind man.
"Anyway, I'm sorry to come over so long past your bedtime—"
'Howard' snickered again—it was only nine o'clock.
"—but it's a jazztastrophie! I need your unique expertise, and time is running out! We've moved to def-con scoobity nine!"
'Vince' raised his eyebrows, impressed by this news despite himself.
"Sorry, but I really am otherwise occupied right now," 'Howard' explained, dropping his fake Northern accent. "We're going to be off, now—cheers, Lester."
"I can't let you do that, Howard," Lester informed him gravely, clutching at his arm again. "Not when the whole free jazz world is at stake. To be-bop headquarters—come on! Skiddily bow, ba-kowww!"
Lester began to drag 'Howard' off down the sidewalk, much to the taller man's barely-concealed terror.
"I'll just head off to the abandoned greeting card factory alone then, sort this whole mess out myself." Vince' called after the two sarcastically. "Don't wait up!"
'Howard' only gestured helplessly at him as he rounded a corner with Lester, disappearing from sight.
"Brilliant," the real Howard muttered, taking off in the other direction.
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Above the heads of the three men, above the streetlights and the roofs of the shops lining the street, the night sky glowed a soft blue-black, with light wisps of cloud floating gently by to play peek-a-boo with an errant star or two. A large creamy-white sphere illuminated the scene—and with the sound of a boulder rolling aside, The Moon turned to face the earth down below.
"Some people, ah, like to say that de moon is made of cheese," it said, big eyes both earnest and troubled. "And sometimes when I'm licking my lips, right, it tastes salty. Like a cheese. So I don't know if that's right… or not."
It paused, looking thoughtfully to the side. "I wonder: if I eat a cheese, does that make me a cannibal? Can a moon cheese be a cannibal? Does a cannibal cheese eat moon cheese?"
It considered this, then returned its gaze forwards. "But then I remember that those people are prolly just full o' shit."
The Moon stared silently for a beat before grinning its dopy, apple-cheeked grin.
With another sound like a boulder, its face slowly turned back around.
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'Vince' stood alone at the black iron gate of the old abandoned greeting card factory, looking up at the building in apprehension. It had started to rain halfway through his trek, and he swiped away several long strands of wet black hair from his forehead in disgust. Howard knew that if Vince had been in his proper body on the walk through the rain, he would have somehow managed to still look flawless—he banished the annoying thought from his mind with a short exhale. Vince's body or no, he was still Howard Moon, man of action. Squaring Vince's shoulders and setting his mouth in a firm line, he pushed on the iron gate and it lurched open with the sound of crunching rust.
Wiry looking weeds had forced their way between the slate cracks of the walkway which wound through the courtyard—on either side were lawns with large gray statues like gravestones which depicted opened greeting cards, balloons, and phrases such as 'Have a Fun Bat Mitzvah' and 'Happy Birthday, Grandson'. 'Vince' caught sight of one particular statue which read 'Get Better from Your Tapeworm' and laid a hand on his gut, unsettled.
At last, 'Vince' reached the front doors. The ornate brass handles were dusty and tarnished, but he managed to wrench one downwards, pulling the door away from its hinge with a Hollywood-style creak.
As 'Vince' peeked into the inside of the factory, a harp played a loud, romantic glissando to herald the complete change in atmosphere. 'Vince' nearly stopped in his tracks to look around in cautious wonderment. Everything was shiny and new, and the baby blue and yellow walls were adorned with crayon drawings and candy floss. Colorful bubbles floated dreamily through the air as a red toy train wove along the floor around brightly colored blocks, jack-in-the-boxes, and plush, fluffy stuffed animals. Every corner was stuffed tightly with toys, and construction paper chains hung from the ceilings, giving the large room the appearance of being rather small.
"Golly, you're a pretty doll!"
'Vince' looked around, alarmed by the jarringly loud, high pitched voice. The voice giggled, and the sound was creepy, like a young boy who should have hit puberty years ago but hadn't.
"Over here, silly!"
'Vince' turned his head to find a stuffed toy watching him with large button eyes. Though it spoke with a child's voice, it was about the size of a man, with a pudgy body that looked as though it were made of burlap. Its thick yellow yarn hair was cut into a bowl cut, complete with yarn eyebrows, and on its chubby, grinning cheeks it sported two red painted spots of blush. Though it had all the proportions of a man, it did not have any arms, leaving its hands to protrude directly out from the sides of its body. 'Vince' regarded this grotesque figure with more than a little disgust.
"Did you get out of your house, Mister Dollie?" it asked 'Vince', fluttering its impossibly long blonde lashes against its wide button eyes. The toy seemed always to be smiling, and not in any sort of endearing way. And for some reason, it spoke with an American accent.
"I'm not a doll," 'Vince' replied, voice both curt and informative in a way only Howard could properly manage. His posture was guarded as the giant toy swayed to and fro in front of him, slapping its torso lightly with its stubby hands.
"You're the size of a doll," the toy exclaimed, jerking still with a flash of its button eyes. "You're pretty like a doll. You're even wearing clothes like a doll!"
The toy pointed towards a doll on the floor whose lemon-yellow ringlets were pulled away from its pretty china face in bows. It was wearing a traditional doll-looking petticoat, but over the skirt it wore a t-shirt that was white and emblazoned with a glittery skull wearing headphones—identical to the shirt that Vince's body was currently wearing. A few bars of "Electro Boy" resounded through the room.
'Vince' scowled.
"Look, I'm not a doll, and I don't have time to play games. I'm looking for someone to help me out with a serious problem."
The toy made a sad face. "You're pretty, like a pretty doll. Except you remind me of my step daddy. He was a jack-o-lantern. His name was Neil. He'd shine my bottom with a shoe horn til it glowed as glossy and bright as a candy red apple. Then later he took a poop on a hayride."
'Vince' looked around warily, unsure of how to respond to this confession of Halloween-flavored dysfunction. Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately, the creature spoke up before he could decide, a grin again lighting its features.
"My name's Billy Bluebell!"
'Vince' eyed the grinning creature apprehensively. "It's, er, a pleasure to meet you, Billy."
"Bluebell!"
"Billy Bluebell, right. Do you know anything about body switching, by chance? Or perhaps you could point me in the direction of someone who has experience with the topic?"
The toy didn't seem to hear him, still beaming a tad too enthusiastically at 'Vince'.
"I'm the mayor of the Bluebell room!"
"Is that this room? That we're in currently?" 'Vince' inquired politely with a hand gesture. "It's quite the sight. Lots of… bubbles."
"No, this is a different room!" the toy yelled, suddenly cross. But in a flash, its unrelenting grin reappeared. "What brings you to this happy fancy place?"
'Vince' clasped his hands together, rocking back on his heels in a business-like way. "Right. Well, my friend and I—he's actually not here at the moment, but I'm sure he'll be round soon—we sort of fell, right? Into a mirror. And the interesting thing is—"
"Do you have any lip balm I could borrow?" the chubby toy interrupted loudly. 'Vince' gave the creature an uneasy smile that was really more a quick flash of his teeth.
"No… no, I don't."
"How about a fine-toothed comb?"
'Vince' ignored him, and cleared his throat quickly before awkwardly attempting to continue. "So, after we fell, ahem, into the mirror—"
The toy let out a noisy, trilling sound, startling 'Vince'.
"It's time to play a game now!"
'Vince' frowned impatiently. "No, thank you—do you think you listen to me, please? I've got a serious problem that needs attending to. Very time sensitive, important stuff, so if you don't mind..."
The toy's button eyes flashed dangerously. "If you don't play a game with me, I'll tell on you!"
'Vince' scoffed. "You'll 'tell on me'? Are we in school? Besides, who're you going to tell—the toy train? Electro-dollie? Come on, then, I can take you on. I'm Howard Moon, sir. I'll come at you like a stubborn hard-water stain. I'm not afraid of a little sack-cloth ninny like you."
Billy Bluebell lowered his yarn eyebrows. "I will tell Kokimbe, the fanged prince. He's asleep, but if I call him, he'll squeeze your headbox like a sun-ripened tit."
'Vince' froze, obviously reconsidering.
"Do I need to call him?" the toy intimated in a stage-whisper, trying and failing to look threatening by folding its fingers together. They didn't quite reach, so the strange plaything drummed them ominously against its chest instead.
"No, no—that won't be necessary," 'Vince' hastily amended. He laughed nervously and a little too loudly, as if pretending that the entire interaction had been a hearty jest between friends. "Let's… play a game. It'll be fun! I do like a bit of fun. Maybe we can play a game and then we can let me speak with whoever else is in charge around here, hm?"
Billy Bluebell wiggled vigorously from side to side, clearly ecstatic by 'Vince''s agreement to play. "Let's play the shouting game!"
'Vince''s eyes darted across the yelling toy's face, his mouth forced into the shape of an unconvincing grin. His eyes were beginning to hurt a little—Howard supposed Vince's ocular muscles weren't used to being so shifty.
"Isn't… Kokimbe sleeping somewhere close by, though?" he asked by barely moving his lightly clenched jaw, eyes brimming with barely concealed fright
"Isn't Kokimbe sleeping somewhere close by, though?" the toy echoed, raising its voice to a dangerously loud volume. 'Vince''s eyes went wide with alarm.
"No, no," he said, trying to sound reprimanding. "That's not good. That's not at all good. Please stop that."
The quietness of 'Vince''s voice only delighted Billy. "NO, NO! THAT'S NOT GOOD! THAT'S NOT AT ALL GOOD! PLEASE STOP THAT!"
"Keep your blasted voice down!" 'Vince' hissed, terrified
"KEEP YOUR BLASTED VOICE DOWN!" the toy howled, so overjoyed from yelling that its declarations began to sound almost sexual in nature. It was grinning so widely it looked as if its fat cheeks would split. "HOORAY, I'M WINNING!" it proclaimed in an echoing shriek.
"Yes! Yes, you're winning! You've won!" 'Vince' panicked, speaking very quickly. "Imagine that—good game, Billy Bluebell. That sure was fun, that game we played, the one that's over now. So… so fun."
'Vince' watched anxiously as the toy regarded him with suspicion for a long moment. Through his fear, he wondered idly if sweat gland activity was a part of the soul—he couldn't remember ever seeing Vince's forehead as damp as it currently felt.
"You're bad at playing games!" Billy pouted loudly at last. "But I'll give you a do-over!"
The toy cocked its head, beaming.
"Put on the robe for the sacred ceremony!"
'Vince' frowned in confusion. "Sacred ceremony?"
"Yes! It is very very very important! If you say no, I'll holler some more!"
"Okay, okay, I accept," 'Vince' said quickly. Then, after a beat: "…What exactly is it that we're doing, now?"
Four minutes later, a very annoyed Howard hunched Vince's back over the edge of a tiny table. His thin legs were pressed almost to his chin so that his feet could touch the floor—white cowboy boots peeked out beneath the frills of a pink apron. Seated around the table were, predictably, various dolls and toys with cups and saucers before them.
"More sugar lumps, Missus Higginbottom?" Billy Bluebell offered suggestively from across the table.
'Vince' heaved a sigh that was just as much a groan and stuck out his teacup halfheartedly at the button-eyed freak.
"DANCE BREAK!" the toy screamed, attempting to clap its hands and instead just thumping its chest. The tea party table and chairs rolled away, and 'Vince' had to leap up so that he didn't roll away with them. On cue, the lights dimmed and various colored spotlights began to rove across the room. Dolls, jack-in-the-boxes, and stuffed animals crawled over, bobbing their heads awkwardly to the beats emanating from Electro-dollie's DJ station.
"Dance, fool!" Billy barked, shimmying in a way that made 'Vince' yearn for a shower. Though Vince—the real one—was arguably not a bad dancer, Howard begrudgingly moved Vince's narrow hips jerkingly, shaking his fists as if carrying maracas.
As the music pounded, the toys with their fixed, plastered smiles swayed and wobbled like poorly controlled, nightmarish puppets. The lights, like those in a club, flashed and blinded, and 'Vince' squinted in overwhelming annoyance.
"I know how this story goes," he muttered against the throbbing bassline. Through the sea of dazzling lights and activity, Electro-dollie pumped up the volume of the track, eliciting a wave of oddly pitched, creepy cheers from the crowd.
"Here I am, swept up in an outlandish nightmare. Somehow, somewhere, Vince is having the time of his—"
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—The silence was jarring on the main floor of the Vinyl Doctor's, amplifying the sounds of rustling envelopes and the far off howl of the wind tenfold. A grandfather clock ticked deafeningly while an old fashioned radio played a tinny, 1950's tune involving trumpets with cup mutes. Vince Noir, in the body of Howard Moon, had draped himself over the back of his chair, seated at a table littered with paper and stamps, as if he were a lifeless corpse—the ultimate declaration of boredom.
Lester, unaware of his companion's posture, licked at a stamp and placed it down on the table in front of 'Howard' without looking. Judging by the obscenely large pile of stamps that had accumulated in the spot, 'Howard' had been neglecting his duties in some sort of assembly line setup for a very long time.
"I thought you said that this was a jazz-tastrophe," 'Howard' moaned, devastated with boredom.
"If we don't get these letters out by tomorrow, no way the post office is gonna deliver 'em before the print deadline!"
'Howard' rolled his eyes in a long, exaggerated motion. "And?"
"Howard, this isn't like you," Lester remarked with a small, concerned frown. "Addressing envelopes for letters to the editor is usually your favorite part of jazz activism."
"'Jazz activism'?" 'Howard' echoed in disbelief. "Is that really a thing? Not to mention that hand-writing hundreds of letters to newspapers each week and never even getting them published is quite possibly the most thoroughly depressing thing I've ever heard of in my life."
"It's perfectly natural for men of our age to get the desire to share their innermost concerns and deranged conspiracy theories with the world. And newspapers are the best venue for that," Lester explained, still confused by 'Howard''s protests. "Relatives and friends, well, they die off, and the rest just become so uncomfortable around us that they don't even think of us as human anymore. It's the circle of life, Howard."
"I guess I just didn't realize how deep into the realm of fantastic loserdom he had gone," 'Howard' mused to himself, remorse tingeing his otherwise monotone voice. "If I get out of here, I'm going to buy Howard a jigsaw puzzle with ten thousand pieces. And pick out all the corners before I give it to him!"
Lester furrowed his brow, completely bewildered by 'Howard''s internal monologue. "What?"
"I should have been a better friend to him," 'Howard' continued mournfully, staring at the ceiling. "Invited him out more. Asked him how his day was. Who knows what might have been?" He heaved a melodramatic sigh so expertly his lungs might have been Olympic shot-putters.
"Now I'm probably going to die here."
Lester suddenly slammed his fist down in a fit of passion.
"Now see here, Howard," he scolded fervently. "This may not be glamorous, and it may not be the best way not to get paper cuts on your dick, but I'll be damned if the Observer doesn't find out how we feel about Sugarballs McGinty's gradual switch from jazz funk to jazz funk fusion. Now we are going to finish these letters, and then after that we're going to sit quietly for an hour and think about tubas! Now how's that sound for ya?"
There was a muffled thud as 'Howard''s head hit the desk. Lester Corncrake beamed, still looking at the wall instead of at anyone in particular.
"That's more like it!" he exclaimed proudly. "Now, let's roll out the fine-point calligraphy pen and stamp booklet number fifty three! That always tides you over when you're feelin' saucy," he chuckled.
From the depths of his throat, 'Howard' strangled out a long, tortured groan.
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On the next installment of The Switch:
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- The party takes a turn for the worse and careens headlong into a ditch on fire
- 'Howard' formulates a bold plan—'Vince' has his reservations
- Action-packed chase scenes abound!
- Old friends return unexpectedly, and 'Vince' makes an important appointment
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Stay tuned!