50 Words For Snow - Part Two
I might know what you mean when you say you fall apart, aren't we all the same: in and out of doubt…?
Howard cracked an egg into the bowl, and threw the shell into the recycling bin. He beat the eggs together and poured them into the flour and whisked it into a patter. He cut a banana up into a plastic cup, and took some maple syrup down from the shelf. He flipped a couple of pancakes in silence, and laid his breakfast out on the kitchen table. He glanced at the calendar, and sighed. The flat was silent. The shop downstairs was like a hollow eggshell. It was too quiet, too still, too normal. Howard gulped down the pancakes, and washed up the plate in the sink. Then he made himself a cup of tea and stared at the wall. The silence settled over him.
The note on the fridge said: Howard. Me and Bollo have gone out to the Shaman Christmas party. Don’t call me. Don’t touch my stuff. It was neither charming nor sentimental. Still, at least they’d left a note. He’d felt like a stranger in his own home since he’d gone to Denmark, and now, especially with Vince, things were more strained than ever.
The presents were underneath the tree, untouched by human hands. Howard went to them, and picked each one up individually, turning it over in his hands. There were the oddly-shaped ones from Naboo, who had relented in his Scrooge-like boycott of anything festive when he realised he would be receiving presents in return, but still didn’t have the foggiest of how to buy a gift. Bollo, from the looks of things, had wrapped individual bananas - though, really, it could just as easily have been something else. The presents from him to them had already been unwrapped; the newspaper strewn over the floor in little piles, the gifts themselves already vanished. Howard swirled the tea around in his mouth, and then looked down at the little brown slug-like droplet in the bottom of his mug. He drained it dry, and then with a resilient stance that he’d perfected during his hours as a bin man, he took a black binbag from under he sink and picked up all the stray bits of wrapping.
Merry fucking Christmas, Howard Moon, he thought.
He whistled carols to himself as he lit a fire and switched the TV on. He flicked through the channels one by one, ignoring everything that flashed past. Honestly, what was the point of having an intergalactic satellite package and over five thousand channels from every planet in the galaxy if you still couldn’t find anything that wasn’t either reality TV or Friends. When an animated crab with a top hat being chased across the screen by a cloaked ghost cropped up, he sighed and switched it off again.
Maybe this was it. Maybe he was destined to forever spend Christmas sitting alone in front of a fire, like Father Christmas on Halloween. He didn’t think he liked it very much.
He wandered over to the turntable and ran his finger through every LP in his itemised collection, stopping momentarily to remember the discs that had fallen throughout the year, be it smashed by a gorilla or bitten in twain. After a moment he pulled out a Miles Davis album, and put it on. The warm hum slowly filled the room, breathing and stretching for the first time in years as it slowly awoke. Howard smiled, and scatted along absentmindedly under his breath. Now this was Christmas.
He pulled the remaining presents out from under the tree, wincing as the stray pine-needles embedded themselves in his hand, and undid them carefully. Surely enough, one slightly bruised banana from Bollo, and a small box of bookmarks from Naboo. He folded up the paper neatly for safekeeping. Then there were only two parcels left under the tree: one wrapped in newspaper, bulky and soft; the other square and small. Vince had probably bought him another CD, something mindlessly grabbed out of the discount box at HMV, like that Smiths collection a couple of years back (“I dunno,” Vince had grinned, “He’s Northern and grumpy. I reckon you two should get on like a house on fire.”) Howard had bought him that TopShop jumper he’d been pining over; black and multi-stitched and bloody expensive. He’d spent a good hour, too, wondering whether or not to put those all-important three words into his card, which could make or break (but definitely break) their relationship. Still, it obviously wasn’t important enough for his friend to spare a thought for it before he went off to whichever god-forsaken Christmas party he was rocking up at. Well, Howard wasn’t going to wait around for him, no sir. He picked up the package, and tore the paper off.
It wasn’t a CD. It was a small wooden cube, hollowed out with a hole in the top, like a pencil-holder. One side had been roughly painted over, and now resembled the front of a small shop. The sign above the door had been delicately painted and read Stationary Village Jazz Imporium. Howard turned it over in his hands, ignoring the incorrect spelling, and felt something well up in his heart. Then he glanced at the other package, frowned, and stuffed the box into his pocket. Then he wandered back over to his chair, and opened up the newspaper.
After about half an hour, he heard the faint sound of the bell jingling downstairs as someone, presumably Vince, let themselves through the shop door. Howard stared resolutely at his paper as the sound of platform boots trudged heavily up the stairs. Vince appeared at the top of the stairs, his pale cheeks stained pink with the cold, carrying a large sack in one hand. At the sight in front of him, his smile faded slightly.
“Alright, Howard?” he tried gingerly. Howard smiled tightly.
“Yep. Yourself?”
“M’alright. What’re you doing, sitting by yourself? Thought you were hanging out with Lester Cornflakes.”
“Vince, he got decapitated, remember? At my birthday party.”
“Oh, yeah.”
There was an awkward pause. Howard pointed towards the bag. “What’ve you got there?”
Vince looked down as if he’d forgotten about it. “Oh…just a couple of presents, you know. Bits ‘n pieces.”
Howard raised his eyebrows. “Just a couple? That looks like it could feed a small peasant village.”
Vince rummaged around in the bag. “Look what Leroy got me,” he said, and drew his hand dramatically into the air, trailing the gift behind him like fumes. He shook the cloth out, and held it up against himself. “Look at that! I’ve been wanting this for ages.”
Howard’s face fell, and he felt his heart plummet and crash onto the rocks of sorrow by the sea of disappointment. It had to be that jumper, of course. It seemed even the gods of Christmas had it in for Howard TJ Moon. “That’s nice.”
Vince gave him an odd look. “It doesn’t make me look like a futuristic prostitute?”
Howard frowned. “No. Not at all.”
“Oh. Cheers,” Vince said, and he folded the jumper back into the bag. He rubbed his arm uncomfortably. “What’re you doing?”
“Er…just reading.”
Vince nodded. “Cool.”
There was a pause.
“You know that’s yesterday’s paper, right?”
Howard looked at the date, and slowly nodded. “Well, you know me; I just like to keep track of the…past.”
Vince was nodding like a toy in the back of the car. “Yeah.”
“So, how was the party?”
Vince shrugged. “Oh, y’know…”
“No, I don’t, Vince.”
“It was just a party.” Vince looked down at his shoes. “I dunno. Sometimes I feel like…like a Christmas toy, yeah? Like sometimes there’s a bit too much sparkle and it’s all flaking off. Do you know what I mean?”
He looked so heartbreakingly lost that for a moment Howard couldn’t speak. When the words finally came, he winced at them: “You’re Vince Noir. There’s no such thing as too much sparkle, right?”
Vince blinked and nodded. “Yeah,” he said, with a nervous laugh. “Right. M’just being silly, aren’t I? What’s with this jazz anyway? I can feel my allergies coming on. Let’s put on something decent, yeah?”
He turned to sweep into the bedroom, but stopped short when he saw the single package sitting forlornly under the tree. “Oh. You opened it already?”
Howard felt himself colour. “Oh, yeah. It was…thanks, Vince. It’s great.”
Vince bit his lip. “I haven’t opened mine yet.”
“No. I thought you’d left it until after the party, so-”
“Nah, I was gonna wait until we were…” Vince trailed off. Something dark flashed across his eyes. Then he stooped down and picked up the parcel. “Well, see you later,” he said, and then he waved and vanished into their room, shutting the door firmly behind him. After a moment, the sound of the Human League came filtering out through the door, mingling with the Miles Davis LP.
Howard put his head in his hands, and groaned. Merry fucking Christmas, he thought again.
There’s just something about you, have we been in love forever…?
It was a bright day, freezing cold but with pale sunlight streaming through the ashy clouds above. Howard was resolutely keeping his eyes shut, feeling the warm breath flow in and out of his system. It was ten, and so far he’d only crept out of bed once to draw the curtains. He curled the duvet tighter around his body to preserve heat with the small sigh of someone that has no need to be awakened. However, his wishes were not about to be granted, as he felt the mattress shift underneath him as a hand reached up to touch his hair, stroking over his scalp.
“Happy Christmas,” Vince mumbled, entangling his hand in the brown curls.
“To you too,” Howard murmured into his pillow. “What time is it?”
“Twenty past ten.”
“Mm. Sleep.”
Howard suddenly felt something soft and squishy thwack itself into the back of his head, and he sat up, blinking stupidly.
“What was that for?”
Vince's teeth were shining and his eyes were melting. The duvet had slipped down, revealing his bare, skinny torso. He laughed lowly, covering his mouth with one hand and clutching at the pillow with another. “Well, you’re awake now, aren’t you?”
“I thought the point of this was that we were supposed to be domestic.”
“Fuck off; I ain’t your wife.”
Howard sank back against the pillow. “Could have fooled me.”
A small hand crept slowly, still unsurely, over his chest. “Although…”
Howard turned his head to face his partner. “Absolutely not. No.”
The little man’s eyes widened in mock astonishment. “What do you mean: no?”
“It's too early.”
“You're so old, Howard. I'm giving you the opportunity for a mind-blowing shag and you say no?”
“Piss off!” Howard muttered affectionately. “You're not God's gift to the world, y'know.”
“I bloody well am. God looked down on the Earth and decided he would glam things up a little.”
“Well, it still stands…” Howard looked about the room nervously, as if the Hitcher was about to leap out of the shadows and slice them both into ribbons. He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper and said: “Naboo and Bollo…”
“Oh, bugger them,” Vince said. Howard laughed, and then tentatively reached down and kissed him. He still wasn’t used to these moments: these morning kisses that were slow and laborious, deep and full, just pure movement. Howard didn’t know what he’d done in his past life if this was what he was rewarded with, because the sun was shining and Vince was smiling and they were together, and now he knew what it was like to touch that skin with his hands, and he wouldn't have had his life any other way.
With one final birdlike peck, Vince pulled away.
“Bloody hell, Vince,” said Howard, dazed and grinning like a loon. “What have I done to deserve this?”
“You ain’t done nothing, you jazzy weirdo! Ever since that moment you first looked at me in the playground and said “Hey, I love your shoes” I was smitten.”
“Er, Vince…the first words I said to you were: “Your shoes are stupid” and then you pummeled me.”
“Oh yeah…”
Howard blinked. “Were you really smitten then?”
Vince nodded shyly.
Howard whistled through his teeth. “Christy. So was I.”
Vince propped himself up on one elbow. “Really?”
“Yeah. I remember thinking: nobody’s ever going to care so much about my opinion that I end up with a black eye ever again.”
“Aw, you old softy.”
“Less of the old, you. We’re the same age, remember.”
Vince laughed patronizingly. “Silly Howard. I’m younger than you, aren’t I?”
Howard coughed. “Oh, yes. Of course. My mistake.”
Vince reached up to tousle his hair again. Howard pushed him away, quietly laughing.
“Get off! Honestly, you’re like a lemur.”
“I’m not like a lemur. D’you remember those lemurs at the zoo? Fucking pretentious, they were.”
“You’ve got those big eyes.”
“Yeah, well, you’ve got the tiny eyes of a shrew.”
“Excuse me, sir? Small my eyes may be, but they’ve got more depth and passion than your eyes will ever know.”
“Oi, I can do depth and passion too, y’know!” Vince grinned, and in one quick motion he was sitting atop Howard’s waist. He bent down, and Howard felt strands of black hair tickling his ears as their lips met.
“Still worried about Naboo and Bollo?” Vince asked cheekily, tucking a lock of hair behind Howard’s ear.
“Yes. Gerrof.”
Vince rolled his eyes. “You’re no fun.”
Suddenly, there was a click as the door and it swung open. Both men turned their heads towards their landlord, who was gazing at them in disgust.
“Eurgh. Didn’t need to see that.”
“Naboo!” Vince squeaked, as he fell off Howard’s stomach. Howard pulled the covers over his chest and chimed in with: “Don’t you know how to knock?”
“Look, me and Bollo are going out,” said Naboo. “We’ll be back in a minute, though, so no funny business.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” said Howard dryly. Naboo shot him a withering look, and shut the door again. The two men looked at each other, and giggled quietly.
“That bloody wizard!” Vince snickered, as the front door shut downstairs. “Well, come on then, let’s get on with business. Ooh, hello…”
“Vince!” Howard squealed as the unwanted hand invaded his personal space. “They’ll be back any minute, Naboo said so!”
Vince merely shot him a devilish smile.
“Challenge accepted.”
The world is so loud, keep falling, I’ll find you…
On that particular Christmas day, the silverfish sky was the colour of a sliver of ice resting atop a river. The wind trickled lazily across the cool horizon, seeping the cold through the clouds. The trees, naked and skyward-reaching, gazed benevolently down at the small playground in the middle of North London. The playground itself, a mass of garishly-painted concrete and damp wood, had not been particularly well taken care of. A couple of empty lager cans huddled together next to the see-saw; the wind sent used condoms scurrying across the ground. The metal hinges squeaked in the wind. But the small boys who sat on the swing staring up at the sky saw none of this. For them, this dry park with the laughter engrained within the cracks was a haven.
“I wish it would snow,” said one of the boys, twisting round on the swingseat until the metal suspenders began to tangle together.
“Me too,” said the other one. “It never snowed in the jungle.”
“You didn’t live in the jungle,” said the slightly older-looking boy. “You live down the road. I’ve seen you when you’re out buying fruit gums.”
“I did live in the jungle!” the littler boy protested. “With Bryan Ferry.”
“You’re clearly from South London.”
“You’re clearly from Leeds.”
Lost for words, the older boy stuck his tongue out. The blonde boy snickered.
“Nice comeback, Howard.”
“Shut your mouth,” said the boy - Howard. “Just you wait till I’m rich and famous.”
“Oh yeah? What’re you gonna be rich and famous for, then?”
“Oh, everything. I’m a maverick, Vince. I’m gonna be a jazz pioneer, and a photographer, and a famous writer…”
Vince grinned naively. “Cool!” he said.
“What’re you gonna be when you grow up, then?”
Vince leapt off the swing and swung his arms out dramatically, looking like a stylish version of the Karate Kid. “I’m gonna be a rock n roll star.”
Howard sniffed haughtily. “Are you joking? Rock n roll is rubbish.”
Vince swung around, looking like someone had just kicked his puppy. “No it’s not!”
“They’re all poseurs, Vince. There’s no feeling or depth in the lyrics, is there? It’s not…” He paused as if in deep though, and then said the next words as if he’d learnt them by rote: “Intellectually stimulating.”
“But rock n roll’s cool! What about Bowie and Iggy and Adam Ant?”
“Poseurs,” said Howard with an air of finality. Vince deflated, and took up his position on the swing once again and then sat there swinging with his hands dangling between his knees. Howard watched him from the corner of his eye, and then twisted his mouth into a small grimace of regret. He cautiously reached out, and tapped Vince on the shoulder.
“But…it’s not all bad,” he said. “I mean, you could come with me, yeah? You can come with me on tour and learn everything that jazz has to offer, and then when you’ve learnt your craft you can go and make intellectually stimulating rock music.”
Vince’s shoulders perked, and a smile crept onto his face. “Really?”
“Sure, Little Man.”
“Will you come on tour with me, then? When we’re both rich and famous? ‘Coz, no offence, but jazz is well boring.”
Howard nearly retaliated, but bit his tongue. “Yeah, alright.”
Vince gave Howard a look like he’d just hung the moon for him. “Brilliant.”
The two boys sat in silence for a moment before Howard spoke again.
“I should go home in a minute. My Mum’s making Christmas dinner.”
But he didn’t move from his position on the swings.
“It’s going to be genius, isn’t it, Howard?” said Vince, with all the hope he felt reflected on his face; in his eyes.
“What is?”
“Y’know…the future,” Vince smiled. “Da foo-char.”
Howard laughed, and looked up at the sky.
“Yeah, Vince. Yeah, it is.”