This story takes place in Melanie Brown's Switcher Universe.
When the Switcher appeared, it took some time for each country's government
to react and to mobilize their resources. Politicians and police agencies
had a hard time understanding the enormity of the threat.
After all, the Switcher was only one man.
Soon, each country, each national police agency, mobilized on their own, for their own sake.
Next, once they came to understand that this threat was impossible to contain, they initiated
an unprecedented degree of cooperation and coordination between Interpol, Europol,
the German BND, the FBI, the French National Police, MI5, the Russian FSB,
and many other agencies.
The best minds were brought into play. No expense was spared.
Entire categories of personnel were hired and activated.
After years with no result whatsoever, the agencies began to tire. They cut budgets,
reassigned resources, reduced staff, and focused on other, more practical, more immediate,
more tractable problems.
At the same time, the general public became aware of the Switcher,
and this became a problem in itself. The reduced, already-overworked staff
had to cope not only with the legitimate chaos created by the Switcher,
but also with a flood of fake victims, fraudsters, and pranksters.
The Switcher, untouched and unaffected, continued to cut a swath
of confusion, mayhem, and crime across the entire planet.
In our story, the Switcher has come to a small New England town
to carry out a lucrative bit of industrial espionage.
His getaway is complicated by a pot-bellied retiree who quite literally bowls him over.
Anson, the retiree in question, now finds his life fractured, like Humpty Dumpty,
with no hope of putting things back the way they were.
He is no longer the man he knew all his life: now he finds himself
in the body of a stranger, a woman -- whose name may or may not be
Merope Goddard.
Ever the good citizen, he (now she) reports to the Regional Processing Center,
clutching her bag of mysteries, and finds a government agency
with little inclination to help her in any way.
[ Melanie Brown’s Switcher Universe ]
by Iolanthe Portmanteaux
If you want to see Upper Harmish at its best, you need to visit mid-September, when the leaves are turning. Many people do: it's the one and only time of year when our hotels, motels, and B&Bs are chock full. Many visitors choose to drive through the western hills, where you're surrounded by bright reds, yellows, and oranges. Some subject their cars to the arduous climb up Braeke's Height, where they take in the brilliant sea of nearly-psychedelic hues. There are outstanding panoramas in every direction.
A healthy portion of our visitors books a breakfast, lunch, or dinner cruise up the Harmish River. Once the cruise leaves the town behind, the river opens up, and its wide expanse is flanked by soft hills packed with maples, oaks, dogwoods and other varieties noted for their powerful autumn colors.
Some tourists — some, but a much smaller number — do what I do, which is to simply walk along the river. It's totally free, and I think it's the absolute best option. You can see the river, which is nice in itself, and you can see the buildings on the opposite band, standing behind the trees on that side. The river walkway is generously wide on both sides of the river, and so thick with trees, it's very nearly a long, thin slice of forest. You see the colors, but not only do you see them, you trample them underfoot! You walk on them, you wade through them, you make the swoosh swoosh swoosh sound as your feet and legs kick and sweep through dry leaves. In the distance you hear the muffled scrape of rakes pulling the scattered foliage into piles.
It's a complete autumn experience. There's a unique fragrance in the air that comes only this time of year... the smell of the leaves of deciduous trees as they dry and begin to decompose.
There's nothing like it.
I doubt anyone could put that scent in a candle!
So... that's what I went out to enjoy on that fateful day. As far as I knew at the time, it was nothing more than a lovely Friday in September. That's all I expected to see and hear and smell. The weatherman called it "the pick of the week" for temperature, for sun, for mildness. I could see it from my window: a simply beautiful, nearly perfect day.
And I had nothing to do.
The day in question was a Friday: the second Friday of the month, the second Friday of my retirement. I'd enjoyed a nice retirement party, two weeks ago, and after that, a dozen days of freedom, more or less.
I was already bored and disappointed.
Being retired wasn't at all what I expected; at least not so far. I know I hadn't given it much time, but I had — or *thought* I had — a pretty clear picture of how my life was going to be. When I first made plans to retire at sixty, I imagined that Cleo and I would travel, see the world, learn new things, visit new places, spend more time together. I counted it as quite an achievement: the fact that I'd saved up enough to quit working while I was still young enough to enjoy my life.
Unfortunately, Cleo wasn't on the same page. Not at all.
"What did you think would happen when I retired?" I asked her.
"I assumed that you'd find ways to spend your time," she replied. "You seemed to have it all planned out."
"I thought that I'd be spending that time with you," I protested.
"You expect me to quit my job!" she said, in a tone of accusation.
"Well, yes," I said. "It seemed like the obvious step."
"All these years you've been planning, you might have bothered to mention it."
"Oh," I said, in a small voice. It's true. I never mentioned the idea... I never thought to question the idea... it all seemed so obvious...
I'm forty-five years old," she pointed out. "I'm just beginning to come into my own, professionally. I'm not ready to stop."
"Okay," I acknowledged. I could feel myself losing ground.
"My life isn't a sidecar to yours, you know."
It was a embarrassing surprise: she was absolutely correct. I never asked her, or even myself, what she might want, how she pictured the life ahead. I had ideas and plans. Why shouldn't she?
That wasn't all. Even before that conversation, the difference in our ages began to matter. At some point she didn't see me as young any more. Or — if not young, well, I thought we both felt we were about the same age. The change seemed very abrupt to me: Suddenly, my hair was white. Suddenly, I had a pot belly. Suddenly, I had new aches and pains.
Worst of all, the older I seemed to get, the more I irritated Cleo.
"Could you please stop making all those grunts and groans?" she'd ask. "You sound like an old man!"
"Do I really?" I asked.
"Just listen to yourself next time you tie your shoes," she replied.
Cleo began to interrupt me a dozen times a day, saying, "Anson, please! You've told me that story a thousand times!"
Honestly, I don't think I repeated myself that much (if at all), but I had to take her word for it.
Okay... I could adjust to all that: I could make better habits. I wondered, though: could I get used to spending my days alone?
What an ass I'd been! Thinking she'd drop her career just because *I* stopped working!
Maybe she would have, if we'd made our plans together.
And I had to admit, Cleo had a great job: a psychologist in a group of psychologists. They shared a nice suite of offices downtown. It was quiet, professional, and managed to be elegant and comfortable at the same time. She enjoyed her work. She loved her co-workers. She often said, "It's the most intellectually stimulating environment I've ever experienced! And so supportive!"
Which was, of course, great for her.
Not as great for me.
I had no idea, of course, that while my life appeared to be slowly sinking into a disappointing muddle, it was about to take quite an incredibly dramatic turn: A jack-knife change of direction that would land me with a whole new set of problems and issues. An alteration so total, it would make my former life seem like a pile of plain mashed potatoes by comparison.
After dressing in soft, comfortable clothes, I sat down to put on my walking shoes. I managed to tie them without my usual series of old-man grunts and groans. Then I stood to look in the mirror as I plopped a new cotton bucket hat on my head. I smiled at myself. Turning sideways, I hefted my belly with both hands. "I look like an old duffer," I told myself, "but in a good way."
Cleo and I live in a solid three-bedroom house just north of downtown. From our place, it's a pleasant mile and a half to the river. I planned to head more or less directly there. Then I'd turn west on the riverway. After about 20 minutes, I'd cross the Spring Street Bridge, and return east on the other side. The views are different but wonderful on either side of the river.
That was my plan, anyway. As you'll see, things didn't work out quite the way I expected! Not at all.
But I'm jumping ahead — sorry!
On a side street close to the center of town I stopped for coffee and a bun. A new, hip coffeeshop featured a walk-up window open to the sidewalk, so I gave it a try. They were out of croissants, so I let myself get talked into trying a "roasted tea scone." It was a strange item, but I felt inclined to try something new. In a way, that scone set the tone for the rest of the day. Big, baked black tea leaves lay draped across a maple glaze. Honestly, it was the maple glaze that sold me, but as much as I enjoy maple sugar, the mapleness wasn't strong enough to overpower the bitterness of the tea leaves and the tiny, unnameable crunchy bits hidden inside. Each time I encountered one of the small, dry, friable cubes, I wanted to take it between my fingers, trot back to the window, and ask what on earth they were made of. But the moment my teeth came in contact with one of them, the weird, tiny cube would break into bits and disappear, like ashes in a strong wind. The coffee was passable — officially not bad, but the scone was a conundrum: I just didn't get it. I managed to eat the whole thing, though. It wasn't horrible. It simply tasted as strange as all get-out.
The barista called to me from inside the sidewalk window, asking whether I liked the scone.
"I think it's more of a concept piece than a breakfast item," I replied.
He shrugged, smiled, and told me he'd pass my comment on to the baker.
"It's thought-provoking," I added.
"Um, okay," he replied, in a tone of faux uncertainty, as though he didn't understand why I was still talking.
I moved on, but the scone stayed with me.
The amalgamated taste of coffee, tea leaves, and maple glaze remained with me vividly, all the way to the river. It was certainly a combination that made you think. It made me think what a bizarre combination it was. I kept finding myself licking my lips, puzzled by the scone's persistence.
When at last I reached the river, for some foolish reason I headed east rather than west, the opposite of what I'd planned. Maybe there were a lot of tourists heading west? I don't know. I don't remember. Maybe it was an after-effect of the scone. I twisted my mouth around and made some smacking noises with my tongue. It didn't help. I couldn't rid of the bitter/maple amalgamation. In any case, heading east wasn't really a conscious decision. I simply turned left instead of right, on a whim. A little thing, but as it turned out, it was absolutely the most momentous decision of my entire life.
Of course, I had no idea at the time. How could I? I drifted along the brick path, as I had so many times in the past, enjoying everything about the day. The air was sharp, clean, and fresh. The leaves were at their peak — vivid colors — half of them still clinging to the trees, the other half covering the ground. It was as picturesque and homey as I expected. The only thing missing to make it perfect was Cleo by my side. Cleo, with her hand in mine... Cleo, asking me Do you have to make that sound?
What sound? I'd reply, but she wouldn't answer.
Every minute or so a jogger would pass. People walking dogs of every size and variety. Young mothers pushing strollers.
I thought about giving Cleo a call, but didn't. It was difficult to catch her between patients. At best, I could leave a message, but I didn't feel like doing that, especially when I had nothing in particular to say.
For a moment I considered giving my son Herman a call, but he tended to be even busier at work than Cleo, and more fussy and irritated at being interrupted. I never thought that processing bank loans could be such an intense and stressful occupation.
I hope I don't sound like I'm complaining. I love my life. I love my family. I was having a wonderful day, relaxing, enjoying the scene, happy to not be at the office.
After twenty minutes of slow, easy shuffling, I came to a point in the path known locally as "the Pinch." Come to think on it, the reason I originally meant to head west instead of east was exactly to avoid this spot. It's famous for its view of Monument Hill, across the river. In fact, the Pinch features a park bench, placed at the exact spot where the view is optimal.
Unfortunately, it's one of the worst places to stick a bench.
You see, the point is called the Pinch precisely because the path curves dramatically out to follow a bend in the river. At that bend is a centenary chestnut tree. Yes, it's lovely. The massive, impressive tree constrains the path on the river side, and the obnoxious corner of a twenty-foot-high brick wall pokes in from the other side. The bench is offset slightly from the wall's intrusion, but it still impinges on what would otherwise be a wide, pleasant walkway. Not that the Pinch is absurdly small; it isn't. There's enough room for two or three people to pass, depending on their size. Even so, there's nearly always a little traffic jam because someone's stopped in the middle of the path to admire the view. Inevitably they stand exactly at the choke point, between the tree and the bench.
Today, that someone was me. When I realized that *I* was the thoughtless lout standing in the way, I took a few quick steps to the side and backed away from the path. This put me square in the ivy that borders the path, but I didn't care. I smiled and let a young mother and her double-sized twin stroller pass.
Like everyone else who momentarily blocked foot traffic, I'd stopped to admire the view. And what a view! The panorama was at its best today: the sky itself was decorated with picture-perfect cotton-ball clouds against a blue background you'd find in a Renaissance landscape. A Mediterranean blue. That celestial blue, the weightless clouds, the insanely colored autumn leaves, perfectly framed the obelisk on Monument Hill.
It struck me that the thing to do was to snap a photo and send it to Cleo, so she'd know I was thinking about her; so she could share my experience. No message, no reply required. Simply an expression of joy and beauty.
While contemplating my shot, I had to step into the ivy a second time to let another young, pretty mother with a stroller pass. Once she turned the bend and disappeared from sight, I snapped a few pictures of the city.
I'll admit, I'm no great shakes at photography, but these were poor even by my standards. It seemed that what I liked best in what I saw — the sky, the clouds, the leaves, the monument — was the hardest thing to catch. No matter how I turned or zoomed or angled my phone, all I could see was the leaves underfoot and the river as a thick dark underline.
Frustrated, I decided to climb onto the bench in hopes of finding a better composition. Clearly, if I were just a tiny bit higher, I could leave out both path and river and capture the image that caught my eye.
Getting up there, though, was harder than I imagined. Yes, I'm sixty. I'm not old but I'm overweight, and a bit out of shape. Even so, taking that short step up and onto the bench shouldn't be such a huge effort! And yet, I came upon one of the odd surprises that come with aging. I set my left foot on the bench, and discovered to my chagrin that my leg didn't have the power to push me up to a standing position. I tried my other leg. No go on that side as well. I had to resort to a less dignified method: I leaned forward, planted my hands on the back of the bench, and tugged with both arms as I pushed with my leg. That effort, accompanied by a rather ungraceful grunt and an unexpectedly cracking fart, left me standing upright on the bench facing the wrong way.
A third mother with a stroller waited patiently while I struggled. It wasn't as though I took up any of the path; she was only being cautious. If I'd fallen backward, I could have flattened the stroller, with her baby inside — or at least, bowled into the little family like a set of ninepins. It would have been inconvenient and embarrassing. As soon as I was up and out of her way, she smiled politely and pushed quickly on ahead. I felt fairly confident that she hadn't heard me break wind, not that it mattered.
It was all a little undignified, but here I was.
With small, careful steps, I turned myself around to face the view. I wobbled for a moment, then stood up straight and tall.
I must have made a ridiculous spectacle: a pot-bellied retired office worker, perched on the uneven beams of a park bench. I never thought I had any issues with balance, but despite that belief, I found myself wobbling. My gyrations were only slight at first, but soon I was shaking like a go-go dancer. I feared I might fall. To steady myself, I bent my knees and grabbed hold of the back of the bench. After a few deep breaths, I felt pretty steady, so I straightened up. To keep my balance, I extended my arms like a capital T. Good. I took another deep breath, let it go, and lifted my phone in front of my face. Darn! I'd waited too long to snap the picture; in the meantime my screen lock engaged, and my screen had gone dark.
I pushed the button to light the screen. I swept my fingers, inserted my code. The camera was ready to go. I lifted it in front of my face. Confoundingly, the double image — the actual monument in the distance and the tiny obelisk on my phone — confused my eye. Despite my best efforts and my firmest resolve, I wobbled again. I heaved a deep, fearful breath. I wanted to close my eyes for a moment, but knew it would only make things worse. Just then, a voice, a loud, unkind voice, cut in—
"Hey, Humpty Dumpty! Will you be careful up there?" It was a woman, shouting in a rude, impatient tone. Humpty Dumpty? Was I really that round? Even if I was, it was unkind to say so. Once again, I stretched out my arms in a T for stability, and in a moment my wobbling fell to a minimum. I turned my head to look down at her, much in the way a young gymnast on the balance beam gazes down at her coach.
In spite of myself, I was fascinated by what I saw. This woman was dressed for success, dressed to impress. Her pumps were a conservative dark blue, and had long, narrow heels. She wore a pale peach camisole under a light gray jacket with a matching gray skirt that ended just above her knee. Her hair was cut in a short, angled bob.
She stood, waiting, arms crossed, foot tapping — an attractive thirty-something brunette. She frowned, impatiently judging my efforts. She would have been more attractive if she dropped her disrespectful, antisocial attitude. Her scowl full of disdain, she commanded, "Get down from there, before you hurt yourself or someone else!"
"Why don't you mind your own business?" I asked, in all sincerity. "Just keep on walking, and we'll both be much happier." My temper began to rise. I could feel myself growing hot with indignation.
She barked, "You're shaky and unsteady — why are you even up there? I'm afraid you're going to fall, and if you fall, you'll going to fall on me."
"You're being ridiculous!" I shouted, red-faced, offended, and angry. "You're exaggerating, and you're insulting! Move along! Move along, now, quickly!" I waved my arms to give her a visual aid. Frowning even more deeply, she decided to change tack. She took a breath, calmed herself, and responded in a quieter tone, "I can't walk quickly in these heels over brick. I need to be careful, or my foot will get caught. If you promise not to move a single muscle, I'll scoot by, as fast as I can manage, and then I'll be on my way." I nodded, waving my arms dismissively. She let out a final, irritated tsk! and click-clacked past me on her hard, judgmental heels. I couldn't help but glance down as she passed. I've always had a weakness for a well-formed derriere, and her smooth gray skirt offered a moving outline of what lay beneath.
As fate would have it, my exertions, my arm-waving, but above all my indiscreet gawping at the rhythmic motion of her backside, increased the precariousness of my perch. Yes, it was rude of me. Even so, what happened in the next few moments was not my fault at all. It's something that could happen to anyone, anywhere: my right ankle buckled beneath me.
It's an injury that can easily occur even on smooth, solid ground: where sometimes, somehow — and no one knows why — one foot decides of its own accord, and for no good reason, to twist violently inward, throwing all your weight on the side of your foot. It's very painful. As I said, no one knows what provokes it, but something provoked it now.
That is why I fell. To my credit, I did shout, "Watch out! Look out below!"
I might as well have shouted "Timber!" or "Land ho!" for all the good my warning gave.
The woman let out an astonished cry, saw the impending danger, and made a little jump. Under normal circumstances, if she were an ordinary woman, her slight skip would have carried her completely out of danger. What I mean to say is, I didn't fall on her. I didn't knock her or bump her or grab hold of her as I fell. I barely touched her. Unfortunately, she was NOT an ordinary woman. That slightest hint of contact — the very air at the edge of my fingertips, strafing across her aura, so to speak — the lightest, merest sweep, not-quite down her back. That's all it took.
Then, confusingly, I fell down twice. I hit the ground as Anson — a heavy sixty-year-old landed like a sack of stone potatoes on the hard brick path, with my body twisted awkwardly. I scraped my elbow, my knee, my wrist, and the side of my face. The right side of my pelvis took a great wallop. As my body fell, I watched my phone sail through the air, as if in slow motion. Gravity guided it down and bounced it off a brick, until it finally came to rest in the ivy that bordered the path.
Then came the strange part, and my first clue to what happened: I fell a *second* time, this time backwards. First came the sensation of being struck in the gut. Then my knees buckled, and my soft and cushioned butt landed on the stomach of an older man who conveniently broke and absorbed the full impact of my fall.
In a stupor, I took in the impossible scene: I was sitting on the ample stomach of a man who lay on the ground, out of breath and in pain. That man was me: Anson Charpont, retiree.
I gazed down at the new me: the me who sat on the belly of the old me. I raised my hands and saw they were young, unwrinkled hands, small hands with delicate fingers, fingers with painted nails — the color called Ocean Blue, one of Cleo's favorites.
A breeze carried up the path. The air flowed swiftly along my naked legs, ending beneath my skirt.
I'm slow, but I can add one and one and one and one. Clearly, I was now the woman, and the woman I'd argued with, was now me.
"Damn it!" the new Anson shouted. "Get off me, you idiot!" He followed his demand with a string of expletives and obscenities, ending with a rude and inappropriate shove to my tailbone. I gingerly rose to my feet, then offered my hand to my old self, the old man.
"Don't touch me, you imbecile!" he groused. "Haven't you done enough?"
I watched him struggle to sit up, unsure what I should or could do to help. He rolled over awkwardly, clutched the park bench, and used it pull himself into a kneeling posture. There he paused to catch his breath. He turned his head and regarded me with a stare of cold hatred. "After all the trouble I went to..." he muttered. Another deep breath, then he leaned heavily on the bench and hauled himself to his feet. He nearly fell when he put his weight on the bad ankle. I grabbed him out of instinct. This time he didn't resist.
While my hands were on his arm, he turned to look me in the face. His face — my old face — had a large, ugly scrape on the right cheekbone. It was painful to see. His breathing was shallow — is that how mine had always been? After some experimental shuffling and shifting, he suddenly, without any warning whatsoever, gave me a shove and snatched my bag from me. I mean, he took the woman's bag, her purse. He meant to knock me down, but his aim was off. I didn't fall. I stumbled back a step or two; that was all. He opened the woman's bag, and began fishing things out and dropping them into his various pockets. I saw him take a gray metal cylinder, about three inches long and maybe an inch or so in diameter. He dropped it into his jacket pocket. Then he pulled out three more similar cylinders and shoved them into his other pockets. They bulged in an unattractive way. Then, after one last careful look inside, he said to me, "Here. Have yourself a party with the rest of this crap." He held the bag out to me, offering it, until — the moment I reached for it — he dropped it on the ground.
"Now get lost," he growled, "Don't follow me." And in a voice loaded with sarcasm added, "Enjoy your new life."
With that, he limped off, as quickly as he could manage.
One of the less pleasant aspects of aging is encountering yourself in photos. I never got used to the way my jaw expanded and the skin of my neck and arms sagged — to say nothing of how large and ungainly I'd become. It was painful enough, as I said, to see those changes memorialized in pictures, but now that I could see myself on the hoof (so to speak) — see myself as others saw me, limping away — was distressing in the extreme. I turned my eyes from my old self, and took a gander at my new self, to see where I'd landed, in terms of physical body. I looked pretty good, from my vantage point: I was young, fairly fit, a woman with a good figure, legs like Betty Grable (if I dare make the comparison!), and what appeared to be a fine pair of full, firm breasts. Not Miss America, or even a runner-up, but not bad.
Anson, my old body, was already at a surprising distance, and after a quick turn off the path, he disappeared from view.
Finally alone, I asked myself What do I do now?
I sat on the bench — that fateful bench — to take stock of my situation.
Clearly, I'd just become a victim of the Switcher. Although these events are far from common, enough people have encountered the Switcher that the topic has grown from an urban myth to a concrete reality. Some of his victims were celebrities, politicians, and other well-known and influential people. At long last several governments (including our own) set up national toll-free numbers and broadcast public-service announcements to explain what was known about the Switcher. They also instructed the public with a set of rules called What To Do When You're Switched.
Consequently, I knew very well what had happened to me. I also knew what I was *supposed* to do: the first step was to contact the authorities. I couldn't remember the toll-free number, but it would be a quick look-up on my phone. Speaking of which, I went and fished my phone out of the ivy, where I'd seen it fall. It hadn't suffered from the impact. The screen hadn't cracked.
Actually, the first step from the Public Service Announcements was a negative: If you're switched, you aren't supposed to call family or friends. The reason? It only causes problems, confusion, unnecessary distress, and — sometimes — legal issues. I didn't want any of that. "The competent authority" would take care of notifications. I understood that "competent" in that sentence didn't mean they were good at what they did; it only meant that it was their job. Still, I was quite willing to let the government unwind this one; I felt pretty sure from what I'd seen on TV that they'd unite me with my old family at the right time, under the right circumstances.
Okay: so I was supposed to call "the competent authority" to tell them I was switched. They, in turn, would either come to pick me up or tell me where to go for processing.
Fine. I'd do all that. But first, I wanted to understand as much as I could, before taking any steps. I wanted to have some kind of control over my new future. I wasn't going to be a passenger into my new life; I was determined to do at least some of the steering. I needed a plan, and to have a plan I needed to know my options.
My first question was Who am I now? I jiggled my bag — the woman's bag. All the clues to my identity were in there — unless the bag contained an apartment key, a car key, a business card, or really anything that led to more clues in another location...
To my disappointment, I didn't find much in the bag: A small pack of tissues, a lipstick, a tampon, a sanitary pad, an expensive-looking pen, a red wallet, and two envelopes. The wallet had a healthy amount of money in it: mostly twenties. A quick count told me it was just over $400. There were credit cards and a drivers license — all in the name Merope Goddard. "Oh my God," I groaned. "I'm stuck with a weird-ass name."
Then again, maybe I wasn't stuck with that name. I was pretty sure the government could give me a new name, if I wanted one. After all, I wasn't likely to pick up this woman's life where she left off.
The address on the drivers license was Omaha, Nebraska. That's way over in the middle of the country. Not close at all. I've never been.
There weren't any photos in the wallet, or store receipts, or scribbled notes. Nothing to fill out the picture of who she was.
I thought about my interactions with "Merope" — and realized that I'd never met the actual woman, Merope. If that was even her name. No, the real Merope was off somewhere in someone else's body. The person I met was the Switcher, in Merope's body.
As I said, the bag contained two envelopes. The thicker one was full of money: hundred dollar bills. It was a stack about a half-inch high.
The smaller of the two envelopes contained three more drivers licenses, each with a different photo of the new me, each with a different hair color and style, each from a different state, each with a credit card in the same name.
"What kind of mess am I in?" I asked myself. It was alarming. Was Merope a crook? A scam artist? Or was this collection of money and fake IDs the work of the Switcher, alone?
I was startled, and worried, sure, but I didn't get overwhelmed with fear. I knew from the public service announcements that there were processing centers set up exactly for this kind of mess. I knew I could depend on them to sort it out for me. I dropped everything back into the bag and picked up my old phone. (This Merope woman didn't have a phone, by the way. Odd, right? I didn't see the Switcher take it from me... so did Merope have a phone in the first place?)
My first intention was to look up the number of the Switcher processing center. Every good citizen by now knew the procedure by heart. It was only two steps, after all: Don't call friends or family. *Do* call the processing center. They instruct you where to go or where to wait for pick up. Before I made that call, however, I wanted some more information. I wanted answers. But who could help me? Who could I call? I scrolled through my contacts, without any real idea of what I was looking for. A friend? A lawyer? Family? I couldn't call Cleo or Herman. At least, I wasn't supposed to call them. Anson — my old self — was retired, so I had no office to call, no job to notify. I didn't think any of my ex-colleagues would be much help anyway... As for my friends, I loved them, but didn't see a point in dragging them into my mess. Even if I could convince them that I was Anson, what did I expect them to do? Aside from sympathize, I mean. With a heavy sigh I began to see there wasn't much point in breaking the rules. Whoever I called — if they even believed me — would probably freak out, and both of us would be in trouble.
In trouble for no good reason.
In trouble for no good reason... As that phrase echoed in my brain, my eye fell on a name: Rowan Brissard. Now, *he* was someone who didn't mind getting in trouble for no good reason. Would he help me? Probably. Should he help me? Probably not. Could he help me? I'd say he was a strong maybe.
Once upon a time, Rowan was my son Herman's best friend. They parted ways after high school: Herman left the state for an east-coast college; Rowan stayed in town and became — of all things — a policeman.
Back when the boys — well, technically, they're in their twenties, so they aren't boys any more — but back when they were teenagers, Rowan cost Cleo and me many sleepless nights. Neither of us could fall asleep until we heard Herman arrive home. As soon as we'd hear the front door close, we'd relax and drop off. Until then, we'd worry that Rowan had dragged Herman into some crazy stunt that left our son dead, hurt, or arrested.
The two of them managed to survive their teens and early twenties without a scratch and without a police record. It seemed a legitimate miracle.
On looking back, I think Cleo and I exaggerated the potential dangers. As a parent it's difficult not to. Or maybe we were all just lucky that nothing ever went too far in the wrong direction.
Rowan was never a *bad* kid. People used to say he was "a little wild," but now I think he simply couldn't see the point of following rules that didn't make sense. "Rules for the sake of rules," he'd say.
So, would he help me? I think he would. He shouldn't help me, but I felt confident that he wasn't afraid of... whoever it was that ran the Switcher Processing Centers.
Could he help me? I think so. Rowan's a cop. If anyone could make sense of the contents of Merope's bag, Rowan could.
I've never been one to act on impulse. I plan. I love to plan. Usually I deliberate as long as possible before making even the most conventional choices, but today was not an ordinary day.
And so, in the spirit of the day, on a totally crazy impulse, I did exactly what I was told NOT to do. I called Rowan.
"Rowan, this is Anson Charpont — Herman's father."
Rowan laughed. "Okay, lady, thanks for the laugh. You have a nice day, now."
"Wait, wait — don't hang up! I'm the victim of a Switcher incident! I want to talk to somebody before I turn myself into the processing center."
"Somebody, huh? Somebody/anybody? Nobody in particular? But hey, look — how do I know this isn't a practical joke? Or a scam? Nowadays, anybody can say Switcher and pretend to be somebody else."
"True, but why would a young woman pretend to be Anson Charpont? What's the upside?"
"Point taken. But even so— Convince me. Tell me something that nobody other than you, me, and Herman would know."
"Okay..." I said. "Give me a moment to think."
"You should have expected this question. Come on."
"Okay, I've got one. When Herman's grandmother died, I caught you and Herman in a back room at the funeral home. You were about to light up a joint."
"Hmmm," Rowan acknowledged. "You're halfway there. Now tell me what happened next?"
"I lit up with you two," I admitted, blushing as I said it.
Rowan grunted in acknowledgment. "I always thought that was a stone-cold move on your part, Mr C."
"Well, it was Cleo's mother, not mine," I confessed.
"Okay, one more," Rowan said. "Who did I lose my virginity with? You know this one."
"Do I?" I searched my memory. "I don't think I— oh, wait! It was your cousin Julie! Wasn't it? Now it's coming back to me. You told her that you had a brain tumor, right? And that poor girl believed you—"
"Okay, okay!" Rowan interrupted. "The name would have been enough. No need to root around into the details. We're not here to dredge up the past. You've convinced me." I heard him drumming his fingers. "Okay. What to do. Alright. Listen, my shift isn't over until five. Can you hang out for a couple of hours? Can you get over to my place? meet me there? You know where I live, right? There's a cafe and a bookstore across the street where you can kill some time..."
[ Melanie Brown’s Switcher Universe ]
by Iolanthe Portmanteaux
After I ended the call with Rowan, I took a second look at Merope's bag... what I hoped was a deeper, more careful look. It had occurred to me that Cleo's bags often featured hidden or extra pockets that weren't apparent at first glance. I'd struggled with them on occasion, when her phone was ringing in some undiscoverable location. I could hear the phone, and feel the phone through the wall of the bag, but find a way to extract the phone from the bag? Impossible.
It wasn't the case here, though. Merope's was a simple bag: one big pocket, two big handles. No secrets, no hidden pouches, no surprises. I'd already seen everything there was to see.
I furtively mulled over her three extra IDs for a bit. Why furtively? They couldn't all be legitimate, so the simple act of possessing several identity cards made me feel guilty and vulnerable. A random passerby could see at a glance that I was holding multiple drivers licenses. Could I be arrested simply for possessing fake IDs? Was holding three fakes three times worse than having one fake? I didn't know, so I tucked the extra IDs safely back in their envelope. For a moment I was tempted to toss them in the trash. The only reason I didn't was my hope that Rowan would be able to learn something from them.
Learn what? I didn't know. If I knew, I wouldn't ask the question, would I?
Why did I call them "extras"? It seemed to me that "Merope Goddard" must be this woman's real name. For one thing, hers was the only ID she kept in her wallet. Another point in Merope's favor was that her date of issue was a year and a half earlier than the others. Last point: the Merope ID looked worn, used, handled. The other IDs appeared uniformly pristine: fresh from the mint, so to speak, even if the dates of issue were months past.
I had to admit, though, that I was out of my depth. My conclusions made sense to me, but that didn't mean I was correct.
Certainly Rowan could cut through my confusion. Policemen see fake IDs all the time, don't they? Rowan probably had a fake drivers license himself when he was a teen. In any case, by now, he had both training and experience. He could probably pick out the fakes from ten feet away. And maybe he'd have an idea why she had three fakes in the first place. What was the point of that?
With a sigh I packed everything away, just the way I found it. Then quite suddenly, I felt very hungry, and that surprised me. After all, I'd eaten my usual breakfast, and less than an hour ago I'd consumed that bizarre scone.
Ah, but it was Anson who ate that food! My previous body, my previous self! I had no idea what Ms. Goddard had eaten and when. In fact, I'd been thinking (a little stupidly) on how abruptly the taste of that weird scone had vanished. Of course it vanished! It left with my old body. The Switcher, after he limped away, was probably asking himself what the devil I'd eaten before he stole my body.
I patted Merope's bag, reflecting that now I had the means to eat whatever sort of lunch I pleased. The question was: what did I want to eat? A quick stroll through downtown would give me some ideas.
Up I stood — and wobbled. Heels! I took a few experimental steps — small, slow steps... doing pretty well, or so I thought! Until I got a sense of my ridiculous posture: bent forward at the waist, backside sticking out, head tilted down so I could stare at my feet. Alright: I needed to work on my execution.
With a deep breath, I straightened up and squared my shoulders. I set my gaze straight, forward, direct, like a soldier. I kept my steps small, but decisive. Now I was making progress. The bricks were treacherous, though: when my heel hit any rough spot, my ankle wobbled dangerously. Clearly, I needed to get off the brick path.
There were plenty of exits; one at each city block, leading immediately to the paved streets of downtown. The closest was only a few yards; I directed my feet that way.
Immediately my incautious left heel sank into the space between two bricks and seemed to lock there. I tugged with my foot, but the shoe wouldn't move. In my old body, as Anson, I wouldn't have had any hope of reaching down to touch my feet — I'd have to sit on something if I needed to reach that far.
Now, as Merope, I was far slimmer, but my attempts to bend down and grab my shoe were hindered by my skirt: the farther I bent, the more I reached, the tighter my skirt constrained me. I began to fear that I'd bust a seam. I was slim, yes, but the skirt was tight. I kept bending my knees, to the point that I risked falling on my ass...
I straightened up. The best course of action was apparent: I needed to slip my foot out of the shoe and then... and then take it from there. Maybe I could nudge the shoe free and slip my foot back inside...
Before I had the slightest moment to lift my heel, a man approached me from behind, swiftly. "Here, let me help," he said. He didn't give me time to react: he simply reached down and grabbed my foot and shoe.
"I— I— was just about to take my shoe off," I stammered, too taken by surprise to protest more firmly.
"No need! No need!" he assured me. By rocking my trapped heel back and forth gently, he freed it, without damaging my shoe.
He straightened up, smiling, wiping his hands against each other.
"Thank you," I murmured, flushing red as a beet.
"Happy to be of service!" he replied. He made the motion of tipping his hat, and then he was gone.
In an overabundance of caution, I moved on tiptoe until I left the path and stood on an ordinary, concrete-paved sidewalk.
Where was I going? I felt a little confused, a little disoriented, after my encounter with that man. It was odd and somehow disturbing; I needed to digest the experience. Honestly, it shocked me. In fact, it shook me. But why?
He didn't touch me inappropriately, I didn't think. He wasn't rude — or was he?
What in his behavior bothered me, exactly? I replayed it in my mind's eye. He came up from behind me. I didn't have a chance to see him; not even a glance. Without so much as a by-your-leave, he grabbed my foot and freed my heel. When my foot was free, he left. He didn't take it as a pretext for chatting me up, which I was glad of. So what was the problem?
Not sure how to see it or understand it, I walked slowly toward downtown. The day was still incredibly lovely. The intense, vivid leaves were everywhere, shushing underfoot. There was a lot to enjoy.
At the same time, I felt perturbed. Was I making a mountain out of a molehill?
Then it clicked, and when it clicked, it made me angry. I said to myself, He grabbed my foot and freed it, the way you'd free a horse or donkey whose hoof was stuck. And that was it: he didn't treat me as a person. I doubted he'd do the same to a man, if a man's foot could somehow stick in a similar trap. He would have said, "Would you like a hand?" or "Do you mind if I—?" Instead, he assumed it was fine to put his hands on me.
Now that I understood what was bothering me, it morphed from a vague sense of shock and unease into a small angry fire. Then the fire dwindled down to nothing. Okay, the thing happened. I didn't die. It wasn't bad... it was only... slightly disconcerting.
I stopped for a moment to get my bearings, and reckoned my best bet for a decent lunch spot would be somewhere along Olduvai Street, just two blocks straight ahead.
Olduvai Street is an interesting mix. First of all, the posh shops are there. But so are the consignment shops, bistros, little pizzerias and ethnic fast food. As usual, Olduvai was busy with both locals and tourists with money. Most of the crowd appeared to be people who worked in the towers nearby: dressed in business casual, no shopping bags, no gawking.
I could feel my food preferences had changed. Hamburgers, pizza, burritos, didn't call out to me — they'd lost their appeal, at least in that moment. I found myself wandering into a vegan fast-food place that I'd never noticed before. I had a plate piled with leafy greens, falafel, humus, red cabbage with walnuts, and... I'm not sure what the other item was... some sort of meatless meatloaf... but everything tasted great; I liked the whole meal; it was *healthy*. I felt it doing me a world of good.
After I finished and cleared my table, I realized that there were no men in the place: only women. They were all professional women, all of them dressed along the same lines as myself. None of them gave me a second look. I blended right in. Is this my new demographic? I wondered. I took the restaurant's card. I was sure I'd be back. It seemed like a reference point I'd need in future.
For about an hour I wandered along Olduvai Street. The clothes stores — of which there were many — took my attention. I have to say, it's not that they drew me — they didn't. It was more the realization on my part that I'd have to pay more attention to that world now: the world of dresses, shoes, of colors and patterns. I'd need to know what's up-to-date and what's outdated. It seemed like a heavy task now, but I was sure my feeling would change, the more I learned about it, the more I immersed myself. Some of the second-hand stores had pieces that were colorful and bold. Would I be able to wear such things? Or would I stick with a more sober, neutral look, like what I was wearing now?
I suppose I could check in at the vegan restaurant, see how the women my (new) age were dressed, and base my decisions on that.
In spite of my musings, in spite of this feeling of having a new world to explore, the hour of walking, of window shopping, wore me out. I got tired, and felt grubby, dehydrated.
I bought a bottle of water and boarded the bus for Lavenrick. I wasn't in any hurry to get there. It wasn't the sort of place a woman would want to hang around alone, before Rowan arrived. Lavenrick is part of Greater Harmish, but It's a run-down area. It's not very appealing as a neighborhood. Even back when I was Anson, I wasn't very comfortable there.
I understood why Rowan lived there: the rents are low.
Even so, I needed to get off Olduvai Street. I needed to sit down. Lavenrick wasn't a great choice, but I had nowhere else to go. The bus was comfortable. The air conditioning was good. I sat. I relaxed. Nobody bothered me. I sipped my water.
Rowan had mentioned a bookstore and a cafe. I could hang out there; I didn't need to stand in the street.
In spite of recent noise about "gentrification" and "up and coming neighborhoods," Lavenrick hasn't changed for decades. The buildings, the sidewalks, the streets, and even the traffic signals and street lights look badly in need of a cleaning. Under the grime there are some architecturally interesting constructions, but inside, what kind of shape were they in? It was hard to imagine you'd find much that was promising when every block featured at least one building with its windows boarded up and its doors secured by thick, heavy chains held by massive padlocks.
The bus dropped me in front of Rowan's apartment. As I stepped off, the driver cautioned me in a low voice, "Be careful out there, lady, be careful."
His well-meant but unnecessary warning sent a chill through me. I looked around, up and down the street, and found literally nothing to be afraid of. As far as I could see, the only other person on the sidewalk was a short, stout woman in a beach chair, doing a crossword with an enormous pencil. She was on the far side of the street, several buildings down. I doubt I could throw a baseball that distance. A transistor radio (the first I'd seen in... what? forty years?) hung from the arm of the chair in a crocheted bag. I couldn't hear it well. Even the sound came from far off: a tinny gospel rendition: When The Roll Is Called Up Yonder.
I had two hours to kill. I tried the bookstore first. It was run by a man in his fifties who incongruously resembled Robert Vaughn, the actor who played Napoleon Solo in The Man From U.N.C.L.E. I think he was also in The Magnificient Seven — or was it The Magnificient Eleven? I couldn't quite remember, and almost asked the man, although he was probably too young to remember.
The building itself was three stories tall and extremely narrow. Inside it wasn't exactly dark, but the lighting had a effect of dimming rather than illuminating. In spite of the full, brilliant daylight outside, all the light inside came from the yellow glow from bare incandescent bulbs dangling at the ends of long, thick cords suspended from the ceiling. The place was crammed with bookshelves separated by narrow aisles. Definitely not up to the fire code. The store was surprisingly deep: from the front door I had an unobstructed view down the central aisle all the way to the building's back door. I could tell it was the back door because the upper half was a pane of white frosted glass, glowing with sunlight.
The owner followed my gaze. He smiled and said, "It's 300 feet, end to end. It's the entire length of the block on that side. I'd like to say that it's the length of a football field, but it's not." He shrugged. "Sometimes I *do* say it anyway, though." He chuckled at his own joke.
I hadn't spoken yet. I found myself taking deep breaths through my nose, sniffing. How long had it been since I'd set foot in a bookshop? As Anson... I couldn't even remember. As Merope... who knows? But the smell, that characteristic odor... there was nothing like it.
Seeing me with my head tilted back, the owner smiled and spoke again. "Nothing like the smell of old books, is there? Unfortunately for me, I can't smell it any more. Every so often it comes upon me, but as a rule... nothing. Tell me, what does it smell like to you?"
"Ah...," I breathed deep and slow, trying to take apart the scents in the air. "I never tried to analyze it before. I just took it as one thing: the fragrance of an old bookstore. Well... something like... chocolate? coffee? vanilla?"
"Those are the usual guesses," he conceded.
"What is it?" I asked. "I mean, what gives old books that smell?"
"I believe it's two things," he said. "The first is that, even after all these years, the paper in the books is drying. The evaporation process releases some aromatic chemicals into the air. Then, too, the books themselves are decomposing. Very, very slowly, but it's definitely happening. That's another component that your nose detects."
"Interesting," I replied.
"Let me know if I can help you find anything, or whether you're looking for any particular books. Otherwise, have fun browsing. My name is Gary."
He looked at me expectantly. I couldn't help it. I had to reply, "I'm Merope."
His eyebrows went up. "You pronounce it merrope, to rhyme with rope?"
"Uh... well, how do *you* pronounce it?" I asked. Honestly, I'd never seen or heard the name before today, and had no idea how anyone said it.
"Well, I'd say merra-pee, to rhyme with therapy, but what do I know? You're the first Merope to ever set foot in my shop; the first Merope I've ever met! I hope you don't mind my saying, but it's such an interesting name! Merope: the faintest of all the stars."
"Excuse me? Faintest? What do you mean by that?" Was he calling me stupid?
"Oh! I'm sorry! I don't mean anything bad by that! Not at all! My mind is like—" He gestured with his fingers, as if he meant to pluck an explanation from the air. "Let me put it this way: I sit in here all day long, thinking of this and thinking of that, with all these books around me. I can't help but follow every chance phrase and wild association my mind comes up with."
"And?"
"And? Oh! Yes! So... Merope is an unusual name, as I said. Putting on my amateur astronomer's hat, I can tell you that Merope is one of the stars in the Pleiades. I'm sure it's not the faintest star in our sky, but it's the faintest in that star cluster. That's all I meant."
I gave a murmured, "Okay, then." He added, "My mind is like... uh, if you say po-tay-toh, I can't help but think pah-tah-toh."
"Let's call the whole thing off," I quipped, half-singing. His face brightened.
"Well, done!" he exclaimed.
I regretted it immediately. I shouldn't have encouraged him. He took half a step closer to me.
"Okay," I said. "I'll guess I'll have a look around."
"Looking for anything in particular?"
"No, just browsing."
"Browse away," he replied with a grand sweep of his hand.
As I moved past his desk, past the spiral stair to the second floor, he scratched his head and gestured toward me with his index finger.
"Merope," he repeated. "Merope was also the mother of he-who-cannot-be-named." He followed that with a significant look.
"I'm sorry, but I don't know what you're talking about," I told him, and took another step further into the shop, away from him.
He frowned. "You're not a Harry Potter fan, then?"
"Nope!"
"None of the books, none of the films?"
I shook my head in the negative.
"Ah. Pity." Undeterred, he dug into his memory once again. "Merope Riddle!"
"Um, no," I replied. Not my-- not Merope's last name, but I wasn't about to tell him what it was.
"No, no — Not you! Merope Riddle was Voldemort's mother!"
"Sorry, I'm not following. Is this still a Harry Potter thing?"
"Yes, yes, I apologize. Merope... Merope Riddle... Voldemort... Harry Potter... I hear a word... an idea... a name and i'm off to the races, pulling out every stray word association. As in this case, to the name Merope."
In spite of wanting to end the conversation, I found myself admitting, "I'm surprised the name means anything to you. Me, myself, I'd never heard the name before."
He frowned, trying to puzzle it out, then asked, "Before what?"
Damn it. Oh, well, out with it. I confessed, "I'm a victim of the Switcher."
"Ohhhh! I see! A very recent victim?"
"Yes, it happened just a couple of hours ago."
He nodded, looking me up and down — an open appraisal, as though my admission gave him license for indiscretion. "I must say," he said, "I can't imagine that you were better off before the switch."
I didn't know how to respond to that... that line. All I could do was clear my throat and repeat that I was going to browse the bookshelves.
He let me walk away at that point, and I did have a good time scanning the shelves, pulling down a book here and there, blowing the dust off some long-untouched tomes...
Every so often he'd pop up. He seemed to have an instinct for when I was bending down to check the lower shelves.
"You were a man before, weren't you," he stated.
"Yeah," I responded curtly.
"I can tell because you're a little stiff, you know? Like you're not quite used to your new... uh... anatomy." He gestured with both hands in front of his chest followed by a second gesture, signifying my hips.
I nodded, not smiling. He seemed to take the hint, and retreated to his desk, up front.
Later, he came back again, this time with the observation/question, "Before the switch, you were an older man, weren't you. And I'm guessing you weighed a fair amount... that you were overweight." He moved his hands as if trying to feel a invisible belly in the air before him. "I'm putting this together from the way you move."
"I see," I replied. I felt that my responses were pretty arid, devoid of any encouragement. Again, he seemed to take the hint, and returned to his desk, but again, it was only a brief respite.
"You said you were switched just a few hours ago."
"Yes."
"That's, uh, not a very long time. Am I right in deducing that you haven't called the Processing Center?"
I didn't answer. I simply stared at him, looking him in the eye. I was getting fed up.
"Can I ask why you didn't call them?" he persisted. "I mean, I guess I understand: what's the point, anyway?"
In spite of myself, I asked, "How do you mean?"
"Well — it's not as though they can *fix* you, right? Not that you need fixing! I mean, this morning you were an old fat guy, right? and now you're a babe. They couldn't switch you back, even if — for some crazy reason — you *wanted* to. It's the Humpty Dumpty principle, right? All the king's horses and all the king's men?"
He chuckled to himself. "Besides, what can they do to you if you don't call? How would they even know?"
I had to confess, he'd raised an interesting question. But now that he asked, now that I thought on it — I'm a computer programmer, and the logic of it was immediately apparent to me. It was a simple linked list. I mused aloud, "I guess there's a chain of switches, you know? Person A swaps with person B, then C, and D, and so on. If A, B, and D call the Processing Center, it won't take long to figure out that C is missing, and who they are, inside and out."
"You've got a point there," he admitted, turning it over in his mind.
"As far as what they can do to help, they can sort out my identity, explain to my family..."
"Hold on, now." He put up his hand to stop me. "You said my family." He shook his head. "You saw the Switcher run off with your body. How long do you think he's going to be happy being you? This guy can be whoever he wants to be — whoever he happens to bump into. Believe me, if you were an old duffer like you say, he's going to swap you out for first younger model he meets. Whoever ends up playing you, THEY will get to meet your family and figure it out. You don't have to worry about it."
"I *do* worry about it, though. I can help but worry about it. It's my family. They'll wonder what happened to me, and I need a chance to at least say goodbye, if not make contact for the future. I didn't suddenly quit caring about them when the Switcher hit me."
He shrugged dismissively. "I'm pretty sure that you're going to have a lot more fun exploring your future than worrying about your past. I mean, look at this—" he took my my left hand and rubbed my ring finger with his thumb. "Not married. There's no sign you ever wore a ring on that finger. I'll bet you never had kids, either. From the look of those clothes, you work in an office somewhere. A nice office. And I'd bet cash money that there's a guy in that office, probably a good looking guy, with a nice sized wallet, and he's dreaming about boning you. Night and day."
I pulled my hand out of his grasp.
"What a lovely picture," I commented, in a voice dripping with sarcasm and disdain.
"Hey, don't knock it. Looking the way you do, you could probably get married in no time. And once you do, you can just sit back and say, Honey, why don't you rub my feet for me? or Baby, will you suck on my toes while I watch TV?" Not seeing the reaction he hoped for, he concluded with a shrug, "Worse things could happen."
"I guess," I acknowledged, not really meaning it.
"Look, I actually know two people who went through those processing centers. The people in those centers — all they want to do is fill out some paperwork and kick you the hell out."
"Don't they do have to do some job placement, and give out new identities?"
"Maybe they used to, but all they do now is give you a thousand bucks, a listing for a shitty job out in West Nowhere, North Dakota, and a bus ticket that'll take you halfway there. You know how people say Don't let the door hit your ass on the way out?"
"Yeah, I guess."
"At the processing centers, they don't even bother to say it."
He went on to recount the experiences of his supposed friends in the processing center. The more he talked, the less I believed. His stories had the smell of urban legend — the sort of thing that happens to "a friend of a friend." Someone you don't know. Someone who has no name. In reality, of course, there is no friend. It's all made up and attributed to an imaginary person.
In spite of my disbelief, I listened. Mainly because I still had time to kill, and he was halfway entertaining, as long as he wasn't hitting on me.
After he ran out of tall tales, he offered me a cup of tea, which put me in mind of the coffeeshop next door. "I own this whole building," he boasted, waving his hand as if to take in his whole domain. "I live on the third floor. I could fix you a nice cup of tea. I've even got those digestive biscuits that the Brits love." Then, struggling to keep his facial expression neutral, he offered, "I've also got a bed up there, if you, ah, need to lie down after your ordeal."
I declined, politely if somewhat icily, and left.
The atmosphere in the cafe was much easier. The couple who ran the place were friendly, but not chatty. I tried to dawdle and make my muffin and cup of coffee last as long as possible, but after thirty minutes I was ready to leave. It was a nice place, but it wasn't a very large one, and I felt like a dog in a manger after my coffee was gone. Oddly, after the coffee, I felt a hankering for a cigarette. Funny, because I didn't notice either cigarettes or a lighter in the bag. It wasn't a very strong desire, but...
I asked at the counter, "Do you sell loose cigarettes?"
She gave me a strange look. "That's illegal, don't you know?"
"I didn't know," I told her. "But it would pass the time, and I don't want a full pack."
So... no cigarettes. After a few minutes the desire was gone.
At a loss for anything better to do, I walked two blocks North, then came back again. I looked at the time. Still early. I walked two blocks South, then back again. One block East, then back again, and at that point Rowan arrived. Grinning like a possum eating sweet potato, he asked, "Mr C?"
Rowan — if I had to describe him in a word — looks like a cop. He's six feet tall, long, strong upper body, strong arms and legs. Lean, without a scrap of body fat on him. His shoulders and hips are narrow, like his head, giving him an almost feral look. Not like a wolf, though: if Rowan were an animal, he'd be a wild dog, or a dingo, or a coyote. As far as looks... he was the kind of man that women call "not bad looking."
"Unfortunately yes, it's me," I assured him. "Can we get off the streets?"
Walking in this part of town — as opposed to walking downtown or along the river — was rather hot work. There were no trees or grass. The streets, the sidewalks, and the buildings radiated all the heat they accumulate during the day, and there wasn't a breath of wind. Consequently, I was drenched with perspiration, even the palms and backs of my hands.
"I wouldn't say unfortunately," he shot back with a big grin. Rowan give me a thorough visual assessment, nodding as his eyes traveled from my feet to my head, then back down again. "You've done pretty well for yourself, Mr C. Definitely an improvement! Not that there was anything wrong with the old you! But the new you... You're something else."
"Stop it, please," I muttered, shaking my head.
"Come on, Mr C! I'm just teasing! Trying to lighten the mood. Even so, everything I said is 100% true." He opened the building's front door and we stepped into the entryway. "Just gotta get my mail," he narrated, as he unlocked the the small, narrow, incredibly squeaky door and fished out some bills and advertisements. Finally, he unlocked the inner door and we passed through into a long hallway. The air was cool, but seemed old somehow.
"No elevator," he explained in an apologetic tone, and he pushed open the door to the stairwell. "Luckily, it's only one flight." He gestured with his hand, saying, "Ladies first," as if it was a capital joke.
Earlier, in the bookstore — and against my better judgment — I had climbed a spiral staircase (much to the interest of the owner, Gary). This stair was less awkwardly constructed than the tight, rickety spiral, but once again I felt the constraint of my tight skirt around my thighs. And, as Gary had so ungraciously pointed out, I wasn't quite used to my new anatomy.
With a sigh, I explained to Rowan, "This skirt doesn't seem tight until I have to actually move my legs — and the damn thing makes me walk funny!"
"Oh, do you think so?" Rowan asked.
"Well, yes!" I exclaimed. "It's as though my thighs were bound together. I can't lift my foot to the next step without practically pressing my knees together and swinging my hip to the side!"
"Is it like [he cleared his throat] is it like when you're driving, and you have to take your turns wide?"
"Well, it's something like—" I began, but stopped when Rowan had a fit of coughing. Concerned, I turned back to look at him, and realized that he was laughing, not coughing. "Oh, it's SO funny, isn't it!" I exclaimed, red-faced with indignation and embarrassment.
"No, no!" he protested. "Look: I'll admit you're a little awkward. But you're definitely not funny," and he let out a few coughing laughs.
"If it's not funny, why are you laughing?"
"It's the things you say!" he cried. "Believe me, if you weren't describing it, any man alive would be silent, fascinated by your bee-hind as you climb the stairs."
"Hmmph!"
"That's a good thing, believe me."
I huffed, trying to move a little faster.
"Mr C, you should be pleased to know: I'm giving your caboose a very high rating on the Rowan scale."
"Rowan, these comments of yours are more than a little rude, and not very sensitive. This Switcher episode has put me very much out of sorts. Finding myself in a woman's body is confusing and disconcerting!" After a pause, I added in a quieter voice, "And often humiliating."
"I'm sorry," he apologized. "I wasn't trying to hit on you or even tease you. Honestly, I thought I was doing you a favor."
"Doing me a favor? What on earth are you talking about? How could speaking to me that way possibly be doing me a favor?"
"Okay, look: I tried to put myself in your position — seriously! And I figured, one, that you used to be a guy... so you wouldn't get all worked up and offended the way a woman... might. And, two, I figured that... now that you're a woman, you'd find it reassuring."
"Reassuring? Rowan, those are not the—"
He interrupted, speaking with a lot of emphasis: "Reassured about how you look," he said. "A lot of women are insecure. They don't know how they look to men, and I figured you'd want to know how attractive you are. You have killer legs, for instance."
"Well, uh, then, uh, thanks — I guess."
"And don't worry: I'm not hitting on you. I'm not going to hit on you. I have a girlfriend. A serious girlfriend." We'd reached the top of the stair. He reached past me to open the door to the upstairs hallway. "Incidentally," he added in a quieter tone, "my girlfriend can be quite jealous."
I paused in the doorway. "Okay, noted. Does she live with you?"
"No... not yet, anyway. But if she calls, don't talk or make noise, alright? And if she comes over, just... act normally."
"That's what I usually do," I assured him.
Like all the other apartment doors in this building, Rowan's door was a thick, heavy, six-panel knotty pine affair, with three locks. His apartment surprised me. I expected an environment that reflected the outside: I expected empty beer bottles, old hamburger wrappers and pizza boxes, but there was none of that. The place was spotless and in good order. The walls were painted a creamy beige. Everything was wood and earth tones. The furniture was sparse: a love seat, an armchair, a coffee table, a small sideboard — all of it tasteful, harmonious. It wasn't luxurious, mind you: most of the pieces were clearly second- or third-hand, but carefully chosen. The only thing on the walls was a framed poster of a vintage advertisement, probably from the 1920s. It showed a woman lounging on a couch, wearing headphones. I don't recall the brand.
"Wow, Rowan! I didn't expect this!"
Rowan disappeared into his kitchen. I heard the refrigerator door open, followed by the hiss of a beer bottle opening, and the clatter of its cap on the kitchen counter.
"You expected some kind of pigsty, didn't you?" he countered. Sticking his head out from the kitchen doorway he asked, "Beer? Water? Something else?"
"A beer, if it's cold," I answered.
He popped another open for himself, and walked over to hand one to me. It was so cold there were thin bits of ice sliding down the outside of the bottle. I tipped the bottle to my lips and gratefully took a healthy mouthful.
"Hmmph," he observed, with a grin, "You're still enough of a guy that you don't need a glass. I bet you're going to let a rock-shattering burp rip in a minute."
"I would never—" I began, thinking that I didn't "let rip" burps as Anson, but as I spoke, a bolt of gas slipped out, under my radar. It erupted into a sharp, frog-like belch. Rowan laughed, snorting, "You almost reached the Richter scale with that one."
"Sorry, I—"
He waved my apology off. "Anyway, you didn't answer my question, Mr C: you thought I lived in a pigsty, didn't you?"
"Well, not as bad as that...," I hedged. "I expected... well... empty bottles, pizza boxes... I mean, I didn't expect furniture this nice... everything tasteful and coordinated... and all so clean. I'm sorry, I underestimated you." I stopped, catching a scent in the air— "It even smells clean! Is that an herbal scent? It's almost faint, but definitely there."
"Yep. Scented candle from yesterday, or the day before." He took a swig from his beer. "Anyway, though, I'll admit — if you visited here maybe a year ago, it would have been like you said. Not a pigsty per se, but... you had the details right. All this... cleanliness and harmony and nice smell... this is all due to Femke, my girlfriend."
"Femke? Is she Dutch?"
"Yep. She's great. She could probably give you some pointers about being female, if you're open to it."
"Sounds like a great idea."
Rowan took a step back, away from me, and made some strange facial contortions. "Um, speaking of scents," he said, bringing the back of his hand near his nose, "You've been sweating pretty hard, haven't you."
"Oh, sorry, do I smell bad?"
"Big time. Listen, I want to hear the story of your encounter with the Switcher, but first you need a shower. I'll give you a towel. Use the girly looking shampoo and body wash and such in the shower. I'll lay out some of Femke's clothes on the bed that you can wear." He glanced at his watch. "When you go into the bathroom, hand me out your clothes and I'll run them down to the dry cleaner around the corner. They have a rush service; they'll have them ready by morning."
"Okay," I agreed. "Just one thing, though: while I'm in there, can you go through this woman's bag? See if you can figure out what... uh... well, whatever you can out about her. Okay?"
"Sounds intriguing," he agreed. "Oh, and if you're hungry, I can order some Chinese. There's a great place a few blocks from here."
Showering was quite an interesting experience, though I didn't have time to dwell on my anatomical changes. Rowan cautioned me that the hot water tends to run out quickly. "So do your hair and your face, first and fast. Just remember that a cold blast is coming." And so it did! I managed to clean my head and upper body with hot water, but ended by dancing in an icy spray as I rinsed the soap off my legs and feet.
Honestly, though, as different as it felt to have a full pair of breasts as well as a completely reformatted pelvis, the most interesting part of the shower was washing my hair! Anson's hair was sparse and thin. It was decades since I enjoyed the sensation of running my fingers through my hair, and Merope had plenty of hair.
As I dried myself, I examined my new face in the mirror. I liked it. It wasn't show-stoppingly beautiful, but it was nice enough. Merope looked like a good person, even if her purse might say otherwise.
But then, a question came. I opened the door a crack and yelled, "Rowan? Are you here?"
"Yes, I'm here. What do you need?"
I shouted, "What does Femke do with her hair after a shower?"
"In the middle drawer of the vanity there's a big comb, with big teeth. She combs her hair with it, like a thousand times."
I fetched the comb and washed it with hand soap. I ran it through my hair and immediately hit a snag. "Patience," I counseled myself. Better get dressed first, I realized.
Rowan had laid out a light yellow sports bra, a pair of white panties, soft blue shorts, and a small, tie-dyed blue t-shirt that read, I'M NOT ANGRY, I'M JUST SMILING IN DUTCH.
The shorts were a little snug, but aside from that, the clothes fit me pretty well. They were far more comfortable than the business clothes Merope wore.
When I emerged from the bedroom, Rowan glanced at me and asked, "Clothes okay?"
"They're fine. They're great. Thanks."
"You can thank Femke, when you meet her," he replied with a little grin.
"Is she coming tonight?"
"No, but you'll meet her eventually, I'm sure. Um, look over there—" he pointed to a small drying rack. "Your intimates. I handwashed them in Woolite and hung them to dry."
"Dry cleaner? Woolite?" I asked. "Rowan, you're really been domesticated, haven't you?"
"I've learned a few things," he replied, still smiling, not rising to the bait, though I sensed I might be touching a nerve. "I'm not a complete savage."
"Yes, I can see that." I had to be careful, to not tease him too much. I needed his help now, and would probably need him in future, so there was no point in aggravating him.
Rowan was sitting at his small dining table with the contents of Merope's purse spread across it, along with his laptop.
"Revenons à nos moutons," Rowan announced grandly, "Let's get back to the matter at hand!" He opened his hands, palms up, as if he were displaying all of Merope's possessions. "This is a very interesting woman," he said. "Our Miss Merope is a quite the woman of mystery."
"Mystery!" I repeated, "Is she a good mystery, or a bad mystery?"
"Is there a difference?" he replied.
[ Melanie Brown’s Switcher Universe ]
by Iolanthe Portmanteaux
"It makes a BIG difference!" I cried. "If this woman is a career criminal, or a spy, or if she's on the run from the law, I— I— I don't want that! I don't want to start out this life in a heap of trouble!"
"All right, fine, I get it," he responded, low key. "But try to calm down, okay? Everyone in the building doesn't need to know the details of your new life, okay?"
"Right. Okay," I agreed in a quieter voice.
"You don't inherit her troubles. Same way as you don't inherit her debts, if she has any. Keep in mind: the processing center is going to give you a clean slate, right? Whatever this Merope person did or does, it's not going to stick on you. You could even get a brand-new name, if you want one — although I think you ought to stick with Merope."
I noticed that Rowan was pronouncing it merra-pee, exactly the way the man in the bookstore had.
"Rowan, have you heard this name before? Merope?"
"Nope. First time ever. I had to look up how to pronounce it."
I was relieved to hear that. I didn't want to be the only dummy who'd never heard the name before.
"But look," I told him, returning to my previous point, "suppose she's mixed up with the wrong kind of people — you know, criminals. Maybe she stole that money—" I gestured to the cash, sitting on Rowan's table "—maybe people are coming after her. I mean, even if they give me a new name and all that, they aren't going to give me a new face. I mean, they aren't going to spring for plastic surgery. I don't want someone to recognize her on the street and stab me or shoot me for something she's done!"
Rowan smiled — not quite laughing, but almost. "Don't let your imagination run wild. I'm pretty sure I know where the money came from.'"
The buzzer sang out. Our Chinese take-out had arrived. I tried to give Rowan a twenty from Merope's stash, but he refused to take it. "You'll need it," he advised.
The food was excellent. For about five minutes, the two of us stuffed our faces in silence. Then, Rowan asked me to recount my experience with the Switcher. I pushed back; I tried to insist that he go first, and tell me what he'd discovered about Merope Goddard (if that really is her name), but he flatly refused.
"Look: your Switcher experience is over," he said. "It's a story with a beginning, middle, and — above all — an end. You tell it, it's done. But once we start on Merope... we could end up talking all night. I want to hear about the Switcher. I've never met anyone who was switched before."
I told him my story. I tried to keep it brief. Honestly, it was pretty brief already. Rowan found it amusing that the Switcher got stuck — at least temporarily — in the body of an overweight retiree with a twisted ankle. I was offended by his chuckles, even if that part of me had awkwardly stumbled out of my life, and I'd probably never see him again.
On the other hand, Rowan was intrigued by the metal cylinders. "The Switcher took four little cylinders — it was four, right? — out of the bag, but he didn't take any of money?"
"That's right."
"Weird."
"Are you sure the cylinders weren't rolls of money? Did you get a good look?"
"Yes, I got a good look, and no, they were too long to be rolls of money. And they weren't very big around. Anyway, I'm sure they were metal. Like aluminum or steel. I heard them clink and clank against each other in his hand, and when he put them in his pockets."
He frowned, thoughtful. "Were there any markings on the cylinders?"
"Not that I could see. They were all smooth, unmarked, no labels." I shrugged to show that I knew no more.
"Did they make any sound, like a rattle? Like there was something inside?"
"Nope," I shot back tersely. I was beginning to get a little impatient.
He tried a few guesses as to what the cylinders could be, but none of them were even remotely plausible.
"Okay, enough about the cylinders," I told him, a little peeved. "I want to talk about Merope. Did you figure anything out?"
"I did," he said, "A fair amount, but first, I have to ask you: why did you call me? Why didn't you call the processing center?"
I let out a long breath. "I don't know," I said. "I know that I was supposed to, but..." I made some vague, helpless gestures with my hands. "It's just that, on TV, in the public-service announcements, they make it seem simple: This morning, you were Tom. Now, you're Harry! What fun! But they're wrong! It's not fun, and it's NOT simple! It's not simple at all." I paused a moment to think. "You know, one of those spots ends with this ten-year-old kid, who supposedly used to be a 45-year-old man. He looks into the camera and says, We all have to play the hand we're dealt. Then he makes a stupid joke about shuffling." I looked Rowan in the face. He was sympathetic, listening. "Okay, so: some hands are easier than others. I mean, imagine if this woman—" I gestured at myself "—imagine if she was suddenly dumped into my old body: she'd double her age and double her weight in a instant — plus all the other changes... Or what if you're ten years old and you're suddenly in the body of a terminally ill ninety-year-old? I'm lucky, I know it: I've been shifted back to the beginning of my life. I've got decades of possibilities ahead of me. Whoever the Switcher puts into my old body... well, they aren't quite at the end, but if they were young, they'd lose all those decades of possibilities."
Rowan didn't answer. Was he really listening? I had the feeling he was simply waiting for me to finish talking. Even so, I felt like there was something important I wanted to say, but... I couldn't articulate it. So, with a sigh, I dropped it. There were more important things to talk about. I looked up at him and asked, "Okay, so tell me: who is Merope Goddard?"
Rowan smiled and rubbed his hands. "Alright! Let's put it this way: she *was* doing something bad, but she's not a career criminal, at least as far as I can see. All in all, I think you were pretty lucky, landing in her life."
My eyebrows popped up. I leaned forward, expectant. He held his hand up to say hold your horses a minute! and said, "I just want to point out that you didn't answer my question. You didn't tell me why you called me instead of the processing center, but — whatever. It's fine. I'll let it go."
I huffed in frustration. "I thought I did tell you! I wanted help figuring out who she is, or was! I don't know whether the center will take the time to do that!" After a pause I added, "I'm not sure they'll go as far as I want them to go. I didn't think they'd answer all the questions I had, especially about her potentially criminal life. Also, I want to know whether I'm in any kind of danger."
He nodded. "Okay. I get it."
"Another thing: I think they'd look at this stuff and unilaterally make some big decisions for me. I just... I just want to have some input. I want to make my own plans, as far as I can."
Rowan nodded. "I get it," he said. Then he slipped his hands into a pair of gloves.
He explained, "If you bring these to the center, I don't want my fingerprints on any of it. I used gloves every time I touched this stuff."
He grouped the three extra IDs and tapped them with his index finger. "These are all fake. They look like the real thing, but all three are fake."
"Fake? How can you tell?"
"I'm a cop. We have a database; I looked up the license numbers — or at least, I tried to. These numbers don't exist. They look right, at least superficially, but if you search for them, you get a goose egg." He waved his hand dismissively. "This one is supposed to have a hologram printed over it, and this one is supposed to have a magnetic strip on the back. In any case, the details don't matter. What's important is that there's nothing useful for you here, because all the information is bogus. I tried the names, but they don't exist, either: no credit history, no social media presence, no local news references — nothing. The addresses are phony, as well. They don't exist. Either the streets aren't there or the numbers aren't there or both. Everything comes from the land of NOT FOUND." He paused and took a swig of beer. "The credit cards, on the other hand, were good — at least the numbers anyway — until about two or three weeks ago, when they were reported stolen."
I frowned, and felt my face turning red.
"I think I can explain all that," he said. "But first, good news! In spite of what I just said, none of these names, including Merope's, have a criminal record. No outstanding warrants — at least not in this state, or in the states named on the drivers licenses."
"So the Merope ID is real?"
"Merope is a real person, yes.
"And she's from Omaha?"
"Yes, she's Omahamian — or whatever you call a person from Omaha."
"I call them a person from Omaha."
He laughed.
"Oh!" I exclaimed, remembering, "You said I should stick with the Merope ID. Why is that?"
"I'll come to that," he said. "But first, I have a pretty simple explanation for the multiple IDs and credit cards. It's more than likely that Merope was making a little money, buying stuff with stolen credit cards."
"How does that work?"
"There'll be a guy who organizes it. He gathers stolen card numbers, and he puts those numbers on blank credit cards, along with a fake name — real card number, fake name. He also makes a fake drivers license in that same fake name."
"Why?"
"Someone like Merope will take a pair of fakes -- a credit card and a drivers license -- into a big store and buy a huge TV or a computer — something like that. A big-ticket item. Hopefully she'll get out of the store before the card is reported stolen. Out in the parking lot, she hands the merchandise to the guy who gave her the card. He gives her a couple hundred bucks, which is a small cut of what he makes when he sells the TV at a discount."
"I see."
"There's $10,000 in the envelope... a little more than $2500 in the wallet. Most of it she probably earned legally... she probably had a legitimate job... maybe she sold her belongings before she left Omaha... because if she earned her money the way I just described, buying big-ticket items with stolen cards, it would have been forty, fifty... maybe even sixty trips to different stores, which is a lot. Too many, in fact. Especially when you consider that you can't keep hitting the same stores. So I think this was a side gig for her. Not her regular profession. Not her principal source of income."
He gathered the cards and squared up the stack. "Judging by the dates the cards were reported stolen, Merope probably used these cards — or was supposed to use these cards — three or four weeks ago, before the Switcher caught her. She should have already destroyed them. In fact, it shows that she didn't do this a lot. Somebody who *did* do this a lot wouldn't have hung onto these cards and IDs. Like I said, probably just a little side gig; something she did a handful of times. Nothing to worry about."
"Should I throw the fakes away then?" I was a bit alarmed by having any fake IDs at all. I didn't want to carry them, even if I fully intended to hand them over to the processing center. They felt... radioactive. "Is there a safe way to destroy them?"
"I'm not sure what to do with them yet," he replied. "We can wait until you come back from the processing center and cut the cards up then. Or hand them in. It depends on how much you want to tell the people at the center; which way you want to go."
I felt my breath catch in my throat.
"I don't know what you mean, Rowan. I have to tell them the truth, don't I? What choice do I have? I've got to tell them everything. Otherwise..."
"Otherwise, what? Just think for a minute: What would happen if the Switcher threw this bag in the trash before he met you? You wouldn't know anything about it. You wouldn't even know your name. Neither would the processing center."
"But that's not what happened."
"What if the Switcher took all the problematic stuff out of the bag before he met you? You wouldn't know anything about the money, about the fake IDs... and neither would the processing center."
"Yes, but—"
"No buts. When you go in there, all they know is what you tell them -- and what's in the bag. If we set the money aside, leave just — say — $45 in the wallet, the folks at the center will look in and say, "Huh. Forty-five dollars. Why didn't the Switcher take it?"
At first I was speechless. Then I protested, repeating, "I have to tell the truth, don't I?"
"Do you?" he asked. "In any case, I never said you should lie. I think it would be a good idea to leave some things out — like this money, for instance. Suppose you go in tomorrow with all the money. What are the chances they'll confiscate it?"
After a pause, I mumbled, "I don't know... fifty-fifty?"
"Yeah. I don't think they'll have a problem confiscating the money. I mean, it's Merope's money, right? Are you Merope?"
"Maybe. I don't know."
"No matter how Merope got this money, she earned it. Don't throw it away! You're going to need it."
"I guess."
"Look, I'm going to leave $45 bucks or so in the wallet, and I'll keep the rest here until the center is done with you." Rowan moved some of the currency from the wallet to the money envelope and went to hide the envelope somewhere in his bedroom. When he returned, he said, "I think you ought to leave the fake IDs and credit cards here with me as well. I mean, especially if you want to keep Merope's ID. You go in there with four sets of identification, they'll probably take them all off of you."
"Why would I want Merope's ID?" I asked him.
He looked at me, clearly weighing something in his mind. "Let's hold off on that, okay? I have a reason, and I'll tell you, but I want to get through the stuff in this purse first."
Rowan sat down at the table and motioned for me to sit as well. He picked up the bag. "Let's set aside the easy stuff." He took the small pack of tissues, the lipstick, the tampon and sanitary pad, and set them at one end of the table. "Just regular women's stuff."
"Then, we have this." He held up the pen. "This is kind of unusual. It's special."
"It's a nice looking pen," I acknowledged.
"It's more than nice looking," he told me. "This pen is expensive. It's a Pineider Rollerball in Bordeaux Methacrylate. Don't be impressed; I had to look it up. It costs more than $600. That's a little strange, because Merope's bag is nothing special. You'd think that someone who has a pricey pen would have a bag from Louis Vuitton or whatnot. I mean — not that this isn't a nice bag, but I looked it up, too, and you can find it on sale at Macy's for $20 downtown. Also, the pen is in pristine condition, while the bag looks like it's been in daily use for a couple months."
"Are you saying the pen was stolen?"
"No, I'm just pointing out that it's incongruous. It sticks out; it doesn't fit. BUT, we can't jump to conclusions. Maybe Merope had a thing for expensive pens. Who knows? Right now we're just collecting facts. Okay? Moving on: the wallet, like the bag, is nothing special."
"And that's it!" I exclaimed. "There's nothing else! I still don't know who this woman is!"
"Wait," Rowan said. "There's more. I mean, let's think about what's missing."
I looked at the items lying on the table. "There's no phone."
"Correct."
"There aren't any photos, or papers."
"Right."
"No store receipts or business cards. There's nothing to tell me who she was or where she's been."
"Something else is missing," Rowan prompted.
I turned my gaze once again to the items on the table. I thought about the items Cleo usually carried. It seemed like her bag was always stuffed with papers and... "Hand sanitizer?" I ventured. I tried to picture Cleo, digging through her bag, looking for...
"Keys!" I exclaimed.
"Exactly," he agreed, and sat back in his chair with a smug smile.
"And what's so great about that?" I asked.
"Well," he said, "let's talk about this more-or-less empty purse. I've never seen a woman with a bag so empty. Have you? Do you think the Switcher went to the trouble of cleaning it out? Of purging all Merope's stuff?"
"Seems unlikely. Why would he bother?"
"I'm guessing that Merope did it. I think she came to Harmish looking for a fresh start. I bet she was going for a job interview. That's why she wore those nice clothes. I think she was done with Omaha and didn't like earning money illegally. She came here to start over! So... how do you think she got here?"
"How would I know?" I shot back, a little irritated by the question. "Train? Plane? Bus?"
"She drove here," he replied, crossing his arms and smiling even more smugly than before.
"How do you know that?"
"Because her car was ticketed not far from downtown. Expired meter."
I tried to consider what it could mean to me, but all I came up with was, "Okay, so if I'm Merope, I have some kind of car."
"Right. A ten-year-old Corolla. Color: yellow."
"But there's no key."
"If you're Merope, you can have a key made. You call a locksmith. They want to see that your drivers license matches the name on the registration, and you can show that."
I fell silent, thinking about how much that would cost.
"If you want to know who Merope was, that car is probably full of clues."
"I guess," I conceded.
"I'm sure," he countered. "Okay, here's the plan—" as he spoke, he swept the tissues, the lipstick, the tampon and sanitary pad into the bag. "You take this bag with you to the center tomorrow morning—" He picked up the wallet, inserted Merope's ID and credit card, and $47 dollars. "Forty-seven bucks," he said. "That's believable."
Then, with a sigh, he dropped the pen into the bag as well. "I hate to see this go. Those clowns will probably confiscate it. Try to keep it if you can. They don't have any right to take it, but..."
Then he asked for my phone — Anson's phone. He looked at it. "You turned it off. Did you call your wife? Did you call Herman?"
"No," I said. "I'm feeling really guilty. Cleo's probably worrying..."
"If you call her now, you're going to make a mess. Leave it to the processing center to make the first contact. As far as I know, they'll bring the two of you together — or the three of you together — to see if your family will let you live with them."
"Will let me live with them?" I repeated, my voice rising. "LET me live with them? It's my house! Bought and paid for by me!"
"Try to keep your voice down," Rowan reminded me. "The *me* you're talking about is Anson. You're not Anson any more."
With that, he dropped my phone — Anson's phone — into Merope's bag.
"Why are you doing that?" I demanded.
"Calm down," he said. "You want these guys to let you be Merope. If you give them something to scold you about, something they can legitimately take from you, they're more likely to let you get away with something else."
"That doesn't make sense."
"Trust me, it does. Plus, if they're lazy, letting you stay Merope means less paperwork for them."
He pushed the bag toward me and stripped his gloves off. "Take this bag, just like this, tomorrow morning. Don't talk about what's not there. Don't even hint at what used to be there. Don't tell them any of the things we learned. Just forget everything that's not in the bag, okay? Tell them that you saw the Switcher take stuff out. Tell them all about the cylinders. It's probably important. They are probably the reason he's in town." I glanced away for a moment, so he snapped his fingers to get my attention. "Listen to me. Listen carefully: Don't add anything to what actually happened, okay? No embellishments. Don't make stuff up. Don't lie. Don't draw any conclusions for them. Don't give them any theories. Don't say that he took the envelope or anything but the cylinders. You don't know about any envelopes because you never saw any envelopes." He studied my face for a moment. "Can you do that?"
"Of course I can!"
"Okay. So tell me: what's in the bag?"
"Tissues. Feminine hygiene products. Wallet. Lipstick. Anything else?"
"You forgot the pen, but it's fine."
The bag's contents were analyzed and settled. "What's next?" I asked, "Rowan... What's the plan? Tomorrow morning, I call the center?"
"No, you don't have to do that. I'll drive you," he said. "We have to leave at about seven, which is when the dry cleaners opens. It'll take about 40 minutes to get to the center. That'll give us twenty minutes leeway up there in case of complications, and give me plenty of time to drive back and get to work on time."
"Have you been to the center before?"
"No. I've never been there. I told you: I never met anyone who was switched before. I looked up the address. It's a straight shot up I-60. Easy-peasy."
"Why is it so far away?"
"It costs money to run these places. Money, infrastructure, personnel... They call the centers regional, but some of the so-called regions cover three states."
"Do you think they might insist on giving me a new identity and sending me to live far away?" I asked.
He shook his head. "It's unlikely. Think about their procedure: First off, they find out who you are — I mean, the you inside; who you used to be. In your case, Anson Charpont. At the same time, they figure out who you are now, the physical you. In your case, Merope Goddard."
He took a breath. "Your situation is that of the typical Switcher victim: you've got a foot in two different worlds, Anson's world and Merope's world. The people at the center will see if they can fit you into one or the other. Your old family is closer. They'll probably call Cleo and Herman right away and — like I said before — they'll ask Anson's family if you can live with them."
I harrumphed. "I don't see how they can refuse me."
"They can. They absolutely can. Legally, Anson is dead. Or could be pronounced dead. It depends on what your family wants."
"You're not selling this very well, Rowan!"
"I'm not trying to sell it! I'm trying to adjust your expectations. Anyway... suppose your family says yes to you. Great! Then you go off to live with Cleo, and maybe with whoever is Anson now."
"Oh," I said in a small voice, getting the picture. "I didn't think about that! Now... with a different old me in the picture, it doesn't sound promising. They'd have to ask Cleo about him, too, right? What are the chances she'd want either of us? What are the chances she'd want both?"
"It would be awkward, to say the least. But you never know." He scratched his head. "Cleo... Herman... could decide to go for it."
I tried to picture myself, Merope, living with Cleo — or living with Herman. It was difficult to imagine.
"At the same time, they'll look into Merope Goddard. Does she have a family somewhere? Has she been reported missing? The center will reach out to Merope's people. Maybe Merope has parents who wonder where she's gone." Rowan gave a roguish smile. "Or maybe Merope has a husband, a man with a hard body and a desperate longing."
"Hardly," I told him in a dry tone. "Merope is already an adult, and she isn't married." I held up my left hand as evidence.
Rowan shrugged. "She might have a boyfriend." I made a face. "Maybe even a fiance." Rowan grinned. "He might be well endowed."
"Oh, Christ, Rowan!"
"He might be VERY well endowed."
"That's enough of that! I get the picture: The processing center looks at my old world and my new world and asks each one if they want me."
"That's a good way to put it. Then, if you're a no-go in both directions, they give you their whole-new-life bit. It's a package deal: a new name, a Greyhound bus ticket, and the offer of a shitty job that you'd never take. They walk you to the door, tell you the world is your oyster, and give you a great big swat on the butt, 'cause it's your birthday."
"Hmmph. You make it sound very bleak and cynical."
"You have to remember: the people in the center are just doing a job. You can't expect them to care. They get people in there who are freaking out, demanding to be put back in their old bodies. It's tough. It's hard work."
Rowan thought for a second, then told me. "So listen: the main thing, when you're dealing with them, is don't be demanding and don't freak out. Don't be pushy. The worst thing you can say is YOU HAVE TO HELP ME. It triggers them. If you say those words they will screw you in every way they can."
"Why would they do that?" I demanded. "They are there to help me!"
"Okay, yes, technically, yes, but, remember — they deal with freaked-out people all day, every day, okay? If *you* freak out, you're just another hysteric in a long line of hysterics. You'll be one more bad day, and that's all. They'll just want to get rid of you. On the other hand, if your attitude is, I'm cool with this. I'll be happy to wait if I have to... I'll be glad to leave here peacefully and get on with my life. I'll make-do with the hand I've been given — if you're like that, they'll be more likely to actually help you. Okay? Don't be demanding, don't freak out on them, and do NOT tell them what they're supposed to be doing. Act like you're on their team. Respect their time and their efforts, and everything will be okay. Okay?"
I didn't answer, so he asked again, "Okay?"
I nodded.
I nodded a second time, and suddenly felt very sleepy. A whole-body tiredness hit me all at once. In spite of myself, I let out a huge, open-mouthed yawn.
"All right," Rowan said. "You can sleep in the bedroom. I'll take the couch. What time do you want me to wake you?"
"We're leaving at seven? Wake me at six-thirty," I replied.
Now that I was finally alone, I sat on the edge of his bed. It felt surprisingly firm and comfortable. I looked around the room. There were two doors: one for the closet, one for the living room. There was one huge curtainless window, looking out on the bookstore and cafe across the street. The only furniture was a bureau. The bureau was centered between the outside wall and the door to the living room, leaving a small empty space.
I squeezed into the opening between bureau and wall, and lowered my butt to the floor. Hugging my knees to my chest, I rocked gently and quietly, thinking about Cleo. How would she react? She'll be angry, I told myself. She'll blame me, even if it's not my fault.
Or could she be happy to finally be rid of me? It seemed that lately all I could do was irritate and disappoint her.
My mind played over the events of the day. If only I hadn't argued with the Switcher. If only I hadn't stood on the bench. If only I'd turned west at the river. If only, if only.
Cleo, it's not my fault, I told her in my mind, as if she could hear me. It's really not my fault, I repeated, and started to cry, snuffling as quietly as I could manage.
[ Melanie Brown’s Switcher Universe ]
by Iolanthe Portmanteaux
After I'd cried myself to the point of exhaustion, I became aware of a soft, gentle sound... like a cooing. Was it pigeons? Raising my head, I focused all my attention on the sound. It wasn't constant; it came and went, like faint waves, hissing quietly on a distant beach. I tried to still my breathing, taking soft, shallow breaths. I sat motionless, my ears seeking out the source, until a low tone came in and made everything clear: It was Rowan, talking, having a hushful phone conversation. He was trying to not wake me. The other voice was too small and too far off for me to hear. I only got Rowan's half of the conversation, but of that, none of the words; only the murmur of his affectionate, sensual tone.
He must be talking with Femke, I told myself.
The sound was strangely soothing, like an emotional anchor for my shipwrecked soul. Listening to Rowan's kind yearning made it easier for me to think about Cleo. I didn't feel the pressure to parse out how much guilt I had to bear for what had happened to me. My breath quiet, almost imperceptible, I drank in the affirmations of his love for Femke. The muffled words pushed away my anxious need to blame myself or to search for some kind of pardon.
Sitting very still, holding my knees, tilting my head back to hear better... Rowan's voice was enough. It fed my soul.
I felt absolutely sure I wouldn't sleep a wink, sitting as I was on the hard, bare floor, wedged in between the bureau and the wall. The beer must have made me sleepy and susceptible, and the emotions of the day clearly wore me out — far more than I realized... I closed my eyes one moment, and the next moment, when I opened them, the pale light of morning was touching my window and filling the room.
Stiffly I got to my feet and looked down at my body: my new breasts, my smooth young legs. It wasn't a dream. I'd been switched. It really happened. The Switcher was no urban legend. I'd met him, and my life would never be the same.
Blinking, I examined the unfamiliar face in the mirror. How long until I'd be used to seeing the new me? How long before I'd expect to see that face, and feel that it was mine, and not some strange mistake or elaborate prank?
I had nice skin, though: soft, no zits, no obvious blemishes...
There came a soft tapping at the door, and Rowan gently called, "Mr C? Are you awake? It's six-thirty."
I opened the door. Rowan stood awkwardly at the very threshold, as if he'd pressed himself up against the door. His face was only inches away from mine. We both took an abrupt step back. At that point, I noticed he was fully dressed and ready to go.
"Thanks," I said. "I just woke up."
Looking over my shoulder in surprise, he thanked me for making the bed. "It's so perfect, it almost looks like you haven't slept in it," he commented.
"I don't think I got much sleep last night," I told him. "I'm not sure how much I slept and how much I just blanked out."
"Okay," he said. "I'm done in the bathroom. It's all yours." Blushing slightly, he pushed some balled-up cloth into my hands. "These are yours, too — it's your... intimates. Could you, um, put 'em in, um—" he gestured with his chin toward the bed. "Femke is here."
I glanced around the empty room behind him, puzzled. "Where is she? In the bathroom?"
"No, no — she's down in the street — across the street, getting breakfast."
"She's a seriously early bird, isn't she," I observed.
"You don't know the half of it," he replied. "She stopped at an all-night pharmacy and got you a few things." He handed me a plastic shopping bag. Inside was a toothbrush and toothpaste, a deodorant stick, a hairbrush, a box of tampons and one of pads.
"That's nice of her," I said.
"She said there are other things you need, but she wouldn't know which kinds until she met you."
"Huh," was all I could manage to say. I wondered in a vague way about Femke's motive for helping me, but before I could formulate my uncertainty into a question, Rowan gently pushed me toward the bathroom.
When I emerged ten minutes later, the table was spread with breakfast items.
"Hallo, Merope," Femke called. "Help yourself to breakfast here. Coffee?"
"Hi, Femke. Nice to meet you. Yes, coffee, please." She poured me a cup. I took an experimental sip of it: black, unsweetened.
"Wow!" I exclaimed. "That might be the best coffee I've ever tasted!"
"You Americans are so enthusiastic," Femke observed. "It makes me doubt your sincerity."
I was a little taken aback by her abrupt comment. Rowan, seeing my reaction, explained, "Dutch people are very... forthright."
"Forthright?" Femke repeated. "We would say frank."
"Anyway—" I broke in, "the coffee is good."
"Good, I'm glad," Femke acknowledged with a nod. She looked me up and down, and said, "I see we're about the same size. I'm sure I have something you can wear to this center of yours."
"Oh, no," Rowan said. "She needs to go in the clothes she wore when she was switched."
"Why?"
Rowan made a vague, helpless gesture. "I don't know why. They take the clothes you were wearing and analyze them."
"Analyze how?" Femke scoffed, smiling. "Do they think these clothes are soaked in moonbeams and sprinkled with fairy dust?"
I laughed. "She's right. What on earth could they possibly find?"
Rowan spread his arms, palms up, in surrender. "Why are you asking me? I haven't the slightest idea."
"Well, then, we'll have to bring something decent for her to wear when she leaves," Femke declared.
"We?" Rowan echoed. "Are you coming?"
"Yes," Femke replied, decisively. "*I* am going... but you are not. You have to work."
"I... don't... know...," Rowan said, drawing the words out.
"I do," Femke replied.
"How will you... get... there?" Rowan asked her, again drawing his words out slowly. "Will... you... take... the... ah—" As each word emerged from his mouth, Femke's eyebrows incrementally rose. I had no idea what he was getting at.
"I'll take *your* car," she declared. "The blue Golf." She shook her head. "Such a funny name for a car."
"And what will I do?" he demanded.
"Come on, Mr Big-City Detective," she quipped. "It's not such a great mystery. You know what you'll do."
He sat glumly for a few moments, then shrugged and said, "Okay."
I shook my head. "Should I ask?" I ventured. "I have no idea what you two are talking about."
In one voice, they replied, "No."
Femke glanced at the clock. She asked Rowan for the ticket from the dry cleaners, and left to pick up my clothes.
Rowan and I sat in silence. He cocked his head to listen to the apartment door slam, then the door at the top of the stairs, then the door at the bottom of the stairs, and finally the twin booms of the doors at the building's entrance.
"She's um, she's very nice," I said. "I like her."
Rowan laughed. "She's great. She does take some getting used to. But try to not take anything she says personally. It's cultural."
"What do you mean?"
"Dutch people shoot from the hip," he explained. "Forthright is the perfect word: it means direct, outspoken."
"And she's the one taking me to the center. Not you."
"She insisted on it. She's very curious about the whole Switcher phenomenon. She can't wait to talk to you about it. And... this... gender swap makes her curious as hell. Get ready for a thousand probing questions."
"Okay," I said.
"Another thing — she *really* wants to help you adapt to being female. In part it's because she's generous and helpful. It's also because she wants to observe the process."
"Well... honestly, I wouldn't mind the help... I think I can put up with the scrutiny." I shrugged and concluded, "I guess it's a fair trade off."
Rowan seemed relieved. "I'm glad to hear you say that," he said. Then, after a quick glance at the door, he leaned forward and sotto voce told me, "She doesn't know about the fake IDs or the money, and I don't think it's a good idea to mention any of that to her. At least not until you come back from the center."
He leaned back and took a sip of coffee. "It's probably fine to tell her about the cylinders, though. She might have an idea what they are. Who knows?"
Minutes later Femke arrived with my freshly cleaned clothes. She stripped off the plastic and handed them to me. "Get you going," she said. "If you need help knowing which end is up, call me."
When I emerged, dressed in what I thought of as my "Merope outfit," Femke nodded in approval.
"A very professional look," she commented. "You look like a bank worker."
"Actually, my son—" I began.
"At the center, they will think you're in charge," she joked. "You should try giving them some commands, to see whether they obey." She turned to Rowan. "What agency could she come from?"
"Homeland Security," he replied. "But not really — If she says it, they'd want to see her ID."
"Hmm, ja," Femke acknowledged. Then she looked up and clapped her hands once. "Wheels up!" she exclaimed. After giving Rowan a poke in the chest, she asked, "Is the car all gassed up?"
"Uh... I don't know," he responded slowly.
"I only heard the last word," she told him. "You answered no." She drew it out, the way he had. He handed her a set of keys. She set her own keys on the kitchen counter. They kissed.
Femke looked at me. "We are now boarding first-class passengers," she declared. "Do you have all your carry-on items?"
"Oh, the bag!" I exclaimed, picking up Merope's purse and looking inside. "I almost forgot!"
Femke said something that sounded like "skeet op!" and was out the door. I ran after her.
We exited through a back door to a parking lot behind the building, where Rowan's blue VW Golf was parked.
Femke gave a tsk and a sigh. "So dirty!" she exclaimed. "Does he never clean this car?"
We climbed in, and Femke took off with a roar.
Neither of us spoke until Femke threaded our way onto I-60.
"It's tricky getting on the highway from this part of town," I observed.
Femke grunted in assent. Then, after a quick glance at me, she said, "You know, I'm very excited to meet you. I've never known anyone who was switched before. Did you?"
"No, I never. In fact, I was beginning to believe the whole thing was just made up. An urban legend or conspiracy theory. If it wasn't for the PSAs—"
Femke interrupted with a growl. "When I was at university," she said, "One of the teachers put together a seminar. She called it The Psychology of the Switched. I found the title quite evocative, so I was the first to sign up."
"Was it interesting?" I queried.
"I never had a chance to find out!" she exclaimed. "There were two knuckleheads who didn't even sign up. They simply arrived. They turned the first session into an argument about whether the Switcher was real, or only an urban legend." She shook her head. "No one wanted to talk about *that*, but these two had a very provoking manner. They dominated the discussion, talking over people, interrupting..." Femke pulled into the left lane and passed a slow-moving panel truck.
"The second day, the teacher tried to get ahead of the troublemakers, but they changed tactics and this time they argued that the Switcher's victims weren't victims at all. They were mentally ill, or malingering."
"Oh!" I exclaimed. I felt my spirit deflate.
"I grew so angry that I left. The teacher was upset about her own inability to control the class, and she canceled the remainder of the seminar."
"That's too bad!" I agreed. "I hate that dog-in-the-manger attitude."
She turned and stared at me. At first I wondered whether she understood what I meant by a "dog in the manger." Then I worried that she'd taken her eyes off the road for so long! I was about to cry out, when she turned her gaze forward, focused on the road ahead.
"In any case," Femke continued, "Here we are! In a perfect position to give those two imbeciles a hard knock on the head. We're far past urban myths, conspiracy theories, and mental illness. You are the real item! Rowan recognizes the old Anson Charpont in you. I'm sure we'll find a new Anson Charpont at the processing center."
The idea of seeing someone else lumbering around in my body struck me forcibly. "I hadn't thought about that," I muttered weakly. "I mean, I saw the Switcher walk off in my body, but to see some poor stranger stuck in there..." I shook my head.
"You're not experiencing nostalgia for your old body, then?" Femke asked with an ironic smile.
"No," I said. "I don't miss being old. I don't miss feeling old. I don't miss being overweight. I feel... apologetic to whoever got stuck being me, but I wouldn't go back if I could." After a pause I added, "And I don't miss..." I sighed. "Well, let's just say that my old life was getting very... cluttered with emotional complications."
"Now you feel you're given a clean slate," Femke suggested.
"Yes, I do feel that," I agreed.
"Enjoy it while you can," Femke advised.
Femke fell silent as we approached the complicated intersection where I-60 meets both Route 47 and the Pelham Crossway. Drivers who didn't play close attention would end up going miles in the wrong direction before they'd be able to turn around and try again. At worst, you could circle through every loop in the overlaid cloverleafs several times until you found your one way out. I'm speaking from personal experience. The first argument Cleo and I ever had was fought in those cloverleafs. When Cleo realized we were literally driving in circles -- and not only that, but also driving through circles on top of circles, she began shouting at me. I got so flustered that I almost missed our exit. We nearly ended up taking a third trip around when I managed to make an abrupt and dangerous exit."
"What do you mean by that?" Femke asked with a laugh.
"I was so nervous, I cut across two lanes of traffic," I explained. "Two big SUVs narrowly missed hitting us."
Femke shook her head and gave a tsk with her tongue.
I almost began perspiring, picturing the massive black cars bearing down on us. And Cleo... she managed to be both apoplectic and screaming at the same time. The other drivers leaned heavily on the horns and seemed to accelerate toward me! It was not one of my finest moments.
Femke, on the other hand, wisely and cleverly slipped onto a two-lane access road that ran parallel to I-60 and avoided the entire circular confusion.
"If I had known about this shortcut," I told her, half-joking, "My marriage might have fared much better than it did."
"What a strange thing to say," Femke replied. "If your wife left you because the state of the roads, you are well shot of her." She glanced at me. "Did I use that phrase correctly? Do you say well shot of her?"
"Yes," I said. "You said it perfectly."
"When I came here, to this country," she said, "I thought my English was at a very high level. And yet, every day I hear a word or phrase that is entirely new to me."
I gave a soft grunt by way of reply.
Once we were were past the cloverleafs and back on the straightaway, she commented, "I'm surprised that you've taken this drastic change so calmly. Do you know The Three Christs of Ypsilanti?"
"I don't think so. Is it a film?"
"Oh—" she was struck by the question. "I don't know. Maybe. It's a weird little book, in any case. I've never been able to finish it. Anyway, the author has a theory: he says that if you deny someone's identity, they go into a panic state, and if it continues, they can suffer psychological harm. But you—" she said, gesturing with a smile at me, taking her eyes off the road again, "—you seem perfectly calm. Serene, even. I'd think most people would break down and cry. Or fall into a fit of screaming, I don't know."
"What makes you think I'm calm?" I asked her, looking directly into her eyes. Her face registered a small shock. Then she returned her gaze to the road ahead.
"Femke," I told her, after a moment's reflection, "I don't mind your asking me questions. It's helpful, actually. But please don't try to goad me into a breakdown."
"Understood," she replied. "I'm sorry — that wasn't my intention."
"I might appear calm on the outside, but inside, I'm a nervous wreck. I'm scared to death and angry at — everything! — and I have never felt more... helpless." The last word, helpless, nearly choked me on the way out. I looked away from Femke and tried taking slow and even breaths. It seemed to help. Somewhat. The unsettling undercurrent was still there.
"Okay," she said, and reached out to grip my hand in hers. She held it for several moments, before letting go and returning her hand to the steering wheel.
After a mile or so of silence, she said, "Oh, listen, I almost forgot. At the center, try not to mention that Rowan is a policeman, okay?"
"Sure," I agreed. "Why is that?"
Femke laughed. She did a fair imitation of Rowan's voice and manner: "The thing is, if these processing-center people realize I'm a cop, they're going to want my badge number. They're going to want me to *write* a report, and *file* the report, and *send* the report."
"That's a pretty good impression of him," I complimented her.
She continued in his voice and made a facial expression that read long-suffering. "Do you know the one thing cops hate more than anything else?"
I laughed out loud. "I'll go out on a limb and say, writing reports?"
"Bingo!" she exclaimed, and the two of us laughed.
"So, Miss Merope — what kind of work did your Mr Charpont do, before he retired?"
"I, uh, he was a COBOL programmer."
"Cool. Now tell me: what's a cobol? What does a cobol do, when it's at home?"
"COBOL is a programming language," I told her. "It's one of the oldest. It's mainly used in business applications."
"Mmm," she said. "So it's like Python? My younger brother is learning Python."
"Is he now," I commented drily.
"Yep." Femke nodded for emphasis. "Anyway, the point is, if it is so old, do people still need their cobols programmed? Are they still being manufactured? Can you still make a living at it?"
"I should think so. Yes, definitely."
"Then you ought to be all set."
"Mmm. Maybe. I don't know whether employers would recognize my work experience as Anson. I'll ask at the processing center."
Most of the drive after that was spectacular. I mean, the highway was flanked with hills, and the hills were covered in trees. There were few evergreens; most of the trees were in the midst of explosive color changes. It was incongruous, being surrounded by all that incredible natural beauty while I was all torn up inside. I did my best to not let my inner turmoil ruin the scene around me. I felt my distress, my confusion, my pain. I couldn't make it go away, but at the same time, I couldn't help but drink in the kaleidoscope of autumn changes.
"Incredible, isn't it?" Femke said. "I've seen trees change color, but never on this scale."
"Right," I murmured.
"I hope we can find a gas station before we get to this place," Femke commented, in a bit of a non sequitur. "Rowan never seems to put gas in his car. Instead, he lends it to me."
"Do we have enough to make it there?" I asked.
"We can only hope," she replied. "He also never manages to wash his car, either. Can you understand? All it takes is to drive through a car wash, and this also I have to do for him."
As it turned out, we did have enough gas. The red NEED GAS icon didn't come on until we took the exit for the processing center. We drove about three miles before the GPS told us "You've arrived at your destination."
Femke kept going. "There's a gas station up ahead, and a Dunkin' Donuts. I think it's a good idea to take a break and eat something before we turn you over to the authorities."
"That sounds like a dismal prospect," I commented. "I mean the part about being turned over to the authorities." She shrugged.
Femke was right about the break. It was good to stretch my legs while we filled the tank with gas, and I felt much better about the world and my future prospects after eating a Texas Toast with cheese and bacon, along with a side of hash browns. Even the coffee tasted good.
"Ready now?" Femke asked me, and I nodded.
We drove back down the street to the address Rowan had copied off the government website.
"Where the hell are we?" I asked. "This can't be the right place."
The neighborhood was industrial. There were storage places, ancient factories with faded signs, a car wash that itself needed cleaning, carpet and tile stores, and a huge showroom full of inexpensive, unattractive, cheap-looking furniture. There was a handful of narrow houses in the mix: old, in need of paint, and seemingly uninhabited, with overgrown lawns and twisted, gnarly trees in the yard. One side of the street was bereft of sidewalks; the other side — our side — had sidewalks here and there, where the concrete hadn't broken, sunk into the ground, or been subsumed by moss and grass.
The processing center — if we were to believe that's what it was — looked like nothing more or less than a post office built in the sixties: it had that flat, boxy, angular design. One story, glass front, tan-color brick. There was no signage, and no sign of life inside.
Behind the building we found an empty parking lot, badly in need of repaving. The asphalt was cracked long ago by thick tree roots. Grass and tall, weedy saplings had broken through. Femke parked close behind the building, out of sight from the street.
Alarmed, I told her, "Femke, please don't leave me here! I mean, what if this isn't the place?"
She gave me an odd, almost amused, look. "I'm not going to leave you, zusje." She stepped out of the car, and opened the back door so she could retrieve her backpack. "Come on!" she coaxed. "We didn't come all this way for you to sit in the car!"
I stepped out of the car and walked around the tail to join her. "Wait!" she exclaimed. "Do you have a pen?"
I fished Merope's expensive pen from her bag and handed it to Femke, who bit on the cap and pulled it open. She grabbed my left arm and twisted it. As she wrote on my forearm, she said, "Here is my telephone number, just in case. You won't need it, but... just in case." The weird twisting she did before writing on me was so the number would read rightside-up for me. She closed the pen and dropped it back in my bag.
The two of us headed toward the street and approached the building's front door. Femke leaned on the doorbell. "Did you hear anything?" she asked. I shook my head. She pushed it again, long and hard. Still, no sound from within.
We waited maybe half a minute, then she rang again.
"I don't think this is the right place," I repeated.
"This is the address," she insisted. "Why don't we give them a call?" She held out her hand for my phone and dialed a number she read off the palm of her hand. After a brief conversation, she hung up.
"Someone's coming," she informed me. Then, "Oh, try to memorize my number, in case they have some crazy way of erasing it off you."
Whatever, I told myself.
Less than a minute later, a dude arrived. We saw him appear from somewhere inside the building, a shadow growing as he approached the front door. When we were able to make out his features, we saw his big toothy grin, his mass of towsled, light brown hair. When he opened the door, a strong odor of marijuana emerged, like a cloud that enveloped and followed him. He wore dark sunglasses, orange crocs, khaki pants, and a light blue polo shirt. His general vibe was rumpled. Around his neck hung an identification card on a white lanyard. The card was turned so we could only see the back.
"Can I help you?" he asked, in a tone that made it sound like a joke. His manner was one you'd expect from a California beach bum, though we were a long way from any kind of surf or ocean. This man was a slacker, a dude. He had nothing to prove to anyone. Apparently, his job allowed him to remain stoned all day long.
Femke gestured in my direction. "I've got a Switcher victim for you," she said.
The dude glanced at me, but only for a moment. His gaze returned and fixed on Femke. Slowly, thoughtfully, he raised his hand and shook his index finger at her. Ben je Nederlands? he asked.
She frowned, and almost scoffing, answered, Ja, en jij?
He guffawed loudly. "Naw!" he crowed. "I kicked around a few years in Amsterdam. Did my best to learn the language... a little of the language. I know enough to get around." He chuckled and shuffled his feet, immensely pleased with himself. Then, nodding, spoke to Femke. "I picked up on your accent. Anyways, are you a Switcher victim, too?"
"No," she replied. "I'm just looking out for my friend, here."
He nodded, taking this in. I should point out that the three of us were still standing in the doorway.
"We don't get many walk-ins," he informed us.
"Okay," I said, just to try to insert myself in the conversation, if you could call it that.
As if he had all the time in the world, the man took a deep breath, and gave an appreciative look at the wizened, ugly tree across the street. He raised his eyes to the sky. "Nice day," he said. "Nice day to be outside."
I waited a few moments, while he scanned the sky and the landscape. He took some extravagantly deep breaths as though breathing itself was a new, exciting, and unaccustomed activity. At last I asked him, "Can I go inside?"
He blinked his eyes a few times, nodding, showing the merest trace of a smile. "Of course you can! Your wish is my command." Holding the door open, he pressed himself to the side and let me enter. "Knock yourself out," he said.
When Femke tried to follow, the man held up his hand to stop her. "Whoa, whoa, hold on there! Where do you think you're going?"
"I'm staying with her," Femke told him, while pointing at me.
"No, no, that isn't how it works."
"If that isn't how it works," she replied, "I don't think you can say it's working."
He straightened up and blinked. Femke continued, "I am the closest thing she has to a family right now."
"But you can't—" he protested, albeit weakly.
"Why not? Why not? I have my own food—" she hefted her backpack to illustrate her point. "I can sleep in a chair. I'm not asking you to provide me with anything. Anything at all. I'm going to wait here until you release her."
"That could be days!"
"I'm ready for days!" Again she hefted her backpack. "I have food and drink for days. I have books to occupy my mind."
He spluttered and searched his mind for objections. "I— I— I'm not supposed to let you in," he protested.
"Then I'll sleep in my car," she said, with a shrug. To me, she said, "You know where to find me. I'll be parked out back."
"I can't let you do that!" the man exclaimed.
"You can't stop me from doing that," she informed him.
He scoffed in disbelief. He shook his head. Three times he began to speak, but couldn't get a word out.
At last he said, "Fine. Follow me, the pair of you."
We walked into the center of the building.
"Are we the only ones here?" I asked.
"No," he replied, laconically. He seemed surprised -- or amused? -- by the question. "There's a number of folks here at the moment: a handful are Switcher victims; the rest are staff."
"Is Anson Charpont here? One of the victims?"
He shook his head. He must have missed the second part of my question, because he said, "Name doesn't ring a bell, so I guess he doesn't work here. Maybe he's assigned to another processing center? I wouldn't know. Is he a friend of yours?"
I opened my mouth to correct his misunderstanding, but stopped myself. If my old name wasn't familiar to him, that was all I needed to know.
"I've got a question," Femke said, frowning. "If there are other people here, why don't we hear them?"
"Ah, yeah. There's a good reason for that: most of the building's underground. This used to be a secret government bunker. Bomb shelter. The Cold War, you know?"
"Everyone is downstairs?" Femke asked, confirming.
"Yup!"
"Then why are we standing here?" she demanded.
"Right you are!" he cackled, pointing at her for emphasis. "We can't hang around here all day! Come on, ladies, let's get our switcheroonie checked in." He shuffled around a corner to an elevator, and hit the DOWN button. There was no other button. The door slowly opened, creaking and groaning like an old man. The dude put his hand on the door to keep it from closing, and said after a thoughtful pause, "You know, I think you're the first walk-in ever. It's gotta be some kind of record."
I pushed past him into the elevator. If Femke hadn't spoken up, how long would he have had us stand there?
The elevator didn't have buttons for selecting a floor. It also didn't have an indicator to tell you which floor you were on. There was only a numeric keypad. With great deliberation, the dude punched four numbers, then the hash mark. The pad beeped three times and the door slowly, arthritically, closed.
He looked up as the elevator rattled, shook, and slowly descended. "This old gal might have been state of the art back in the fifties," he observed. "Or was it the sixties? Anyway, it doesn't break down that often, so we should be safe."
The trip lasted forever, it seemed, and once it stopped, it seemed to think for a while before deciding to open the door. Once it did open, I spotted a metal plate attached to the elevator doorframe that read L7.
"Heh," I commented, laughing, pointing — I couldn't resist. Half-singing, I chanted, "Hey! Don't take no chance! Let's not be L-7..."
Breaking out one of his widest grins, the dude replied, "Come and learn to dance!" and the two of us crooned in unison, "Woolly Bully!" He finished the musical phrase by softly saying, "Right." Femke looked at us as if we'd lost our minds.
"You're okay!" he said to me. "You're the absolute first to catch that, Miss Walk-in! Can you believe that? Bonus points if you can name the band."
"Sam the Sham and the Pharaohs," I replied, triumphant. "Who else could it be?"
"Ding ding ding!" he laughed. "We have a winner!"
Our conversation and laughter drew a scowling man from a nearby office. He emerged like a bear from his cave, unhappy at being woken from his long winter slumber. "What the hell's going on out here?" he demanded. He gestured a shaking finger at me and Femke. "Who are these people? There's no one on the schedule."
"I got a Switcher victim here," the man said, gesturing toward me. "Our very first walk-in!"
His scowl deepened. The grumpy man took a few steps toward me. He, like the dude, was also dressed in khaki pants and a polo shirt, but his shirt was canary yellow and freshly pressed. His shoes were slip-on Skechers. He was no slacker. He was more of a bureaucrat. "Walk-in? What do you mean, walk-in?"
"A friend of hers dropped her off. This friend, right here."
"I don't like the sound of that!" he told my escort. To me, he said brusquely, "Get in there," with a jerk of his head, indicated his office.
My new-found friend shrugged apologetically, said, "Good luck, sister. I'll catch up with you later." I glanced back at Femke as I headed for the office. The dude nodded to her and said, "This way."
"Where's she going?" the grumpy man demanded.
"Ladies room," the dude lied.
"After that, she's out of here," the grump commanded, as he turned his back.
"Yes, sir!" the dude replied. To me, he shook his head no, pointed at Femke, then pointed down, and mouthed the words, She's staying here.
[ Melanie Brown’s Switcher Universe ]
by Iolanthe Portmanteaux
I entered the grumpy man's office. Immediately I felt sorry for the guy. What a terrible place to work! I'd be testy, too, if I had to spend all day there. It wasn't exactly small; it was an adequate size, but just barely. Not cramped enough to complain about, but not large enough to be comfortable. If only the ceiling was slightly higher... if only a few square feet of floor space could somehow be added, it wouldn't seem so... confining... not quite a prison cell.
It screamed basement. It verged on claustrophobic.
Maybe you get used to it, I told myself, but a look at man's face told me that you don't. Some things you never get used to. They wear on you, wear you down.
Naturally, there were no windows — at seven levels underground, no one could expect a decent window, but that, along with the dull, military green of the walls and ceiling, had to feel oppressive after eight hours, day after day.
The floor itself was a fifties throwback: linoleum tiles, alternating green and dull white.
The only positive I could find was the air: the circulation was surprisingly good. The atmosphere seemed almost fresh, not stale at all. It was sterile, though: there was no scent, no trace of any smell, good or bad.
As far as decor, the room had two tall narrow bookshelves, crammed with binders.
He had no pictures on the walls. No photos or knickknacks on his desk.
The desk stood more or less in the center of the room: a heavy old metal thing, painted green, with a pale linoleum top, chipped in one corner. Probably military surplus.
An honest-to-god inbox sat on the corner of his desk: it was a small, black wire basket with the word IN written on a white 3x5 card and taped to the front of the basket. Half a dozen papers lay face down, waiting to be read.
There were two chairs behind the desk and one in front, which seemed odd. I would have expected the opposite. In any case, I sat down in front of the desk, with my back to the door. I was sure I sat in front because a huge old computer monitor occupied the far end of the desk and its screen faced away from me. I wondered whether the system was old enough to only display green characters on a black background. I felt it might.
The grumpy man followed me in, walked past his desk and sat in the chair closer to the computer screen.
"Have a seat," he said in a tone of dry irony.
"Thanks," I replied. He didn't react or look up. He only sniffed and gave his chin a quick tug.
Then he cleared his throat, took a deep breath, and made an elaborate show of cracking his knuckles and warming up his fingers as if he were a concert pianist. He straightened up in his chair and pulled his keyboard closer to himself.
I took a breath and was about to start talking, but he raised his hands and gently pumped the brakes. "Wait."
After he'd typed for half a minute, he looked up at me and said, "I know that you want to give your narration, but first I need to get a few facts." He patted a piece of paper on his desk, and continued, "Then I'll go over a few things with you, about how all this works and what you can expect. Okay?"
"I guess— I mean, yes, that fine. But what do you mean by narration?"
"That's what we call your *story*, your version of the switcher incident. You'll get to tell that in full, and we'll record it, but we've found it's easier if I ask you some questions first." He hit the TAB key and poised his hands above the keyboard. "So... date and time of incident."
"Let's see... it was yesterday — I don't know exactly — let's say it was just after one."
He dropped his hands into his lap. Clearly, my answer wouldn't do. "Is that one AM or one PM?"
"PM. No, AM. Sorry, it was after noon, so it's PM. PM. I'm just a little flustered."
"Aren't we all," he commented sardonically. "How many minutes after one? Five? Ten? Fifteen?"
"Oh, it had to be 1:15? 1:20?"
"Pick one," he told me.
"1:20."
"Location of incident?"
"It was in Upper Harmish, on the river walkway. At a point called the Pinch." He raised his eyes, giving me a baleful look. "It's well-known locally," I explained.
He huffed as he typed, as if the work weighed heavily upon him. It looked like he had to click with his mouse before adding a note about the Pinch, and that seemed quite a lot to ask.
"Witnesses?"
I blinked. He said, "That's a yes/no question."
"No."
"Did the switch appear intentional on the Switcher's part? Yes/no."
"Intentional? No."
"Prior to the switch, did the Switcher appear to know your identity? Yes/no."
"No."
He maneuvered his mouse and clicked on a SAVE button.
"Now," he said, with a grim smile, as though we'd come to a crossroads, "Who were you before the switch? That is to say, what was your name?"
"Anson Charpont," I replied, and spelled it for him. He took Anson's particulars: date and place of birth, social security number, address, wife's name and contact information.
"Okay," he said, "here we go." He visibly tensed. I think he actually held his breath. He hit the ENTER key and waited. A soft ding! sounded. The man actually smiled. "Right. We've verified that there is such a person." He nodded his head several times, seemingly grateful that we'd dodged that bullet (whatever the bullet was). He explained, "If that didn't verify... Well, let's just say it would have been a major headache."
He took another breath and nervously squeezed the fingers of one hand with the other. He moved his mouse and clicked on a second button. This time, the response came right away: a low, rasping buzz. "Oh, shit," he whispered.
"I'm going to try again," he said softly. He clicked. Once again, the computer responded with an ugly buzz.
The man had a expression of— of what? An expression of dismay. He couldn't look me in the eye.
"I'm sorry," he said. He spoke in an undertone, as if he didn't want to be overheard. "We have this new... protocol..." He ran his hand across his eyes and shifted uneasily in his chair. Then he stood, pushed his char away from himself, said, "Wait here," and walked out of the room.
I listened to his footsteps in the hall, and when it as clearly safe, I leaned forward to look at his screen. It told me nothing. His screen was locked, and all I could see was the old starfield screensaver.
He quickly returned with one of his co-workers, a man dressed almost identically (khakis and yellow polo shirt). This man, by contrast, had a friendly, open expression. He looked like the kind of guy who plays a lot of squash at a country club: blond hair, lightly tanned skin, trim, fit, but not exactly athletic. I liked him right away.
He and the grumpy fellow took the two seats behind the desk. The new man reached out to shake my hand. "Hello, my name is Paul, and this guy here is Matt, in case he hasn't introduced himself." He smiled as he said it, as though it was a joke shared between him and me. Matt, the grump, didn't smile. He wouldn't meet my gaze.
"I'm Merope," I told him, feeling that his polite introduction deserved a reply.
"Are you, now," he said.
"I guess so," I replied. "If you let me?"
He let my half-joking comment blow by. "Okay, now, I've got a funny little question to ask you, if you don't mind. Do you know what identity the Switcher was using before this one, the one you're in?"
"I don't follow," I told him.
"Okay. That's fine," he said. "It was a stretch. It would have helped a great deal if you did, you know, recognize him or know him somehow... but anyway, that's fine. Now, look here." He took a blank piece of paper and a pen. On the paper he drew four stick figures in a line from left to right. The second stick figure was a woman — she had a skirt and two curly hairs, one on each side of her head. At the top of the page, above the figures, he wrote the word BEFORE and at the bottom, below the figures, he wrote AFTER.
"Before the Switcher came along, there were four people. Four ordinary people, okay? This one—" he pointed to the woman "—was Merope, inside and out." He wrote Merope above her head. "This guy here standing next to her, was Anson, right? Inside and out." He wrote Anson above the third figure's head. "Here and here—" he pointed to the two figures on either end "—we have two unknowns." He wrote JD1 over the figure on the far left and JD2 over the figure on the far right.
"Still with me?" he asked. I opened my mouth to ask what JD stood for, but he saw it coming and answered, "John Doe One and John Doe Two. We have two unknowns, not necessarily male."
"Right," I agreed.
"The Switcher comes along, and what does he do? First he enters John Doe number one, then Merope, then Anson, then John Doe number two, right?"
"Right."
"And the four of you, all four of you, shift over one. At this point, John Doe number one has Merope inside." He wrote Merope under the first figure. "Merope has Anson inside — that's you, now." He wrote Anson under the female stick figure. "Anson now has John Doe number two inside of him..." He wrote JD2 under Anson's stick figure, "And John Doe number two has... well, let's say the Switcher is still there." He wrote Switcher under the last figure.
"See? The Switcher moves this way—" he drew arrows from one figure to the next, going left to right "— but the victims all shift one person over in the opposite direction. Do you follow me?" With his finger, he showed the movement of identities, of Merope into JD1, Anson into Merope, JD2 into Anson.
"It would be nice if we knew who these two people are," he told me, pointing to the two John Does.
"I wish I could help you with that," I told him.
"Because, you see, it's like a daisy chain, isn't it. The chain started when the Switcher first appeared, and it will keep on going, adding link upon link, until he dies, I suppose."
"It's kind of scary," I agreed.
"Right. Scary. Okay. But do you know what's really amazing about this chain? We know — we have documented — virtually every single link! From the very beginning! I'll admit, we don't have all of them. There's always a little lag with the newest... victims, links. Of course, there are some gaps, some notable gaps, but we know the identities, old and new, of more than 90% of the Switcher's victims."
"That's remarkable," I said.
"And you know, each link supports the two nearest links. For instance, this John Doe would say, I'm not John Doe, I'm Merope! and when we find Merope, Merope says, I'm not Merope, I'm Anson! And then Anson says, I'm not Anson, I'm John Doe number two!"
"I get it," I told him. He was becoming tedious.
"I don't mean to keep harping on this," he continued, gesturing to the stick figures, "but the chain, as you can imagine, is very long. I don't remember how long, but whew! it's long. For today, though, we're going to narrow our focus. We're going to concentrate on these three or four people right here—" he tapped on the picture of the four stick figures. "Do you know why? It's because right here, the chain is broken." He moved his hand vaguely to the left of the female stick figure. "We don't know who the Switcher was back here, or before this point. We'd like to link this to the established chain, to the victims we already know." He gestured vaguely to the right of Anson. "We also don't know who the Switcher is — or was — on this side, either. We don't know whether he's moved on."
He smiled and looked me in the eyes, and in that moment I didn't like him any more.
He said, "It's pretty simple. There are links missing from the chain. We don't have John Doe number one, and we don't have Anson Charpont. All we have is you."
"And how is that a problem?" I asked, my mouth suddenly gone dry.
Paul, who I thought was the nice one, settled back in his chair. Matt, who I thought was the grumpy one, made steeples of his fingertips and studiously fixed his gaze on his hands. He hadn't given me so much as a glance throughout Paul's harangue. It struck me that he didn't enjoy Paul's recitation at all.
A woman suddenly entered the office, carrying three bottles of water. She set one in front of me and one each in front of the two men. "Would you rather have coffee?" she asked me.
"No, water's fine, thanks," I croaked. I twisted off the lid with a loud crack! and took a long sip. Somehow I found myself as thirsty and dry as if I'd just crawled out of the desert. The woman smiled at me and left the room.
Paul waited until I finished drinking before he continued.
"We're very open-minded people here. We've all been doing this job for a good long while, handling the Switcher's victims. Things have changed over the years, especially since the public has become more aware. At first we made some tweaks... we adapted to accommodate new wrinkles. Lately we've had to add a whole new protocol, and that's what I'm here to talk to you about. See, in the beginning, when we first started doing this, nobody knew anything about being switched. Nobody. So when a person came in here, saying they weren't who they appeared to be, we had to believe them. Because, why would anybody claim such a thing?"
Paul cracked open his bottle of water and took a small sip. Then he went on. "In the last few years, as the general public learned about the Switcher, we started seeing a different kind of person here. They'd show up, come in here, and tell us they'd been switched. Only problem was — they weren't. They *claimed* they'd met the Switcher, but they really hadn't. It wasn't too hard to tell, though. For one thing, the real victims tended to freak out... to cry or shake or... well, a few even threw up. But the fakers? For the most part, they were dead calm."
He looked me in the eyes and smiled. Calm, like you, was the obvious message.
"Believe me, I'm far from calm on the inside," I told him. There was a hard edge to my voice. I don't like being called a liar.
He raised his eyebrows and spread his hands in a gesture of innocence. "I'm not saying anything!" he protested mildly. "I'm just giving you some background, so you understand where I'm coming from."
I didn't answer. I sat there and swallowed my anger. He could probably see the flames dancing behind my eyes, but I didn't care.
I never should have come here, I told myself.
"With that in mind, I'd like to ask you, Merope, why do you think someone would do that? Why would anyone lie and pretend to be a victim of the Switcher?"
"That's not what I'm doing," I countered in as level a tone as I could manage.
"Again, I didn't say you were! I'm just asking you a simple question. Just use your imagination, just a little bit. Humor me. Why do you think a person might pretend to be a Switcher victim?" When I didn't answer, he added in a coaxing tone, "Come on, try."
Matt pressed his lips more tightly together and continued to study his fingertips.
"Well," I said, thinking out loud, "Maybe they want attention. Or maybe they're bored, or curious about the process. Maybe they think you'll give them a brand new life, and they'd like to explore that option."
"Those are pretty good guesses. Anything else come to mind?"
I took a breath, and after a moment suggested, "Maybe... they want to escape from poverty or abuse?"
"Possibly. You're getting warmer. There's another reason; a big reason, and one that concerns us — concerns our government greatly. I'm surprised you haven't thought of it."
I shook my head and shrugged. So he leaned forward and gave the answer he'd been looking for.
"Fraud," he said. "Purposes of fraud. We've seen people who falsely claim they were switched because they want to slide out from under their debt, or because they don't want to face the consequences of their crimes. They come here because they want a get out of jail free card."
Keeping my gaze steady, I continued to lock my eyes on his. My jaw tightened, and in that moment one of Anson's habits kicked in. Maybe ten years ago, as Anson, I'd cracked one of my molars by clenching my jaw. Since then, I trained myself and developed a reflex. When my jaw tensed, I'd open it slightly and try to relax.
That in itself was striking. Inside, I was still Anson. I carried that habit over to my new body. Yes — this whippersnapper (Paul) thought he was talking to a thirty-something who'd probably broken the law. Instead, he was talking to an older man, a man with more years, more life experience than the smug frat boy facing me. I wasn't going to waste my breath defending myself to him. The facts were what they were; the facts would bear me out. I held my ground.
"Because of the number of people seeking our help for the purpose of committing fraud," Paul went on, "the government is cracking down. Obviously, we are the first line of defense against it."
How nice for you, I said mentally, in a tone heavy with irony.
"You might wonder," he said, "whether someone could be found guilty of fraud simply because they've come here and told a little lie." He paused for effect.
"Actually, I don't wonder that at all," I told him.
He cocked his head back. "I'm going to tell you anyway," he insisted. "Attempted fraud is a crime. It's as if a person gets arrested while they're trying to rob a bank. They didn't actually rob the place, but they're still guilty of the crime."
"There are some holes in your argument," I informed him. "You're talking as though someone who gives you a funny look can be arrested for picking your pocket."
He shook his head. "That's quite a leap," he commented.
"My point exactly," I shot back.
"Okay, look," he said, sounding a bit irritated, "I don't think either of us want to draw out this discussion, and neither of us want to unnecessarily complicate our lives. So what I'm going to do is this: I'm going to offer your the opportunity to stop right here. If you decide to change your mind about being a Switcher victim — if you tell me that you've thought about it, and realize you were mistaken — we'll forget all about your visit. I'll walk you to the door, and we'll leave it there." I shook my head. He ignored it.
"You seem like a nice person," he continued, "and *I* don't want to deal with a pile of avoidable paperwork. So what do you say? Shall we stop here and unwind the whole thing?"
Before I could answer, he quickly added, "By the way: this is a one-time offer. I'm not going to make it again, and neither is anyone else in this place. It's now or never."
I didn't answer right away. I sat very still, unmoving. I focused on my breath. I felt my anger, alive, flowing in me like an underground river. Paul waited. I hung fire. I almost smiled.
After a few moments, a slight movement of his lips told me he was about to speak again, so I pre-empted him. "I'm a Switcher victim," I said. "I'm not a fraud."
"Okay," he declared, standing up, letting his chair scrape across the floor. "It's your funeral! Just remember, I gave you a chance!" He stepped away from the desk and headed for the door.
After he was gone, Matt — who up to now seemed a total grump — actually smiled at me.
"Nice work," he said in an undertone. I smiled back.
"Listen," I told him. "My family could tell you who I am. Can you let me talk to them?"
"No, sorry. We have a protocol—"
"Okay, I understand," I interrupted. "Can *you* talk to them?"
"Sure," he said. "That's actually part of the protocol. I assume you mean Anson's family."
"Yes." I recited Cleo's phone number. He dialed it immediately and listened. Looking up at me, he said, "Voice mail."
I heard the beep, and Matt said, "Hello, I'm calling from the Switcher Processing Center. We're trying to verify whether your husband was involved in a Switcher incident. Could you call us back at your earliest convenience?" He gave a phone number and told Cleo to ask for Matt.
"Thanks," I told him.
"No problem," he answered. "I'll tell you something: this isn't the greatest job in the world, but it was a hell of a lot better before all that fraud stuff started. Accusing people of crimes they haven't yet committed has no upside; it gets people upset, and hard feelings make everything more difficult."
I nodded, then told him, "Listen, anyway, though, the other two — the John Doe with Merope inside, and the Anson with the other John Doe inside — they'll turn up. I'm sure they will. I mean, why did Paul have to jump on me about them?"
"That's the protocol. Somehow the high muckety-mucks decided that Switcher victims would report or be detected within 24 hours of each other. You trigger the protocol because you switched a day ago, and neither Anson nor John Doe one have shown up."
"But they will," I assured him.
"Sure," he replied in a neutral tone that neither agreed nor disagreed. "It'll all work out. In the meantime, how do you feel about staying here in the center for two or three days, until one of them checks in?"
"I guess that's fine," I said slowly. For a moment my mind considered the effect on Rowan and Femke. Rowan would be fine. Femke could leave whenever she liked. So I nodded.
Matt smiled and nodded back.
Then my mind turned to my family. Honestly, Herman lived so wrapped up in his own life, he probably hadn't noticed my absence. I wondered, as I often had, whether he was alive enough to have a girlfriend... or boyfriend, although I don't think he was made that way. Was Herman similar to me? Was he a solitary type, with few friends or contacts outside of work?
And Cleo... if she was concerned, she'd soon return Matt's call. Maybe while I was sitting there?
"Alright," Matt said, interrupting my reverie, "let's get on with the intake process. Why don't you tell me how it happened?"
I went through the story, starting with my retirement. I almost got bogged down in my conflicts with Cleo, but I was able to move on to the moment that I left the house yesterday morning. Again, I nearly ran off in the weeds when I touched on the strange scone, but I managed to quickly recover, and moved on to my walk along the river. Matt hadn't heard of the Pinch (before I'd mentioned it earlier), and he let me go on for bit, describing it...
"Are you recording this?" I asked. "I noticed you're not taking any notes."
"It's being recorded," he assured me, and pointed to a camera lens, visible through a hole in one of the binders behind him. "There are other cameras and microphones in here as well." He pointed vaguely around the office.
Still, Matt was sitting there, listening to me. He let me go on, never interrupting or steering me back on track, until... I guess I got bogged down in the details. His patience with my level of irrelevant bits and pieces evaporated when I described seeing my phone bounce into the ivy. He shifted impatiently and asked, "Why are you telling me that?"
"Telling you what?"
"About the phone bouncing into the ivy!" He gave a shaking what gives? shrug. "How is that relevant?"
"It's relevant because I fished the phone out afterward," I told him, reaching into my bag and producing the phone. "Otherwise, the Switcher would have gone off with it." I held it up for him to see. He blinked a few times, then asked, "So... whose phone is that?"
"It's mine," I declared. "It's Anson's."
"Give it here," he said, making the gimmee gesture with his hand. He wrote "Anson Charpont phone" on a yellow post-it note, stuck the note on the phone, and dropped the phone into a plastic bag.
"Hey, I want that!" I exclaimed. "It's mine!"
"No, it's not," he informed me. "It belongs to Anson Charpont."
"But—" I stopped. I understood. I processed what he said. Then I asked, "Are you going to give that phone to— to whoever is Anson now?"
"That depends," he said.
"On what?"
"On whether he keeps that identity."
I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out. I wasn't able to formulate the questions I wanted to ask. Matt, having seen this reaction umpteen times before, explained it to me.
"As far as the world is concerned, you are no longer Anson Charpont. Agreed?"
"Agreed," I conceded, a bit hesitantly.
"Leave aside the people who actually know you. I'm talking about the world in general. To them, you can't possibly be Anson Charpont. Someone else is playing that role."
"Okay," I conceded grudgingly.
He went on. "Or at least, at this point, someone else looks like Anson Charpont. As to whether they can *be* Anson—"
"Wait a minute — wait a minute —" I interrupted. "Is that person going to get my pension? My 401K? My savings? My social security? My car?"
"It depends," he repeated. "If they maintain the identity, Anson Charpont, they will own all the assets that used to belong to you. They would also assume any debts, if you had any."
"I didn't — I don't," I put in.
"They would assume any legal obligations that you had when you were Anson Charpont. For example, they would be legally married to Cleo."
I fell silent, considering. Effectively, I'd been divorced. By the Switcher.
Matt let me think for a moment. Then, "Now, what does it mean to maintain the identity? It means this: We contact the family of Anson Charpont — I called Cleo, right? We explain the situation, and once she grasps it, once she understands the situation, we will ask her officially whether she can accept that other person as Anson Charpont. If Cleo agrees, then that person will be able to pick up your life right where you left off."
"And if she says no, then that person gets nothing of mine. Right?"
"That's correct."
"So... in that event, do *I* get all my assets? All of Anson's assets? They must revert back to me, right?"
"No. There's no legal mechanism for transferring assets from one Switcher victim to another." I rubbed my chin, taking it in. The smooth feel of my chin was a slight shock — the absence of stubble was a new sensation, one I wasn't yet used to.
"Okay. But let's say Cleo rejects the new Anson. Does that mean I can go—"
"No," Matt said. "For you, there is no way back. What happens if Cleo rejects that person, is that Anson Charpont would be declared dead, and Cloe would proceed as if you were, in fact, dead: there would be insurance payouts, execution of your will — if you have one — all of that."
I blinked a few times. It seemed monstrous.
"In the event that Cleo doesn't accept the new Anson, we can ask — if you *want* us to ask — whether she'll allow you to live with her. You have to understand that she's under no obligation, and that you'd be a guest in her home, in her life. You'd have no right to make any kind of demand of her, at all."
"Oh, man!" I exclaimed.
"It's a hard pill to swallow," Matt said, sympathetically.
"I guess so. Honestly, it *is* what I expected. It's what I thought would happen. It just that — it feels very different when it gets down to brass tacks."
Matt nodded.
"Okay," I said. "I think I understand all that. Now, can you tell me what's involved in my keeping *this* identity?" I gestured at myself. "What do I have to do to be Merope Goddard?"
"Why would you want to?" he asked.
"It beats the alternative," I told him. "I mean, if I'm not her, who am I? You'll make up a name and give it to me. I'll be a disconnected individual. I won't have any parents, or family, or any kind of personal history. I won't have any work history. I won't be anybody."
After a moment, I added, "I won't even be able to make chit-chat. If someone asks where I grew up, where I went to high school, I'll have no answer. Or I'll have to answer with a constructed lie."
"And if you were Merope? How would that be different?"
"At least I'd be a real person. I could dig into my past, into my family—"
"Well, see, that's a thing," Matt said. "If Merope has a family, they'll have to give their okay to your being her."
"How close family would they have to be?" I asked.
"They would have to be members of Merope's immediate family. So... husband, domestic partner, maybe... we'd have to see whether Merope has any children." he looked at me "But that's about it. You're an adult, so that would be it. You wouldn't need parental permission."
"Okay," I agreed. I held up my ring finger. "No husband."
He nodded. "I'll see in a moment whether you have any children or dependents."
"How will you do that?"
"Tax returns," he replied. "We'll see if you declared any dependents."
"Cool!" I exclaimed. I felt sure the result would be negative.
"I hope you understand that you'll have to take the bad with the good. If Merope has any debts, you'd be responsible for them."
"I thought I'd get a clean slate—"
"If we assign you a new identity, then yes, that would be true. If you want to pick up Merope's life, you take everything that comes along with it."
"Okay, I get it."
"If she has any sort of police record..."
"It would be mine now," I agreed, nodding. Rowan had already assured me that I didn't need to worry about that possibility.
Matt leaned back, stretching.
"I have to admit: if you remain Merope, it drastically cuts down on my paperwork."
"That's a good thing."
"You might have to sign a waiver...," he said, sounding uncertain. I frowned.
"I'm getting the impression that most people don't play the hand they're dealt, like the Public Service Announcements say."
"No, most people don't," he admitted. "Not usually. Not unless they're minors and don't have a choice. Or sometimes adults who knew each other before they got switched. Otherwise, if you're an adult, it's a big risk, taking on the life of a stranger. You have no idea what you're getting yourself into. It's much safer to get a brand new, never-used identity."
"How does it work out, generally? I mean, for adults who get a new name and all that."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, do people adjust? Do they have issues, starting their lives off from zero? Or do they manage to make a go of it?"
He gave me a funny look. He sniffed and swallowed, and then he said, "I wouldn't know."
"What? Isn't there some kind of follow-up? Doesn't someone check up on Switcher victims, to see how they're doing?"
"No," he said simply.
"No? Just no?"
"We don't have the resources," he told me.
I was shocked. I felt the blood drain from my face. To think, all the people who were touched by the Switcher... how many were there? hundreds? thousands? They'd been traumatized, dispossessed... and then were abandoned in the end?
"Is there some other agency... I mean, does anyone in the government—"
He cut me off. "Look," he told me. "We don't have the budget for psychologists and therapists, and there's no system in place to track people once they leave here. Nobody looks them up. Nobody asks them how they're doing. There is no other agency." He paused and took a breath. "We do what we can, but the only time we touch the victim's life is while they're here. Once they leave, they're on their own." He blushed. "It's tough, but I'm pretty sure that's the way it is all over the world."
He sighed. "Anyway, you might have to sign a waiver for this. I'll check. You'll have to officially acknowledge that you're responsible for all of it — you know: debts, relationships, jobs..."
A sudden thought hit me, so I burst in: "Oh, that reminds me!"
"Wait, let me finish," he said, "You won't be able to use the fact that you were switched as an out. Officially, legally, being a Switcher victim doesn't count for anything. The government won't ever confirm or deny that you were switched, and we don't hand out I've Been Switched! certificates."
"I see," I said. Then, remembering, I asked, "Well, what about my work history? Can I use my knowledge and experience as Anson to get a job?"
"Everything in your head is yours: all your knowledge, all your mental skills. However, you can't use Anson's work experience on Merope's resume," he said. "But just out of curiosity, what did you used to do for work?"
"I was a COBOL programmer," I told him.
"Hmm," he replied. "Recently? Is that still a thing?"
"Yes, recently!" I shot back, a little hotly, "It's definitely still a thing."
"Okay," Matt conceded. "Touchy subject, I guess."
"Sorry," I told him. "It's just that— oh, never mind!"
"Hopefully, while you're here we'll get an idea of what Merope did for a living. It could be a good possibility for you to follow up on."
"Yeah, who knows?" I agreed, as visions of fake IDs danced in my head.
[ Melanie Brown’s Switcher Universe ]
by Iolanthe Portmanteaux
Matt glanced at his computer screen. He made a face. A prompt, an unfinished entry, reminded him that he'd been sidetracked.
"All right," he said, in a brusque, businesslike tone. "Let's get back to the process. We've gotten out of step here. We're doing things out of order. We need go return to the event. You didn't finish giving me your narration. In fact, you only got as far as the moment *before* the switch, if I remember correctly."
"Um..."
"You described the way your cell phone fell to the ground and bounced into the ivy. I take it the Switcher didn't notice."
"No, she had her back to me at that moment."
"And then what happened? You fell on top of him— or her?"
"No, I didn't fall *on* her. In fact, I never actually touched her at all." I described the way my fingers swept down, oh-so-close to her back, but not making even the slightest contact.
"Did your fingers brush her clothes, then?"
"No, my hand just moved through the air behind her. It was electric, though, full of energy, as if she had an aura."
He leaned forward to ask, "How close were your fingers? To her back? To her clothes?"
We went back and forth for a bit. He made notes both on the computer and on paper. He wanted to pin down, as accurately as he could, in millimeters, exactly how close my fingers were to the Switcher's body. He asked me a half-dozen times, in different ways, to make absolutely sure we hadn't touched. Finally, he asked me to demonstrate the distance by reaching my hand toward his computer. He measured the distance with a tiny ruler.
Then he paused the recording for a moment, and told me in an apologetic tone, "I realize this is tedious. Honestly, I don't know why this is so important, but the powers that be go absolutely nuts over this sort of technical detail, if you can call it that."
The next place where Matt wanted such excruciating detail was in my description of the injuries to Anson's body: he asked three times which ankle was twisted (the right one) and the location and severity of Anson's other injuries. It was odd: while I spoke about the scrapes and bruises, I could almost feel the impacts and abrasions as if they happened all over again. I checked the locations by touching myself lightly in the spots that I'd been hurt as Anson.
Matt laid a piece of paper with the outline of a man's body printed on it, and insets with five views of a man's head (left, right, front, back, top) — a generic body, a generic head — and asked me to draw the scrape I'd seen on Anson's face after the fall. He also had me mark X's on the points of impact I mentioned.
"This will help in the match-up... the verification. You know, the daisy-chain... when Anson comes in."
All that remained after that, was to tell him about the four cylinders. He asked the same questions Rowan had:
"Are you sure they weren't rolls of bills?"
"Did the cylinders have any markings or labels?"
"Did they rattle when he handled them?"
"Are you sure they were metal?"
I gave him the same answers I gave Rowan. Then I asked him a question: "Do you have any idea what those cylinders could be?"
"None whatsoever," he replied. "But we have a special channel for observations like this. What you told me will go up the chain once we've authenticated you."
"Authenticated me?"
"As a Switcher victim. I mean, once Anson or John Doe number one pop up, you should be in the clear, and at that point we'll pass this on. That's the protocol."
When Matt said That's the protocol, it reminded me of something my grandfather told me about his time in the Army: "The most important thing you can learn in the Army is that there's a right way, a wrong way, and the Army way. And you can never get in trouble if you do things the Army way."
"How do you know which way is the Army way?" I asked him.
"It's in the manual," he replied.
As a kid, I wanted a copy of that Army manual. I wanted it badly. I didn't like getting in trouble. Of course, I didn't realize that the Army manual only covered Army life. It didn't cover the vicissitudes of childhood and adolescence, or even civilian adulthood.
Even so, right now I wasn't particularly worried about being "in the clear." Unlike Matt or his awful colleague Paul, I already knew my status. I knew what had happened, whether they believed me or not.
Next, Matt went through the contents of Merope's bag. He put on a pair of nitrile gloves, spread a white cloth over his desk, and set the bag on it. He photographed the bag from five or six angles. Then he took each item out of the bag, one by one, set them on his desk, and handed the bag back to me. He grouped the tissues, lipstick, tampon, and sanitary pad, and photographed them. Then he turned them over and photographed the other side.
He handed me the four items, and cleared his throat nervously before saying, "I guess you'll need to learn about all this stuff. The nurse has a booklet that should help you. Feminine hygiene and such." He blushed, looking down.
"The nurse?"
"Yes, after we're done here, you'll need to get a check-up. A superficial physical exam. It's quick, and it's, uh, non-invasive."
His eyebrows went up when he handled the pen, but he photographed it without comment. The wallet and the wallet's contents came last, and in the end, he gave it all back to me.
When he counted the money, he commented, "Forty-seven dollars. So... the Switcher took those cylinders, but he left this money? That's interesting."
"Yeah, I thought so."
"I guess he's the one person on earth who doesn't need to worry about money. Or food. Or anything, as far as material possessions go."
"Guess not."
He examined Merope's drivers license closely. I worried at first that he was going to tell me that the license was fake, but instead he scratched his forehead, he looked up at me with an almost childlike expression, and said, "I've never seen a Nebraska drivers license before."
"Then this is your lucky day," I quipped. "Now we know they've got them there, too." He didn't laugh. He frowned slightly.
In any case, he put the license back in the wallet, along the forty-seven dollars, and handed it over to me.
"Did you spend any of the money that was in that wallet?" he asked.
I blushed. "Yes, I bought myself lunch at a place on Olduvai Street," I confessed. I told him the name of the restaurant.
"How much was it?"
"It was twelve and something," I said.
"So, um, forty-seven and... you don't have a receipt, do you?"
"No, sorry."
"Let's say lunch was thirteen bucks. That makes an even sixty, right? Do you think you started off with three twenties? Or two twenties and two tens? Sorry, but I have to record the breakdown."
"Two twenties and two tens, yes," I lied, feeling like a craven thief. I was definitely not cut out for a life of crime. My nerves would give me away.
Now that my bag was complete again, I asked, "Do I get to keep all this?"
"Yes," he said. "If you're Merope, it all belongs to you." He began to get up from his chair.
"Great." My heart was pounding, as if I'd somehow managed to slip out of a maximum-security lockup.
Matt clicked on his mouse, and the computer responded with a soft ding! Puzzled at first, he peered at the screen until he said a quiet "Oh!" He fetched a 3x5 card from his desk and after some clicking and typing, copied a string of letters and numbers from the computer to a yellow post-it note: 23-8HLFVLQRO4.
"What's that?" I asked.
"This is you," he answered. "By rights, you should have done this first: got your picture taken, got your lanyard. We can do that on the way to the nurse's office...
"Oh, wait, though!" Matt stopped, struck by a sudden thought. He sat back down.
"What about the stuff that's missing?" he asked.
"What's missing?" I cried, anxiously. My voice was a little to loud, a little too high. How could he possibly know?
"Don't worry," he laughed. "All I'm saying is that there are things you'd expect to find, in a woman's bag, in a woman's wallet, and those things just aren't there."
"Oh!" I exclaimed. Now I understood: I'd gone through this with Rowan. "Do you mean, like, photos, receipts, coupons... things like that?"
"Uh, yeah, sure," he agreed. "Was there anything like that in here? When you got the bag? You didn't throw anything away, did you?"
"No, of course not." I replied. "That's the bag, the way I received it."
"When I said things are missing I meant... you know, along the lines of: cell phone, car keys, house keys, membership cards, loyalty cards... stuff like that. I mean, my wife's bag looks like a recycling bin."
"There wasn't anything like that in here," I told him. Then I did an inner fact-check: true. None of the items he named were in the bag when I received it.
He frowned. "That's odd. And you didn't see the Switcher take anything like that out of the bag?"
"Nope," I replied. "Only the cylinders."
"Okay," he said, shaking his head. "Man or woman, the guy is a mystery."
"Oh, hey," I exclaimed, on a sudden impulse. "Speaking of phones, could you look up and see if Merope *had* a phone? And if she did, what was her number? And, um, her carrier?" I don't know why I asked such a thing. As soon as it occurred to me, I blurted it right out.
Matt's expression soured. "No," he answered. "I'm not going to do that. I'm not a private detective! It's not part of our protocol. If you're interested in the life of this woman, you can explore and find out for yourself."
I felt irritated and a little offended by his refusal. Matt's mood changes were confusing and off-putting. Still scowling, he got to his feet and told me that he was taking me to see the nurse. I asked, "Are the two of us finished?"
He gave no sign of detecting my disdain. He simply said, "Yes, we're done. Unless I happen to be the one who processes your exit from this facility."
I couldn't come up with any snappy rejoinder, so I kept my mouth shut and followed him into the hallway.
We took the elevator up to L1 — one level underground. This level was a little brighter, more up to date, less of the Cold-War, military ambiance. Compared to L7, it was downright welcoming. "Here it's a little nicer," Matt acknowledged. "This is usually where the Switcher's victims first land, and do their orientation. This is also where the families of victims come to meet their new family member and decide whether to keep them."
His description struck me as grim and functional. I couldn't help but comment, "You make it sound like they're choosing a pet. A rescue animal."
He gave me a look. He blinked twice. I think he wanted to agree with me, but couldn't unbend that far. Instead he commented, "If you want to put it that way. Just remember: it's your words, not mine."
"Do the families come in through the old post office, upstairs?"
"No," he replied, with a half-frown. "They come in through the parking garage — where *you* would have come in, if you'd called -- as you were supposed to."
My eyebrows went up. I scratched my cheek. Matt must have read the doubt on my face, because he added, "You'll probably see it when you leave... There's a nice entrance in there, specifically set up to receive people. There's always at least two people on duty there, and they're trained to make things easy for new arrivals."
I nodded. The unspoken message was clear: most people didn't drop into the middle of the process, the way I had. Still, it was hardly my fault. The man who met us at the door could have, should have, brought me to the beginning of things.
In any case, Matt handed me over to a young, rail-thin, energetic, smiling young man named Jason. "You need a lanyard," he told me, as if a lanyard would cure all my ills. "But first, we have to take your picture."
He stood me in front of a police line-up wall (the kind with bands that show your height), and snapped three pictures, mugshot style (one facing forward, one each facing right and left). He pulled up the photos on a console and at the bottom superimposed a white text box with MEROPE GODDARD, all caps, and below it my ID number, 23-8HLFVLQRO4. He took my fingerprints with an inkless pad, and swabbed my cheek for a DNA sample.
A little machine printed out a sticker (about the size of a credit card) that showed my photo, my name, and my ID number. Jason picked up the sticker and hesitated. He asked me, "We have a lot of empty rooms at the moment. Would you prefer to sleep on your own, or in the women's dorm?"
"Alone, I'm sure," I replied, with some surprise. "Does anyone choose to sleep in the dorm?"
"Oh, yes," he said. "Most of the people who come through here are pretty freaked out, and the last thing they want is to be alone. I mean, imagine: someone who's afraid they've lost their mind, finding themselves shut up in a windowless room, underground? Sounds like a horror movie."
In fact, when he said those words, afraid they've lost their mind, I had a moment of vertigo. Just a few seconds, but enough for me to see how easily my mind could slip its moorings and drift into boundless nothingness.
"Not many are cool and calm like you," Jason observed. "Very few and far between."
"I guess it's down to temperament," I told him. "I'm good in a crisis. I tend to freak out later."
Jason nodded. "You switched yesterday, though, right? So isn't it *later* already?"
I studied his face for a moment without speaking. Then I said, "Do me a favor. Don't try to talk me into flipping out, okay?"
He immediately backed off, with protestations of innocence. "No, no! That's not what I mean at all! It was... I was... I only meant it as a compliment! That's all."
"Okay."
He selected a magnetic key card from a bin on his desk. It had the number 317 on it. He touched the card to a reader. There was a soft ding! and the number "317" appeared on my record on the screen..
He pulled the backing off the sticker, laid it on the key card, and slipped the card into a plastic sleeve that hung from a bright blue lanyard.
"Wear this around your neck at all times," he said, "unless you're asleep or in the shower."
I draped it around my neck and bent my head to looked at the upside-down image of my new face.
Jason tapped on the card and told me, "That's an electronic key. It will open the women's toilets, the women's showers, the women's dorm — all the places where men aren't allowed to go." He smiled. "The rule about access is simple: if you're not allowed, you won't be able to. Or, if you're able to, it means that you're allowed. Is that clear?"
"Yeah, sure," I said, looking at the photo. "Simple."
"Don't worry about the picture," Jason said. "This equipment is slick, but the results are no better than passport photos. No one expects the picture to look like you. You're much prettier."
"Thanks."
"Oh, one more thing: there's one little downside to having your own room. Before you leave, you'll have to change the sheets, make the bed, clean the bathroom, and take out your own trash. There's a laminated instruction card on the back of the door to your room."
"That's fine," I acknowledged. "No problem."
"It wasn't always that way," he acknowledged, apologetic. "It's 'cause of budget cuts. We used to have people to do everything. And I mean everything. Just, like... for instance... there used to be two people who'd push a cart around to all the offices. Their entire job was making sure we all had coffee, tea, sandwiches, snacks... One of them would pass every 45 minutes. And they covered all three shifts, you know? Cool, right? Now, we have to shlep to the cafeteria, or make our own coffee at one of the little coffee corners in the hall."
I said huh in an encouraging way, so he continued: "At the start, this Switcher business was a bona-fide, hair-on-fire crisis. It was all hands on deck, the best and the brightest, every effort made, no expense spared — all those cliches... and they were actually true. For a while, anyway. Finally we've all realized: there's nothing we can do to stop this guy. So... we can't do literally nothing, but... We've ramped it all down to the absolute bare minimum. Sorry to say this, but the unwritten policy is to do as little as we can get away with." He suddenly caught himself, and looked at me in alarm. "Please don't repeat that to anyone," he said, with some urgency. His face had gone white. "I'm running off at the mouth. I'm sorry."
"Don't worry about it," I said, and made the gesture of zipping my lips shut. "I can see you're all working really hard. And that you're doing it with a skeleton crew."
"Yeah," he admitted. "We're a bunch of skeletons, running after a ghost."
Jason led me to the nurse's office. There was a small outer office, with a desk and computer, and two doors leading to EXAM ROOM ONE and EXAM ROOM TWO. Both doors were slightly open.
A woman with red, wavy hair sat on the desk. Under a long white lab coat, she wore loose beige pants and a floral top. A stethoscope dangled around her neck.
Gesturing toward me, Jason announced to the nurse, "Here is our famous walk-in, Merope Goddard." He gestured toward the nurse and told me, "And this lovely lady is Mrs Buckingham, our nurse." He handed Mrs Buckingham a couple of 3x5 cards printed with my picture, name, and ID.
Mrs Buckingham nodded at me with a slight smile, and said, "Welcome." She didn't reach out to shake hands (as I did), so I grasped my right hand with my left — as though that's what I intended all along. I nodded back. Jason exited without further ceremony.
I asked the nurse, "Is being a walk-in really such a big deal?"
She shrugged. "It's unusual. It's nothing bad, but... I mean, you saw the neighborhood we're in, right? What are the chances the Switcher would be wandering around up there? We're a long, long drive from anywhere. Most people who got touched by the Switcher don't get here under their own power, and generally they have no idea where they are while they're here. Usually, Switcher victims are brought here by the police. Sometimes, it's the FBI or Homeland Security. Depends on the circumstances. But mostly it's the police."
I smiled. "I suppose the police have to write a report then, don't they." I smirked, thinking of Rowan's aversion to report-writing.
She gave me a puzzled look. "Well, of course they do. It's part of their job. But you've skipped over that part, and started in the middle with us. So, yes, you shouldn't be surprised if people comment on your being a walk-in." She picked up a small plastic crate and stuck one of my 3x5 cards into a slot on the front.
She grabbed a hospital gown from a pile on a table and carried the gown and the crate into one of the exam rooms. I followed her in. She set the crate on a chair, and set the gown on an examination table.
"Take off all your clothes — underwear, shoes, everything — and put it all into this box. Put on the hospital gown, open in the back. When we're done with the examination, I'll give you something else to wear."
"Do I put my purse — my bag — in there, too?"
"Is there anything you want to keep in there?"
"Well, yes. Drivers license, a nice pen, a little money..."
"You should just hang on to it, then. They're going to do some goofy tests on your clothes. The tests are pointless, so it's fine if you want to hold something back. Oh, and if you like those clothes, and want to get *those* back, you'll have to make a point of asking for them before you leave."
"Okay," I acknowledged, nodding. "Um, what kind of tests are they going to do?"
"On your clothes?" She sighed. "Nothing serious, to tell the truth. In the beginning, when nobody knew anything about the Switcher, scientists tried every single test they could think of, looking for radiation, first of all. There wasn't any. Then gas chromatography. Again, nothing out of the ordinary. Once, after a mass incident, the FBI took bales of clothes from dozens of people, and ran them through every test on the planet, but in the end, you know what they discovered? Their official conclusion was that all they had was clothes. Ordinary clothes; just like any other clothes. The clothes didn't change. There wasn't any Switchy residue. There wasn't any magic." She shook her head.
I frowned, not understanding. "So, after going through all that, the FBI is still going to test my clothes?"
Mrs Buckingham laughed. "No, hon. That incident was the last straw, as far as the FBI was concerned. They won't test anything Switcher-related any more. It's a drain on resources. No, all our testing is carried out down here. We've got a little lab. They do a couple of tests. Nothing fancy. They fill out some forms. That's all."
"And they never find anything?"
"Nope. There's nothing to find!"
"Then why don't they stop testing?"
She smiled. "Have you ever worked for a government agency? No?" She shook her head. "I'm going to sound like a terrible cynic, but the problem is: if you don't spend every penny of your budget this year, you'll get less money next year."
I had no idea how to respond, so I just smiled. Probably a stupid-looking smile. It occurred to me that I had no idea what I look like when I smile. I'd have to check it out, first chance I got.
The exam was pretty unremarkable. She listened to my heart and lungs, shined a light into my eyes, looked in my ears, looked at my teeth...
"I'm just marking the obvious cavities. And... it looks like you had your wisdom teeth extracted. I'm no dentist, but I'd say that your teeth are in good shape, but you're overdue for a cleaning. Did you floss, in your former body?"
"Oh, yes, I was, uh, rigorous about it."
She nodded. "Try to carry over your good dental habits into this life, as well."
"I will." A thought occurred to me. "Are you going to do dental x-rays?"
"That would be nice, wouldn't it? For you, I mean," she said. "We used to do a full set of dental x-rays, back in the day," she told me. "But, budget cuts..."
"I hear you," I said.
She tapped my knee with a rubber hammer to test my reflex. She drew some blood (two tubes), and had me slip out of my gown so she could check for "distinguishing features": birthmarks, scars, tattoos. I had none of the above. She noted that my ears were "only pierced once."
"Is that bad?" I asked.
"No, of course not," she replied.
I slipped back into the gown. Mrs Buckingham exited, carrying my clothes in the plastic crate. Soon after, she returned with a set of anonymous white underwear, a pair of slippers, pants, and a t-shirt. They looked like army fatigues. "We have plenty of these," she told me. "You'll see cartloads here and there in the hallways. So change as often as you need to. They're meant to be worn while you're here, but if you want, you can keep a set as a souvenir."
After learning that I used to be a man, she gave me a book about women's bodies. It had big, balloon-like lettering on the cover, and cartoon-like illustrations throughout. Mrs Buckingham saw my doubtful look, and told me, "This is obviously aimed at a very young reading level, but in spite of that, it's surprisingly thorough. You'll find that it covers all the things you'll need to know. In some sections the cartoon facade is very thin."
"Okay," I acknowledged. I didn't mean to sound doubtful.
"It's a money-saving effort," she explained with a sigh. "Budget cuts. That's the story with everything here. We have to make do with one size fits all wherever we can. Luckily, this book works very well. Even young girls understand it without being bored, and adults who want and need the information are smart enough to ignore the way it's presented."
"Got it," I said, a little more confidently.
Oh — there was one more thing. I asked Mrs Buckingham if she could tell whether I'd ever had children. She had me hop up on the table and put my feet into the stirrups. She did a quick pelvic exam, which left me speechless. I must have made the strangest faces, because I could see *her* face twitching, struggling to not react (not to laugh) every time she looked at me. Afterward, when I covered myself and she washed her hands, she asked me, "How did that compare to a prostate exam? Better? Worse? More invasive? Less invasive?"
I wasn't sure whether she was poking fun at me or asking a genuine question. I didn't *think* she was being mean, but at first all I could manage to say was, "Um..."
After a while I offered, "I must have been making the wildest faces."
Her mouth twitched again as she tried not to laugh, and she said, "You could say that."
In any case... Mrs Buckingham assured me that I'd never given birth.
"Are you sure?"
"Beyond any doubt."
After I got dressed in the army fatigues, I stopped on the very threshold of her office, and asked, "Are you able to access Merope's medical records?"
"No, I can't," was her flat response.
"Budget cuts?" I quipped.
"Sure," she said, twisting her mouth a little sourly. "Let's go with that."
She must have called Jason while I was dressing, because he came trotting up the hallway, ready to show me to my quarters.
My room was a good size. It had a desk and chair, a double bed and a bathroom fitted with bathtub and shower. There was, of course, no window, and the only other piece of furniture was a small bookcase topped by a very plastic-looking bright-red rose in a dark blue vase, and a digital alarm clock with glowing red numbers.
The bookcase held old copies of Treasure Island, Beloved, I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings, Moby-Dick, Valley of the Dolls, and Look Homeward, Angel along with a handful of Harlequin Romances and three titles by Jackie Collins.
"There's a library, such as it is, next to the cafeteria," Jason offered. "You saw the signs in the hall: just follow them to the cafeteria. There's also a lounge next to the cafeteria, where you can hang out. Your badge opens your room. Only you (or the staff) can open your room, and the staff won't do that unless there's an emergency."
He pointed out that my room number was written on my access card. "Room ranges are indicated by signs on the wall," he explained. "There are phones at intervals in the hall if you need any kind of help, but I think you'll find you're better off figuring things out for yourself."
I remembered Rowan's warning to not expect too much, so I said, "Sounds fine."
Jason seemed relieved to hear my answer. He gave me a pat on the shoulder, told me I'd do "great," and left me alone in my cell-like room.
By "cell-like," I don't mean "prison-like." It was more monastic than penal. More basement than jail.
The mattress was firm but comfortable. The bathroom was perfectly clean, and there seemed to be abundant hot water, and plenty of hotel-sized shampoo, conditioner, and so on.
"And it's all free," I said out loud. There were certainly worse places to land.
But... there was no television and no internet. There wasn't even an AM radio.
So I took a walk to check out the cafeteria/lounge/library.
On the way I passed a door labeled Women. I stopped for a moment, and wondered if I dared.
It may as well have read Authorized Personnel Only, because the writing stopped me.
Then, after a moment, I realized, I am authorized! I am a woman! and I pushed on the door.
It didn't budge.
I held my keycard against the sensor to the right of the door. The lock clicked. The door opened.
Inside there were showers, toilets, sinks, all in a row. Ten of everything. It didn't look particularly feminine. The walls and the floor were covered in white tile squares. A built-in set of bookshelves was loaded with clean, neatly-folded white bath towels.
In the left wall, there was a second door. I opened it. It was the women's dorm: a room fulled with ten beds. Near each bed stood a small bedside table. Two women were in there, sitting on their beds, facing each other, talking intently. When I stuck my head in, they stopped talking and turned to look at me. I gaped, stupidly, not knowing what to do or say next. Clearly I was intruding.
"What the fuck do you want?" One of them demanded belligerently.
"Nothing," I muttered, and closed the door.
Back in the hallway, the next door also led to the dorm; the same dorm. It was clearly labeled Women's Dormitory.
"No thank you," I said, to no one in particular, and felt grateful that I'd opted to sleep alone.
After another left and a right I arrived. The hallway opened to a wide space where the light was a little brighter. It was a sort of entryway to the lounge on the right, the library on the left, and the cafeteria straight ahead.
The library was larger than I expected. From my vantage point in the doorway I couldn't see where the tall metal shelves ended. It reminded me a little of the used bookstore across from Rowan's place, although this collection of books didn't have the dust or the musty smell that characterized the bookstore.
I would have gone in and poked around for a bit if it weren't for the presence of a young, lanky guy with a blond crewcut. He (like me) was dressed in fatigues and slippers. If it weren't for his slippers and his bright blue lanyard, I would have taken him for a soldier. One big stealthful step backward, and I managed to slip away before he saw me.
It wasn't that he scared me, or that he gave off a weird vibe. Neither of those things. I just didn't feel up to an encounter with a random man. I've never been shy in social situations — at least when I was Anson, but as Merope? I still found it awkward; as if I was only pretending to be Merope, still in danger of being caught out.
The lounge was also a good size — there seemed to be plenty of it. A lively ping pong game was taking place at the far end of the room. One end of a pool table was visible, jutting out from around a corner, suggesting that there was a lot more lounge in that direction. There were plenty of armchairs and low tables around the room — some of them solitary, others in groups. The sound of a TV came from somewhere inside; I couldn't see where. It looked alright and felt alright — more open and public than the library shelves. The high ceilings helped give a comfortable, roomy feeling.
In the end, I took the third choice and wandered into the cafeteria. Like the other two public options, the cafeteria was capacious. There was plenty of space and plenty of tables: mostly tables for six. There were a few tables for four. The table tops were green formica, like almost every other horizontal surface in the facility. Best of all, there was no one there.
Against the leftmost wall was the line where food was served. As I watched, a young woman emerged from the kitchen and eased a covered stainless-steel food pan into the warming table. That done, she gave the counter a quick sweep with a clean cloth, took a deep breath, and wiped her brow with the back of her forearm.
She spotted me right away, and waved me over with a welcoming smile. In spite of her invitation, I felt a little tentative. I don't know why. Residual Merope awkwardness, I guess. The woman had a friendly face framed by a hairnet. Her uniform was all white: white cotton pants and a short-sleeved white cotton shirt, buttoned up the front. Her white apron was lightly spotted with food, fresh from today.
"We're not ready with lunch yet," she told me. "Give us another forty-five minutes. There's still plenty of breakfast though, if that'll do ya."
"Um, yeah, sure," I agreed. "Breakfast sounds great. Um..." I looked down the line, expecting to see a cash register at the end of it. "Um, where do I pay?"
"Oh, you don't pay," she said. "People gotta eat, don't they? This is one place the budget cuts haven't hit."
I nodded.
"Not yet, anyway," she added. "Help yourself." She waved her hand at the food-service line. "You can't see the coffee and drink area from here, but it's kind-of set into the wall after the end of the line. See?" She pointed and gestured. "Well, you don't see, but it's right down there."
"Thanks," I told her, and she returned to the kitchen.
I wasn't hungry, but I had nothing else to do, so I loaded my plate with a taste of everything: one pancake, one piece of french toast, a waffle, a little bit of scrambled egg, hash browned potatoes, a little wedge of a western omelet, two kinds of sausage, a tiny spoonful of corned-beef hash, a baked tomato, two slices of pumpernickle toast...
I hesitated over the eggs benedict. If only I'd seen it earlier! But there was no room on my plate, and I doubted I could do justice to the load I'd already taken.
The coffee was surprisingly good. Great aroma. Hot and fresh.
For some reason I took a seat in the center of the room. Maybe I liked having all the tables arrayed around me, like a fort. I poked at my food, taking little bites of everything, sawing off a triangle of pancake, a morsel of sausage... I picked up the waffle in my hand and bit into it. The only disappointment was the hash: it had a chewy, raw taste, as if the potatoes were simply ground up but still uncooked.
The raw-potato taste seemed to stick to my teeth. I ate a half slice of pumpernickle and drank most of my coffee to wash the sensation out of my mouth. Still, on the whole, the massive unlimited breakfast raised my spirits.
After wending my way through the tables, I was refilling my coffee when the soldier appeared at my elbow. I'd been turned slightly to my right; the door on my left. So I hadn't seen him walk into the room. It was the same blond crewcut from the library. He was biting his lower lip, glancing at me quickly then looking away, clearly nervous, maybe a little afraid. He picked up a coffee mug and fumbled, nearly dropping it. He sighed and muttered something I couldn't hear. Then he turned and gestured to my breakfast, back there in the middle of the room. "Is that yours?" he asked.
"Uh, yeah," I said. "I kind of went overboard."
He said, "Ha," like he was trying to laugh. Then he filled his coffee mug too full, spilling some. "Dammit," he said softly, as if it was the one last straw and he could bear no more. He gave up and set the mug down, abandoning it. Opening his eyes wide, the way you do to keep the tears in, he asked, "Hey, listen, do you— do you mind if I sit with you — for a bit, anyway? I'm— I'm— uh, I don't want to be alone."
I opened my mouth to answer. Selfish of me, I know, but I wanted to make some excuse and go hide in my room. Before I could make a sound or even decide what to say, he went on in a flood of words, breathless, "I'm not going to hit on your or anything like that! I'm a— I'm a Switcher victim. I used to be a woman, and now..." He heaved a heavy sigh. "Now look at me." His face fell as he stared down at himself, forlorn, then turned his eyes back up at me. His mouth twitched; his lips trembled. He repeated his question, "Can I sit with you? For just a little while, even?"
[ Melanie Brown’s Switcher Universe ]
by Iolanthe Portmanteaux
"My name is Laura," the boy with the crewcut said. Then he closed his eyes tight, balled up his fists, and hunched over, clenching his jaw. "I can't deal with this," she whispered, "hearing his voice come out of my mouth."
"I know how you feel," I told him/her, uncertain as to whether I should put my hand on his shoulder or go so far as to give him a hug.
She shot me a look of hot, scornful disbelief. "How could you possibly?" she hissed.
"I'm a Switcher victim too," I replied. I found myself speaking in a soft, gentle voice. "I used to be a man."
She cooled off a little at that, and after looking me up and down quickly, said, "At least things went the right way for you."
Did they? I asked myself, but I didn't say it aloud. Instead I asked her, "Tell me what happened."
Laura began by describing in great detail what she was wearing at the time. It was basically a simple outfit: a short flare skirt, a crop top that showed her belly button, and a pair of sandals. In spite of its simplicity, she was meticulous in describing the cut, the color, the fabric, the designs. Cute was the essential idea; the impression she meant to give. She described the three bracelets she wore, her three sets of earrings, and her three necklaces. "I love the number three," she confided. "It's my lucky number."
After setting the sartorial stage, she laid out the emotional setting.
Laura and her boyfriend Pete (who started off the night with the lanky build and the blond crewcut) were walking in the cool of the evening, in a park, not far from the river. Laura was struggling to engage Pete in a serious and difficult discussion. She had just turned eighteen, while Pete remained a month shy of seventeen. Earlier that day, a friend teased Laura about Pete's age, and jokingly accused Laura of "robbing the cradle." Laura, in her own intensely serious way, took the words to heart, and worked herself into a near panic. She developed a vivid mental picture of herself condemned to a life sentence in a federal penitentiary, denied of all but the most basic hair-care products, and reduced to a single wardrobe choice: an orange jumpsuit.
Pete let out a loud guffaw at the idea. He thought she was kidding, and even when he saw she wasn't, he found it impossible to take the issue seriously. He kept trying to tease, hug, and tickle her into a better mood. He failed to notice that his efforts to lighten the mood only pushed Laura further and further into a deep well of anger and frustration. It wasn't until she finally broke down in tears and inarticulate cries — inarticulate because she spoke and sobbed in the same breaths, leaving Pete with a string of syllables and sounds that didn't resolve into words.
Pete was a little slow, but he wasn't a total, gormless idiot, and once he finally began to actively listen, he quickly caught on to Laura's point. "He stopped with all the stupid tickling, and said Okay, then, what do you think we should do?" It was in those vulnerable moments, as Laura composed herself and Pete began to show his concern, that the Switcher accosted the young couple.
Of course, Laura and Pete had no idea who he was. Neither ever expected to encounter the Switcher, ever in their lives. They'd have no way to recognize him, in any case. At the moment, the Switcher was a young guy with light brown hair; a twenty-something... short, a little stocky, in obvious need of a wash. His feet were bare and dirty, and he was dressed in blue shorts and a black t-shirt. "I thought he might be homeless," Laura confessed. Then, after a pause and a deep breath, she added (a bit incongruously), "He was carrying a fanny pack." She frowned. "He walked up, with this smirk — I hate people who smirk — and he says, What a cute couple! Pete asks him, very politely, Hey, do you mind? We're having a private discussion here. But the Switcher just stood there looking at us, like he was trying to decide something. He doesn't go away.
"So Pete asks again, Do you mind? The two of us are trying to talk. The Switcher — he still doesn't move. Pete steps between me and the Switcher, because for sure something was coming — the guy was going to try something — and the Switcher says, I want to show you a cool move. He takes off his fanny pack. He sets it on the ground and shoves it with his foot, so it slides past Pete, past me, which was weird. Then he says, Watch this! and he laughs this evil laugh. He gives Pete a shove, so Pete falls into me, and I fall on my butt. But then—" Laura stopped, strangely quiet. After a pause, she continued.
"I saw myself get up off the ground. I saw myself pick up the fanny pack and run away, laughing. It was so confusing and disorienting... just to watch myself run while I sat there on the ground. Stupid me! All I could think was what a nice skirt I was wearing—" she blushed "—and that I needed to brush the dirt off the back... off the back of the skirt." She stopped again, staring as if she was watching herself run off.
"And then what happened?" I prompted.
"Then, behind me, the guy in the blue shorts says, Holy shit, Laura, what just happened? and I thought, How does he know my name? I looked at him and it was so weird. It was like I saw Pete's reflection in his eyes. I looked down at myself and understood what happened. I said Pete, that asshole was the Switcher! and he laughed and said, Well, now we're fucked because I'm not gay." She looked at me with big liquid eyes and asked, "Can you believe *that* was the first thing he said to me?" She stared, slack-jawed with disbelief and repeated, "He laughed!"
"He sure doesn't sound like the most sensitive guy," I admitted. Then, remembering Femke's remark to me on the drive here, and I repeated it to the crewcut girl: "I think you're well shot of him, Laura."
"Well shot?" she repeated, incredulous, loaded with all the easy scorn of youth. "Well shot? What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means you're... uh... lucky to be rid of him."
"Hmph," she grunted. "Maybe. But well shot? Nobody says that. It's old-timey and weird. Like guns or something." She shook her head. "It's weird."
"Got it," I told her in a strong tone, and she dropped it.
She shifted around in her chair. "Anyway, you're right. He's not very sensitive. At all."
What was weird to me, far weirder than any "old-timey" phrase, was the contrast between the loose, sinewy, obviously masculine body sitting next to me, and the sensitive, emotional female soul inside. I couldn't call her him. There was nothing him about her: Her movements, her facial expressions, the way she talked, the way she reacted when I talked... This was simply a teenage girl, sitting next to me. But, how many people, other than me, would see her that way and treat her that way?
I'd thought earlier that people who get switched into a young life are dealt a better hand than people who fall suddenly into old age and illness. But this girl... Laura... what kind of life was she going to have? Would she eventually adapt to her new physiology?
At one point, when we were talking later on, she asked me in a quiet, confidential tone, "Do you ever get used to the penis?"
"What — do you mean, get used to having one?" I asked. She nodded, and glanced around furtively.
"Well, I don't miss it," I confessed, "You do kind of always know it's there. It seems to have a mind all its own."
"Yeah," she agreed. "It doesn't fit. It's like someone stuck a sausage in my pants. I just want to pull it out and throw it away!"
"Don't do that," I replied, half-joking. "You *can* have fun with it, you know."
"Hmmph," she grunted. "This morning I woke up with a boner," she told me. "I was so embarrassed."
"Yes, it can be inconvenient," I agreed. She made a sort of grimace.
With a few second's delay, her phrase yesterday morning I woke up... lit a light bulb inside my brain.
"Hey, Laura," I drawled, trying to keep a lid on my excitement, "How many days have you been here?"
"Too many," she shot back, and then: "We got here late last night."
"You and Pete?"
"Who else would there be? The other me is still out there somewhere, running around, switching people."
I didn't bother pointing out that Laura's "other me" only had one switch in her: once the Switcher moved to his next body, Laura's "other me" would be stuck forever as some stranger. Instead, I asked, "So, you were switched on Friday evening?" This was exciting news: Pete and Laura were links farther down the daisy chain. The barefoot guy in the blue shorts probably came right after Anson. We were a step, or a few steps, closer to fitting me into the established line of victims so I could get out of here.
Laura frowned at me. A frown that asked, Are you crazy? "No, I got switched on Thursday night. Why would you think it was last night?"
"Because I got switched just after lunch," I told her, "yesterday."
"Oh, my, I hope you had a lovely lunch," Laura intoned, half-mocking me. "What does that have to do with me?"
"I figured that you and Pete are further down the chain than me," I explained.
Her eyes narrowed. "What chain?"
"The daisy chain... of Switcher victims. We're all in a line, see?"
She huffed. She said, "Whatever! They'd like you to think so!"
Her response threw me a little, but I didn't want to get sidetracked. I wanted... needed... to know where she stood on the chain in relation to me. I asked her, "Listen, when they interviewed you, did they accuse you of trying to commit fraud?"
Laura's facial expression turned hard. Her eyes and mouth opened wide, and she chanted, "OH. MY. GOD. Some asshole, some frat boy, said that to me, yeah. I couldn't believe it!"
"So, he must have explained—"
"I didn't let him explain ANYTHING. I started screaming and screaming. Every time he tried to talk, I screamed even louder." She shook her head. "After a while he got all red in the face and gave up. He walked out of the room and I never saw him again. Asshole!"
"Ah. Well, that'll do it," I observed.
"Yeah," she agreed. "Government creeps!"
"Okay," I said, tentatively. Clearly, I was walking on eggs at this point. "Um, so anyway, there's this chain of people, or a line of people that the Switcher switched—" I began.
She interrupted. "Why do you even care? And how do you know that's any of that is true?"
"True?" I repeated. I had be careful. I remembered my conversations with my son Herman when he was a teenager. How easily he'd abandon logic and facts. I needed to keep on track: stick to the daisy-chain. I told her in a clear, calm tone, "Because until they find the person I used to be, or the person who used to live in this body, they aren't going to let me leave this place."
She regarded me in silence for a long moment, then said, "I guess that means you're here forever, then. How could they possibly ever find those people? That is — if they even wanted to find them. They're all out there switching, right? They could be anybody by now."
"Uh... no," I contradicted. "It doesn't work like that."
She shook her head scornfully. She waved her hands dismissively.
"People say a lot of shit about the Switcher and switching," she told me, "but they don't tell you the truth."
The truth. Here she was, talking about "the truth" again. I figured I may as well indulge her. By now it was clear that she was farther *back* on the daisy chain — she and Pete were switched *before* Merope. Obviously, she'd have no idea what happened to the "other Laura" who ran off. There'd be no clue as to how many people stood between them and me on the chain.
So I asked her, "What truth?" I expected some bit of misinformation or misunderstanding... some uninformed version of how things are. What I didn't expect was a full-blown, hard-edged conspiracy theory, fueled by suspicion, resentment, and mistrust.
"The truth is, they could switch everybody back, if they wanted to. But they like things this way: all the confusion, all of us chasing our tails, thinking we're trapped — but we're not."
"No," I contradicted. "They can't switch anybody back. Not even the Switcher can switch us back."
"That doesn't make sense," she said. "They tell you that everybody can only switch once, but supposedly this Switcher is out there, switching seven times a day! That's impossible!"
"No — if that was possible, somebody would have switched back already, and we'd have heard about it."
Laura gave me a sly look. "How do you know nobody's switched back? Maybe they did... but they have to keep quiet about it."
"Why would they need to keep quiet?"
"Because the government would shut them up, real quick, and permanently."
"Oh, Laura," I sighed. "This is just a conspiracy theory! None of it is based on facts or observations!"
"How do you know?" she challenged. How do you know?
I've never met a conspiracy theorist of any stamp before, and after listening to Laura spill out her multiple theories, I never want to meet one again.
A few times I pointed out that her various ideas didn't hold together: some of them outright contradicted each other.
"If people who are switched can go around switching people, how come you and I can't do that?" I challenged.
"I don't know," she replied, undaunted. "But think about vampires: how come some people get bit and die, and other people get bitten and turn into vampires themselves?"
"I don't know the answer to that," I exclaimed, exasperated, "but vampires aren't real!"
Laura fell silent for a long while after that, but just as I was about to return to the idea of the daisy chain, she muttered sullenly, "It must be nice to know everything!"
Her teenage resentment made me feel guilty and sorry for her. I opened my mouth to speak, but she pre-empted me.
"I'm in love with him," she said in a quiet voice. I had to strain to hear. "I was in love with him. But now what? He's somebody else, and I'm him! How could it possibly be worse?"
I almost told her that things can always be worse, but doubted she'd find any consolation in the idea.
"Now he's being a dick about it. He's avoiding me! He's in the next room playing ping pong, as if nothing's wrong!" She sniffed, and wiped her nose with the back of her hand. I pushed my unused napkins in her direction.
"I want to call my parents, but they won't let me!"
"Protocol," I commiserated. She agreed with a scoff.
"Now I have to wait for Pete's parents to decide what happens to me."
"Why?"
"Haven't you been listening?" she accused. "I'm a minor now! Either Pete's parents take me in, or I end up being a ward of the state."
"And Pete?"
"Well, first they have to figure out who the hell he is. The homeless guy had no ID." She raised her eyes and watched the kitchen staff as they removed the breakfast items from the food line. "Why couldn't the Switcher just swap me and Pete? Things would still be weird, but at least they'd be simpler."
I couldn't help but point out that her proposal was simply impossible. "He can't swap two people. It's not possible."
"Why not?" she challenged.
"Because there are three people," I said. "You, Pete, and the Switcher. Imagine that each of you is wearing a hat. First, the Switcher swaps hats with Pete. Then Pete and you swap hats. How do you and Pete end up with each other's hats? You can't, because the first person has Pete's hat."
"Then me and the first guy swap hats," she observed. "It's simple."
I opened my mouth to object, knowing that as hats go, she was correct. But as for switching, it wouldn't work. That last switch couldn't happen, because each person can only switch once. But there was no point in arguing with her. I resigned myself to saying, "Nobody knows how the Switcher does it, or why it works the way it does."
"I don't believe that," she said. "The scientists must know. It's their job, right? A scientist created the Switcher—"
"—and the Switcher killed him afterward—"
She made a sweeping motion with her hands, as if smoothing sand. "What one scientist can do, any scientist can do."
"That's not true," I objected.
"They know," she insisted. "Scientists know. They could change us all back, if they wanted. But they don't want to."
"I'm not sure I'd want to go back," I told her.
She gave me a strange look, and said, "Then you'd be messing things up for someone else."
We fell into silence after that. My head had begun to hurt, and I felt tired. Very tired. Emotionally tired. I was about to make an excuse for returning to my room, but Laura beat me to the punch.
"I'm going to go watch the ping pong match," she informed me. "Maybe Pete will feel like talking."
"Good luck," I told her, and watched her walk away.
[ Melanie Brown’s Switcher Universe ]
by Iolanthe Portmanteaux
The next morning, I woke up because someone was tapping me. If I'd been less asleep, the fact of someone touching me at all would have jerked me into full consciousness: I would have instantly hit battle mode.
It didn't happen this time because I was down too deep. When I lay down on my bed last night, I was exhausted, and slept the sleep of the dead. So... when it came time to wake up, it was a long, slow climb back to consciousness.
As I made that sluggish, lead-footed, and confused ascent from the land of dreams to the land of the living, I did my best to piece things together: to separate dream from reality.
Yes, someone was gently, rhythmically tapping my ring finger, tap tap tap. Why on earth would anyone do that? Gradually I understood that it was *me* tapping. Me tapping myself. My left thumb curled inside my hand, tapping my left ring ringer, close to the base. A few more steps out of dreamworld, and I understood why.
Cleo and I have been married — had been married — were married for... twenty-five years, give or take. I can never remember the exact number. It doesn't matter now.
In all that time, I've never taken off my wedding ring. Never. Well... hardly ever. I'd sense the lack, the absence, right away — the sensation of something missing, and I'd feel a low-grade panic until I found the ring and put it back on.
Now, of course, there was no finding it. There was no putting it back on. It was gone, along with my previous body. Some other Anson was wearing it now.
Maybe he was waking up as well, his thumb tapping what used to be my ring finger, my ring. Maybe he's asking himself who is on the other end of that ring? Had he met Cleo? Have they argued yet?
I exhaled heavily and sat up, looking at my left hand. I'd looked at myself before; I knew the story already: Merope had never been married; never worn a wedding ring. I could see this by the light coming under my door from the hallway.
This room needs a decent nightlight, I said to myself. Something a little more intentional than the light under the door.
"I'll put it in my Yelp review," I said aloud, and laughed. "I have to comment on the decor... and of course on the wi-fi service—"
I stopped in mid-sentence. How was the wi-fi? I wondered. I hadn't noticed any routers anywhere, not that I was looking. Then again, I hadn't seen many devices that would need wi-fi. Except in the nurse's office. She had a tablet, so there must have been a connection nearby.
Out of habit, I groped in the near darkness for my nightstand, for my phone. I only wanted to know the time, but — whatever. Merope didn't have a phone. Not at the moment, anyway. And there was no nightstand.
Do phones work, this far underground? Well, actually we were only one or two levels down, but there had to be a huge mass of steel and concrete above and around me. The base was probably one huge Faraday cage.
I dangled my head over the side of the bed and stared at the red glowing numbers, upside-down, on the clock over the bookcase. 8:45 AM. I didn't usually sleep that late. I'm usually up before dawn.
After a brief trip to the bathroom, I stood in the middle of my room, blinking, still slightly foggy with sleep. I debated myself: was I was hungry enough to dress and make my way to the cafeteria, or would I be better off crawling back into bed. Coffee? Or pillow? I decided to go with the coffee option, which raised the question of showering or not showering. So many decisions! I made my bed and was smoothing the blanket, when another tapping started. There was someone at my door. Who could it be? God, please don't let it be Laura, I prayed. But even so... I took a deep breath and opened the door a couple inches, placing my body behind it to hide the fact that I wasn't wearing any pants.
It was Femke. "I come with breakfast," she said, matter of factly. She didn't ask whether she'd woken me.
"Oh, my God! I'm so happy to see you!" I exclaimed.
"Oh, yes, awesome! It's so awesome!" she joked, in a very broad American accent. "Don't overdo it," she cautioned.
"I'll overdo if I like," I told her. "I'm American — I'm going to act out like an American! Come in! Come on in!"
Femke was dressed, like me, in Army fatigues. "It's camouflage," she explained. I hesitated, unsure whether to tell her that I knew very well what the splotches of green, black, and brown were called. Femke, watching my face, frowned. "I can see the gears spinning in your head," she told me. "I'm joking. I'm wearing these to blend in, so I look like one of you." She gestured at herself. "I know this is camouflage, but it's also camouflage. Get it?"
The lanyard around her neck was white, and held a card with her picture, her name, and the title "INTL OBSERVER." She saw me glance at it, and grinning told me, "I'm an international observer." She laughed. "I'm observing like all-get-out." She set a bag of food on the end of my bed, and pulled two cups of coffee out of a four-cup carrier. She rested the drinks atop the little bookcase.
Inside the bag were two styrofoam take-out containers. The contents were identical: one for her, one for me. They held huevos rancheros, fresh tortillas, white rice, and black beans. As if that wasn't enough, there were four slices of buttered toast. The coffee cups were large, holding generous, hot black coffee. Everything was excellent.
"Is this from the cafeteria?" I asked. "I have to say, the food here is something else!"
"Something else?" Femke echoed.
"Oh — I mean, it's really good. It's exceptional."
She nodded. "It's not from the cafeteria."
I blinked a few times, waiting for more. When she wasn't forthcoming, I asked, "Where is it from, then?"
She raised her head and thought for a moment as she chewed. After she swallowed, she answered, "Let's say we sent out for it." She spooned some beans and rice into her mouth and picked up a tortilla.
"What does that mean?" I asked.
She sighed. "Don't ask," she replied. "It means, don't ask. I'll tell you after we get out of this place."
I frowned and pressed her again, but she wouldn't budge. She wouldn't say another word, except to repeat that she'd tell me once we left the center.
A little frustrated, I changed the subject. "So, how have you spent your time here, so far?"
"I'm looking around," she answered. "Observing. Getting the lay of the land. Is that correct to say?"
"The lay of the land? Yes, that's perfect," I replied. "And what have you found?"
She raised her eyebrows and smiled like the cat who swallowed the canary. "You won't believe it," she confided. "But in any case you'll have to wait until we leave before I tell you."
"Why?" I demanded. Now I was more than a little miffed, and starting to get offended. "What's with all the mystery and the things you won't tell me?"
"Rowan told me that you can't keep a secret, so it's better not to tell you... sensitive... things until we're safely out of here."
"Hmmph!"
"One thing I *can* tell you that your old self, Mr Anson Charpont, has not yet put in an appearance! It's very strange."
"Are you sure?"
"Absolutely. I checked before coming here, just now. The center knows nothing about him. Also — and here is a bit of good news — Stan has given me a pager that will alert me the moment your Anson arrives." She showed me a small dark block clipped to her waist.
"Who is Stan?"
She sighed heavily. "Stan is the stoner who let us into this place. Remember? The dude who lives in a cloud of marijuana smoke? As it happens, he is the facilities manager — can you believe it? He is responsible for this entire installation, and for that reason, he has access to everything here. Everything. They have a room full of pagers. Pagers! Who needs pagers nowadays? And yet they have enough for an army! They also have an alert system that can send out automatic pages for anything and everything."
I didn't know what to respond, so I didn't say anything.
Femke went on. "I'm going to call Rowan in an hour. I'm going to ask him to dig into the whereabouts of your old self."
"Thanks."
"He should be able to tell us what's what. He is a big-city detective, after all," she quipped.
After chewing for a bit, and swallowing, Femke sniffed the air around her. She asked me, "Do I smell of pot?"
I took a few experimental sniffs. "No. Not at all. Were you smoking?"
"No, but Stan — he reeks of it. I was afraid his stink might... transfer to me."
"No, you're fine."
"That man is high every moment of the day, if you can believe it. He smokes even when he is already on his ass. I'm convinced that when he dies, his autopsy will show that his brain is ten percent brain cells, and ninety percent resin."
I laughed.
"Stan believes that he and I have an Amsterdam connection, as he puts it, and for that reason he is happy to do things for me. He can believe in this connection all he likes, as long he stands far enough back that his pot-cloud doesn't touch me."
"Yeah," I agreed. "He does have a potent aura."
"In any case, as I was saying, Stan has access to every part of this base. And this base is enormous. Enormous! You can have no idea! It has no end of lower levels. At some point, the floors are no longer numbered. They use letters, acronyms. Obviously, it's to obscure the depth, so you don't know how far down you are."
"Wow."
"But this bureaucracy, this Switcher center, they only use the top ten levels, and those, only to a limited extent. The rest is just—" She spread her hands in a gesture meaning vast emptiness.
Femke went on talking about the size of the base, its original purpose, and the Cold War. She found it fascinating, and spoke for some time, gesturing and exclaiming. I finished my food and sat brooding, holding my coffee in both hands, but not drinking. My mind was elsewhere.
I was concerned about Laura. I couldn't stop thinking about her. She was obviously a bright girl, but not happy about living in a boy's body. Not happy at all. Obviously distressed about finding herself once again a minor, and not having the power to determine her own fate. My mind replayed pieces of our conversation, and I found myself composing helpful advice I wish I'd had the presence of mind to offer in the moment.
"Hey," Femke called to me, gently at first. Then, "Hey!" with a poke to my thigh. "Where are you, Merope? You seem distracted and disturbed."
"I am," I confessed.
"Don't worry," she said. "You'll learn to navigate this new life of yours. We'll help you, Rowan and I."
"It's not that," I told her. "I mean, thanks for all that — I really appreciate what you're doing, and the fact that you're here. I'm just distracted. I'm concerned about a girl I met here yesterday."
Femke nodded, and I related the whole experience, from seeing the crewcut boy in the library, to realizing she was a girl to her core, to listening to her confused and contradictory conspiracy theories.
Femke confessed, "I haven't heard any of that stuff — but I must admit I'm not au courant with conspiracy theories. Of course it's all nonsense, but perfectly in line with typical paranoid, anti-government fantasies." She chuckled to herself. "Have you ever considered that there may be a nebulous miasma composed of all the common elements of your standard conspiracy theories? Can you picture it just floating in the air throughout history, waiting for a topic, for a focus it can adhere to, and congeal itself around? Then, once that topic is exhausted and gone, it returns to being an untethered miasma once again?"
"Ah... well... I can honestly say, that the idea has never occurred to me."
Femke shook her head and declared, "Don't worry, Merope! The girl will be fine. Certainly after a few sessions, all that crap will be straightened out of her."
"Sessions?" I repeated.
"With her therapist."
"If she *has* a therapist."
"Why wouldn't she? Surely a mental-health professional will spend some time with her. Help her understand, adjust."
"No," I told her. "That won't happen."
She gestured vaguely with her hand. "This... facility... what is it for, then? They must provide counseling. There must be therapists, counselors, on staff. Mental health — it's elementary! How can you say they won't help in that way? Certainly they offered this to you! Not that you need it, but how do they expect disconnected, displaced people to find their feet after this experience? For many, this will be an immense trauma."
"They expect each of us to find our own way."
Femke stared at me, uncomprehending. "That makes no sense," she objected, shaking her head.
"Femke, no one has offered me anything, except for a bottle of water. As far as I've seen and heard, there's no consideration given for mental-health. None at all."
"And yet, someone follows-up each victim at their homes, afterward."
I shook my head. "No. The man who did my intake, he told me quite clearly that no one ever follows up on any Switcher victim. They never have, and I guess they never will."
Femke processed this, then smiled. "Surely there are support groups."
"Why do you say that?"
"Because you Americans, the moment something happens to one of you, the first thing you do is create a support group, and the second thing is that you go on TV."
I thought about that for a moment. "Yeah, probably," I admitted.
"And your Laura-girl, or Laura-boy, she also has a advantage over someone like you. A sad advantage, but an advantage still."
"What's that?"
"She will connect to a network of conspiracy people. If not in person, at least online. She will find kindred spirits who will listen to her story, and take her into their arms, at least metaphorically."
I looked at the floor and took a sip of my coffee. "Cold comfort," I commented.
"It's better than being alone in her sorrows," Femke offered.
"Is it?"
Femke gave me an encouraging pat on the knee and said, "At least you, Miss Merope, you can comfort yourself by creating a support group, if there isn't one already! You can collect all the Lauras and Petes of this area and be their shepherd."
Femke was smiling. I had no idea whether she was making fun of me, but at the moment I didn't care. Her encouragement and optimism improved my mood and made me smile.
"I guess I could at least get some t-shirts printed," I joked.
"That's the spirit! In that way, you'll make your fortune."
We both took a deep sip of coffee after that.
"There was something else," I said, changing the subject once again. "For some reason this Laura, her boyfriend Pete, and some homeless guy in blue shorts, they all arrived last night, which was Friday—"
"—So, the Switcher got to them after you and Anson."
"No, that's what I expected! Instead, for some reason, they encountered the Switcher *before* me, before Merope. They got switched on Thursday night."
"What do you make of that?"
"I don't know," I replied. "If I see Laura, I'll try to ask. She is a little spiny, though."
"Spiny?"
"Like a hedgehog... or a porcupine."
Femke thought for a moment, then said some word in Dutch that seemed to clarify things for her.
"Okay," she said, "I will see whether Stan can shed some light on their late arrival. Maybe it's connected to your Anson's late arrival as well?"
"I suppose it's possible. Thanks."
I also mentioned the fanny pack that the Switcher was careful to keep. "The cylinders could have been in there," I speculated.
She shrugged. "It's possible. In any case, it shows that the Switcher was already up to something before he met you. This business with Laura and her friends seems more intentional that his interaction with you."
"True," I agreed.
"Maybe you bumped into him on his way out of town."
After Femke left, I took a shower. Then I dressed in a fresh set of fatigues and headed toward the lounge. I found myself walking quickly, almost angrily, and realized that I was spoiling for a fight. It came out of a sense of frustration and powerlessness. What was doing in this place, after all? Wasting time, certainly. Learning nothing, that's for sure. Could I insist on being let go? No one ever told me, after all, that I couldn't leave.
In Laura's case, by way of contrast, they had told her she couldn't leave. Not until her fate had been decided. It was different, of course. In Pete's body, she was legally a minor, and was obliged to wait until Pete's parents decided whether they'd take her in.
The point I was making (to myself) was that Laura was directly *told* that she couldn't leave. In my case, they asked me. Matt said something like how do you feel about staying for a couple of days? That sounded pretty voluntary.
Next time I saw Femke, I'd have to tell her that if she wanted to leave — or whenever she felt like leaving — I was more than ready to get out of Dodge.
It seemed, though, that Femke was enjoying herself, or at least that she found the place interesting. She didn't appear to have trouble keeping busy.
Maybe I should ask if I could hang around with her; visit the other, more hidden parts of the center.
But for now? I used my access card to open the women's dorm, and stuck my head in, hoping to find the two women who'd been so hostile the day before. Instead, I found the place empty. Empty of people, I mean. There were ten beds, all of them made up, clean and ready for use. The two women were probably back in the outside world. And where do they fit in the daisy chain? I wondered. Before me, most likely. Probably before Laura and Pete, as well.
Or were they just staff? People who worked in the center, taking advantage of the surplus beds for a night?
I sighed. It didn't matter either way. None of it helped me.
The library and cafeteria were empty. I could hear the sound of a ping-pong game coming from the lounge.
It was Laura (in the guise of a lanky, crewcut boy) and Pete (now short and stocky, with light brown hair). I found them intent on the game: unsmiling, competitive. I stood off to the side, well out of play. Neither of them bothered to greet me, so I didn't speak until Laura delivered a powerful spike that caught the very edge of the table before its ricochet carried it to one of the room's far corners.
"Hey, Laura," I offered, as Pete turned to run and fetch the ball.
"How you doing?" she replied, twirling her paddle as she spoke.
"Quick question," I said. "How come, if you were switched on Thursday, you didn't arrive here until Friday night? Did you wait before you called the center?"
"No," she replied, and quickened her words as Pete approached with the ball. "I called the police right away, but they didn't have anybody to bring us here until Friday."
I nodded thoughtfully. Simple answer. Pete tossed the ball to Laura and announced the score. Laura resumed the game by delivering a lightning-fast serve that shot right past Pete.
"Happy?" she asked me.
"Ecstatic," I replied. "Thanks — I'll leave you to your game." I waved to Pete. He smiled and nodded, then asked, "You don't have any cigarettes, do you?"
I shrugged, shook my head, and left. Now I had my answer, and yet once again I'd learned nothing.
After picking up a mug of coffee in the cafeteria, I wandered into the library. I decided, either perversely or ironically, to search for A Room with a View, but couldn't remember the author's name. Instead I ended up with Cakes and Ale by Somerset Maugham. I only picked it because it happened to be lying out on a table. I started reading because a blurb on the back cover proclaimed it "one of the funniest books ever written."
I'm a fast reader, and it's a quick read, but I have to say I got 150 pages into it, before I found anything amusing. And it wasn't even funny! It was only amusing. Even so, by that time, the story had hooked me, and I wanted to know how it all came out, so I moved to the cafeteria and sat near the coffee dispenser.
So... was it "one of the funniest"? No. Not at all. It was engaging. The premise was clever. I liked it, but I only laughed out loud once, and that was at a scribbled note some random reader added. The book quoted Racine: Vénus tout entière à sa proie attachée, and some simple soul must have Google-translated and gotten: "Venus all whole at her prey area of responsibility." My French was rusty, but after a little struggle I got the idea that it was "Venus herself, fastened to her prey."
Still, I stayed with the little book all the way to the end, until the author neatly tied up every loose end — some of which he purposefully left dangling until the very last page in the book.
The story left me in a curious and reflective mood.
It gave me a sense of the author's — or at least the narrator's — kindness, compassion... maybe even tenderness. And the writing was flawless, if I'm any judge.
What was it about? It told the story of a famous writer who'd recently died, and how his upper class friends — lovers of propriety — steadfastly closed their eyes to everything that formed the man, everything that made him interesting, and defined who he was. They wanted a smooth, unoffensive, upper-class portrait; all light, no shadows.
So... again, "one of the funniest"? Not by a long shot. But still... maybe what I liked in it, maybe what I wanted from it for myself, was for someone to see me and understand me, with the same kindness and compassion. Maybe that's all it was.
The day passed slowly. Apart from Laura and Pete, who had no interest in my company, I didn't see another living soul. I traipsed around the floor, which was vast. All I found was one hallway after another. Every hallway was full of doors. Numbered doors, elevator doors, or double doors. I couldn't open any of them. Every door was labeled with numbers or descriptions (such as "LARGE BRIEFING ROOM" or "CLEANING SUPPLIES AND EQUIPMENT") or with acronyms. Most doors were labeled "NAP".
Later, Femke asked Stan about NAP. He told her it meant "No Assigned Purpose."
Femke mentioned that she'd come by at seven so we could have dinner together. I was feeling rather low after a boring day spent alone in an underground bunker, but I tried to not show it. She asked whether I wanted Mexican food again, but I told her I felt like eating a big pile of vegetables. We went together to the cafeteria. Laura and Pete were eating at a table for two, off in the distance, and they didn't bother to look up when we came in. We left them to themselves.
Femke surveyed the food line, amazed at the variety and the volume. "This is an awful lot of food for three people!" she commented.
"I guess the people who work here, eat here as well."
"Even so!"
I chose a large bowl rather than a plate, and piled it with boiled and sautéed vegies. I dumped in potatoes, cabbage, carrots, zucchini, onions, tomatoes, ... and seasoned it all with olive oil and salt. I also grabbed a big chunk of cheese and the end of a baguette, along with two bottles of water.
Femke selected a pair of fat sausages along with a healthy serving of spaghetti with ragu. She sprinkled the pasta liberally with grated parmesan. "What? No wine?" she quipped. Leaning close, she added in an undertone, "I can get us some, if you like."
"No, that's fine," I said. "There's plenty of time for that when I'm out of here."
We sat near the door for some reason. The moment we sat down, Femke shoved a healthy forkful of spaghetti into her mouth.
"Oh!" she exclaimed, the word muffled by the pasta. She held up one finger, meaning wait, while she chewed and eventually swallowed. "This is quite flavorful!"
"Yeah, the food here is surprising."
"Anyway, I spoke to Rowan. He was in a great hurry, but he told me that he found your Anson."
"Did he? Where? And why isn't Anson here?"
"He couldn't answer that yet. He is still finding out. He said something about a reporting sync." She shook her head.
"Do you mean sync, like synchronization?"
"Yes, of course," she acknowledged. "Synchronization. I don't know what needs to synchronize with what. He actually suggested not telling you, because you'll only have questions for which he has no answers."
I sighed heavily. "I'm getting sick and tired of not being told things."
"I understand," she said. "Only think: once he resolves this sync'ing business, you'll be free like a bird."
I considered what she told me, and asked her, "Hey, Femke. How will you know when I've been released? How can I find you?" I pointed to her phone number on my arm. "Does your phone work down here?"
"It does. Phones, pagers... you can even get the internet if you like. Do you want me to get you a tablet?"
"No, thanks. I just wanted to be sure that once they're done with me, I'll be able to find you."
"Absolutely. Stan assures me they will find me when it's time for you to go. I'm your contact person. It's in your... account... your personal record. They'll call me, and I'll also get an automatic page." Grinning, she held up the black box attached to her waist.
"Did Stan set that up?" I asked her, a little suspicious.
"Sure, yes."
I nodded, and considered for a long minute what I wanted to say — and whether I should say anything at all. Femke had her head down, focused on her spaghetti. The two sausages, some bread, and cheese were on standby. When she consumed the last forkful of pasta, she looked up at me and smiled.
"Femke," I began, tentatively. "I know Stan's been incredibly helpful—"
Femke gave a sharp barking laugh of agreement.
"—and I know you mentioned this Amsterdam connection he imagines you two have—"
"Yeah."
"—he's doing so much for you—" [Here my face began to redden] "—he's probably hoping... or expecting, even... or in any case, wanting—"
Femke laughed and wiped the red sauce from her mouth with a white napkin. She took a healthy swig of water and gave me an open-mouthed grin.
"I know what he wants, Merope," she said, laughing. "He's a man. All men are dogs, when it comes down to this. They hope, they expect, they want."
"But you're not going to sleep with him, are you?"
Femke held my eye and hung fire. When I could stand the suspense no longer, she said, "I haven't decided."
I have to say, I was shocked. I must be naive. After sixty years of life, I was still rather innocent in some things.
"What about Rowan?" I asked in a hushed tone.
She replied, "The Italians have a saying, Occhio non vede, Cuore non duole. Do you know what it means?" I shook my head. "It means that what the eye doesn't see, the heart doesn't feel."
I was speechless. Femke watched me stew in my shocked feelings for a few moments, then burst into a loud guffaw.
"Oh, Merope! How could I stand to! Such a thing! That man, and his stink! Never, never — and then, never." She laughed and laughed.
"Anyway, Stan is happy. He is wrapped in his little cloud, dreaming of his youth in Amsterdam. He enjoys helping me, in part because he's showing off. He feels this base is his kingdom; that he has boundless riches here. Usually he has no way to show them off. Finally he has someone to boast to and impress. He wants me to ask for things, especially if they are difficult or forbidden."
"Really?" Something clicked in my brain. "Femke, do you think Stan can do something for me?"
She shrugged. "I think he would be delighted. I can only ask."
"When they interviewed and examined me, I asked for information about Merope, but they wouldn't give me any. Do you think Stan can get it for me?" I spoke in an undertone, furtively. I felt like a criminal, subverting the system.
"What sort of information?"
"Well, like... everything, really: Tax returns — all her tax returns. Medical information." I scratched my head. Femke got out a blue 3x5 card and a pen and began writing. "Um, bank account... I mean, bank statements — credit card... can they do a credit check? email address..."
I tapped my forehead, as though it would help me remember. "Oh! Phone number! What's her phone number? and her carrier!"
Femke, scribbling furiously, caught up with my list. "Anything else?"
"Oh, yeah, I suppose, um, debts? police record? Rowan said she didn't have any, but it wouldn't hurt to check again."
"These people here have resources, Merope. Serious resources. I think they can get into anything. Everything."
"And if Stan could put all of that on a USB stick, that would be great."
Femke grinned. "Your wish will be his command."
"Can you ask him about getting my birth certificate, too?"
"Sure." She shrugged and grinned. Then she picked up a knife and fork and attacked her sausages.
I slept a lot better that night than the night before. I took my used fatigues and spread them along the crack at the bottom of the door, leaving my room in near-complete darkness. There was still light filtering around the edges of the door, and the red numbers on the clock glowed all night, but I felt as though I was in a cave. A safe, warm, dry cave. The word atavistic came to mind. As I turned it over in my mind, asking myself whether the term applied to the way I was feeling, I slipped into a deep and dreamless sleep.
The next morning, Femke woke me by knocking on my door. Not tapping, knocking. "Merope, get dressed. Grab your bag. It's time to go."
"Do you mean—"
"Your Mr Anson finally reported in. You're free to go."
"Is he here? Can I see him?"
"He's not here. Maybe back in town you can see him. We'll see what Rowan says. We can call on the way. Come on, let's go."
Still a little groggy with sleep, and puzzled by her sudden... anxiety to leave. She'd shifted from one extreme to another: from relaxed, happy, go-with-the-flow, to hurry up, there's no time, let's get the hell out of here.
"Can I take a shower first?" I asked her.
She sniffed at the air around me, left and right. "You smell fine," she told me. "You can take all the showers you like after."
I started pulling a new set of fatigues on, and noticed that she was dressed in her own clothes. "No more camouflage?" I teased.
When she didn't respond, I picked up my bag — Merope's bag — and asked, "How about breakfast?"
"Oh. Uh — we can stop on the way."
"Could we get that Mexican breakfast again?"
"NO!" she exclaimed.
"What the hell, Femke? Did something happen?"
She glanced around her, as if to see whether anyone was listening. Then she snatched the pager from her hip.
"Do you think that fucker can track this?"
"Stan? I don't know? I suppose it's possible."
She threw the device on my bed, and repeated, "Let's go."
"Um — I'm supposed to change the sheets—"
"Fuck that! We're out of here!" She grabbed my arm and pulled me, and not very gently, into the hall and away.
She led me through a series of turns, from one hallway to the next. She told me later that there were indications on the wall, pale red arrows that I hadn't noticed.
At last we arrived at an elevator. She stopped abruptly and stared at it for a moment. She was obviously thinking, considering something — I had no idea what, so I reached forward to hit the elevator-call button.
She grabbed my arm to prevent me. "We're taking the stairs," she said. "Try to be quiet. I'll tell you everything in the car."
I was already getting the idea. Stan must have tried something, and it freaked her out.
I silently followed her up several flights of stairs until we arrived in a parking garage. There were a dozen or so cars parked on that level. I saw across the way the entrance that Matt mentioned. Stan was waiting there, watching a set of elevators, smoking a joint.
"Fucker," Femke hissed, and put her finger to her lips. I nodded.
Quietly we made our way through the garage, up one more parking level. Rowan's car was sitting in a dark corner, half-hidden by a large square pillar. The doors were slightly open. "Don't close the door until I've started the engine," she cautioned. We got in, buckled up, closed and locked the doors, and drove up and out, back into the real world.
"Fucker!" Femke exclaimed again, through gritted teeth, then "Fucker! Fucker! Fucker!" pounding the steering wheel with each cry.
[ Melanie Brown’s Switcher Universe ]
by Iolanthe Portmanteaux
The car bucked and the undercarriage scraped the sidewalk as our car shot out of the processing center's garage. The tires screeched and squealed as Femke threw a hard left onto the road outside. My heart shot into my throat at her abrupt, reckless maneuver. Normally I would have shouted Watch out! or Be careful! or some equally useless warning. This time, instead, when I opened my mouth to shout a warning or a protest, the force of acceleration threw me back against my seat, and the words caught in my throat. Femke hadn't looked — she hadn't looked at all — before exiting. She didn't check for cars or pedestrians before cutting across the sidewalk or pulling onto the street. If a mother with a baby carriage had happened to step in front of us, the mother, the baby, and the carriage would have gotten steamrolled into oblivion.
Luckily there was no one on the sidewalk, no one on the street. The car fishtailed right and left before settling straight on.
White-knuckled, Femke tore down the main street and — almost as an afterthought — tore up the entrance to I-60 South. One of the wheels bounced and bounded over the curb before we shot like a rocket onto the highway. My head jerked right and left, looking for dangers, even though I had no way of preventing anything from happening. Happily, the highway was as empty of traffic as the street outside the processing center. Femke cut across the width of the highway, taking possession of the fast lane. I watched the speedometer rise... to 40... 50... 60... still within the speed limit.
The car gave a remarkably smooth ride... until the needle crept north of 60. Above that threshold, it vibrated — a clear indicator that this vehicle wasn't built for speed. At first the trembling was light. As the needle pushed higher and higher, the vibrations came harder and harder. The car shook and threatened to come apart. At least, that's how it felt. I pictured the wheels separating from the chassis, the doors and hood flying off, pieces of the engine tearing through the air. I easily imagined the two of us, cartoon-like, still in our seats, flying through the air, Femke still holding the steering wheel, but the rest of the car gone, left as scrap on the highway behind us. We hit 70... then 80...
My eyes grew wider as we narrowed the distance between us and two cars far ahead of us. They started as tiny black dots in the distance, but quickly came into view, until we whipped past them, as though they were standing still. Femke, unblinking, stared straight ahead, gripping the steering wheel as tight as she could with both hands. Her knuckles were bone white.
"Femke," I called in a gentle voice, "Femke, you need to slow down."
She gave me a long look, nodded, took a deep breath, and eased up on the gas. We rapidly decelerated until the car stopped trembling. She slipped over to the center lane.
"I needed to put some miles between myself and that place," she explained.
I nodded, and almost went with the shopworn I understand, but experience with Cleo taught me that I understand could be as much a trigger phrase as Calm down. No one likes to be told to calm down. It makes it sound like the real problem is their agitation, and not the thing that got them agitated in the first place.
In the same way, "I understand" trivializes the other person's feelings. Did I really understand? Probably not. I could guess, but I was in no way certain of what had happened to her.
So I went with something more neutral.
"Femke, why don't stop somewhere and have breakfast?" In very convenient timing, my stomach growled, seconding my request. "We can catch our breath. We can talk... if you *want* to talk... and I haven't eaten. Have you?"
Femke gave me another sidelong glance. She said, "Fine. But let's find a place off the highway." Then she added, "There isn't anything on this road anyway. Remember the trip up? We couldn't even find a gas station."
I borrowed her phone and consulted the GPS. "If we take the next exit, there's a diner, but it's 17 miles west of the highway."
"Sounds perfect," she replied.
We coasted slowly through the exit, and drove away from the highway, following a narrow country road. It was just barely two lanes, and the edges of the paving blended smoothly first to sand and pebbles, then to dirt and grass. At times it was so heavily overhung with trees, it felt like a living tunnel. The demographic composition of the trees changed with the miles. As we penetrated farther and farther west, we saw ever more evergreens, and fewer deciduous. In other words, the world became more green around us; we left the wildly colored leaves of autumn behind.
Twenty minutes later, we arrived at the diner — nearly missing it, smothered as it was by thick pines, their branches close, resting on the diner's roof.
Maude's Diner was painted fire-engine red, with a gray roof. If it weren't for the red, we'd have driven right past. The building obviously began its life as a one-story cottage, and later underwent a diner retrofit. The windows were still in a residential style, what builders call "six over one": six small panes in the upper sash, one large pane in the lower. The only clues to its identity as a diner were the sign and the entrance, which was a glass-and-metal door.
"They're going to have to trim those back," I observed, more to myself than to her.
"Trim? Back?" Femke repeated. She shot me a confused look. "What are you saying?"
"Nothing," I assured her. "It's just the trees... they're so overgrown."
She pulled into the parking lot, and followed as it curved behind the building. There were three spaces back there, close to a dumpster. I almost said something about the smell, but then it struck me that Femke might be trying to keep the car ouf of sight from the road.
She parked in the space closest to the dumpster, shut off the engine, and climbed out. I quickly followed, and went around the car to her side. "I need to shake this feeling," she muttered, and began an uncoordinated, leaping dance. She let her arms flail, she bounced on the balls of her feet, lolling her head down, left, right. She arched her spine and crunched forward, hugging herself. She jumped, stiff-legged, three times, hard. She shook herself and let out a soft crying growl. Out of breath, she straightened up and opened her arms. I understood: I moved in and held her.
"Tight, tight," she whispered. "Tighter! Oh!"
I rocked her in my arms, closing my eyes to try to feel her feeling — as well as I could. Time was suspended for a spell... I don't know how long... before I let go.
The diner was homey inside, and much larger than it seemed from outside. There were six tables and a counter seating six. The setup was that of a traditional diner: a waitress behind the counter; a display of pies at one end; the coffee station set in the wall at the far end, and a passthrough window to a tiny kitchen where a white-hatted man worked with his head down.
"Hello, girls," the waitress called in a cheery voice. "Welcome to Maude's."
"Thanks," I replied. "Are you Maude?"
"That I am!" she chirped. She gave a concerned look at Femke (who was clearly out of sorts), and told us, "There's a picnic table outside, if you girls want to have your meal out there. It's quiet and it's all yours."
"I didn't see it from the road," I said.
"Sounds perfect," Femke said, after clearing her throat to talk.
After a brief discussion, we ordered two blue-plate specials and a pot of coffee. We paid and exited through a side door: a green, wood-framed screen door mounted on a spring. It shut with an abrupt snap! behind us.
Directly outside we found a small patio paved with flagstones and covered in brown pine needles. Some broken chairs sat rusting in a corner, but the massive, heavy picnic table in the center of the patio was perfectly serviceable. The small, hidden alcove was hemmed in by thick pine branches on the front and side. It was only open toward the back, giving us a lovely view of the dumpster and a small slice of our car. Femke seemed reassured by the privacy. She poked and peeked through the branches, out toward the road.
"You don't think Stan would come after us, do you?" I asked her, half joking, half serious.
"That clown is capable of anything," she told me. She turned her head and looked off in the distance to the right of the dumpster. "I love the smell of pine trees," she said. "It's a unique aroma, isn't it? There is the piney resin, sure, but there is a hint of citrus as well. Don't you find?"
I wasn't sure whether I "found." I tried to focus my nose, if such a thing is possible; tried to isolate something I could call citrus-sy.
Before I had a chance to either get there or give up, Maude emerged with our food. She managed to carry two loaded plates, a pot of coffee, napkins, flatware, a basket of toast, and a small bowl of individual butter pats. She made it seem effortless.
With a series of fluid motions, she transferred the load of plates and articles from her arms to the table, with nary a slip or a spill. Then she told us, "If you need more coffee or more food, just stick your head in the door and give a holler." Femke sat down and smiled at Maude.
Maude smiled back, nodding, and added, "When you're done with all this, I recommend a slice of our strawberry-rhubarb pie. It's homemade, and is not to be missed. It's the best way to top off your breakfast."
"Sounds great," I responded, nodding.
After Maude returned inside, Femke consulted her phone. "This pie... Aardbei... Rabarber... It sounds a very strange combination."
"It's traditional," I said. "And it's very good. We should go for it."
The food was excellent, and Femke ate with surprising gusto. She was so obviously enjoying herself, I couldn't bring myself to spoil the moment by asking what had happened with Stan.
This particular "blue plate special" featured chicken-fried steak and eggs, sunny-side-up, along with a pile of sautéed onions, grits, and a great big homemade biscuit.
I felt a little cheated by the fact that it was actually served on an old-style blue plate — cheated, because I was looking forward to explaining to Femke why it was called "blue plate" when the plate wasn't actually blue. Of course, the plate being literally blue, she never asked the question.
What she asked instead was "Why all this bread if we already have a biscuit?"
I didn't honestly know, but before I could cook up some plausible answer, Maude emerged, bustling out with apologies: she'd forgotten the white "gravy" meant to be poured over the biscuits. She also swapped our half-empty coffeepot for a fresh, full one, and set down two pieces of pie, "in case you forgot to ask."
After we'd both put away a healthy portion of food, and swallowed a great quantity of strong, good-tasting coffee, Femke began telling me her story.
"Stan didn't want me to leave," she said. "Ever." She wiped coffee from her upper lip, and looked down at the table.
"I didn't take him seriously, of course. I saw him as nothing more than a stoner. A buffoon. A loser with delusions of grandeur. Instead, I strung him along, because he had access. Access to everything in that place. And he offered me everything! Money, US citizenship, a US passport, a new identity if I wanted it... And jewelry! He actually held out handfuls of necklaces, pearl, silver, gold... and told me to take my pick. I laughed and said I couldn't."
"But... where... how? He couldn't possibly give you any of that," I pointed out.
"Oh, no, Merope, you're very wrong. He could have given me all of that and more." She looked me in the eye as she took a deep sip of coffee.
"He wanted me to be his Persephone, he said. He considers himself a king up there."
"A king, in that bunker?" I scoffed. "Not much of a king, living in a hole in the ground."
"Oh, Merope, you have no idea. He is a criminal, many times over. That base is full of government supplies, which he sells."
"What? Old K-rations?"
"I don't know what K-rations are, but I do know that he sells material that belongs to your government, and then he orders more to replace it. Which he also sells."
"I don't know what that could be, but I can't imagine there's a lot of money in it. And those necklaces — they can't possibly be government surplus."
"They aren't, of course. They were taken from Switcher victims."
"Stolen?"
"No... just... oh, it doesn't matter. The point is, there is lots of stuff in that place, and he can do with it as he pleases."
"Sooner or later the government will catch up with him."
Femke gave a sharp, scoffing bark of a laugh. "He says, 'Not as long as I stay within my budget.' So there is that. And yet, there is something else he has to sell, and that is false identities. Or maybe not even false. This is real. Because he is part of the Switcher Processing team, he can create new papers, new birth certificates, drivers licenses, passports, out of nothing. And as long as he doesn't create more identities than there are Switcher victims, he says he can't be caught.
"He sells these identities to criminals, to drug dealers, to anyone — even to the worst people on earth."
"Wow."
"But, his real cash crop is marijuana."
"He's growing marijuana down there?"
"Yes. There are entire levels down there, with plants as far as the eye can see, under special lamps, probably paid for by your tax dollars. He feeds them, he waters them, with government money. He lights them with government power.
"And then... do you remember the Mexican breakfast I brought you? He has migrant workers who tend the plants, who harvest the crop, and prepare it for sale."
"I can't believe it!" My jaw literally hung open in surprise and shock.
"He says he pays them well. Many of them send money home. None of them know where they are. Even if they knew the location of the bunker, they have no idea which level they are on. They come and go on busses with darkened windows, and they live underground for an entire growth cycle. After each harvest, one group leaves and another comes in."
I fell speechless. Femke stopped talking for a bit, and without thinking, cut off the pointed end of her pie slice, and popped it in her mouth. Her eyes brightened. "Let's leave the story for a bit while we eat this wonderful pie," she said. And so we did.
In spite of her resolution, Femke stopped halfway through dessert to tell me, "He did make that USB stick for you. It has everything you could ever want to know about Merope Goddard. Oh, and he said — about the birth certificate — there is a picture of the certificate on there, a PDF, but if you want a real paper copy, you will have to get that yourself. A real birth certificate has to be notarized."
"Oh, right," I acknowledged. "Thanks."
She shrugged. "It's in your duffel bag, in the car."
"My duffel bag? What duffel bag?"
"Oh!" she laughed. "I thought I told you! Do you know how these processing centers take your clothes and do some silly tests with them?"
"Yes, what about it?"
"Well, they have rooms and rooms of clothes and shoes and bags and hats and... everything! And it's all sorted by size."
"That's crazy."
"It certainly is. So... while I was there, I spent some hours putting together a wardrobe for you. Just the basics. I wasn't greedy. It should carry you for several months, or longer, depending on how you are with clothes."
She picked up another piece of pie on her fork, and stopped meditatively with her fork poised in the air. "The, um, USB is in a little pocket... huh—" (she stared off into space for a moment, then) "—he had one of the workers carry the bag up to my car... to Rowan's car... Oh, shit!"
Femke dropped her fork with a clatter. She jumped up from the table and opened the door to the diner. Maude immediately appeared. Femke, breathless, said, "Maude, we need to check something in our car. Could you please leave the food on the table? We're not done — and the pie is wonderful!"
"Sure, hon," Maude assured her. "Everything all right?"
"It will be!" Femke exclaimed. "Merope, come!"
We dashed to the car, and she opened the trunk. "Don't touch anything!" she cautioned me. "That Stan — that son of a bitch — he said he had presents for you and me, and I'm just now thinking what those presents might be."
The space in Rowan's trunk was mainly taken by a large black duffel bag. Shoved to the side were Rowan's things: two sets of blue coveralls, a stack of police evidence bags, small note cards and marking pens, and a box of disposable blue nitrile gloves. "Police work," Femke explained, gesturing. "Crime scenes." She extracted two gloves from the box and slipped them on. She turned the duffel bag slightly to get access to a small pocket in the front, which she unzipped. She reached inside and pulled out a small memory stick. "Here's your USB thingy, see?" she said, and handed it to me. She ran her hand around the small pocket to make sure it was empty. I dropped the USB into the pocket and she zipped it shut.
Next, she opened the big zipper at the top of the bag. Immediately, we saw what the presents were: they were two kilos of marijuana: twin packages, wrapped in clear plastic. "That bastard!" Femke exclaimed. She picked up the two packs and looked around for a place to dispose of them. I could see she considered for a moment hurling them into the woods. Then, on second thought, she took two steps toward the dumpster and dropped the bundles carefully inside, as if they were a pair of bombs.
That done, Femke carefully searched the bag for more dope (or other surprises). She found none.
"God!" she exclaimed, showing me her hands. "Look at me: I'm trembling!" I showed her my own arms, covered in gooseflesh all the way from my fingertips to my shoulders.
She zipped up the bag, closed the trunk, tossed the gloves into the dumpster, and we returned to our table.
Femke picked up her phone. "I'd better tell Rowan that we escaped."
I couldn't hear Rowan's side of the conversation, except as a sequence of sounds. Even so, his side was clearly an outpouring of concern. Femke's side was mainly reassurance, without much detail. She managed to hide her agitation and anger; she kept her tone chatty and positive. She told him that everything was fine; that the two of us had stopped for breakfast and were eating a wonderful pie made of "Aardbei and something." He pressed her with questions I couldn't hear, to which she several times replied that she'd explain everything later.
They spent a long minute exchanging affectionate phrases, ending with "I miss you, too!"
She set down her phone with a sigh.
"So! Merope, I will tell you now. This is what happened last night. Rowan called me yesterday evening — or he tried to call me. Of course, I had no idea this was the case, but I did notice there was no signal in the room where I slept, or in the hallway outside. I asked Stan about it. He told me he'd open a ticket with his network team to get it fixed right away, and not to worry — he would let me know the moment your Anson showed up."
She made a scoffing hmmph! sound, then: "Which was a lie! As it happened, your Mr Anson was registered as a Switcher victim early Saturday morning."
"Saturday morning!" I exclaimed, in shock and disbelief. "But that's when *I* arrived! Is he still at the processing center now?" As weird as the center was, I wanted to go back, to meet the person now living in my body, but at the same time I felt quite sure that wild horses couldn't drag Femke within a mile of the place.
"No," Femke corrected me in a firm tone. "He never came to the center. There is some kind of—" She waved one hand in frustration, as if she could somehow snatch the right word from the air. She couldn't, and let off a phrase in Dutch that told me nothing. As if that clarified things, she continued with, "And then comes a lapsus, a slipping... with synchronization enzovoort."
Well, enzovoort sounded a lot like "and so forth," so I that's how I took it. It didn't seem like a good time to be asking a lot of questions, especially over small details.
Femke smacked the table with the palm of her hand and declared, "Rowan can tell you all that. Later." She grimaced. She gritted her teeth. "I'm too angry to find all the words." She took a deep, fiery breath and looked me in the eye, briefly.
"Stan knew about Anson. I'm sure he knew. I wonder whether he cooked up the synchronization split-down himself. Yet, he knew Rowan would call me and tell me everything."
I assumed that split-down meant "breakdown" or "screw-up," or something along those lines. I didn't interrupt to ask.
"Stan, creepy Stan, wanted to keep me there, forever. Last night, he tried to stay close, to not let me wander off. This was when he showed me the jewelry — I told you — which was very creepy. It felt that he offered me jewels, stolen from the dead." She shuddered.
"He wouldn't stop offering me drink; he kept on: wine, tequila, beer, but I wouldn't drink. He offered me smoke: marijuana, hashish, even opium. But I don't smoke. He had pills, which I rejected out of hand." A light laugh played across her face. "It irritated him. It made him angry. I didn't fit his imaginary picture of Amsterdam. All the while he made suggestive remarks, and asked me was I really Dutch, truly from Amsterdam. He told stories of the wild night life he knew back there, back then. He spoke as if Amsterdam is the most dissolute city on earth, where nothing is forbidden. He said there was something wrong with me for not wanting to unbend and be wild."
As she spoke, Femke started tensing up, all over. Then she caught herself, shook it off, and calmed herself.
"At last, I was done: I became tired and bored. Above all, I'd gotten sick of Stan, sick of the center, sick of waiting for your Mr Anson. I wanted to go home. And I needed to use the bathroom.
"Stan's workers were eating and drinking and dancing. Some of them played guitar... it might have been nice, if it weren't in that basement of a bunker. In any case, I left, out into the hallway. I wanted to be alone, so I took the stairs up one level. Then, on a whim, I went up one more flight of stairs.
"I took my time. I enjoyed the quiet. I looked at my phone and saw two missed calls from Rowan, but I decided to take them in my room, and made my way back downstairs.
"I didn't mean to stop at the room where Stan and his workers were, but when I came out of the stairwell, I heard a man in a high voice singing Guantanamera. Do you know that song?"
"Sure," I said. "I don't know what the words mean, but I've heard it."
"I never paid any attention to it," Femke told me, "It always seemed so old. But in that moment... there was something in the way he sang that touched my heart. I don't speak Spanish, so I couldn't understand, but it filled me with nostalgia..."
"You were homesick," I suggested.
"Yeah," she agreed, "but then I caught sight of Stan, so I turned on my heel and left. I went immediately to my room. I brushed my teeth and got ready for bed. I took out my phone to call Rowan, but again, there was no signal. I didn't make anything of it; I was only irritated. I decided to call Rowan first thing in the morning, and I fell deeply asleep."
She pushed her fingertips down into the table top. I half-expected them to penetrate the heavy, hard wood.
Femke pressed her lips tightly together with a grim expression. "Close to morning, I suddenly woke. My back was toward the door, but I heard it open. I saw the light from the hall, and I knew right away it was Stan. He slipped in, silent as a cat. He might have taken me by surprise if it weren't for his pungent aroma. You know how badly he stinks of weed; he carries it like a heavy cloud.
"He tried to lie on top of me, to kiss me, to put his arms around me, but I fought. I fought hard. I hit him with my elbows and fists. I kicked and scratched. I bit his hand. I tried to bite his face, and that scared him. I cracked my head against his, as if he was a big stupid soccer ball.
"At last, he fell off me, onto the floor. I could see that I hurt him. I kicked him as he lay there. I kicked him with all my strength. I grabbed my things and ran from the room. This time I went *down* two flights — I didn't think he'd expect that, and ha! I got a signal. So I called Rowan. I told him what happened. Of course, he wanted to come and beat Stan senseless." She laughed. "And he told me that your Mr Anson had been found."
I shook my head, uncomprehending.
Femke continued, "Rowan suggested that I first move my car, hidden, but closer to the exit, and then go find you."
She gave me a grim smile. "And here we are."
"Yes," I replied, "Here we are! I'm sorry you went through all that."
She shrugged. "It's not your fault. You don't have to be sorry."
"I'm not apologizing!" I retorted, a little testily. "I'm just... I only mean that I wish it hadn't happened to you!"
She had no answer to that.
After a bit of silence we stepped back into the diner and bought a strawberry-rhubarb pie to share with Rowan.
About fifteen minutes after we returned to the highway, I noticed a state trooper a few miles behind us. I mentioned it to Femke, who checked her speed. "He has nothing to do with us," she said.
But she was wrong. Without any apparent hurry, the trooper caught up with us, and once he was on our tail, he started cycling the red and blue lights atop his cruiser. He gave a sharp wup! wup! with his siren. Femke slowed, pulled onto the shoulder, and put the car into park. She fished her drivers license out of her bag and asked me to get the insurance and registration papers from the glove box.
As the trooper approached, Femke rolled down her window. He was tall, with an athletic build. He wasn't wearing a hat or sunglasses, so I could see he had kind eyes, but he didn't smile. The kind eyes were hard.
"Please turn off the engine," he said. Femke complied. Then, "License and registration." Femke handed him her license, along with the insurance and registration. He glanced at the insurance paper, and handed it back to Femke, who handed it back to me.
The trooper bent down and looked me in the face. "You, too," he said.
"But I'm not driving," I pointed out.
"Are you refusing to show me your identification?" he asked.
I didn't like the sound of that, and I was pretty sure it wasn't legal for him to ask. Even so, I produced my license and handed it over.
"Omaha," he observed. "My aunt Jessie lives in Omaha."
"Oh, maybe I know her," I quipped. "Maybe we're related." I don't know why I needed to be a smartass in that moment. It just kind of came out. Probably it was nerves. The trooper gave me a level look that told me this was no time for jokes.
"Who is Rowan Brissard?" he asked, reading the name off the registration.
"He's my boyfriend," Femke answered.
"And you're Dutch," the trooper observed.
"Yes."
I leaned forward and asked, "Officer, why did you stop us?"
He didn't reply. He simply looked from my face to Femke's and back again, as if there was something to see, something written there. I began to open my mouth again, but before a sound came out, the trooper said, "I'd like you both to step out of the car. Are either of you armed?"
I know both our eyes widened at that. I stammered out a "No," while Femke, resolute, answered, "Of course not."
He had us lean on the trunk of Rowan's car, and gave us a quick patdown. Then he shepherded us into the back seat of his cruiser. As most people know, the back seat of most police cars can't be opened from the inside.
Before he shut the door, I put my hand on it, holding it open. It was a symbolic move: if he gave a little shove, the door would have shut. But he waited a moment as I said, "I demand to know what's going on here!"
"I'm going to have you ladies sit tight here while I conduct a search of your vehicle," he replied, and began once again to gently close the door.
"Don't you need a warrant for that?" I challenged.
"Not if I have probable cause," he countered, and shut the door before I could say anything more.
A light went on in my head, "Hey!" I exclaimed to Femke, "I think—"
Femke made a chopping motion with her hand. "Quiet!" she commanded. "Don't say a word. Do not say a single word."
It made me angry, but I did as I was told. The two of us sat there, each of us seething for our own reasons, as we watched the trooper pop open the trunk and unzip the duffel bag. I expected him to dump out the contents, but instead he sifted through the clothes with both hands, taking his time, thoroughly feeling his way through my new wardrobe. He unzipped the little pocket in front and found the little USB stick. He held it up, looked at it, gave it an experimental sniff, and put it back where he'd found it.
He examined the rest of the trunk. He opened the back door on the passenger side and explored the back seat. He popped the bench out of place, poked around underneath, and pushed the bench back into place. "I didn't know you could do that," I marveled. He ran his fingers all over the ceiling. He rapped on the doors. He shined his flashlight into the wheelwells, and opened the hood for a look at the engine.
I had to bite my tongue a dozen times to keep from saying anything.
At one point, the trooper stopped for a conversation with the microphone attached to his shoulder.
His search was unhurried. Femke and I continued our silence.
When at last the trooper closed the hood, the trunk, and all four doors, he returned to free us from his cruiser.
He told us by way of explanation, "We had a tip this morning that two women would be driving south this morning in a blue Volkswagen Golf, carrying a duffel bag filled with drugs."
At first, neither of us said anything, but I couldn't resists. I told him, "Sorry to disappoint."
He actually chuckled! Then he looked to Femke and asked, "Why didn't you tell me that your boyfriend's in law enforcement?"
She considered for a moment before answering. "I thought it would make me sound suspicious."
The trooper and I burst into laughter. Femke glanced from him to me and back again, seeming irritated and a little puzzled. To this day I have no idea whether she was joking. At the time she simply looked annoyed, but I confess that Femke's not an easy person to read.
We stood there in the sunlight on the shoulder of the road and watched until the trooper's cruiser disappeared in the distance.
Femke gave a disappointed scoff. "You see what a fucker that Stan is, don't you."
"Good thing we stopped for that pie, huh?" I replied.
She frowned, looking puzzled.
"So you could take out the drugs," I explained.
She looked down, kicked at a pebble, and grunted in assent.
After a moment I added, "We should have offered the trooper a slice of pie." She gazed at me in disbelief, so I offered, "As a show of good faith!"
"You Americans!" she groaned, rolling her eyes dramatically.
Even so... I caught a glimmer of amusement in the corner of her mouth.
[ Melanie Brown’s Switcher Universe ]
by Iolanthe Portmanteaux
Thankfully, the rest of our trip passed without incident. Even so, Femke was thoroughly spooked by our brush with the law, and carefully stayed five miles below the speed limit. It was a quiet trip: neither of us felt in the mood to talk. In spite of my goofing and joking after the trooper drove away, I was quite shaken by the fact that we'd been pulled over. It was the first time I'd ever been locked in the back of a police cruiser, and the first time I've had to submit to a search. Although the trooper was friendly and kind afterward, the experience left me with a sense of powerlessness, vulnerability, and fear. We'd had a narrow escape: if it wasn't for Femke's sudden intuition about Stan's "presents" the two of us would have ended up behind bars. The police would impound Rowan's car, and he'd no doubt suffer some fallout as well.
Neither of us commented on the obvious fact that Stan had called in the anonymous tip, either from revenge or to put us in a state where he could "rescue" us. Who knows how far his corrupt tentacles could reach?
As the miles piled up behind us, I came to feel the same desire Femke expressed earlier: to put some miles between me and that place... and that man.
Femke once again surprised me by her navigational skills. Harmish isn't that big a town, but it has five exits off I-60, and she got off at the last one, the exit least familiar to me. She expertly negotiated the tight network of streets that brought us into the heart of Teteree, also known as "Old Harmish." I'd visited this part of town, but I clearly didn't know it half as well as Femke.
Here the streets are paved with cobblestones and lit by wrought-iron gas lamps. The entire neighborhood is a historic district; a throwback to the early 1800s. Streets are narrow. Buildings are constructed of brick and stone, packed densely side by side.
Femke threaded the car through an awkward corner into an alleyway that led to a parking garage, built before any of of the landmark restrictions were imposed.
We carried the duffel bag between us, each taking a handle. Femke's apartment was four blocks away, in an old brick row house. She lived on the boutique level, meaning her front door was a few steps down from the sidewalk, cut into the side of a short staircase that led upward to the building's real front door.
Not that I've known her very long, but until this moment, I hadn't given a thought to what Femke did, or does, for a living.
But... just let me say — that, as Anson, even at the peak of my earning power, a home in Teteree was decidedly out of my reach. A few years back, Cleo and I calculated that our combined incomes could give us a toehold in that neighborhood, but at the loss of our front and back yard, and more than half of our square footage. Worse still, the homeowners association fees for all the places we looked at would equal (or exceed!) our mortgage payments.
A place in Teteree is more than a status symbol: it's a luxury few can afford.
So, to see Femke, a woman in her twenties, here — it set me back on my heels.
"How big is this place?" I asked her.
"85 square meters," she answered. When I scratched my chin, not having any idea how to work out the equivalent, she grinned and added, "900 square feet."
"Okay," I said. "And do you mind if I ask what the rent is here?"
"Rent?" she asked, as if unfamiliar with the word. "My father *bought* this place for me."
"Oh! nice!" I exclaimed. (It was nice that her father bought her place — that's what I meant. I consoled myself by noticing that the apartment itself was fairly basic. It was okay. Everything was good, but nothing was showy or obviously expensive. In Teteree, what you pay for is location.)
"There is a second bedroom," she informed me. "You can stay for a while. I'll show you."
Femke gave me a quick tour of the place: her bedroom (which was dark and close to the front), the living room, the washer and drier, the kitchen...
She touched a laptop that sat on the dining table. "My computer," she announced. A yellow Post-It note read merope / changeme. "Courtesy of Rowan," she explained. "He set up an account for you. You can use this computer to look at your USB drive and do all your Merope research. Until you get your own computer, of course."
She pushed open the door to a small but well-appointed bathroom. "There is only one bathroom," she pointed out. "So, no dawdling."
Before she opened the final door, the door of the second bedroom, she informed me, "I warn you: this room is very small. Also, Rowan told me that he found a bed for you. So, no guarantees! Let's see how well he did." She pushed open the door, a tall door like the others, with five horizontal panes of white frosted glass, and revealed a camp bed: a sad metal thing, with a mattress about four inches thick. The bed's main feature was obvious at a glance: the two ends could be folded up to meet vertically in the middle, making it about the size of a bureau. Like a bureau on wheels: it could be rolled to a corner when it wasn't needed.
"Ah," was her only comment.
"It's fine," I declared. "I'm thankful to have someplace to stay."
"Okay," Femke replied, in a doubtful tone. "I have words for him."
The two envelopes that I'd left with Rowan lay on the bed: the one with the money and the other with the fake IDs.
"He was supposed to make you a set of keys," she observed. "Well, that is for later, then."
Femke dug into the duffel bag and put together an outfit for me: a pair of casual white sandals, denim shorts, and a sleeveless top in a color I want to call "mustard green": imagine the muddy yellow color of mustard, but green instead of yellow. That's the color I'm talking about.
We each took showers, dressed, fixed our hair, and — in the interest of time — she quickly did my makeup again. "Last time," she cautioned me. "From now on, your face is your job."
We drove Rowan's car downtown, to the City Hall area, and parked in the big underground garage. Femke drove around for a bit, even though there were plenty of open spaces. At last she gave a soft, grunted ha! and pulled into a narrow space between a dirty yellow car and a concrete wall. I had a little trouble squeezing out on my side, and was more than a little puzzled. What was so great about this parking space? It was nothing but inconvenient, as far as I could see.
When we got out of the car, Femke stood behind the yellow car next to ours and laid her hand on its trunk for a moment. When she lifted her hand, she left a perfectly clear handprint, five fingers splayed. She glanced at her palm, then showed it to me. Naturally, it was brown with dirt. Grinning, she clapped her hands against each other until the dirt was mainly gone. Then with her finger, she wrote on the trunk, MAAK ME SHOON.
"What does that mean?" I asked.
"Can't you tell?" she cackled. "It means CLEAN ME! Do you think the owner will get the message?"
"I would think so," I agreed, still more than a little bewildered by her antics. Grinning, she took a few steps back, away from the car, and pointed to its dusty license plate.
"Nebraska," I read. And a bumper sticker: "We Don't Coast." I frowned, not understanding. Then a light came on in my head. "Oh! Is this *my* car?"
"Yes it is!" Femke exclaimed, laughing and clapping her hands. "And please: your first job as owner is to wash your car. Wash it, before you bring it anywhere near my house!"
As we walked toward the elevator exit, she took a handy wipe from her bag and used it to clean her hand. "You would think that Rowan would have felt the need to drive through a car wash. A simple thing, but no. He doesn't do it with his own car, as you can see. Well! You know how men are! You will also find it low on gas, I have no doubt."
Somehow, in spite of her words and her tone, I felt sure that Femke was joking or teasing — and even expressing affection for Rowan, in her own way. In any case, it was good-natured. I had that feeling.
"By the way," Femke told me as she selected the button for ground level, "We won't talk about Stan during this lunch of ours. Or any of the unpleasantness at the center. We can save all that for later, as a private matter, and enjoy our lunch together now. Okay?"
In case you haven't guessed, we were meeting Rowan for lunch. Rowan and his partner, Javier. Today they were both required to testify in a criminal case being argued in Municipal Court. The court building, like several other official buildings, were decoratively clustered around City Hall Square Park, a lovely little park with an ungainly name.
Rowan told Femke to meet by the fountain — he meant the newer fountain, the cooler fountain. The old fountain, which was almost as old as Harmish itself, is a sprawling, ugly affair: three concrete bowls, each with a heavy-handed floral design. The smallest was uppermost, spilling into the middle one; the middle spilling into the massive, bottom one. On a hot day, people will dangle their feet in the water, or even wade into the lower pool, but it has to be a REALLY hot day; even then, you won't see any children in there. The fountain is that uninviting. It gives off a weird vibe, as though it was built from pieces of an atomic bunker, or carried from the bottom of a gloomy lead mine. The benches that surround it are nearly always empty. Or if not empty, they're occupied by sad, silent people.
The smaller fountain, the newer fountain, on the other hand, is always crowded, surrounded by people. It's affectionately nicknamed the Shower, and you'll quickly understand why. There's a thick circular band set ten feet up, atop four pillars; all formed of brass and thick white glass, lit from within. The band is equipped with nozzles that send thin jets up and in toward the middle, forming a dome of water that falls into the vertical center of the four pillars. The ground is paved with gray, brick-sized stones, set atop a grill to receive and drain off the falling water.
There's no puddle. There's no spray. It's all life and fun and positive ions.
I've seen many small children play in the Shower, but I've never seen anyone, child or adult, walk into it by accident, even though it's placed in a spot where four paths intersect.
The paths are lined with benches, and the benches are most crowded near the fountain.
One of the paths, the one that connects the parking-garage elevator to the fountain, is the longest and the widest. It's a smooth arc. When we emerged from the underground, we immediately spotted Rowan and Javier in the distance, before they saw us. The pair were easy to pick out, pressed and dressed as they were: neat as a pin, clean as a whistle, wearing their blue patrol uniforms. I'd never met (or even heard of) Javier before, but I was struck by how closely he resembled Rowan. Their builds were nearly identical: the same spare, muscular frames, the narrow hips and shoulders, the feral-looking head. Of course, their faces were their own, and Javier had a fuller, thicker head of hair. Javier also sported a moustache — which has long gone out of style. He'd be better off without it.
While we still a hundred feet away, both men spotted us. As Rowan raised his hand to wave a greeting, his face registered sudden surprise. He jumped half a step forward, and turned to look behind him. Javier also turned to look down, and right away began to laugh. He crouched to a squat, balancing on his toes.
Rowan turned his back to us, and the moment he did, we saw a large dark spot on the back and inside of his left thigh. It looked as though he'd wet his pants. He bent down, just as Javier had done.
A young woman, a teenager, her face all apologies and concern, came running up to the two policemen, and in an instant it all became clear.
A little barefoot girl stood between them. She obviously had spent a good long time in the fountain's spray, because the child was completely soaked: her face, her hair, her clothes. She looked to be about four years old: dark hair plastered against her little head, framing a cute, chubby, grinning face. In her hand was a small blue plastic cup.
"Oh, look at him!" Femke exclaimed, in a voice so heavy-laden with affection, it caught me off guard. It took me a few seconds to realize she meant Rowan, and not the little girl. I turned to look: Femke's face was full of tenderness and love. It glowed.
I blinked. By now, I'd come to see Femke as a woman with a hard shell; I expected her emotions to be hard as well — stern, nearly masculine. Yet here she was now, all softness and delight.
I'd never seen Rowan in uniform before, and I couldn't help but wonder whether he was dressed this way when Femke first fell for him. The uniform suited him; he suited the uniform. He and Javier might have stepped off the set of a buddy-cop TV series, they were perfectly dressed for the part.
Except of course for the big wet patch on Rowan's inner thigh.
Obviously, the little girl had filled her cup from the falling water and tossed it on Rowan's backside. She giggled, not at all shy. No trace of remorse. Her babysitter, a skinny, exasperated teenager, was clearly frightened by the two policemen. One apology after another came tumbling out of her.
Javier, smiling, did his best to console her, while Rowan, with mock severity, wagged his finger at the laughing child. At last, they broke away and turned to greet us.
"I tried to tell the girl to splash a cup of water on Javier's pants as well," Rowan joked. "But she wouldn't."
"That would be a great look for the courtroom," Javier returned.
"Oh, have you testified yet?" I asked. "I'm Merope, by the way."
"Yeah, I figured," Javier replied, with a ready smile. "I'm Javier. Rowan's partner."
"Yeah, I figured," I laughed, echoing his phrase.
At the same time, Femke, all tentative and doe-like, stood near to Rowan, face to face, her fingers, half-uncertain, seeking to rest on his shoulders.
Confused by her soft, intimate emotions, Rowan gave her an encouraging, but puzzled, smile and opened his arms to her, like a big question. She rushed into him, burying her head in his shoulder, seeming to want to burrow inside of him. Rowan held her close with one arm. His eyes bounced between Javier and me.
While he murmured near-silent things in Femke's ear, Rowan fished in his pocket and pulled out a set of keys. Without letting go of Femke, he handed the keys to Javier and, eyes on Javier, nodded toward me. Javier nodded back and mimed a series of gestures that began by pointing behind himself with his thumb, and ended by holding and eating an invisible sandwich. There were some other gestures in-between: pointing at me, unlocking a door, driving a car. Rowan nodded as if the gestures covered everything, and was about to shuffle with Femke to an area with less traffic, when Javier stopped him by holding up his hand and tapping the face of his watch. Rowan nodded again.
"Let's go," Javier said to me in a quiet voice.
"What was all that?" I asked him, once we were out of earshot.
Javier gave me a surprised look, as though the meaning of the entire mime was obvious and plain. "He gave me these keys for you. Here—" He put a pair of keys in my hand "—one of them is for Femke's place, and the other is for your car. Did you know you have a car?"
"Yes, Femke parked next to it, in the garage downstairs. It's filthy."
Javier laughed. "Yes, he's been driving that thing the past few days. I tried to get him to take it through a car wash, but he always claimed to be too busy. I was embarrassed to be seen in it — no offense!"
"None taken."
"Oh, and another of Rowan's endearing habits: you're — you'll need to put some gas in it, first thing."
I laughed.
"Okay. The other key is for Femke's apartment. I guess you're staying there? Do you know where she lives?"
"Yes and yes. I'll be staying for a little while at least." I thought about the remaining gestures. "And you told Rowan you'd pick up a sandwich for him?"
"Right." He laughed. "And I reminded him that we have to be back in court in an hour."
"So you haven't testified yet?"
"No, neither of us. God, I hope his pants dry before we go back. Otherwise we'll have to swap."
I grinned.
"You laugh," he told me with mock severity, "but if one of us shows up on the witness stand, looking as though we peed our pants, it won't end well."
"I guess not," I agreed. To make conversation I asked, "What's this case about?"
"Oh," he groaned. "It's... it's boring, believe me. We have to testify to the circumstances of someone's arrest—" He rolled his eyes and waved his hands. "It's tedious, believe me." Then, at a sudden thought, he straightened up. "Hey, uh -- you've spent some time with Femke, right?"
"Some, yeah. Why?"
"What's up with her... I admit, I don't know her well, but I have never seen her... hang on Rowan like that. Public affection never seemed her style. Very stoic and stern, usually. Now she's all kittenish and soft..." He shrugged, and his expression said, What gives?
"Oh..." I hesitated. "I think she needs some... reassurance and, I guess, comfort. The trip to the processing center was not really a very good experience."
He showed concern. "Sometime happened to her up there?"
"Um, yes."
"To you as well?"
"No, I was just bored and confused."
"So... what's the story? What happened?"
"Yeah, uh," I temporized. "Hey, Javier, where are we going right now?"
"Oh, sorry! In the interest of time we have to grab some sandwiches. I hope that's okay with you. If we weren't needed in court we could have driven down to where the food trucks park and had ourselves a real lunch."
"No, that's fine," I told him, but I sighed, disappointed. I couldn't help it. I was really hoping to talk with Rowan.
Hearing my heavy exhalation, Javier gave me a look of concern. "I'm sorry — do you not want a sandwich? They have some nice salads there, too, I think."
"Oh, it's not that," I told him.
"You're sorry you got stuck with me?" he teased.
"No, it isn't that, either. I need to talk with Rowan. I have... questions." I heaved another sigh, but this one full of resignation. "I shouldn't complain: Femke's just been hanging around for days, on my account. She deserves some time with Rowan, especially after what happened."
"What *did* happen?" Javier queried. "I mean, I've heard Rowan on the phone with Femke when you two were up there. I'm getting the impression that something... untoward... went down at the processing center?"
"Oh!" I exclaimed, catching myself. "Yes, the processing center... Well, it's a weird place with... weird people. Some of them are not so nice... but it's not really my story to tell."
"Uh-huh," Javier said. "Well, you know, those places are getting phased out anyway, but if something bad *has* happened, you can file a complaint. I mean, I don't want to guess, but if a crime was committed, it ought to be reported."
"I don't know... I need to think about it... I need to talk with Femke."
"I'm serious," he insisted. "Crimes should be reported. And remember: You can always talk to Rowan... or to me. I'd be — we'd be — happy to help."
I nodded my thanks and followed him into the sandwich shop.
When we returned to the fountain, Femke and Rowan were nowhere to be seen, so the two of us sat on a bench and ate our sandwiches. Javier prompted me, "So... you said you have questions. Is there a chance that I might have the answers? I spend all day with Rowan, you know. We do talk about stuff."
"Okay, um..." I took a deep breath. "So... I don't know how much you know... how much Rowan told you about me..."
"That you've been switched?" he offered. "Yeah, he told me. I helped him find the old you... Anson Charpont."
"Right! So you know about that?"
Javier nodded, his mouth full of food.
"Then... can you tell me where the hell is he? and why did it take so long for him to show up? And uh — how did you get the key to my car? Is that some secret police thing?"
He laughed. "No, the car key wasn't a police thing at all. It was actually Femke. When Rowan told her where your car was ticketed, Femke immediately went to have a look. The key was in the ignition, and the rear passenger door was unlocked. She just got in and drove away."
"That's kind of weird and convenient," I said.
"Convenient?"
"Convenient for me," I explained. "Why would Merope — the real Merope — leave her car that way?"
He shook his head and blew out a quick breath. "Any number of reasons! It could have been a mistake on her part... simple inattention. Maybe she was in a hurry, or got distracted. Maybe she didn't realize she'd left the back door unlocked. Maybe she only thought she locked her keys inside. You know? And then, before she could do anything about it, she ran into the Switcher."
"Maybe," I conceded, doubtfully.
Another possibility occurred to him: "Or... this might be a little far-fetched, but she might have hoped it would get stolen."
"Why would she do that?"
"I don't know. Maybe she wanted to disappear. You know, Rowan has this theory about Merope — that she came to town to make a new start, to leave her old life behind. Maybe getting rid of her car was part of that."
"That's pretty extreme," I objected. "She could have sold it. She could have given it to someone. Even if she walked away from it, it's still in her name. Still a liability."
"I don't know," Javier admitted. "Maybe she's like Rowan, and she just got fed up with having to wash it."
We both laughed.
"Anyway, if a person wants to disappear, the best way to do it is to simply walk away. In a random moment, just go. Leave your wallet, leave your clothes, leave everything."
"What sense does that make?"
"If you take your basic documents, your money, your suitcase, then it's obvious that you're on the run. If you leave it all behind, it creates a question: Did someone else take you? Are you even alive?"
I thought about it for a moment, but it still didn't add up for me. "I can't imagine doing that. It leaves you with nothing. Not even your identity." I scratched my eyebrow and thought.
"Okay," I said. "Well, anyway — that's the car key. That's one question answered. My other big question is about my old body. I want to know why Anson Charpont took so long to show up."
Javier smiled. "That's the funny thing. He didn't! He showed up right away! Or at least, as soon as he could. He was registered as a Switcher victim on Saturday morning."
"So was I!" I exclaimed. "But no one at the processing center heard of him. No one!" I stopped for a moment — something floated up in my memory. "And you know what else? They called Cleo — I mean, the processing center did. Cleo is my — is Anson's wife. They called and left a message. Or at least they pretended to."
"No, they really did call her, and she called back! For a couple of hours, there were a lot of crossed wires." He balled up his sandwich wrapper and brushed some crumbs from his moustache. "They called her to ask whether Anson was in a Switcher incident. She called back and asked, Shouldn't you be telling me? You see, all she knew was that you hadn't come home that night. She phoned the hospital — Harmish Memorial — gave your description, and found Anson right away."
"Why was he in the hospital?"
"He got mugged."
"Mugged? By the Switcher?"
"No. Let me walk you through it. You got switched after lunch on Friday, and twisted your ankle just before it happened. At the same time, you got some other injuries, including an ugly scrape on your face. Am I right so far?"
"How is that relevant?" I asked, interrupting.
"Just let me tell it, okay? The Switcher, as Anson, limped off, but he didn't switch right away. He sort of disappears for a couple of hours, and during that time he picks up a briefcase — he didn't have a briefcase when you saw him, right?"
"Right."
"So he sits on a bench in Fulton Park. He takes off his shoe and he's massaging his foot. There's a yoga class in the park, and he sits there watching. The teacher is a young guy, early thirties, name of Mukti Endecott. First name used to be John, but 'Mukti' sounds more yoga-teacher, right? Anyway, class is over, and Mukti — nice guy that he is, walks over to the Switcher and offers to help him with his ankle. He touches Anson's ankle, and boom! now he's Anson, and stuck with the bad ankle himself. The Switcher, now that he's young, fit, and good-looking, grabs his briefcase, and runs off laughing."
I scratched my head. The idea that someone else was running around in my old body made me uncomfortable, and now, knowing that a young, fit person had taken my place as an overweight retiree, was an additional load of guilt. "Have you met this man?" I asked. "Have you spoken with him?"
"Oh, yeah. Nice guy! I met him in the hospital."
"Why was he in the hospital?"
"I told you — He got mugged! See, Mukti's a quiet, thoughtful guy, so he sat on the bench for a while, taking stock, trying to make sense out of what happened to him. He understood that he'd been switched. If he had his phone with him, he would have called the processing center, but he couldn't. He tried walking, to find some help or a phone, but the walking was somewhat painful. So he set to work on his ankle, massaging it, trying to un-twist it... and doing some... yoga things to it. I don't know.
"He'd walk a little bit, stop a little bit, work on his ankle a little bit... Lather, rinse, repeat... Soon it got late and soon it got dark. Some kids spotted him, sitting alone on a park bench, ugly scrape on his face, his clothes torn and bloody, he's holding one shoe in his hand, and they figured he was homeless or helpless or whatever, so they took his wallet, his watch, his keys. He tried to fight them off, but he didn't have a chance."
He paused for a moment, then: "A dogwalker found him next morning, Saturday morning, lying in the bushes. They really beat the living shit out of him. So, he gets taken to the emergency room. Cleo — after the call from the processing center, she calls the hospital. They tell her he's there, she rushes over, and she identifies him."
"Identifies him!" I repeated, astonished. "As what — I mean, as who?"
"Well, she figures for the sake of insurance—"
"Insurance!?" I repeated. "Wait — have you spoken to Cleo? You got this from Cleo?"
"Um, yeah. Me and Rowan. We actually gave them a ride home."
"Them?" I repeated loudly, unbelieving. Then I shouted, "A ride home?"
Javier, a little taken aback by my reaction, gave a few quick tugs to the end of his moustache, and glanced at his watch. "Um, yeah. Listen, though: look at the time. We have to find Rowan. The two of us have to get back to court. We can't be late. I'm sorry, but -- here, get up. Come on."
He stood up and reached down for my arm. I sat there, thunderstruck, speechless, gaping.
"Come on," Javier repeated, with some urgency. "I'm sorry, but I can't be late. Anyway, that's basically the whole story." When I didn't respond, he gently took my arm, lifting me to my feet and leading me beside him. I followed empty-headed, shocked, zombie-like.
"Listen, Merope: probably your best next step would be to call Cleo. Find out what's what, fill in the gaps in the story, okay? Anyway, to answer your question, Anson was reported as a Switcher victim some time before noon, Saturday morning. See, the whole switcher-victim-processing thing is being decentralized. You really didn't need to drive all that way up north, but Rowan didn't know. All this decentralizing stuff is very new. Now there's training... there are people at hospitals, fire stations... police stations will be next... you know, people who can register Switcher victims. Those big processing centers are going to get phased out. They're a big waste of money."
"But..." I tried to focus on the topic at hand, I needed answers, even though my mind was utterly blown by the idea of Cloe taking the new Anson home. "But how long does it take before the hospital registers... uh, the uh... until they do the synchronization, right? Does it take days?"
"No, it's actually instantaneous. Real time. Or near real-time, whatever that means. Funny thing, though: the regional center rejected Anson's registration. Some kind of mistake, obviously. Hours later, end of shift, the hospital official noticed the rejection and resubmitted it. Next morning when she came in she saw it got rejected again." Javier shrugged. "You know — new things, new systems, they have to work out the kinks."
"No," I countered savagely. "It wasn't a kink. It was that fucking Stan."
"Stan?" Javier asked, alarmed. "Who is Stan?"
At this point, we saw Rowan and Femke approaching, his arm wrapped tightly around her. Femke was still in her affectionate mood, or affectionate reaction. She clung to Rowan like ivy. Silently, I swore: Goddamn Stan!
I pulled close to Javier, so as not to be overheard. "Stan is an asshole at the processing center. He's the... what do you call it? He's the facilities manager, and he's a crook of the highest order."
Javier stared at me, blinking. Rowan, grinning, looked from Javier to me and back again. He must have thought we were getting along well.
"Javier, hey man! We have to get back to court tout de suite. But good news: I called the station, and one of the rookies is going to bring over a pair of pants in my size!"
"Ah, heh, good news," Javier managed to respond. He turned quickly to me, grabbed my arm, and in an urgent whisper said, "If something is wrong up there, we should file a complaint."
"Just wait," I told him. "For now, just wait."
[ Melanie Brown’s Switcher Universe ]
by Iolanthe Portmanteaux
Femke, sunny and happy, leaned into Rowan, his arms wrapped around her. "I'm going to stay here with the boys, Merope," she told me. "I've never seen the inside of a real-life courtroom. I want to see my Rowan testify."
"That's fine," I said. "I want to go get Merope's phone."
"Do you know where it is?" Rowan asked, somewhat mechanically. His attention was clearly distracted by (1) his wet pants, (2) the need to get to back to court on time, and (3) Femke's affectionate (and uncharacteristic?) snuggling.
He probably wasn't listening, but I found myself replying anyway. "No — I mean, I'm going to go to her carrier and get her phone replaced—" but there I bit my tongue. If I continued, I would have explained about searching the USB drive for a recent phone bill, but talking about the drive would mean talking about Stan, since he was the one who gave me the drive.
I didn't want to mention Stan. Especially now that Femke was smiling.
Luckily, no one noticed anything I said (or didn't say). No one was listening; a fact demonstrated by Femke's immediate non sequitur. She laughed and waggled her finger at me. "Your first duty as a citizen," she cautioned with mock severity, "is that you wash your car with all due haste!"
"Yes, I'll do that first of all," I agreed, laughing as well, "I know a good place near my— um, I know a good place. They do a nice job of detailing as well."
Femke frowned detailing? and turned to Rowan. He in turn looked at his watch and gave her a tug on the arm. "Come on, we've got to go. This minute. Come on!"
"Seriously," Javier added. "I'm going to start walking."
Femke skipped a step away from Rowan and put her face close to my ear. "I won't be home tonight," she said. "Just so you know." I nodded in acknowledgment. She smiled and skipped back to Rowan's side.
When she and Rowan turned to walk away, Javier asked me in a quiet voice full of urgency, "Are you going to be okay?"
"Oh, yeah," I assured him. "Everything's fine right now. Don't worry. I'm a big girl now."
He nodded grimly.
"Seriously: Don't worry," I repeated.
He nodded as if he didn't believe me, and trotted after Rowan to the courthouse.
I watched for a few moments as the three of them walked away: Rowan with his wet pants, Femke desperately clinging to him, Javier hustling behind, hurrying them along, glancing at his watch every few seconds. He turned to look over his shoulder at me once or twice.
The little barefoot girl was still in the fountain, filling her little blue cup with water, and emptying on the ground. Her teenage babysitter stood nearby, tired but vigilant. She didn't want to apologize for any more unwanted splashes.
I turned away and followed the path, the long arc that leads to the parking garage elevator.
As I walked, my mind automatically did what it always does, what I always do: It planned. It made lists, and sorted the lists by priority. If I had a phone, I would be thumbing away, writing it all there. But that would have to wait until I had a phone.
Before I pushed the elevator button, I spotted a pharmacy across the way. I could do with a pen and paper, I told myself, and crossed the street.
I came out, armed with a handful of ball-point pens and a pair of tear-off pads of graph paper. They wouldn't let me buy just one of either item; they aren't packaged that way. I ripped away the plastic packaging and dropped it in a bin. Then I sat down on an empty bench and uncapped one of the pens.
Pens! I already *had* a pen: Merope's expensive, beautiful pen. Oh well. Save it for later.
With my cheap ball-point pen, I began to write:
Wash and detail car
Find phone bill on USB
Get new phone from carrier
After a deep breath I wrote:
Cleo
Yes, Cleo. What did it mean? Should I phone? Should I drop in? Should I call and ask if I can drop in? Should I make an appointment at her office?
That last idea seemed a bit passive-aggressive. At worst, she could take it to mean, the only way I can talk to you is if I make an appointment. At best, it could seem like I was seeking neutral ground, or wanted a meeting on her terms.
Should I hire an attorney, and have him or her arrange a meeting? Was that too heavy handed?
I held my pad on my lap, and when I shifted in my seat, the back of my hand brushed against my leg. I felt the fine hairs poking up. "Ah," I said aloud, and lifting the page so I could write on page two (where no one would see), I wrote
Shave legs? — ask Femke for suggestions
Then I lifted the second page and on page three wrote
QUESTIONS:
Did Merope shave her legs for something? for someone? out of habit?
"I should have gotten a notebook," I groused.
I sat there for a while, then returned to the top page and added
Job
Yeah, a job. I'd have to do SOMETHING to earn money. Soon the USB ought to tell me what Merope can and did do — at least I'd see her tax returns. Those would give me a clue.
Looking at what I had so far, the first thing I wanted to do was to get the USB drive and dig into it, mainly to find out about Merope's phone. I don't think I was obsessed with her phone; it's just that it seemed a key to unlocking her life. With her phone, I ought to be able to get into all her accounts, as well as see who was on her contact list.
Yes, that and — picking up my pen again, I wrote
her email
Which I could also likely get into through her phone. So, if I wanted to deal with the first thing weighing on my mind, I needed to go to Femke's and dig into the USB.
And that's what I intended to do, as I descended in the elevator and walked across the underground parking level. Here, underground, surrounded by concrete, I couldn't help but be reminded of the processing center. A creepy thought. Luckily, happily, there were plenty of people down there with me: people going to their cars, people leaving their cars, people trying to remember where they parked their cars. The presence of all those normal-looking people (none of them dressed in Army fatigues!) helped reduce the creepy factor.
In my mind, as I said, I was on my way to Femke's, until I saw my car for the second time.
I knew it was dirty when I first saw it, but I didn't get the full extent of it. When we arrived here, Femke and I were standing behind the car, so all I saw was the trunk and the butt end. When I walked around to the side, to approach the driver's door, I was appalled.
Did Merope never clean her car? Did she ever clean her car? The thing was filthy. I don't know what she could have done to reduce it to this state. I once visited a friend who lived in a high desert in Northern California, and it was that dusty. The roads were unpaved for the most part: packed earth. In the summer, when everything dries, the roads accumulate a layer of red dirt two inches thick. If you didn't drive at a super-slow speed, like five miles an hour, you would kick up an immense cloud of dust and dirt that would follow you and cover you and everything you loved.
I mention it because it's the only place I've ever seen a vehicle as caked in dirt as Merope's car. I was afraid to touch it.
I can't understand why she left it that way. A quick drive through a car wash: that's all it would take, but she obviously hadn't done it. If she'd ever done it, she hadn't done it for a good long while.
Naturally, it raises the question of why Rowan didn't drive it through a car wash. Even if *he* wouldn't think of it, Femke had told him to do it. Javier suggested it to Rowan several times. Rowan was driving this dirtball all the time we were up north in the processing center. Wasn't he embarrassed to be behind the wheel of such a dust bucket?
In the back of my mind I had an idea that didn't make it to my to-do list, and that was to search Merope's car. My intention was to carry out a *thorough* search. I was thinking along the lines of the search the trooper carried out on Rowan's car. I wondered how hard it would be, to pop out the back seat. Probably not too hard; the trooper did it in a moment. He popped it back in, too, like it was nothing.
When I saw my car, though, I had second thoughts about even touching the thing.
So... I wouldn't be conducting a search. Not at the moment. I'm sure if I worked over this car the way a thorough search would require, I'd end up filthy myself.
To the car wash, then!
With a long, straight arm I unlocked the door — without touching the door, of course. I only touched my key. Next, with the tips of two fingers, I gingerly pulled up the latch and opened the door. Carefully avoiding the door frame, I climbed inside and pulled the door quickly shut. A little dust fell inside, but I managed to dodge it. I rubbed the dirt off my fingertips on the carpet, then rubbed a little more with my thumb. I couldn't get them completely clean.
The inside of the car was free of clutter, at least. No old coffee cups or sandwich wrappers. It didn't smell of anything in particular; just a bit musty.
Looking around the car from the driver's seat, I didn't see anything of Merope's. No belongings, no traces of where she'd been, what she'd done, who she was. Maybe there was something in the trunk? I pictured the dirt, the MAAK ME SHOON Femke had written, and decided to leave the trunk-opening until after the car was cleaned.
Then it occurred to me: if I had the car detailed, the cleaners would gather everything they found and put it in a bag for me. They would do a much more thorough job of digging through the car than I ever would. Probably even better than the state trooper ever could.
I started the car. It sounded okay. No obvious bad engine sounds. I realized I hadn't looked at the tires. That, too, could wait until after the car wash.
I added to my list:
Get car checked
Check tires
I lowered and raised the sun visors: nothing tucked up there. I opened the glove compartment, and found, to my relief and satisfaction, a copy of the registration (with Merope's Omaha address) and her insurance. Happily, the insurance was current. I'd have to check whether her premiums were paid up. I added that to my to-do list.
It stood to reason that Rowan had already searched the car. I could probably *assume* that he had... but then again, I would have assumed he'd have gotten it cleaned, and put some gas in it. The gas gauge wasn't quite on empty; the NEED GAS icon hadn't lit up yet, but I've never like driving around with less than half a tank of gas.
When I left parking garage, and got out of the city center, I found myself on autopilot, driving home. Home! It wasn't home any more. After stopping for gas, I corrected course and soon arrived at Super Dynamic Bubble Shine, a car wash near to... near to Cleo's house. They do a great job and don't charge an arm and a leg for it.
This place is popular for good reason! I told myself to console myself. There were already five cars ahead of me, waiting to be cleaned. I didn't expect the place to be busy now, on a Monday afternoon. And yet, here it was in full swing.
Honestly, I've seen it worse: with a line going down the block. As I said, they're popular for good reason.
In any case, the line usually keeps moving. Cars go in, cars come out. The only bottleneck is the driver who doesn't use their time in line to decide which services they want. There are huge menus in four spots: you can't miss them. And yet, there are drivers who don't look at them. They pull up to the entrance and look around as if they've never seen a car wash before.
When the line didn't advance for a couple of minutes, I assumed this was the case. I didn't mind; I wasn't in a hurry. There wasn't any point in fussing.
And I was ready: I wanted the Super Deluxe Bubble Shine. It had everything: pre-soak, triple foam, hot wax, ultra shine protectant, ceramic coating, undercarriage spray, wheel cleaner, tire shine, and wheel brightener. There's more as well, but you get the idea.
I wasn't sure whether all of those items were real, actual treatments they did to the car, or just fluffy names. But I didn't care. The car would look like new afterward.
Speaking of "like new," I intended to add the Total Like-New detailing, which has its own list packed with items: they vacuum everywhere, they shampoo the carpets, they use compressed air to blow out all the dust, dirt, and debris. They clean the windows. They wipe down every surface with some kind of shiny protectant. To put it briefly, if there's a surface they can reach, they clean it. Afterward, the interior looks, smells, and feels like new.
Cleo and I used to give our cars the whole interior make-over twice a year. It costs a couple hundred dollars, but it's worth it. And this one was on Merope's dime.
Merope's dime... right. As I considered the prices, I realized that I had to make a budget. I added that to my to-do list. Merope left me a nice wad of cash, but I could easy burn through it in no time if I wasn't careful. I didn't want to live on Femke's charity, either.
With that thought, I got the glimmering of an idea for a job I could do... not that I wanted to, but I could do it...
I had another idea as well. I fished around, feeling under the seats and in the seat-back pockets, and found what I was looking for: it was a scraper and brush — meant to be used in winter, to clear snow and ice off the windows. Carefully, I opened the driver door, once again dodging a small fall of dirt. Then stepped out, shut the door, and swept all the loose dust away from the window, from around the window, and around the door. I tapped the brush on the ground to knock the dust out of it and climbed back inside.
Now I'd be able to roll down my window without bathing in dirt.
The line of cars finally brought me to the cashier. I rolled down the window and told him what I wanted.
He looked me over slowly, then ran his eyes over my car. He charged my card. I signed the receipt. He held on to it for a few moments.
"Wow," he said. "Just wow."
"Thanks," I answered, in a tone of irony.
"We ought to take a picture! Before and after, you know?"
"That's *two* pictures," I pointed out. He ignored my correction.
"This is the dirtiest car I've seen up in here! What — do you use this thing for off-road aventures? Is that what you do? Lady! Where did you go? What did you do?"
"Let's just say I've been on a long, long trip. Is that okay with you?" I replied.
"Heh," he chuckled. "Nebraska? That's not a long trip. It's not a dusty trip, either." He handed me my card and receipt.
"I took the long way around," I told him, and rolled up my window.
The conveyor took hold of my car and tugged it into the process. Jets of water shot all over my car, from every angle. The dust and dirt melted into a layer of mud, coating my car, obscuring my windows.
The lights inside the car wash changed to red and a carpet of blue foam flopped over my car, mixing with the mud. Heavy sets of cloth mats descended on mechanical arms and scrubbed my car. Jets of water washed it clean.
The lights changed to white and a thick coating of white foam covered me. I felt water pounding from beneath the car, and I pictured clods and clots of dried mud falling away.
The process went on, lights turning color at every step of the way. Different products were shot all over, rubbed with huge bristle brushes or massaged with heavy mats.
While the conveyor carried me through the cleaning process, all I could do was sit there, passive. My mind drifted inevitably to Cleo. Cleo and the new Anson. It bothered me. It bothered me a lot. How could it not? We'd been together twenty-five years, and lately it seemed we were drifting inexorably toward divorce, like a canoe heading for a waterfall. You watch the canoe — you know that even if it turns around, it'll still go over the cascade and crash on the rocks below. Cleo, for all her psychoanalytic powers, didn't seem to have any interest in fixing or healing whatever was wrong between us.
I don't want to rehash the way things had become. I don't want to get into how things got that way. All I'm saying is that Cleo seemed perfectly willing to toss our history over the side for the sake of man she barely knew. Or didn't know at all.
A three-part neon sign lit up, one phrase after another, to tell me that the various wheel and tire treatments were underway.
When Javier told me about Anson, he mentioned that Cleo had some consideration about insurance, but to me that seems an awfully thin reason for hitching her wagon to the man.
"What has he got that I haven't got?" I found myself saying. I knew it sounded stupid the moment I said it. What I meant was: What does he have that I didn't have? Here she was, going out of her way for this guy, when simply being civil to me seemed a massive effort.
I felt like an actor, forced to watch an understudy play his role. The new Anson was getting good reviews — at least if I could go by Javier's telling.
The conveyor pulled my car forward, toward the light of day. Big metal vents descended from the ceiling, drying my car with blasts of dry, hot air. I watched the water droplets fly against gravity, up my windshield and away. Already things were looking better: the hood was a shiny yellow, with nary a fleck of dust, dirt, or grime.
When I emerged, one of the workers signaled me to pull out of line, over to the left.
"You paid for detailing, right?"
"Yes. The Total Like-New package."
"Right," he acknowledged. "The kid didn't tell you, did he."
"Tell me what?"
"We're really backed up today. For detailing. He should have told you before you paid."
"Ah."
"I can do one of three things for you. We can make an appointment: you come back tomorrow. You give us an hour. That's the first option. Second option is you leave the car now, and you come pick it up at five. Or, you can wait in the waiting room. We got a TV in there. Or, there's Dunkin' Donuts." He pointed across the street.
"And the third option?"
"I give you your money back."
I considered a moment, then told him, "I'm going for option two."
"You're going to leave it now?"
"Yes."
"Okay, give me your phone number."
"Sorry — I lost my phone."
"Okay, be here at five. Okay? Five."
"Five it is."
I walked out, into the sunlight. I crossed the asphalt, where the cars emerge from the wash. Four teenage girls, dressed in t-shirts and tight shorts, were busy, towel-drying the cars. Strictly speaking, it isn't necessary, but it's expected. The girls watched me as I walked by, no particular expression on their faces. I got the feeling they were evaluating me, maybe as a possible future, weighing how they might feel if they turned out like that. Like me. I wondered how I measured up.
Maybe it was just my imagination.
I turned left out of the car wash. Four hours to kill, and my old house just over the hill.
In about fifteen minutes, I was "home." It wasn't exactly right around the corner, but it was in the neighborhood.
My heart pounded in my chest as I approached the front door. I didn't expect to feel so nervous. I had no idea what to expect; what sort of reception I'd get. I can always leave, I told myself. That will always be an option.
For some reason I knocked on the door before I rang the bell. Nerves, again?
Cleo opened the door, cocked her head and looked at me. "Yes?"
Embarrassed, full of uncertainty, I murmured, "Uh, sorry that I didn't call first, but I don't have a phone... yet... ah..."
Cleo tensed slightly. I saw she was ready to shut the door, so I quickly added, "Cleo, I'm Anson. Or I *was* Anson until the Switcher... met me."
"Ah," she said, nodding, and took a step back, allowing me in.
I walked straight through to the kitchen and sat down at the table, with my back to the door. Cleo sat at the head of the table, next to me. I took that as a good sign; if she'd sat directly opposite me, I would have taken it as confrontational. (A little tip that Cleo taught me.)
She looked me up and down again, and said, "Rowan said you'd gotten an upgrade, and it looks like he was right. Congratulations! I hope you're happy with the change."
"It could have easily been a whole lot worse," I conceded.
"When you consider that you've cut your age in half, your weight in half... You look healthy... you're good-looking... I guess..." She shrugged, as though the conclusion was inescapable. "What are you now, ten years younger than me?"
"Yeah, that too," I replied.
She offered a hopeful smile.
"So, yeah," I conceded. "I was pretty lucky. So... but... ah—"
"Rowan told you that he brought the new Anson here." It wasn't a question. It was a statement.
"Yes," I said, leaning forward a little. "What's up with that? I mean, you hardly know the guy!"
She didn't react, at least visibly. She ran her index finger back and forth in a small arc on the table. "You and I — how well did we know each other the first time we slept together?" She raised her eyebrows in query. "Not very well at all, wouldn't you say? Still, we had a good run. Didn't we?"
My jaw fell slight open. I gaped at her in disbelief. "What — are you saying you fell in love with this guy? Don't you realize what a liability he is, for you?"
"A liability?" she repeated. "Is that what concerns you? That he's a liability? Weren't you and I liabilities for each other?"
"The moment you told the processing people that you accept him as Anson Charpont, he became for all intents and purposes, legal and otherwise, Anson Charpont. In every way!"
She didn't respond. She only looked at me, watching my face with her psychological eyes.
"He is married to you now. Married! He could take half of everything you own, by law. Do you realize that?"
She hesitated a moment, then tossed her psychological stone into the pond and let it ripple. "Why, exactly, would that bother you?"
I stared at her, thunderstruck. "What kind of a question is that? It's natural for it to bother me!"
"It bothers you," she told me in an even, measured tone, "because you feel that he's taking it from *you*, not because he'd be taking from me."
Her statement deflated me. "Oh, Cleo," I groaned. "Sometimes when I talk to you, I feel like you are determined to not understand me." I took a quick breath that felt like a prelude to a sob. "Sometimes it seems that you make an active effort to turn whatever I say into something wrong." I tapped the table with my fingertips, and let my gaze travel around the room. "I shouldn't have come," I concluded. "There's no point to this."
I half-rose from my chair, when Cleo set her hand on mine and stopped me. "Wait," she said. "Please. We got off on the wrong foot here. I actually wanted to call you, but Rowan said you don't have a phone."
"Not yet. I will soon." I felt my anger, my offended feelings soften a bit at her conciliatory tone.
"I need your help with something. If you don't mind? Could you? I'm sorry, but it's something I know you can do quickly. If I do it, I'm sure I'll miss something, or mess something up."
"What is it?" I asked, sitting back down. Somehow, I was acutely conscious of the touch of her hand on mine. It was light, as if her hand weighed no more than a feather, as though its lightness expressed an emotion Cleo hadn't offered me in years. Was it kindness? Pleading? Simple need? When was the last time she ever asked me for help?
"I'm sorry," she said — rare words, from her. "I know this is hard for you, harder, probably, than I can understand. I don't want to step on your toes, or make things complicated for you."
I sniffed and coughed and nodded. "What kind of help do you need?" I asked, choking a little on the words.
"It's for Mukti — you know, the new Anson —"
"Let's just call him Anson," I cut in. "It'll be simpler."
"Okay," she agreed, studying my face, reading me. "Okay. You know that Anson got mugged, and they took his wallet, so we have to cancel all his cards and get new IDs, and all that sort of thing. You were always better at that stuff than me. Also, they're your accounts, you know, so... you have access and all..."
"Fine," I said. "It'll be easy. Um, could I go get my laptop?"
"Sure, sure," she replied, brightening. "You should take it, anyway, it's yours."
I left her sitting at the table and walked down the hall to my office. Was it weak of me? Was it stupid of me, to turn around the moment she asked for help?
I didn't know. I don't know whether it matters. At least she was talking to me.
I walked quietly, listening for signs of life from above. Was Anson in my old bedroom? Would he and Cleo resume the sex life we lost? Had they done it already?
When I entered my office, I felt both familiarity and unfamiliarity at the same time. Both feelings were strange, as if the feelings belonged to someone else, and I experienced them through an emotional telemetry. The room was mine; used to be mine, and I'd last been in that room only four days ago, but even so..., it wasn't mine any more.
I got on my hands and knees to unplug the computer from its power strip, and unthreaded the cord from behind the desk.
Cleo appeared at the door. "You know, after we do this thing with the cards, we should get a box so you can load up anything you want to take."
I looked around the room. "Yeah, maybe the mouse... the screen..." I touched a photo that hung on the wall. It showed Cleo, Herman, and me — back when I was Anson. All three of us smiling, sunny, glad to be there, with the Painted Desert at our backs.
"Heh," I chuckled. "Do you remember who took this picture? It was Rowan, of all people. That joker! The way he wheedled himself into that trip!"
"Yeah," Cleo laughed. "He turned out to be a good kid, in spite of all our worrying."
"Yes, he did," I agreed. I mused for a moment, then added, "I guess I'll be even more distant from Herman after this..."
"Don't say that," Cleo cautioned. "You never know. Stay open. Don't give up on our only child. He'll come around. And if he doesn't, you have to keep waiting. You're his dad."
I blew out a resigned breath, picked up my laptop, a pad and a pen, and returned to the kitchen. I'd left my own to-do pad in my car, and once again I'd forgotten about the pen collection in my bag.
It took less than thirty minutes for me to run through everything. I requested a new drivers license and health insurance card for Anson. I reported my old bank card and credit cards stolen, and contested a few bogus charges the thieves had added. Nothing big.
"Here's my email password," I told her, writing it on the pad, along with my other account usernames and passwords. "He'll be able to track the new cards there."
I looked through my password manager, to see if anything else came to mind. "Um, I have some routine medical appointments in my calendar. You or he should check. In any case, the doctor's office always calls to confirm a few days before."
"Thanks," she told me, putting her hand on mine again. When she did, something clicked in me. I realized that the entire time we were sitting there, while I worked on Anson's accounts, she must have touched my hand a dozen times or more. Every time she spoke to me, she touched my hand.
I'm not complaining! In fact, I liked it. I was like water in the desert, after several years of drought.
"Oh — another thing: you ought to change the locks," I told her. "You ought to do that today, since the muggers have all the keys. And keep my car in the garage for a while." I mused a moment. "You might check how much it would cost to change the car key as well." I thought for another few moments, taking inventory of the keys in my memory. "Really, the only keys that matter are the house keys and the car key. My car key, not yours."
She nodded, and scribbled a note on my pad: Cost of changing Anson's car key?
I sighed, looked up as I considered... then said, "I don't think there's anything else. If something occurs to me, I'll call you."
"Thanks," she said, with sincerity, and she kissed me lightly on the cheek. Then she stood up, so I found myself standing up as well.
She brought a cardboard box up from the basement, and together we returned to my office. I looked through all the drawers and shelves, but in the end I only took a few things: the family photo from the Painted Desert, a mouse, the screen, an external drive, the power strip... I only took two of my books for reference. That was it. I set the box down near the front door. Cleo looked out to the street.
"Where's your car?" she asked. "Are you getting it cleaned?"
"Yes — how did you guess?"
She rolled her eyes and laughed at the same time. "Rowan gave us a ride from the hospital in it. I gave him directions for the Super Dynamic, but I could tell he wasn't listening. His partner — Javier? told us Rowan wouldn't do it! He just won't go."
"Isn't it strange?" I agreed. "I don't understand how he could drive around in that dust bucket." I laughed. She laughed. We laughed together. It felt good; it was the first time I'd laughed with Cleo in a long, long time.
The sun came in through the front windows and lit her face. When I looked at her, it was almost as though I was seeing her for the first time. I saw the old Cleo in her face, the young woman I fell in love with. It gave me sense of nostalgia, of loss, of a glimpse into the way things used to be. She seemed... not exactly happy, but content.
It struck me, as we stood there, that our eyes were on the same level, and almost as an automatic thing I looked down at her feet. She was wearing sandals, just as I was. Our heels were about the same height. Cleo noticed were my eyes were going, and commented, "We're about the same height now. Funny, isn't it?"
"Yeah, I guess," I muttered, and found myself looking back at the stairs that lead to the second floor. Was it my imagination, or could I sense his presence? "Is he here?" I asked in a quiet voice.
"Yes, he's resting. He's got bruises all over, did you know? And a cracked rib, but that's the only broken bone. They kept him overnight in case he had a concussion. He was beaten pretty badly, but he was lucky: they didn't damage any internal organs. To my mind, the worst thing is what they did to his face! He has this horrible scrape—" she drew her fingers from her right cheekbone down "—it must have hurt. It still hurts, I guess. They must have pressed his face into the sidewalk!" She shuddered. "And his ankle is twisted." She recounted, sounding a little perplexed by that detail. "That must have happened in the fight, somehow. You know, he fought back. Of course, he shouldn't have, but he did." She gave a thoughtful shrug.
"The um, cheekbone scrape and the twisted ankle, that was me," I informed her. "It happened in the moments before I was switched."
"Oh!" she exclaimed softly. "Okay."
"Yeah," I said, "not that it matters... at this point, anyway." I felt a little uncomfortable, awkward. It must have been the business about the keys. So I told her, "Listen, Cleo, if you don't mind, if I'm not overstepping, I could replace the locks myself. I mean, whoever took his wallet knows where he lives, and they have the keys. It'll take maybe an hour. Is that okay with you?"
"No, yes, sure. That'll be fine," she agreed.
"I just need to get to the hardware store... My car will be ready at five, so..."
"I can give you a ride," she quickly offered. "and you can tell me about your adventure."
Cleo loves to drive. Even if I was driving, she'd direct me. (Pass this truck — I can't see anything! or Change lanes, we're not moving! or Why did you go this way? We always go the other way!) I didn't particularly care who drove, so as a rule, I always left it to her.
As we backed out of the driveway, she was already in the good mood that driving gave her, and she opened the conversation by talking about Mukti.
She began with the call from Matt at the processing center, and how on earth did he expect Cleo to know whether Anson had experienced a Switcher incident!? At first she felt angry, offended, upset, and confused, until she hit on the idea of calling hospitals.
"I don't know why hospitals — of course, I mean, being switched isn't really a *medical* event, is it." She took a turn a bit too fast, as she usually did. "But there he was! My first call, to Harmish Memorial. They didn't know the name Anson Charpont, so I described you, and right away they told me you were there! Well! They were calling him 'Mukti,' but he matched your description perfectly. I took a cab. I was too..." she fluttered her hands in front of her chest "...too emotional to drive. I mean, of course, I had no idea who I was going to meet!"
I don't know... I was glad to hear her talking so freely (for a change). I listened, but I didn't fully understand. There was an obvious question that I wanted to ask, but didn't want to ruffle her feathers. I mean, her "emotion" — what was it? It didn't want to make it all about me, but it didn't sound like she was particularly concerned about the man she'd been married to for two and a half decades. I managed to find a neutral way to put it: "You were curious to see who's living in my body now."
"Yes!" she exclaimed.
"So he got to the hospital first thing in the morning—" I offered, but she cut in: "—not first thing. He got there at nine or so."
"And didn't he check in with the Switcher processing people right away?"
"Oh, them!" she scoffed. "He tried."
"And?"
"Well, the hospital has ONE PERSON — can you believe it? One person, for that job, and it was her day off! They had to call her in. She had to come in. I got there around ten, and sat with him for an hour before the woman showed up. And even then, she wasn't ready."
"In the meantime, the two of you talked, I imagine," I prompted. "You and Mukti."
"Yes, he told me what had happened — and I was so impressed with his spirit, with how well he was taking it."
She turned to me, her eyes shining. We had arrived at the hardware store. "Oh!" she exclaimed, catching herself. "You, too! Of course! You seem to be dealing with it very well, yourself! Have you spoken to a therapist yet?"
"Um..." I hedged. We were approaching the hardware store entrance, and there were people milling about. In a low voice I told her, "There are no therapists."
"What are you talking about?" she countered sharply. "That's not possible! Of course there are therapists. Are you telling me you refused to see one?"
"Um, door locks?" I asked one of the employees.
"Aisle nine," he answered, pointing.
"I didn't refuse anything," I told her in a low voice. "The processing center doesn't provide any mental-health services whatsoever."
She clicked her tongue in disbelief. "That's ridiculous!"
"Did they offer a therapist to Mukti?" I challenged.
"Well, no, but—"
"And they didn't know that you're a therapist, right? So it's not as though they figured he didn't need one."
She stopped and looked up, adding it up in her head.
"Listen," I said. "I was in a huge regional processing center. They told me that there are no mental health professionals there. Not only that, but they don't provide any services to Switcher victims once they're processed. All they do is gather their data. As soon as their data is entered in the system, that's the end of it, as far as the government is concerned."
"I find that hard to believe," she persisted.
"They also told me that they've never done any kind of follow-up, to see how people are doing."
"Short-term or long-term?"
"Neither. None. Nothing. Never."
I picked out three of the best door-lock sets.
"Why three?" Cleo asked. "We only have two doors: the front door and the kitchen door."
"The basement door," I reminded her. "Don't worry, I can make all three work off the same key, so you'll only need one."
Cleo's mind was churning through what I'd told her. "At the very least, they've given you the contact information for a support group."
"Nope," I replied grimly.
She searched her mind for other questions, but came up empty.
As I paid for the locks, I told her, "Femke was scandalized to hear it as well."
"Femke? Rowan's girlfriend? Well, of course, she's a psychology student."
"Is she?"
"Yes — she's getting her master's at Amberlis College. They have some innovative programs over there." She scratched her neck, thinking. "Of course, I've given some lectures there, myself."
"Femke thinks I should start a support group," I informed her, half-joking.
"Oh, interesting," Cleo said in a non-committal tone. "I'm sure you can find lots of resource material."
She fiddled with her phone before getting back into her car. Then she turned it to show me a photo. "This was Mukti before." He was a good-looking young man. Kind face. Relaxed demeanor. "He looks like a yoga teacher," I said.
"He was!" she replied, as if I'd hit on it by accident. "Or... is. He's determined to yoga himself into shape, now that he's... you."
Once we were underway, I prompted Cleo, "So, when the processing woman finally arrived, what happened?"
"Oh," Cleo scoffed. "She wasn't the brightest peg, if you know what I mean. She had a list of silly questions. *I* could have answered for him, I'd been there long enough to hear it already. It was mind-numbing, honestly, the time she took to get from A to B."
"And then she asked you if you'd accept him as Anson..." I put it out there.
"Well! I told you she was slow on the uptake. First she explained the process to Mukti: that they would have to contact me, etc., etc. — as if I wasn't sitting right there! And then she turns to me, and starts explaining it all over again." Cleo shook her head. "I cut her short and told her that as far as I was concerned, he could be Anson to me."
I sat there blinking. I must have blinked eight or ten times.
We drove in silence back to the house. I couldn't talk. Cleo seemed to have finished her story. I got out and set to work on the locks. I did the basement door first, since the tools are down there. It took me a while, but after fussing my way through that one, the back and front doors went quickly.
I found Cleo sitting in the living room, reading an academic paper. "I finished changing the locks," I told her. "The old ones are on the workbench in the basement. The new ones come with two keys, and here are both of them."
I put it that way to make it clear that I hadn't kept a copy for myself.
"And these work on all three doors?"
"Yes."
"Thanks," she said. She took off her glasses and toyed with them, but she didn't say anything more.
"Okay," I said. "I'll be off."
"Okay," she echoed. "It was nice to meet you. Thanks for stopping by. Say hello to Rowan... and to Femke."
"Yeah," I said. "Sure. Take care."
She put her glasses back on and returned to her reading. I picked up the box of my things, which made my exit a little awkward, but that's how it went. I opened the door, set my box outside, closed the door behind me, picked my box up again and started walking. I still had more than hour before my car was supposed to be ready, but I didn't care. I wasn't going to hang around.
I don't know... breakups are always hard, I guess. I've had a couple, but they were so long ago I can barely remember. Maybe breakups are hard on both sides, but everyone knows, it's harder to be the one who gets dumped.
As you can imagine, I was deep in my feelings as I walked. I fumed, I despaired, I hurt, I wanted to hurt back...
So I didn't hear someone calling my name at first. "Merope! Wait! Merope! Merope! Wait!" When I didn't respond, the voice switched to "Anson!"
I stopped dead in my tracks and turned. It was me... or Mukti... It was the new Anson, calling me, limping as he tried to run.
[ Melanie Brown’s Switcher Universe ]
by Iolanthe Portmanteaux
I stopped, of course. How could I not? The poor guy was limping! Honestly, I wasn't ready to talk with him, or even see him, but here he was. There was no avoiding it.
I walked back, meeting him more than halfway, and set my box on the ground.
"Hey, there," he said, thrusting out his hand. "Mukti Endecott. What would you like me to call you?"
He was dressed in a long-sleeved, untucked white cotton shirt and long, loose cotton trousers. On his feet were white socks and an old pair of moccasins I'd forgotten about. He saw me taking in his wardrobe selection, and told me, "These were the softest clothes in your closet. I guess you heard, I've got bruises everywhere. It isn't pretty; I don't want to alarm people."
"Uh, yeah," I acknowledged, shaking his hand. "Merope Goddard." He smiled. An open, sunny smile. I found myself smiling back. Okay, I'll admit — the guy is likeable.
Next, my eye hit upon my wedding ring, there on his left hand. "Oh, yeah," he grinned, holding up the hand. "It's funny, but the ring feels like it belongs there, you know what I mean?"
"Actually, I do. I'm so used to the feeling I keep thinking I've lost it somewhere."
"Huh," he grunted. "Well, I'd give it to you now, but unfortunately I can't get it off."
"That's okay," I said. "It's yours now."
"So, uh, you're walking to the car wash, huh? Mind if I tag along? Give us a chance to talk? I couldn't get ready fast enough to catch you back at the house, so..."
"Well... uh..." I looked at his ankle. "If you can get there, I can give you a ride back home. In any case, it's about a mile to the car wash. Can you walk that far?"
"How much time do we have?"
"An hour, give or take."
He calculated for a moment, then said, "I can do that, if you don't mind walking slowly."
"But doesn't it hurt? Your ankle?"
"Honestly, no, it doesn't. Is this something that happened to you? Or did it happen to the Switcher, when he was you?"
"It was me, in the moments before I was switched."
"So that was... when?"
"Friday afternoon."
"Friday afternoon. Four days ago. It's healing up nicely. Anyway, I've soaked it in epsom salts, and did some very intense massage on it. I yoga'd the hell out of it, and now it's all taped up. I'm fine. I'm not ready to run a marathon yet, but a slow-walking mile is just fine."
"Okay, good."
"*This* hurts, though," he told me, pointing to his cheek. "Did that happen to you, too?"
"Yes, I fell, at the same time as the ankle twist. I hurt myself here, here, here, and here—" (pointing to his wrist, elbow, hip, and knee).
"Ah, okay. Good to know. I wondered where those came from."
"And the bruises — how bad are they?"
"Well, they aren't a whole lot of fun, but they'll go away. The epsom baths and the massages help."
I picked up my box and we began walking. Slowly. Slower than I wanted to go, but what choice did I have? While we walked I studied the new Anson. He was different from me. I mean, he wasn't the same Anson that I had been. His posture was better. So well that each time I looked at him, I stood up a little straighter.
He also seemed more relaxed than I remembered myself. Absent was that hangdog, mildly depressed look that I didn't really knew I even had, until I saw it missing from Mukti's expression.
He actively looked around him as we walked, taking in all the sights and sounds. He didn't just breathe, he drew the air into his lungs as if it were food, and gently let it out again.
"Is it strange to see me — to see yourself walking around like this?"
"Well—"
"I imagine it's something like an out-of-body experience for you. I remember how odd I felt, seeing myself run off, after the Switcher took my body from me."
"It isn't like that for me. I don't see you as me. It's hard to explain. I mean, you're so obviously someone else. I can't bring myself to call you 'Anson'—"
"Neither can Cloe," he interrupted. "Would it bother you if I changed my name?"
"Uh, no — why? Why do you think it would bother me?"
A small smile played across his lips. Both of us could see that somehow it would bother me. I asked him, "Are you going to call yourself Mukti Endecott? What about the guy who's running around in Mukti Endecott's body?"
"Right. No, I'm going to call myself Mukti Charpont. It makes sense: I'm Charpont on the outside, and Mukti on the inside."
"Makes sense."
"But you're sticking with Merope Goddard, am I right?"
"Yes, I'm feeling more and more used to that name, to that being me."
"Interesting. Do you think changing gender made it easier to feel that way?"
I stopped for a moment to think. I shifted the box in my arms. It wasn't heavy; but it was inconvenient. Mukti held out his hands, silently offering. Then he took the box from me. It didn't look awkward in his arms... I guess because his arms are longer.
"I don't think it's that," I told him. "I met a girl at the processing center. Her name was Laura, and she was switched into her boyfriend's body. She couldn't deal with it."
"That does sound mind-bending. Do you think the Switcher did that just to fuck with them?"
"Yes, it sounded that way, from her telling it." My impressions of her replayed in my memory. "I hope she ends up okay."
"Here's hoping," Mukti agreed. "But you... you like the name Merope?"
"I do now. At first I thought it was weird as hell, but now — who am I? I'm Merope. I can't *not* be Merope, even if I changed my name. That's how I feel." We walked a few yards in silence. I asked how his ankle was doing; he said it was fine.
"Anyway," he added, "you can't very well call yourself Anson."
We both laughed.
"Ansonia," he offered. "Ansonette."
"No, thanks!" I chuckled.
Javier was right: Mukti does seem like a nice guy. Maybe Cleo *did* get an upgrade, I grudgingly admitted to myself.
After we'd walked for a minute in silence, I glanced at him. "Are you okay?" I asked. "How's that ankle holding up?"
"The ankle's fine; you don't need to keep checking. I'm feeling good, but I'm getting the distinct impression that you weren't very active, were you."
"No," I confessed, "and since I've been switched, I've felt guilty or — well, I wanted to apologize to whoever ended up in my body."
"Apologize? Why? None of us asked for this, and it certainly isn't your fault."
"Well, no, sure, but... I guess if I knew that I had to hand my body over to somebody else, I would have stayed in better shape."
"Ah," Mukti nodded. "I wouldn't worry about it. In my case, I'm glad. It's a challenge! It's a chance for me to live up to my words. As a yoga teacher, I've always told people that it's never too late to start. Now I have to prove it, in my own person. I'm looking forward to it."
"You know," he added, "I was talking to Cleo about collaborating on a blog, to chronicle this journey. On my part, a lot of the attention would be on the physical. Cleo could add the psychological dimension."
He turned to look at me, his eyes shining. "Would you like to get in on it? You could write a guest piece, whenever the spirit moved you!"
"Whoa, I don't know..." I cautioned.
"No stress!" he declared. "No deadlines! No censorship! Just you, whatever you want to say!"
"I'm not sure I want to say anything," I told him.
"You don't have to give me an answer now," he added, excited by his idea, "In fact, you can say no today and yes a month from now. No strings!"
"Mukti, I *can* give you an answer now. Right now. I don't want to. I want to stay under the radar, as much as possible. Can I ask you to keep my name out of this blog? Will you do that?"
Disappointed, he conceded. "Yes, sure, of course. Absolutely. Your privacy is your privacy." He made the motion of zipping his lips.
By now, we were about halfway to the car wash. I insisted on taking my box back from Mukti, to take my turn carrying. It was fair, sure, but I was sorry to be lugging that thing again. It wasn't heavy. It was just awkward, mainly because of the monitor screen lying across the top. Mukti, watching me adjust the box, shifting as I tried to find a good way to carry it, said, "Listen, Merope: why won't we divide the labor here. I can take the screen and you can carry the box, or vice versa. What do you say?"
It was a good solution. Without the screen on top, I was able to shift the box on my shoulder, where it seemed to weigh nothing. Mukti tucked the screen under his arm, as if it were an oversized book.
At one point, Mukti observed, "I can feel you vibrating."
"What does that mean?"
"It's like, I don't know, like a perturbation in the Force. You know, Star Wars? What I mean is, on the surface, you seem fine with all this, but I can feel that under the surface, you've got a lot going on: emotions roiling, buried feelings. Maybe some resentments? Unfinished business?"
I heaved a heavy, heavy sigh. This guy was the first person who realized that I wasn't as calm as I seemed; that I hadn't adapted or adjusted or "dealt with it" or whatever.
"Right."
"Do you want to talk about it?"
I looked at the ground as we walked. He had to ask me slow down a little. Then I got into it.
"There's Cleo. Our relationship was... not so great, the past couple of years. I often felt like we were about to go over a waterfall, but she didn't seem interested in preventing the inevitable crash. I felt... helpless. She was angry, all the time. Honestly, it didn't seem like there was anything I could do that didn't piss her off or offend her."
Mukti listened in silence.
"But then, you come along, and in a moment she throws away more than twenty years of married life! Just like that!" I snapped my fingers.
"Is that how it seemed to you?" he asked.
"Isn't that how it is?" I retorted.
"No, not at all. Not from my point of view," he said. "I think she helped me out when I was in a tough spot. As a stranger in your body, I didn't have any insurance. I didn't even have my credit card — Switcher ran off with it. I wouldn't have been able to use it anyway—"
"But she didn't just let you use my insurance!" I exclaimed. "She handed you my life!"
Mukti gave me a cautious look, uncertain about where my volatile emotions might lead. I think I scared him a little.
"Your life?"
"Don't you realize? The minute she told the processing people that she accepted you as Anson Charpont, you became Anson Charpont."
"Well, you might see it that way—" he hedged.
"No! It *IS* that way! My drivers license — yours! My house — yours! My bank account — yours! My wife — YOURS! Do you get it? Do you understand?"
For the first time, Mukti looked uncomfortable. "No, no, man. I can tell you that I don't see it that way. I'm sure Cleo doesn't see it that way, either."
"Fuck seeing!" I shouted. "I'm talking about facts! You're MARRIED now, do you get it?"
He moved his hands vaguely, but didn't speak.
"You're married," I repeated, in a more normal tone. "Cleo told me what happened at the hospital. She made it seem as though she did it just because the processing woman was kind of slow in the head, and it made her impatient."
In spite of himself, Mukti started laughing. "Yes, they did irritate each other. Cleo told her that she wasn't the brightest peg in the shed, or something like that."
"It isn't funny," I insisted, so he stopped laughing (out of consideration).
"Look," he said, "neither of us used the word forever, okay? We have no idea how this might work — as a partnership? as a friendship? as housemates? as a marriage? We didn't get as far as even uttering that word!"
I was about to object, but he gently held up his hand. "Look, we don't know whether this will work — at all! If we *can* make it work, we will."
"And if you can't? If it doesn't work?"
"Then I guess we'll get a divorce," he replied, and laughed again.
I stopped in my tracks. At first I was speechless, then I hissed, "And at that point, you'll walk away with half of everything!"
He cocked his head and looked at me, confused. "No I won't," he retorted.
"Yes, you will!" I countered. "That's how it works in this state!"
He tried to grapple with what I was telling him. He clearly had no idea. "If that's what's bothering you," he said, "I can split it with you. Or — or, give it to you, outright."
"No!" I exclaimed. "No, you can't!"
He frowned, puzzled. "How about this: we just divide everything in three right now? Or you take your half, right now?"
"We can't do that," I told him.
"Why not?"
I began to deflate, under the pressure of explaining. "Mukti, do you know what liquidity is?"
"No."
"Okay, well, right now, because you are legally Anson Charpont, you are entitled to 50% of the value of, well, just for example... 50% of the value of the house. The house you share with Cleo. Just suppose she wanted that 50% now, in cash. What would you do?"
"Sell the house?"
"Okay, sure, but then there are taxes to pay, and the house is gone. Neither of you will actually get 50% of the money, and besides that, where are you going to live?"
Mukti, with a look of great distress, set the screen carefully on the ground and rubbed his face with his hands. "Oh, man," he groaned. "You are making this SO complicated!" He pressed his fingertips over his eyes, and swallowed a few times.
"Can I say something?" he asked.
"Sure."
"I don't *care* about all that. I don't even understand what you just said." He took a deep breath. "I'm not in love with Cleo, and she is not in love with me. Okay?" He looked up, trying to gather his thoughts. Then, "Listen: a few moments ago, you wanted to apologize because I got stuck with your body, right? But now it seems like you're blaming me — or resenting the fact that I'm stuck with your life."
Hesitantly, he set his hand on my shoulder. When I didn't react or shrug it off, he let me feel the weight of his arm. It was somehow calming, I don't know how. In a soft, low voice, he said, "None of this is fair. None of this is right. I'm just beginning to see that the Switcher, even when he doesn't physically hurt people, he does a violence that sometimes has no remedy."
He let that sink in.
Then he added, "Whatever I can do to make this less unfair, I will do. Okay? Whatever that means, I promise."
"Okay," I agreed. "Sorry."
"Don't be sorry! We've been fucked over! Both of us! But we didn't land as hard as other people have. Am I right?"
"Yes, you're right."
"We've been pretty darned lucky, both of us."
"Agreed," I acknowledged.
He picked up the screen once again and we set off walking. After a block or two, he asked me, "Listen, if it's okay to ask, do you know what you're going to do for work?"
"No, I don't mind your asking," I replied in a chastened tone. "Um, I used to be a programmer. Actually, I meant to ask Cleo, back at the house, if she wouldn't mind calling my former employer and telling them that I am Anson on the inside."
"To see if they'll hire you back as Merope?"
"Yes."
"That's a great idea!"
"Will you ask her for me?"
"I have a better idea — I think. What if I come with you and the two of us explain?"
"Actually, that would probably be the best thing," I told him. "That's a great idea!"
"So... do you want to do that tomorrow? Tomorrow morning?"
"Oh, uh, tomorrow? No, I, uh, I need to get Merope's phone replaced, and dig into her life a bit. There's a lot I don't know about her. I mean, speaking of jobs, I don't even know her social-security number yet. Could we do it on Wednesday?"
"Sure. It'll be nice to get out and about."
Mukti walked the entire distance, all the way to the car wash, without any difficulty. He didn't pause, he didn't stop or complain, and he didn't move all that slowly. It took us a little over a half hour.
"We're a little early," I pointed out. "And I don't see my car. I hope it's done."
"I don't mind waiting," he replied, agreeably.
I wondered how Femke would react to Mukti's agreeable-ness. I didn't get very far in my wondering, though — a familiar ring tone began to sound. Mukti didn't react at first, but with a startled "oh!" he pulled a telephone from his pocket: a cell phone that I knew quite well — my old phone.
He turned the face so I could see who was calling: Cleo. He hit the green button and greeted her. I mimed to him that I would go inside, but that he should stay and take his call.
He was still on the phone when I returned with my key. I picked up my stuff and lugged it around the side of the building, to where my car sat waiting. He followed behind.
What a transformation! The car gleaming and shining, almost like new. I opened the trunk (which was empty) and dumped my box and screen in there.
Mukti hung up and smiled at me.
"Get in," I told him. "I'll give you a ride back."
After we climbed in and fastened out seat belts, he took a deep sniff. "Smells like new in here! Everything sparkles!"
"Yeah," I agreed, and started the engine.
"Hey, that was Cleo on the phone, obviously. How'd you like to stay for dinner?"
I gave him a hesitant look. "I don't think Cleo wants to see me," I answered. "And honestly..." I didn't finish the thought.
"It was her idea!" he exclaimed with a big smile. "And I'm cooking! It'll be something simple: just a stir-fry. Come on! Why not?"
I had several years of why not that made me disinclined. Nothing I wanted to share with Mukti, so I said nothing.
He kept on going, though: he cajoled, he urged, he reasoned, he hoped...
In the end, when I pulled in front of the house, I turned off the engine and followed him inside.
Cleo met us near the door. She put a generous glass of white wine in my hand.
"I'm glad you came back," she told me. I nodded to her and eyed the size of the glass.
"Do you want one, Mukti?" she offered.
"Maybe later," he said. "I suppose it's too early for dinner, right? But I could do the chopping, the preparation, and put out some cheese and crackers?"
"Sounds nice," Cleo agreed.
Their manner toward each other was, I guess, about the level of housemates: polite, accommodating. Nothing in their tone suggested lovers — or even friends.
Cleo reached around the doorway and picked up her own glass from a side table in the living room. To me she said, "Why don't we go in here?" — gesturing toward the living room.
She scratched her head and sat down. "Listen," she began, "this is the strangest thing that has ever happened to me. I don't know how I seem to you, but inside, I'm freaking out."
"You don't look it," I told her.
"Neither do you," she countered. "You seem to have taken this whole life-swap/gender-swap squarely in stride."
"Everybody keeps saying that," I said, "but I'm a wreck. All the uncertainty... I mean, this woman's life is a mystery. I know almost nothing about her!"
"Well, Mukti is an open book by comparison," she admitted, "but still..." She took a healthy sip of wine. "When you showed up here earlier, I was scared to death."
I frowned in disbelief.
"Aren't you going to drink your wine?" she asked. "It's one of your favorites — that Falanghina."
I sniffed it and took a sip. "It is good," I admitted. "But have to drive."
"You don't," she told me. "Do us both a favor and stay over tonight. It'll be easier to talk about... all this stuff... if you're not watching the clock and trying to not overdo."
I hesitated.
"We'll have Mukti here as referee," she pointed out, half-joking.
I gave in and took a good sip, savoring the familar flavor. Odd, though: it made me realize that my memories of taste and smell were transferred along with my consciousness. Interesting!
I took another sip and got right into it. "I have a question: are you in love with him?"
"No," she said. "That's an easy one."
She looked at me a few moments, considering. Then after opening and closing her mouth twice, she said, "I have a patient, a woman. She's having marital difficulties. One day, her husband goes to animal rescue, and comes home with a cat. Not a kitten, but a cat. A Maine Coon. It's beautiful; she showed me a picture."
"So what's the problem, then?"
"After a couple of weeks, seeing her husband interacting with the cat, she told me, I think my husband loves that cat more than he loves me." She paused, and with a slightly grim smile asked, "What would you have told her, if you were me?"
"That's easy," I replied. "I'd tell her that a relationship with a pet is simple: easy, uncomplicated. Especially compared to a relationship with a human being."
"Bingo," she said. "That's exactly what I told her."
"So what's the remedy? What's she supposed to do?"
Cleo shrugged. "You tell me."
"Okay. I'd tell her, Don't be jealous. Don't take it as a snub."
"That's what I told her," Cleo agreed, with a little laugh.
"Did it help?"
"Not at all."
We sat in silence for a few beats, listening to Mukti opening and closing the fridge, washing and chopping food.
Then she said, "I know that you and Mukti have been fucked over by this Switcher character, but keep in mind that I've been fucked over, as well."
"Point taken," I responded. By now we were both well into the wine. Mukti came in briefly to set out a tray filled with crackers, proscuitto, salami, and three different cheeses.
"What luxury!" I exclaimed, by way of compliment. He bowed and returned to the kitchen.
"I thought about what you told me," Cleo said, "about how there was no follow-up or counseling of people who were switched. I couldn't believe it. I assumed that you just didn't know. So, while you two were out, I searched for studies, for papers, for peer-reviewed articles in established journals... and I found nothing! Nothing at all!"
"Not even surveys?" I asked. "There must be some statistics, right? Like, for instance, how many Switcher victims went on to commit suicide?"
Cleo gave me a sharp look. "You're not considering suicide, are you?"
"Of course not!" I snapped back. "But it's a trauma... I'm not worried for myself, but..." I told her about Laura, and how deeply her situation affected me. Cleo listened in silence.
After that, the wine did its work, and the conversation became more... free-wheeling. We talked about anything and everything, past, present, and future. We consumed all the hors d'oeuvres, and carried the empty tray into the kitchen. Cleo pressed Mukti into taking a glass of wine himself, and he got to cooking — sizzling the chicken, vegetables, and leftover rice in a big wok he found in the back of one of our cabinets.
"It's basically chicken fried rice," he said apologetically, but it was perfect. It filled the bill, as the pelican says.
We did cover some serious topics, in spite of the wine.
Cleo asked me why I went all the way to the processing center. "Why didn't you go to the hospital? Or a police or fire station?"
"I didn't know you could," I responded. "And Rowan had no idea."
"Too bad you couldn't ask Javier," she commented. "He's a lot more plugged in than Rowan."
At one point — I can't remember apropos of what — Cleo proposed a toast, quoting Tennyson:
'Tis better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved at all.
— which may sound heavy, but in the moment it passed like a paper boat launched among the breakers — there for a moment, then gone.
Cleo left the table so she could use the bathroom, and took a long time returning. We were just about to go looking for her, when she reappeared, cackling with glee, holding a tiny black backpack in one hand, and my bag in the other.
"Here you go!" she shouted, a bit too loud. I realized that I've very rarely seen Cleo drunk — or even buzzed. Not since we were much younger... I'm not sure when. But right now, she was definitely under the influence.
"Merope, Merope, Merope! Time for an upgrade! You need to toss that ugly old bag you inherited! Time for a new one!"
She pushed the plates aside and dropped the tiny backpack on the table.
"It's so little," I objected. She waved her hand dismissively, and turned my bag upside down, shaking it, spilling the contents onto the table. My keys, of course, fell out first, landing with a clanking bang! My fancy pen tumbled down with a clunk, while the lipstick and cheap ballpoints I'd collected rattled and clattered as they landed. My wallet and the envelope full of money dropped with a thud. Cleo glanced inside and shook harder. The little pack of tissues, the tampon, the santitary pad were the last to emerge.
Still Cleo insisted, after looking inside once again. She pressed the bag's bottom corners together and gave one final shake.
I was about to tell her to stop — not knowing she was at the end of her efforts — when, to my astonishment, a USB drive appeared and bounced twice across the table.
"What the hell is that?" Cleo demanded. "It looks like an electronic circuit."
"It's a USB drive," I told her.
"No, a USB drive is bigger," she countered.
"This is just the basic element," I informed her. "See, this is where it plugs into the computer. Most of what you see in a normal drive is packaging. This is the essential item. Where was it?"
"I don't know. It's so little, it was probably jammed under a hem or a fold of cloth or something. Admit it, you didn't really look."
"I did," I insisted. "So did Rowan."
"Are you sure it's a USB drive? It looks like electronic junk or a broken-off piece of something."
"Yes, I'm absolutely sure."
"Well, let's plug it in and see what's on it!"
"That's not a good idea," I cautioned. "We have no idea what's on it. It could have a virus or a trojan horse. We'd have to look at it on a air-gapped computer with—"
"Oh, screw that," she responded. "Mukti, go get my laptop—"
"I know where it is," he replied helpfully, and scurried off.
I knew I should discourage them from plugging in the unknown drive, but then I thought, Fuck it! If they don't care, why should I? It was irresponsible of me, I know, in my defense, I had been drinking.
We plugged it into her laptop. It contained three folders: DOCUMENTATION, CODE, SPECS. I looked into the code. It was some kind of embedded control system, but everything was so low-level, I couldn't get the big picture of what it was meant to do. Next I checked the specifications. They were diagrams for building a physical device.
"What is it?" Mukti asked. "I have no idea what we're looking at."
"Looks like industrial espionage," Cleo opined, slurring her words. I'm not sure whether she was joking, but I said, "That's what I'm thinking as well."
The outer shell of the device was a smooth metal cylinder: about three inches long and about an inch in diameter. In my mind's eye I replayed my encounter with the Switcher, seeing him once again (in my memory) lifting those cylinders from Merope's bag and dropping them into Anson's coat pockets.
"It's something like a battery," I read. "I'm not sure what this is. But I'm guessing this is what the Switcher came to town to steal."
"How boring," Cleo complained. "He came to town to steal something boring!" She kept playing with Merope's bag as she sat there. "Oh, I'm sorry, I'm sure it's dreadfully important." And she laughed. Her fingers played over the bag.
"Hey, what's this?" she asked herself, as she roughly pulled the bag inside out. She wagged her finger at me and said, "You didn't check for hidden pockets, did you."
"I did," I replied. Then, returning to the diagrams on the computer screen, I told them, "This is important. I think I need to call the FBI."
"Okay, fine," Cleo agreed. "But I'm sure they're sleeping now. You can call them in the morning. Look at this." With her fingers, she traced the outline of something flat, underneath the bag's lining. It looked to be about 3x5. "Look here," she repeated. "This side of the lining isn't sewn at the bottom. At least not all the way across." She worked the rectangle down toward the bottom of bag until a corner emerged. She grabbed it and yanked it all the way out. She gave it a quick once-over, front and back.
"Look, look!" she cried, almost cooing. "How cute! How absolutely darling! Look, Merope, this is you, when you were eight years old!"
It was a photograph of a young girl, kneeling on the ground, her left arm hugging a German Shepherd. On the back was written "Hal 2001" in blue ink. I scratched my nose. "Does she really look like me?"
"Oh, yeah," Mukti agreed. "That's you. Same face, same you. Yep."
Cleo exclaimed, "That's you! That's you, alright. And your doggie! What a cute little girl you were!"
I scoffed, but her teasing made me smile. "Hal... 2001... kind of weird joke to write there."
"Why is that a joke? The dog is Hal, and the picture was taken in 2001."
I shrugged and hemmed and hawed. I didn't really want to explain. If she didn't get it, the explanation wouldn't help.
"I better hit the hay," Mukti said. "I can clean up in the morning. Night, all."
"Night, Mukti. Thank you."
"My pleasure."
Once he was gone, up the stairs, Cleo's hilarity came down a few notches until she was calm. "I better get to bed, too. I need to work in the morning." She looked me over and said, "I'll get you some pajamas. Are you okay with sleeping on the couch? I mean, there's room in my bed, but it would be way too weird for me. Way way too weird."
"Yeah, I'm fine on the couch."
"Thanks."
She gave me a bath towel, a change of underwear, and a matching pair of cotton shorts and t-shirt. Then after a quick look in her closet, she pulled out a black dress with white polka dots. "You can wear this tomorrow. You don't have to give it back."
Cleo grabbed some bedclothes and helped me carry everything into the living room. She threw a sheet over the couch and tucked it in. She wrestled a pillow into a pillowcase, then spread a soft blanket over everything. She took the clothes and towel out of my hands and dropped them onto an armchair.
"Okay, I think you're all set," she told me, and gave me a sloppy, wet, drunken kiss, right on the mouth. I'm 100% sure it was just the wine kissing me.
"You're a lot nicer to me, now that I'm a woman, than you ever were when I was a man."
"Umm," she agreed, nodding heavily. "We were stuck," she said, "like two gears that are supposed to work together, but instead they got locked in place. Rusted, maybe. Frozen. Neither one of us could move or change. Now, the whole schema is broken — exploderated. Our patterns... have been diss-patterned. Oh, God, I'm so drunk."
"It's fine," I told her. "Just drink a lot of water before you go to bed. It will help."
"Oh, I have to work tomorrow!" Cloe lamented, to the air.
She turned, walked out of the room, and up the stairs.
[ Melanie Brown’s Switcher Universe ]
by Iolanthe Portmanteaux
Over the years I spent married to Cleo, I became familiar with her repertoire of morning sounds, especially her kitchen sounds. On the weekend, for example, the pace of her activity was slower, calmer, less focused. She might open the refrigerator or a cabinet three times, rather than once... but slowly, with a casual air.
Of course, if she was in a hurry, it all became staccato. Sharp, crisp. Quick impacts: bap! snap! clink!
Her easiest set-piece to identify came when she was angry: there was no mistaking the deliberate, outwardly-focused slams of the drawers and doors, the throwing down of plates and cutlery, building up to the climax of the front door closing with a boom! that echoed through the house... followed by the distant epilog of her driving off in a huff.
Of course, there were many peaceful mornings. There were sets of widely-spaced, almost-inaudible sounds that told me, I'm trying to not wake you. It was like a caress that could nearly reach me in my dreams.
My favorite of all was the one I heard this morning: A very particular set of quiet sounds that an untrained ear would not distinguish from the trying-to-not-wake-you set: the whole performance was restrained. The drawers gently rolled closed. The cabinets shut with the lightest touch. Plates and cutlery landed cushioned by placemats, never on the hard counter or table.
What was the difference? When Cleo tried to not wake me, the sounds came farther apart, as if from far away. This other set was more continuous: one whisper followed the next.
When she tried not to wake me, I'd find myself asking whether I heard sounds in the kitchen, as if I could have been mistaken.
In this alternative version, by its continuity, composed the light, muffled sounds into a call... to me. It was her way of saying that she was there; that she didn't want to *abruptly* wake me, and yet she wanted me to come share breakfast.
I padded on bare feet into a room full of sunlight and the smell of fresh coffee.
"Morning," she said. Her eyes looked me up and down. "Dear God!" she exclaimed, with a slight smile. "I had to be drunk to give you that top last night — I can see your nipples through the cloth!"
Startled, I looked down at my chest and told her, "I'll go change right now."
"No, no," she said. "It's fine. I have to leave in two minutes, and, uh, he won't be down for another half hour. Eat some breakfast. Take a shower first. I wanted to see you before I left for the office."
She took a bite of toast and pointed at the percolator. I nodded and poured myself a cup. I've never liked drinking coffee on an empty stomach — or at least, I never had as Anson. As Merope I didn't seem to mind. But — force of habit — I dropped two slices of bread into the toaster and leaned my butt against the counter so I could face Cleo.
"I'm glad I came back last night," I offered.
"Yeah," she said, not looking at me. "Let's see where we go from here."
I sipped some coffee. She sipped some coffee. Cleo gazed at the table: not hostile, not awkward, not closing me out. At the same time, not open, not friendly, not laughing as she had last night. Now, sober, she was, what? Cautious, maybe — not throwing open the doors after whatever it was we passed through as a couple. You could say that in a moment we'd magically transmuted from a pair on the verge of a break up, to — to what? To a pair of women backing away from a cliff we'd nearly gone over?
Tentatively, I tossed out a thought: "Mukti seems like a nice guy. A good person."
"Yeah," she acknowledged. "Let's hope he can be a good housemate. He seems honest. Let's hope he's as guileless as she seems. It'll be good to not live alone in this great big house." It took her a couple of beats before the thought occurred to her: "Do *you* have a place to stay? I mean, if you're stuck with nowhere to go." She made a vague gesture at the house that surrounded her; a half-hearted offer of a place to land. At the same time she gave me a look that I understood to mean (1) that her offer was real; that I truly could stay if I needed refuge, and (2) that she sincerely hoped I wouldn't.
"I'm staying with Femke for a while," I assured her. "She has an extra room. But as soon as I have a job, I'll get a place of my own."
"Job?" she echoed. "It sounds like you have something definite in mind."
"Yeah," I confessed. "I'm going to try to go back to my old job, the job I just left."
"Really!" she exclaimed.
"Yes. Mukti's coming with me tomorrow, to help convince them that I'm Anson on the inside."
"You could get a t-shirt with that, blazoned on the front: ANSON ON THE INSIDE," she joked, gesturing at her chest as if the words were written there.
"I'm pretty sure they need me," I said. "Not that I really want to do that work anymore, with those people in that place, but least it will give me a toehold. You know, it's easier to get a job when you have a job. While I'm there, I can train in some newer programming language, and find something different."
"Finally leaving your Cobol behind," she mused.
"Yeah."
"Good plan," she acknowledged. "I guess Mukti's going to go back to teaching yoga, giving massages..." she chuckled. "At your age! At his age. You know what I mean."
"He told me he wants to do a blog," I said, "of his progress post-switch."
"Yeah," she acknowledged, glancing at her watch and suddenly hurrying. "He wants to pull me into it. I'm not so keen. Although I think he might find it easier doing a podcast about his transformations." She gathered her belongings. "I've gotta go. Listen, don't leave without seeing Mukti. He's got a surprise for you." She smiled as though the surprise was something on the level of a drawing a child might present to their parents.
She gave me a quick peck on the cheek by way of goodbye, and — her hand still lightly resting on my forearm — she froze for a moment, remembering.
"Oh, listen," she said, taking a half-step back. She raised her hand, palm out, and I found myself admiring her manicure. "Just so we don't create any confusion, that kiss last night — it wasn't for you. Don't make too much of it. For one thing, I'm not into women, and in any case, in my mind in that moment, I was sending it back in time to Anson. To the Anson I fell in love with, a long time ago." She gave a funny, wistful, twisted smile.
I shrugged and said, "Don't worry about it. And thanks." I smiled.
"Don't forget — make sure you see Mukti before you leave. He'll be very disappointed if you're gone when he comes down."
"Is he awake?"
"Oh, yes. He's doing yoga and such. I stuck my head in, to exchange a few words. He'll be down soon, I'm sure."
With that, she was gone.
After my shower, I took note of the brand of shampoo and conditioner Cleo used. It seemed to have a good effect on my hair, leaving it soft, clean, manageable. I liked the scent, too, of the tea-tree oil. It made my scalp tingle.
I studied my face in the mirror. Did I really need makeup? Maybe if I never wore it, I could get away without it. Unfortunately, having seen my face with some makeup, I seemed washed out and tired with no makeup. Still, I didn't have any, so the question was moot in the moment. I would have to take care of that before my job interview tomorrow.
The dress Cleo gave me was a little loose in the bust and a little high on my thigh, but otherwise it fit well. I might consider wearing it tomorrow, to my job interview, if I could call it that.
So! After folding my bedclothes into a neat pile, I returned to the kitchen and poured myself a second cup of coffee. I poked around in the fridge and kitchen cabinets, but the only thing that called out to me were some crackers. They turned out to be slightly stale, so I stuck them back in the cabinet.
I was halfway through my coffee and beginning to feel impatient to leave, when Mukti thumped downstairs and said hello.
Not Namaste, I noted. Just Hello. A point in his favor.
"Hey, how's the ankle?" I asked, by way of greeting. "And all the rest?" I gestured at myself, meaning all his bumps and bruises.
"Oh, everything's healing up. It's work, you know, and time." He opened a cabinet and extracted a can of a chickory-based coffee substitute, which he offered and I declined. "Honestly, the hardest part is writing about it. It's tedious, describing something that changes so little, one day to the next."
"Cleo suggested you might be better off doing a podcast," I offered.
"Yeah," he acknowledged. "I don't know how comfortable I am... we'll see."
"Maybe you just need a sidekick, you know? Someone with a sympathetic, interested ear. Someone to act as your soundboard. The way Johnny Carson had Ed MacMahon."
"A bit before my time, but I get the point," he acknowledged. "What about you?"
"What about me?"
"You could be the sidekick, right? You're sympathetic, interested..." He tilted his head and shrugged, meaning that the conclusion was obvious.
"No," I told him. "I don't want to advertise the fact that I was switched. I'll tell anyone who needs to know, but I don't want the world to know. Especially about my changing from man to woman."
"Okay," he acknowledged, regretfully.
"Someone will turn up," I assured him. "And it doesn't have to be a permanent position, you know. You could bring in different people. People you're interested in talking to."
He nodded, shrugged. Clearly he was considering it, but wasn't completely convinced. i guessed he'd hoped for a simple solution in either me or Cleo, but neither of us were willing.
In any case, as I noted yesterday and noted once again as he moved around the kitchen, Mukti's posture, his bearing, his movements, were much finer and more graceful than mine were, when I lived in that body. Each time I looked at him I sat up a little straighter.
"I don't know whether I mentioned this," he told me, "but you ought to consider taking up yoga. You're young; it will help you stay young, and when you age, it will help you age gracefully."
"I'll think about it."
"And, uh..." he walked around the kitchen island and stood behind my chair. "If you don't mind, I see all this tension in your shoulders." He rested his hands heavily on my shoulders, pushing down.
"I didn't realize I was so tense," I admitted, though I was uncomfortable with his touching me — with his assuming it was fine to touch me.
"This is going to hurt a bit," he said, as he abruptly gripped the flesh between my shoulders and neck with his thumbs and forefingers. He squeezed so hard that I saw a flash of light inside my eyes, and involuntarily I shouted the worst swear word I know.
He let go immediately.
To my astonishment, my shoulders relaxed and eased into a more natural position, like water flowing downward. Clearly, I'd been very tense, and that tension had me squeezing my shoulders up towards my ears.
"Sorry," he said. "I'm can see I'm much more touchy-feely than you." I felt that his sorry was more performative than sincere.
"Uh, well, it feels good now," I admitted, rolling my shoulders and shifting from side to side, "So... thanks for that, but next time could you ask me first?"
He nodded with something like magnanimity, which irritated me more than a little. Even so, he clearly meant well. And I didn't want to offend him, seeing as I wanted his help tomorrow, winning my job back.
"I really ought to get going," I told him. "I've got to get Merope's phone and start digging into her life."
He nodded.
I picked up my new bag — the tiny backpack Cleo gave me. It triggered a sudden flashback to yesterday, when the USB drive came bouncing out of Merope's old bag. I asked, "Mukti — can I use your phone? I want to call the FBI about the USB drive we found."
"Ohhh," he replied, rolling the sounds out slowly, pulling his head back a little. "Normally I'd say sure, but uh — I don't know that it's such a great idea, you know?" He gave me a cautious look. "If you call the FBI from my phone, they're going to call back on my phone, right? And what am I going to tell them? I can't even give them your phone number, because you don't have one."
"Okay, good point," I conceded, but it put another thought in my head. "Still — could I look at your phone for a minute or two, so I can copy some phone numbers? I'll just grab a piece of paper..."
For the first time, I used Merope's cool, expensive pen. It was surprising, how different writing could feel! I never would have thought that such a small thing could make much of a difference, but the pen felt remarkably good in my hand. It was perfectly balanced. It sat in my hand as if it belonged there, and made writing a breeze.
I scrolled through my old contacts, copying names, numbers, and some addresses onto paper.
"There's probably a way I could just send all your contacts to you at once," Mukti mused. "But then again, you'd need to have a number, a phone of your own."
When I finished, I folded the paper in quarters and dropped it and Merope's pen into my bag.
"Are we still on for tomorrow morning?" I asked him.
"Absolutely," he nodded. "What time?"
"Could I pick you up at nine?"
"That'll be fine. How do you want me to dress?"
I considered for a moment. "Be comfortable. Be yourself."
He smiled. "I can do that," he replied with a little laugh.
I got up to leave. Mukti remained seated at the table, smiling, perfectly content. I didn't think there was a way I could politely remind him about the "surprise" Cleo mentioned. Whatever it was, it could wait until tomorrow...
He walked me to the door, when suddenly a light seemed to go on in his head.
"I almost forgot!" he exclaimed. "It was bothering me all yesterday, since our walk! I caught Cleo last night when she came upstairs..."
From his pocket he drew a check, folded in half. "This is for you. Please take it. It's from Cleo and me. And don't worry — I know she was a little... inebriated last night, but I asked her again this morning, and she's good with it. In fact, she signed it this morning. I can't sign checks yet... I guess I'll to practice your signature, you know?"
"Uh, no, you don't," I informed him, holding the folded check in my hand. "You can go down to the bank and give them a new signature card, once you have a signature you like. I guess you could do it after you've changed your name — that would be the perfect excuse."
"Ah! Good point! I didn't know I could do that!"
"Yeah."
"Please take it," he insisted — because I hadn't yet opened it.
"I don't want it or need it," I told him. "Please."
"Okay, listen," he said. "Don't take it as money. Take it as an expression of friendship and goodwill. If you don't take it, I'll understand that you don't want... friendship and goodwill."
I groaned softly in acquiescence. "Okay," I said, opening it out. It was a check to Merope Goddard for $5000, signed by Cleo Charpont. "That's really generous," I told him, my eyebrows bouncing in surprise. "Thanks. And thank Cleo for me."
"No problem," he replied, beaming. "See you tomorrow!"
Friendship and goodwill.
I knew what $5000 would mean to Cleo. She could afford it, especially considering that Mukti was passively receiving income, but only as a one-time thing. It was a lot of money. It was $5000 she couldn't spend elsewhere.
I felt fairly certain that Cleo chose the number: Higher than that, and I'd have refused it. Lower than that, I might have felt snubbed.
Now I had the question of how to turn that friendship and goodwill into money. With Stan's USB, I should be able to find Merope's bank account. I tensed a little at that idea. It wasn't my money, after all. Probably better to open a bank account of my own, and use this check as the initial deposit.
For that, though, I'd need Merope's social security number and a mailing address. I didn't know how long I could rely on Femke's charity... so as a temporary measure, it seemed prudent to rent a box at one of the mailbox stores. That would be better than a post-office box; it would give me a street address to send things to. A lot of businesses won't accept a post-office box as a permament address.
For that, my drivers license ought to be enough. That, and my credit card.
Another sigh: what was the state of Merope's credit? Once I had her phone, I could call the customer service number on her Visa card... once I had her phone.
I stood next to my car, thinking. My obvious next step was to get to Femke's, where I could dig through Stan's USB drive. I didn't need to do any serious digging. At a minimum, once I had her social security number, phone number and carrier, I could make some moves.
I'd also need her social security number to get hired, I reflected. I could find that on her tax returns.
Where to park, though? The garage where Femke parks is pretty expensive — because of the neighborhood. She probably has a monthly contract. An expensive monthly contract.
There were some streets on the outskirts of Teteree where, if I was lucky, I could park without paying. I decided to head there and walk to Femke's house.
As I unlocked my car, my eye was caught by a flash of light. It was the sun glinting off a small, clear plastic bag in the backseat. I opened the rear door and saw that the bag was left for me by the detailers. It contained the items they collected while cleaning my car's interior. Resting my right knee on the back seat, I reached over for the bag, and (by mistake) picked it up by the bottom seam, spilling most of the contents onto the floor.
What remained in the bag was a parking ticket, in its bright orange envelope, and a small notecard, in a small, elegant envelope — the kind you'd use for a wedding invitation or something like.
I bent further, scrabbling for the handful of small items that I'd spilled. It was mostly coins, small change, amounting to 57 cents, as it turned out. There was also two rings and three unmatched earrings. None of them looked costly. There were also eight metal items, tokens, that I knew right away: a thimble, a boot, a Scottie dog, a car, a battleship, a top hat, and a flat iron. They were old Monopoly player tokens. I laughed as I recognized them — a blast from the past. I fumbled a little, gathering them, shifting and stretching awkwardly. After I restored the items to the plastic bag, I felt around under the seat, but there was nothing more to be found.
My pose during all of this was far from dignified. I had one knee resting in the car, on the back seat. My left leg was extended in a straight line, my toes pointing, but not quite touching the ground. My butt was pretty much sticking up in the air.
Suddenly, I felt a warm, wet tongue give a quick lick to my right ankle. I yelped and scrambled my way out of the car, clutching the plastic bag.
"Hey, sorry about that!" said a young male voice. "I tried to stop her, but you know... dogs..." as if the word dogs explained everything.
I became aware of three things at once: the dog, my dress, and the boy next door. The first thing was the dog — because of course, there was a dog: who else would have licked my ankle? Naturally, it was a small and disarmingly cute dog. It had a friendly face that seemed to be smiling. I know nothing about canine breeds, but somehow i knew this one: "Is she a Pomeranian?" I asked, sounding very stupid to myself.
In the same moments that I took in the dog, I also could feel how far my dress had crept up my body. I couldn't help but look down at myself. The hem hadn't risen high enough to make my underwear visible, but it was dangerously close. I had no idea what sort of show I'd put on in back, while my butt was in the air. Rowan's comments about my "bee-hind" echoed in my head, making me blush more than necessary.
Lastly, there was the young man, literally the boy next door. I knew him. His name was Wayne. He was in his early twenties. He stood at six-something. I had to tilt my head back to look him in the face. He was trying to build a business as a personal trainer, and definitely looked the part. I remembered a recent night at his parents' house, where Wayne told us that he "specialized in handstands." His musculature wasn't exaggerated, like a weight lifter, he was lithe, with long, smooth muscles: strong arms and legs, well-developed shoulders and chest, and a flat, powerful midsection.
The encounter hit me so unexpectedly, that my reactions exploded out of my surprise. I was aware of the dog's having licked me — I felt the wet spot on my ankle — and at the same time, a stirring inside me. I took in Wayne's appearance all at once: I didn't need to look him up and down to see it all. He was barefoot, and even his feet looked fit and strong. He wore a pair of red shorts and a dark blue tank top. My eyes rested on his shoulders for a moment longer than they should have.
"I'm Wayne," he said. "Sorry about my dog. I guess she found your ankle irresistable."
"Oh, God," I laughed. It was such a corny line! And yet, I felt a warm sensation radiating from my thighs to my shoulders. "I'm, uh, Merope."
He watched, unembarrassed, unabashed, as I tugged my dress down, pulling it into place.
"Are you friends with Mr and Mrs Charpont?" he asked, gesturing to my old house. "I live next door" — now gesturing to the house on the left. I knew that; As I said, I was acquainted with his parents. I'd seen Wayne grow up.
"Well, friends," I echoed, with a laugh. I looked him in the face. Should I tell him?
Probably it didn't matter. I mean, what were the chances that I'd ever see him again? And yet there was a definite response in me, a glow, a yearning. I felt it in my core. His maleness... his body... his youth... I wanted it. Even if I couldn't have it, I wanted it. Was it crazy of me?
It occurred to me that in every rom-com — in every romantic comedy — there is a moment when one of the characters should tell the truth about something. They ought to tell the truth, but for some idiotic reason they don't. Later on, that lie or omission — call it what you will — comes back to bite them in the ass. And it bites them hard. It takes the entire second half of the movie to set things right again.
"Wayne," I told him, "I know who you are. I used to live in that house" — here I gestured to my own. Wayne gave a puzzled look. "Did you know that Anson, Mr Charpont, was recently a victim of the Switcher?"
Wayne's eyes twinkled. "No, I hadn't heard that."
"Well, he was. And so was I."
Wayne smiled and shrugged. I don't think he believed me. I don't think he believed me at all. His smile twitched. He expected a punch line, and was ready to laugh.
"Wayne, what I'm trying to tell you, is that on the inside, I'm Anson Charpont."
He burst into laughter. "Oh, yeah?" he said. "And I'm — I'm Winston Churchill!" He laughed some more. "What about Mrs Charpont? Did she get switched, too?"
"No. She's still the person she's always been."
"Hmmph," he grunted, as if disappointed, as if everyone switching would have made a better story.
"I'm serious," I told him. "You'll see. Mr Charpont is going to start calling himself 'Mukti' and he'll be teaching yoga—"
"Mukti?" Wayne repeated, incredulous. "Like the jungle boy?"
"No," I answered, scowling. "That's Mowgli. Anway..."
"So," Wayne interrupted, playfully. "If I touch you, will I get switched as well?"
"No, it doesn't work that way."
"Are you sure?"
He reached out slowly with his index finger, grinning, and pushed gently against my shoulder. I felt a rush of energy flow through me; a kind of release. Dear God. I hoped I hadn't wet my pants.
"Nothing happened," he pointed out. How wrong he was!
He stood there, looking at me. His little dog stood patiently nearby, tongue out, panting. My feeling, in that moment, was that he wanted to connect... he wanted to pick me up. I wanted it, too. If he stayed there, if he stood there, I would have stood there, too, like an idiot all day long.
"So, explain this to me," he said. "You got switched, because the Switcher touched you, right? But if *I* touch you... even if I touch you all over, I won't switch?"
"No," I breathed.
"What kind of sense does that make?" he asked, still grinning.
"I don't know," I replied. "But think about vampires: some people get bit and they die, while others get bit and turn into vampires themselves."
"Yeah, I always wondered about that," he said. "I guess there's always a part that's never very well explained."
The fact that I'd just repeated Laura's inane example embarrassed me. It brought me back down to earth. I sighed heavily and said, "Wayne, I have to go."
"Maybe I'll see you," he replied, his eyebrows raised rakishly.
"Maybe. Probably."
I fumbled opening the door, and clumsily climbed inside. I had business that needed doing, and here I was drooling over the boy next door. How far had I fallen?
I felt like a jackass, but I couldn't help it. The impression of his body, of his masculinity, was imprinted on my consciousness, the way a song gets stuck in your head. This was far worse than a repetitive melody, though. It was a feeling that dominated my entire body.
The famous phrase from Bridgerton came to mind: "I burn for you." When I first heard it, I found it silly and melodramatic. Now, like a fool, I was living it.
In spite of all that happened so far today, it was only 9:30 when I got back to Femke's apartment. She wasn't there.
I grabbed my notepad and Merope's pen. I fired up my laptop and plugged in Stan's USB drive. The file explorer window popped open, and my heart sank. There were hundreds of files. None of them were labeled except "birth-certificate.pdf". All the others were sequential, meaningless strings. I opened the birth certificate and jotted down my birthday. And my parents' names. That gave me pause. I'd have to dig into that later.
I copied the files to my laptop; it would be faster and easier to work with them there. Then I'd have the USB drive for backup.
The names of all the other files came in the format MGUSBxxx.pdf, where xxx was a sequential number, starting at 001.
The first one I opened was Merope's 2022 tax return. I jotted down her social security number and forced myself to move on. I closed the file, renamed it 2022-tax-return.pdf and put it in a folder named TAXES.
The first two dozen files were tax returns. I renamed each one and moved them
The next dozen were bank statements from the past year. I started skipping around, opening files more or less at random. I found utility bills, medical bills, old apartment rental contracts, credit card statements...
I was sorely tempted to dig into each and every document, but there simply wasn't time. I needed to find her phone. So I pushed on, renaming files, sorting them, moving on.
It was tedious work, but at long last I hit a phone bill from three months ago. Her carrier had a store at the edge of Teteree, so I closed my computer, grabbed my notes, and took off.
It was a bit of a sweaty walk. On the way, I happened upon a "Mailboxes" store and got myself a mailing address.
When I got to the phone store, I found it was manned by teenagers, but for all their casual airs, they seemed to know what they were doing. The one who helped me was an incredibly skinny girl dressed in tight black clothes. She had two piercings in her nose and a thick blue streak in her hair on one side.
As it turned out, my drivers license wasn't enough to justify myself to her. I also had to pay off the balance due (it was for one month), and I had to give her the passcode to my account.
"The passcode is the same code you use to unlock your phone," she explained when I hesitated.
"And what is it?" I asked her.
She gave me her doubtful look and repeated slowly, as if I were hard of hearing. "It's the code you punch in to unlock your phone."
"I know that," I protested. "It's just that I'm drawing a blank. Can't you tell me what it is?" She shook her head. "Can you reset the phone so I can give it a new code?"
"No," she answered, in a categorical tone. She leaned forward and in a low voice told me, "I can give you your hint, though, if you like. It's good doggie." She grinned.
"Good doggie," I repeated. The sensation of the Pomeranian licking my ankle came to mind. My face burned hot. In my mind's eye I pictured the little creature with her white and light brown fur and her tiny tongue hanging out as she panted...
Next up in my mind's eye's slideshow came the photo of eight-year-old Merope and her German Shepherd. Hal 2001 was written on the back. It was worth a try...
I looked at a telephone keypad. HAL was 425. I told her "4252001," which she punched into her terminal.
"We're in!" she declared.
"Whew!" I exclaimed, and the girl laughed.
She asked me to confirm that my phone was "lost or stolen," and informed me that she was about to suspend service on the existing device. It suddenly occurred to me that if Merope was still using her phone, I'd be cutting her off.
"Wait a minute," I asked. "What happens if I don't cut off service to my old phone?"
The girl looked at me with big eyes, as if doubting my sanity. "You'd be paying for whoever stole or found your phone, and you'd have to get a brand new phone number, because they'd be using yours. You don't want that, do you? You don't want to pay for them, right? You don't even know who they are!"
"No, I guess not," I replied. She rolled her eyes, but in a subtle, almost professional way. Then she walked me through choosing a new plan — which of course involved buying a new phone in installments. She popped in the SIM card and did a bit more setup.
"Now let's get your backup down from the cloud," she said, and a few minutes later Merope's phone was fully restored.
The first thing I did was change the lock code. The only thing that came to mind was Area51 (273251).
From there, I went to the nearest bank and opened an account, depositing the check from Cleo and Mukti.
Now I felt like things were moving.
Back at Femke's, to avoid burnout, I set a Pomodoro timer. I find it useful when I need to do something tedious, or something I *want* to do, but can hardly bring myself to do. Basically, you work for 25 minutes, take a five-minute break, and keep repeating the cycle. Now, for 25 minutes, I processed files from Stan's USB. I opened a file, saw what it was, closed it, renamed it, and moved it into the appropriate folder.
When the timer went off, I logged onto Merope's credit card account online. Now that I had her phone, I could do the "Forgot password" trick that sent a verification request to my phone and let me change the password. Once inside, I changed the mailing address.
Luckily, she'd made a recent payment, and the next one wasn't due for a few weeks.
There weren't any charges since last Friday, the day that I was switched. I assume Merope was switched on Friday as well. So, she didn't appear to be using the card. Even so, after a little hesitation, I reported the card as lost and requested a new one.
That done, I restarted the 25-minute timer and went back to processing files. I realize it might seem obsessive, but until I sorted the entire pile, I wouldn't know what I had.
The next time the timer went off, I got into Merope's bank account. She had $780 there. It made me feel guilty. That, and the thousands I got from her purse had to be all the money she had in the world. How could I feel anything but a thief? Here I was, getting expensive car washes and such. What was Merope doing? Who was Merope now? Was she homeless? Was she hurt?
It occurred to me that Merope's wallet didn't contain a debit card, which meant it was possible, at least theoretically, for Merope to get at the money in her bank account. So I left it as it was.
Then the timer went off again, I got back to slogging my way through the files.
The third time the timer sounded, I'd had enough. I needed a real break. I found a beer in Femke's fridge, and after swallowing a few glugs while standing by the kitchen sink, I remembered the bag of items from the detailers.
I dumped the contents onto my bed. The coins meant nothing — I could just as easily have dug them out of any couch in America. The Monopoly pieces? They tickled my fancy, but I couldn't see them holding any real significance. The parking ticket? I'd have to pay. Getting switched was no excuse. And let me say, parenthetically, that it wasn't any kind of moral sense that impelled me to pay the ticket. It was practical. If you don't pay your parking tickets, eventually your car can be locked up or towed, and a warrant issued for your arrest. I'm sure about both outcomes, because (1) I've seen cars on the street immobilized by a Denver boot, and (2) I remember the satisfaction I felt on hearing of the arrest of a particularly pompous and obnoxious acquaintance. Much to his chagrin and humiliation, he was held overnight, and his car was impounded until he paid all his fines, fees, and interest.
Although, I reflected, I hoped I wouldn't be caught out by the old Merope's transgressions. On the other hand, my cursory dip into her life showed her to be regular and up to date on her financial obligations. The phone bill I had to pay was on the cusp, you might say. I'm sure she would have paid if she had remained Merope for a few more days.
Also, Rowan had assured me that she had no criminal record. I realized that it didn't insure me against unpaid parking tickets, but I could deal with them as they arose.
So... this particular ticket was only $25, anyway. I made a note of the address where the infraction had taken place. It might be a clue to what she was up to before she was switched.
The last item was the best of the bunch. The stationery was elegant, as I said: soft to the touch, substantial. I extracted the card from the envelope, and saw at a glance what it was all about.
It was a love letter to Merope, from someone named Boyce.
[ Melanie Brown’s Switcher Universe ]
by Iolanthe Portmanteaux
Looking at the bottle of beer in my hand, I felt pedestrian. I felt like a lout: holding a bottle of beer in one hand, and the heartfelt expression of this Boyce character in the other.
I hadn't actually read his outpourings yet, but it was clear at a glance that Boyce had bared his heart to my previous...
My previous what? I couldn't call old Merope my previous incarnation. It was the opposite of an incarnation. The Switcher: *he* reincarnated, over and over. The same spirit moved from body to body. His victims, however — we were dispossessed. The old Merope was the previous occupant of my current body. There wasn't a simple, single word for it. Previous occupant might do, but it was unsatisfying.
Anyway... returning to the beer bottle... Now that I knew I was handling a love letter, I wished that I'd poured myself a glass of wine instead. Even so, it was a small bottle of beer, and I was already halfway to the bottom, so I decided to manfully swallow the rest. Once that was done, I could switch to wine, and give the love letter the atmosphere and attention it deserved.
Speaking of atmosphere, Femke did have a half-consumed candle, mounted in an old brass candleholder, sitting on a bookshelf. I took it, found a lighter, poured myself a glass of white wine, and set the three items on a table by the window, along with the love letter.
Then I set to work drinking the rest of the beer.
Weirdly, as easy as the first half went down, the second half seemed denser; more concentrated, more caloric. It felt as though I was shoving a meatball sub down my throat. In spite of the sensation, and what it might do to my waistline, I pushed through. I emptied the bottle, and dropped into the recycling bin under the kitchen sink.
Then — still under the heading of atmosphere, I cleared my laptop and notes off the dining table, and finally sat myself in the chair by the window. I lit the candle, took a small sip of wine, and held Boyce's epistle in my hands.
Femke chose that moment to arrive.
She took in the scene in a glance, and registered a slight frown. After running her eyes over the rest of her apartment, she asked, "Merope, what are you up to?"
"I'm reading a love letter," I replied.
Her eyebrows lifted. "Already? That Javier is a fast worker!"
"What? Javier? No — this is a love letter to Merope."
She made a gesture that said, Of course, that much is obvious! Aloud, she said, "From Javier."
"No. From someone named Boyce." As I spoke, for some reason Wayne came to mind, and my body reacted again, warming internally. I blushed — at least, I blushed inside.
"Who is this Boyce person, and how did you meet him?"
"I haven't met him. He is writing a love letter to the real Merope, the original Merope. The woman who used to live in this body."
Femke shook her head. "It's very early in the day to be drinking wine," she observed. "Have you consumed much of it?"
"No," I answered truthfully. "This is my first glass. I just took my first sip."
"Hmm." In spite of her judgmental observation, she poured herself a glass as well, and sat in the other chair, facing me at an angle. "I'm very confused, Merope. Are you saying that Javier has not written you a love letter?"
"No, he hasn't. Of course he hasn't. No one has written me a love letter."
"Did you spurn him?"
"Spurn him?" I echoed. "Do you mean, did I reject him? No, there's nothing there; there's nothing between us. He's not interested in me, and I'm not interested in him."
Puzzled, Femke scratched above her left eyebrow. "He comes from a very good family, you know. It's something of a mystery, why he ever became a cop, when his brother is a state senator. And there is every indication that he will become a *real* senator in the next election."
"Uh..."
"Also—" Femke continued, speaking a little louder to pre-empt my saying anything, "Also, he has taken an active interest in our adventures up north, in the processing center. I feel assured that he — with the help of his well-placed brother — will make something happen."
"Do you really think that Javier and his brother can overthrow Stan's little empire?"
Femke sighed. "I don't know. Of course, not alone. They will have to find allies. In government agencies and offices and all their bureaucracies, it comes down to who has the strongest lever. Javier's brother is supposedly well-placed, as I said, but does he have the right levers?"
"You make me think of Archimedes: Give me a place to stand, and I shall move the earth."
Femke nodded. She was on the same page. "Archimedes had a shopping list, though. He also needed a lever long enough and a — what is the word? Steunpunt?" She consulted her phone. "Fulcrum? Is that right? Is that a real word?"
"Sure. Fulcrum is a real word. It's the right word."
She cut me off. "Oh, Merope! You've thrown me off track! I was saying that Javier must be taking this interest — not on my behalf, but on yours."
"Oh, please!" I exclaimed, shaking my head and running my hands over my eyes.
"I thought you'd be happy to hear that," she told me, in an innocent tone.
"I'm happy that something might happen up north, to Stan and all his works," I replied. "I'd love to hear that the hammer is coming down on that asshole. On the other hand, I'm quite neutral about Javier, and I think you're wrong about his having any feelings toward me."
She sipped her wine.
"Be that as it may," she told me, sweeping aside the topic with a wave of her hand. "How is this love letter that you're holding? Do you feel that you'd like to connect with this — what is his name? Jongen?"
"Boyce," I corrected. I held up the card. "I feel obliged to point out that this is fancy stationery. See? Good quality paper. His monogram is embossed on the front."
"BRR," Femke read.
"Brrr!" I exclaimed, pretending to shiver. I opened the card and turned it for her to see. "He has nice handwriting," I observed.
"Too many loops and curly things." She waved her hand dismissively. "How can you trust a man who writes with such ornamentation?"
I shrugged. "I wish my handwriting was that... pretty. No, not pretty! Elegant! I don't mean pretty... I mean elegant."
"Let's hear this thing," Femke demanded, gesturing at the card a little impatiently.
I cleared my throat, took a sip of wine, and began to read.
Dear Merope!
I need you to know that my life began today, when you walked into my office. Were you aware of how stunned I was, how profoundly I was struck by how beautiful you are? I must have behaved like a perfect idiot. Did you feel the electricity I felt, when I handed you the Proof of Employability form and our fingers touched?
I attached my pen to this note. I want you to have it. I lent it to you — the first time I've ever let another living soul handle it. I couldn't help it; I wanted you to touch it. It's special to me. I wanted to share that specialness with you. When you handed the pen back to me, your touch was still alive on it. I felt your warmth still there. What an exquisite feeling! I'm giving you the pen to keep, and I hope you can feel my touch on it, the way that I felt yours.
More than giving it — I *surrender* it to you. Try to understand that it's not simply a pen that I put in your hands. I'm giving you my heart as well. And I never want it back. I only want to know it rested, at least for a moment, in your warm, beautiful hands.
I can't wait until I see you again. Tonight. And tomorrow. And forever.
All my best and strongest feelings,
Yours, Boyce
"Is that all?" Femke asked when I paused.
"Isn't that enough? But no, you're right — there is more. There's a postscript on the back: I think I would die, if you were to ignore me. A fool could see, just how much I adore you."
Femke pondered for a moment, her lips moving slightly. She asked me to read the postscript again. Then she grabbed her phone and punched away with her thumbs. After some scrolls and jabs, she laughed. "The Divinyls," she announced. "It's a quote from I Touch Myself." She laughed, then played the song for me.
"I don't know what to say," I told her, as the song played. "I feel guilty... and embarrassed — I've never read anyone's love letters before."
"A good love letter ought to be embarrassing!" Femke declared. "He's done very well there! He risks making a fool of himself to a woman he hardly knows. He lays his heart at her feet, knowing she could set her pretty foot on it."
"He gave her an expensive present, right at the start," I observed. "At least now we know where the pen came from."
Femke shrugged, unimpressed.
She abruptly changed topic. She was done with the love letter. "So, Merope: did you clean your car?"
"Yes, I did! Inside and out! That's how I found this little letter. I also got Merope's phone. I've gotten a lot done! Tomorrow, I'm going to try to get my old job back."
"Oh, yes — your old job. When you left, did you quit abruptly? Did you burn any bridges?"
"No, that's not my style. I simply retired. There are no hard feelings. I'm pretty sure they still need me. I ought to be able to drop right back into my old place."
"Programming cobols," she recalled.
"Pretty much," I acknowledged.
Femke took a thoughtful sip of wine and fixed me with her eye. "Tell me, something. Now that you are the new Merope, when you read that letter, are you feeling... are you pretending... that this Jongen has written to you?"
"Boyce," I corrected, then answered, a little irritated, "Of course not."
"Oh," she gently scoffed. "Do you think you're above all the silly, girlish feelings? There is the song: Everybody Plays The Fool, Sometimes."
"I guess," I admitted. "But not for Javier, and not for Boyce."
We talked about one thing and another. She told me about her visit to court, where Rowan and Javier were called to testify. She was impressed by the seriousness, by the plain decor of the courtroom, by the efficient and clear process, by the lawyers, and above all by the judge. "She admonished people," she recalled, smiling, "She used that word — and the people did exactly as she ordered. She had an officer, she called him bay—, bay-something—"
"Bailiff," I told her. "It's a court officer."
"Yes, I know. We have a similar word in Dutch."
She also enjoyed the precision involved, the level of proof that was obviously demanded, implicitly and explicitly.
However... she was soon bored, especially since Rowan was unable to sit with her. "He was not allowed," she explained, "because he had yet to testify."
I nodded. "Did you eventually see him take the stand?"
"Yes. I was quite proud of him. The defense lawyer grilled him, trying to find fault in every little thing. But Rowan stood up to it well. He didn't lose his temper or say anything foolish."
"That's the main thing in testifying," I commented glibly. "What was the trial about?"
"They didn't say," she told me. "At this point in the trial they were quibbling over details, so it was impossible to guess. It reminded me of the blind men and the elephant, even if I was one of the blind men."
We both finished our wine at about the same time, although I was a few steps ahead of her in terms of alcohol consumption.
"I'd suggest we have dinner, but it's far too early," Femke commented, after consulting her watch. "Do you have anything we could do together?"
"Uh, well, the next thing I should do is call the FBI about those cylinders," I responded. "But that's just a *me* thing, not an *us* thing."
She responded by touching her phone and saying, "FBI office near me."
The phone spoke back: "The nearest FBI office is 23 miles away, in Springfield. Do you want directions?"
"Let me see the phone number," I told her, and punched it into my phone. I put it on speaker so Femke could listen.
A male voice answered: "FBI field office, Springfield."
"Hello," I said. "My name is Merope Goddard, and I want to report some... industrial espionage. Can you help me?"
"I can take a message," he replied. "I'll make sure it gets to the right people here, and they'll get back to you, if they require further information."
"Great," I said. I told him I'd been switched, and how I'd seen the Switcher pocket the four cylinders; then later, how we'd found the USB with plans and programs on it.
He asked me when and where I was switched; when and where I found the USB. He asked whether I'd officially checked in with the Switcher processing center, and when I'd done so.
"The center told me that they'd pass this information through the proper channels," I told him. "So I expect that you already have this information. Except about the USB. That's new."
"I'll pass that along with your message," he responded. "By the way, do you know which company was involved in this... matter?"
"Which company?" I repeated, not getting his meaning.
"Who did the Switcher steal this property from?"
"I don't know," I told him. "I didn't see any company logos or copyright notices or anything like that."
"Okay," he acknowledged. "Is there anything else?"
"No, I think that's everything."
He verified my name and phone number and said someone from the office would be in touch.
After we ended the call, Femke observed, "He didn't sound convinced."
I shrugged. It hardly mattered; all the man had to do was pass the message along.
Femke helped me choose an outfit for my job interview. It was a peach shift dress and a pair of pale beige heels. It was comfortable. Casual, but classy, I thought.
The next morning I begged her to do my makeup one last time, but she refused. After some negotiation, she agreed to supervise while I did my face. Some doubtful looks crossed her face as I worked, but didn't give any real guidance or corrections. She only told me at the end, "You'll get better. Besides, there are only men in this office, am I right?" I nodded, so she said, "I'm sure that no matter how inaccurate your makeup, they will consider you the next Miss America."
Did that mean I'd done it badly? As far as I could see, it was fine.
"As with everything, there are tutorials on YouTube," was the only help she gave me.
At three minutes past nine I pulled up in front of Cleo and Mukti's house. Mukti was nowhere to be seen, but Wayne was there, walking his little dog. As if he hadn't moved since I last saw him, Wayne was wearing the same clothes as the day before, if you could call them clothes: red shorts, dark blue tank top. Again he was shoeless. He walked up next to my car and touched the door handle. His eyes fell on my legs. I immediately checked the hem of my dress. It covered me. Good.
Wayne opened the door. I put my hand on the doorframe, and climbed out. Wayne's face went through some dramatic changes, registering astonishment and unexpected pleasure. It all happened so quickly — too quickly for me to correct my movements. I gave him a clear and unobstructed view of my underwear. Somehow I managed to not blush.
Jumping up, I brushed off my skirt, though there was nothing to brush off other than embarrassment. I tuggled it down in back, even though it was already in place.
I almost apologized, but managed to bite my tongue.
"Hello!" Wayne greeted me, his face full of delight. "You've come back for more."
Right on cue, the little dog trotted up and licked my left ankle.
"Is that the... same ankle as yesterday?" he asked, pointing.
"Yes," I confirmed, pressing my lips tight together.
"I'd love to know what she's going for, down there," Wayne teased.
I shook my head to signify that I had no idea. Out loud I asked, "What's your dog's name?"
"Pom-Pom," he replied. "Kind of obvious. My mother was a cheerleader, long ago. Hard to imagine, but true."
Actually, it wasn't hard to imagine. Far from it. Wayne's mother was young, quite a bit younger than Wayne's father, and she was in great shape. As Anson, I'd admired her, and inevitably had fantasies about her. Of course, to Wayne, she was nothing but "Mom."
"You must have been a cheerleader, too, I'm sure," Wayne offered, giving me a playful nudge.
I hedged a bit, then told him, "Wayne, look. I told you: I was switched. I'm Anson Charpont. I haven't the faintest idea whether the person who used to occupy this body was a cheerleader, but I, as Anson, never was."
"Right," he responded, nodding slowly, still not believing. Then, as if I hadn't spoken, he said, "Listen, I believe that fortune favors the bold. Have you heard that? I'm going bold right now, so get ready. I feel we've got chemistry, right? You feel it. I'm sure you do. I mean, I know this: I like you and I'm pretty certain that you like me. And when I say we like each other, I mean..." Here he made a slow gesture with his hands, palms down, fingers slowly opening, palms slowly turning up. It wasn't a gesture with a real meaning, but I understood what he was trying to show me: it was energy. Energy unfolding. Energy inside each of us, warm, glowing, reaching out to the other. He studied my face as my thoughts flitted across, and he finished by stating, "You know what I mean, don't you."
"Yeah," I admitted in spite of myself, and involuntarily licked my lips. I mean, my tongue popped out and wet my lips. It wasn't as though I did some kind of gross circle with my tongue around the outline of my mouth. Even so, I shocked and embarrassed myself, but I had to admit, Wayne was right: I wanted him. I actually trembled slightly. But only slightly. I don't think he noticed.
"Listen," he continued, glancing up at my old front door. Mukti had just emerged. "There's a place on Olduvai called the Golden Farthing. Do you know it?"
"Uh, it rings a bell."
He gave a sly, sideward grin. "Perhaps you know it as the Golden Farting." He cackled at his own joke.
"Let's hope not," I muttered, feeling suddenly uncomfortable, aware that the ground was shifting.
"What do you say we meet there tonight? Say, 9:30?"
"Nine-thirty?" I repeated. Nine-thirty! It seemed awfully late. I never was a party person.
He took his eyes off me a moment to glance up at Mukti, who had almost reached my car.
"Great!" Wayne enthused. "It's a date!" He turned to lead his dog away and down the street. "Hey there, Mr Charpont!" he called, giving an over-the-shoulder wave. I very nearly waved back, like an idiot. "Mr Charpont," I muttered to myself.
Mukti, for his part, waved magnanimously to Wayne, grinning. To me he said, "Mr Charpont, huh? That'll take some getting used to."
"Tell me about it," I agreed.
"Oh, yes, and you! You'll have to get used to NOT being Mr Charpont, won't you!" he chuckled.
I had meant to use our time in the car to prepare Mukti: to give him the low-down on Leon, my old boss. I wanted Mukti to have a clear sense of who we'd be talking to. I didn't expect to be able to work out anything as exalted as a strategy, but at least we could get on the same page as far as our general approach and work out a couple possible tactics, depending on Leon's reactions.
Unfortunately, after being so thoroughly knocked off balance by Wayne, I hadn't yet recovered my equilibrium. Strategy and tactics were the farthest thing from my mind.
While I struggled to get a grip on my inner turmoil, Mukti took the conversational rudder.
He regaled me with the progress of his podcast, which was "getting underway" and "would soon be full-steam-ahead." He spent virtually all of yesterday calling around his circle of friends — other yoga teachers, students, and spiritual fellow-travelers — to update them on his having been switched. By Mukti's telling, they were uniformly charmed and delighted by the news. Not only was Mukti the first switcher victim of their acquaintance, he was a kindred spirit and happy to share the working out and working through of his experience. To each of his friends and acquaintances he mentioned the idea of a podcast. The idea was enthusiastically received, and as it turned out, a name came up: a friend of a friend, who had experience producing podcasts.
"Her name is Linda... Linda with a complicated last name. I'm embarrassed to say I couldn't grasp it on the fly. But I'll get it. Anyway, I've spoken to her, and she's all in. You see, Linda recently finished a series, and was casting around for a topic. See, she has the experience, the talent, to DO a podcast, but she was lacking the WHAT — the subject — the focus for the podcast to center on."
"Sounds good," I commented, silently kicking myself for getting more-or-less tricked into a date with someone ten years younger than me (physically) and forty years my junior (in life experience)! Even so (as Wayne had pointed out), the attraction was there. Oh God, it was there in spades. I knew I was being foolish, but I couldn't pass it up.
Still, while one part of me was shouting go, go, go! another part of me was analyzing the situation and metaphorically kicking myself for going along. I hadn't become a teenager, after all, so I couldn't blame hormones. Or could I? What did I know, really, about hormones. And then, what about pheromones? Adults can have pheromones; I was pretty sure. Could I blame pheromones? Are pheromones this strong? And if Wayne was blasting pheromones at me, could they possibly affect me at a distance? When he wasn't there? Did they stick on me, or infect me?
The mostly likely answer, though, was that I was overthinking it. That it came down to one simple thing: a strong physical desire. I was young again and I'd met someone whose desire keyed into mine.
Intellectually, I could tell myself that I was acting foolishly, but my body didn't find it a compelling argument.
I mean, it wasn't even a case of "the heart wants what the heart wants." It was the body that wanted what it wants. It was like being hungry or thirsty, or needing to use the restroom. It doesn't matter what your heart or head have to say in the matter. The body wins out.
Even if I *could* stop myself — and I wasn't sure I could — but even if I *could* stop myself, I knew I there was no way that I would. I knew I'd be at the Golden Farthing tonight. I'd probably get there early, in my shortest dress and my highest heels.
Dear God.
The worst part was that — as I said — I could feel the attraction, the burning, even when Wayne wasn't there. It consumed me. As Mukti and I got out of my car and walked across the parking lot toward my old office building, it was there: Wayne's presence... his influence... my almost palpable attraction for him. I could feel it, like a blanket, over my whole body. It made me clumsy and self-conscious. I almost tripped, stepping over the curb, feeling the effect of his touch, of his grin, of his little dog licking my ankle.
What was up with that, anyway? What it simply that the Pomeranian couldn't reach any higher?
Inside, in my head space, it was there. Like the boom-boom-boom of massive loudspeakers at a concert. It drownd out everything else. It was like swimming in the ocean. I had to make an effort to stick my head up and out of the water, if I wanted to think about anything else.
Mukti followed me into the building, into the elevator. Having gone this route every workday for decades, I moved on autopilot. We made our way down the hall, my steps progressively slowing as we grew nearer to the door. Once we reached it, I stopped dead and rested my hand on the doorknob. Mukti glanced at me, smiling patiently, benevolently. If I stood still, he stood still. If I moved, he moved, ready to go where I went, to follow and second anything I said or did.
"Mukti," I told him in an undertone — not wanting to be heard by anyone within — "if anyone tries to do more than greet you, if anyone tries to start a conversation or ask you questions, tell them to give you a moment, okay? Tell them you need to talk to Leon first, all right? I don't want to get bogged down. If we're not careful, we'll end giving the same explanation many times over. We'll lose control of the situation. It's best if we get to Leon first."
"Got it," he acknowledged.
"Leon's office is at the far end. We'll breeze through the code floor, get into Leon's office, close the door, and convince him."
"The code floor?"
"Yeah. That's what Leon calls it. It's just... where everybody works. That's all. It's just a group of desks. If I'm lucky, my desk will still be empty."
"Great."
"Okay, here we go." I took a breath, then paused again. "One more thing," I cautioned, sotto voce. "Leon is a nice guy, but he's very rigid. Very rules-oriented. Even though we're asking him to bend the rules, or ignore the rules — or maybe we're saying there are no rules that govern this — we can't actually say those words. He has to be able to pretend that everything he's doing is normal, usual, justifiable; everything on the up-and-up."
Mukti nodded. "Got it."
I opened the door and stepped briskly inside. Mukti followed, and closed the door behind him. He noisily fumbled with the knob, trying three times to make the door stay shut. This gave everyone at their desks a chance to give the pair of us a good once-over. Five sets of eyes glanced at me, then at Anson, then back to me again. I felt their collective gaze drag over me, from foot to head and aback again, like an X-ray scan.
No subtilty. As Femke had foreseen, they were all men, in an enclave in which women were rarely seen.
A little impatiently I signalled with my head to start walking. Mukti followed, but couldn't resist saying hello to everyone. He had a "Hey there" or a "What's up?" or a handshake for each person we passed. However, he behaved himself: he didn't dally; he didn't dither. He didn't start any conversations. He short-circuited every question by pointing ahead and saying, "Gotta talk to the big man. Later, right?"
Leon stood at the window of his office. He was young, in his mid-thirties. He spent an hour every morning in the gym, and it showed. His posture was perfect. His chest was a bit puffed out, like a rooster's, and his coif was perfect: never a hair out of place. His shirt was perfectly white with nary a winkle. His tie was Tiffany blue and looked as though he'd bought it that morning.
Leon was a static entity. He always looked the same, behaved the same. Only the color of his tie varied. If you asked him a question today, and asked the same question tomorrow, or two weeks from now, or two years from now, Leon would always give the same response.
We used to joke that Leon was the incarnation of a flow-chart. A flow-chart works something like this:
- Are you wearing a hat?
- Yes?
- Are you indoors?
- Yes?
- Take off your hat.
The point is, that if you needed something from Leon, you couldn't appeal to his intuition, to his sense of propriety or justice, or even to his common sense. You wouldn't get any credit for creativity from Leon. You needed to hit the right keys, and only the right keys; If you satisfied the rules in Leon's head, you got the desired outcome.
... which was a problem for me. I'm felt pretty sure that Leon's internal set of rules hadn't been updated to include the Switcher.
Another difficulty was that Leon was the only decision maker. Our company was small. We had no Human Resources department. Leon was the ultimate authority when it came to hiring and firing. Certainly there were powers and authorities above him, but they were distant, nameless, and far away.
Frankly, I didn't have a plan of approach to Leon. It would have been smart to discuss it with Cleo. She understands people — especially quirky people — and probably could have provided some practical advice.
Well... if this foray was unsuccessful, I could try running it by Cleo; see if she could give me a basis for making a second appeal.
At present, I figured Leon's ruleset regarding me ran this way:
- Does Anson want to come back to work?
- Yes?
- Is his old position open?
- Yes?
- Do you need another programmer?
- Yes?
- Hire him back.
My problem was that I needed to insert this equivalence:
- Merope equals Anson
I don't think he had any rules that could help me in that regard.
Regardless: step one was to get into Leon's office and close the door. I'd swept through the code floor: a set of six desks — one of them empty — past five sets of eyes strafing me as I passed. Mukti was close behind, waving, glad-handing, but not slowing down, not stopping.
So far, so good.
Until we hit two wrinkles. The first was that someone was in Leon's office. Someone was sitting in Leon's chair. I didn't see her until virtually the last minute, when she swiveled, turning the back of Leon's chair away, revealing a young woman with blonde hair that fell in waves to her shoulders.
The second wrinkle was Dave: the last coder on the right. He wouldn't let go of Anson's hand, and insisted on trying to engage.
Mukti did his best to protest, to free his hand. He pointed toward Leon's office. It did no good. Dave persisted. He didn't let go.
Impatiently, I turned. I grabbed both their wrists and pulled their hands apart. "We need to talk to Leon," I told Dave in a stern voice. "They'll be time for talking after."
"Jeez!" Dave protested. "Chill out, lady, huh?"
I turned, and Mukti followed me into Leon's office.
In that moment, I recognized the woman. It was Carrie, Leon's wife. She was about the same age as Leon. They met while getting their MBAs, and married soon after. She managed to keep an executive position with an investment firm while taking care of their two children.
I didn't actually know her. We'd met a handful of times, at office parties, or briefly when she brought the kids to visit.
In the present moment, she was a wildcard. I didn't know whether her presence helped me or hurt me. The fact that she was there might pre-empt me entirely. Leon could simply say he couldn't talk right now. He could force me to reschedule and lose the element of surprise.
"Anson?" Leon exclaimed, his eyes fixed on Mukti. "I certainly didn't expect to see you! Are you looking to come back to work?"
Carrie, comfortably ensconced in Leon's chair, oscillated slowly back and forth, and let her gaze play over Mukti and me. She had an interested, sly look — she sensed that a game was afoot.
"Well," Mukti replied, with a glance at me, "that's what we've come to discuss."
"We?" Leon asked, glancing at me. "And, who is this exactly?" He held out his hand to me.
"Merope Goddard," I said, taking his hand. involuntarily, I turned to look at Carrie.
Carrie fixed her eyes on Mukti. "It's good to see you again, Anson," she said with a smile.
"Ah, yes," he replied. "Always a pleasure."
"Look," I told them both, cutting to the chase, "Here's the situation: the two of us have been switched. A few days ago we each encountered the Switcher. Now I'm Anson Charpont, and he's Mukti Endecott."
Carrie, delighted, smiled. Her eyes sparkled. "I knew something was up! It's like Freaky Friday, isn't it?" she laughed.
"Well, yes, I guess it is," I admitted. "Except that I'm not his mother."
Mukti's eyebrows went up. "And we can't switch back," he added.
Carrie laughed. "This is just... precious!"
"Oh no, oh no," Leon said, raising his hand in a stop gesture. "I think I see where this is going." He pointed at me. "You want to work here, and your ploy is saying that you're him." [He pointed to Mukti.]
"He's quick," Mukti observed, in an aside to me.
"It's not a ploy," I protested. "It's a fact."
Carrie pressed her palms together, smiling, nodding, taking in the scene.
"A fact?" Leon echoed. "Can you... *document* this fact? Can you provide me with a... I don't know... a statement, an affidavit from one of those... what do you call them?"
"Processing centers," I offered.
"Exactly. Can they substantiate your claim that you are now... internally at least... Anson Charpont?"
"No," I replied. "They don't do that."
"Hmmph," Leon grunted. We'd already hit a terminal point in his rule logic.
"Look, Leon, I've been dropped into this body, but everything I know about Cobol, programming, compilers, clients — everything! — it's all in here." I tapped my head. "I need a job, and unless something's drastically changed in the past two weeks, you need me."
Leon stiffened and shook his head. "How could I possibly justify hiring you? Do you even have a resume?"
"No."
"Do you see my problem? You have no demonstrable experience, and yet you want a job. I suppose you think you can simply pick up where you left off — same duties, same pay?"
"Well, yes, of course! I'm the same person on the inside."
Leon's face was a mask of distinct discomfort. "I'm afraid it would stink of impropriety. I mean, a person your age, a new hire, earning more than some of the men sitting out there who've been here for... years!"
"Decades, even," I threw in. "Look," I challenged, "I can tell you everything about this business — the work we've done, what's on the roadmap for the year ahead. I can tell you the history of anything here. Give me some work to do, and you know I'll get it done."
Leon twisted and shifted as if in pain. "Yes, but who are you? I mean, look. Let's say I believe you — that you're Anson Charpont—"
"Come on, Leon," I pushed back hard, "You do believe me. You know who I am."
"Okay. Okay. I believe you. I know who you are, inside, let's say. But legally, on paper, how do I demonstrate that? Is there any other govenment entity, on any level, that can give me a piece of paper that I can shake in anyone's face to justify hiring you in your previous position?"
"No. Unfortunately no one will do that."
"Then, I'm sorry. I'm genuinely sorry, Anson. There's nothing I can do. My hands are tied. I could take you on as an intern..."
"An unpaid intern." It wasn't a question.
"To start."
Mukti gestured helplessly. He wanted to offer something, to say something, to give something, but he had nothing to give.
"Leon, try to see this from my point of view. Where else am I going to go? What else am I going to do? Work as a temp? As a typist?"
Leon shrugged apologetically.
"The problem is that I can't justify hiring you."
I searched my brain for another tack, another way to come at him, but drew a blank.
"Okay," I said, "I'm sorry."
"Maybe you could get some kind of training... or certification...," he offered, vaguely.
I straightened up. I was about to turn and go, when Carrie spoke.
"Anson, wait. Leon, what are you doing?" she asked.
"What do you mean, what am I doing?" he replied. "I'm doing what I have to do."
"No," she said. "Let's take a step back and ask ourselves: how many people are in Anson's situation right now? Or — Merope's situation? Mukti's situation? They have skills, they have histories, they have abilities and experience, but no one recognizes it."
"Naturally," he said. "That's the problem. The government could close that gap with a simple document."
"Forget what the government could or would or should do. The question is, what can you do? *You* could be the vanguard," she offered. "You could be the first. Leon, you complain that your company is invisible. That nobody knows you. Nobody knows what you do. Everyone believes that Cobol has had its day." She gestured at me. "Merope has given you a way to change that."
Leon scowled. He took a deep breath, but he didn't speak.
"If you take her back, exactly where she left off, think what that would mean."
He gestured helplessly.
"Think what a story that would be. What do we know about people who've been switched?"
He thought for a moment. "Nothing."
"Exactly! Nobody knows! What do you think happens to them? They go home, they go back to their old lives, and everyone says, I don't know you. Who are you?." She looked at Mukti and me. "Does that sound about right?"
"I think so," I answered. "I met one young girl in particular who is pretty messed up. I don't know whether she'll recover."
"So what are you suggesting I do?" Leon demanded.
"Give Anson her old job back!" Carrie declared.
Leon hesitated, looking at each of us in turn.
Carrie asked me, "Do you have your own social security number? and proof of employability? As Merope?"
"Yes."
"There you go!" she challenged Leon.
Leon groaned and sighed, as if in physical pain.
"Come on, Leon!" she coaxed. "You'll be a hero. Think about that."
He considered it. The muscles in his jaw worked the idea over. He heaved a few deep breaths. He didn't like being the vanguard. He didn't want to be a hero. And yet, he knew that Carrie was right.
"Okay," he acquiesced, grudgingly. "You can start tomorrow. Entry-level salary."
"What?" I exclaimed. "Are you asking me to do entry-level work?"
"Of course not!" he replied. Carrie gave him a cautionary look.
"Okay, okay!" he said. "Tomorrow, at your previous pay rate. Just... don't tell the others."
Carrie nodded, satisfied.
"Leon, you and I will have to talk about the PR aspect of re-hiring her." She looked at me. "Are you okay with that? With being a story? A face and a name people will see on the news?"
"Yes," I agreed. "If that's what it takes."
"We're going to hire a smart publicist," Carrie said to Leon. "Someone who knows how to manage a story like this, and make the most of it."
Leon looked as though he suddenly developed a case of indigestion, but he nodded.
"Good move, dude," Mukti assured him, resting his hand on Leon's shoulder.
Carrie smiled, and turned to Mukti. "Now tell us, what's your story?"
"My name is — or was — Mukti Endecott. I was a thirty-three year old yoga teacher." He turned to look at Leon. His heavy hand still rested on Leon's shoulder. He gave Leon a friendly shake. "I can help you with that knot in your shoulder, if you'll let me."
Leon sighed heavily one last time, and moved a little so Mukti could stand behind him. Turning to me said, "Do you remember the Borrow Borough? That's going to be your account." He made it sound like punishment. (And it was.)
"Looking forward to it," I told him, feeling like soldier assigned to the front.
[ Melanie Brown’s Switcher Universe ]
by Iolanthe Portmanteaux
After Leon gave in to Carrie's revolutionary plan, Mukti dug deep into Leon's soft shoulder flesh until he yelped and — to Leon's profound astonishment — found relief from a pain and tightness he'd nearly grown used to.
Leon's abrupt yelp was enough to bring the entire code floor to its feet in alarm. Dave panicked, knocking on the door rat-a-tat-tat-tat and calling out in a high, frightened voice, "Everything all right in there?"
Leon opened the door a crack, stuck his head into the room, looked each of the men in the face, and reassured Dave (and the rest of the crew) that everything was fine. "I just had a surprise...," he said. "A big surprise." Then, not wanting to get stuck explaining, he added, "I'll tell you all later."
The "later" for the code crew didn't come for a full fifteen minutes, when Carrie finally released us. She laid out a preliminary plan for a public-relations strategy. She talked about managing the media, about interviews and appearances. She was intent on securing promises, on making sure we all found ourselves on the same page, and that we — mainly Leon and myself — were willing to be scrutinized, questioned, and no doubt criticized and even mocked.
"You, too, Mukti," she added. "Since you're the old Anson. You've got something to say as well."
"No doubt," he responded.
Then Carrie asked us for our contacts. "Do you mean our phone numbers?" I asked her, pulling out my phone.
"Well, sure, of course your numbers, but I meant your contact numbers with the Switcher processing people."
Mukti and I frowned, not understanding.
She crossed her arms and tapped her foot impatiently. "I mean, the names, the phone numbers. The ones they gave you."
"Nobody gave us anything," I told her. Mukti said the same.
"At the end of your Switcher processing," Carrie insisted, as if we were holding out on her. "They must have given you someone, some agency... something! someone! to keep in touch with. Someone monitors your progress, right? Somebody checks in on you? To see how you're getting along?"
"No, they don't do that," I informed her. "I was specifically told that not only do they *not* do that, they never did that."
"You must be mistaken," Leon told me. "That makes no sense whatsoever. So what do they do? Take your name and send you home? No way." He and Carrie asked the same question in several different ways, as if Mukti and I didn't understand what they wanted. Eventually they gave up, but they clearly didn't believe us.
"I'm going to find out," Carrie declared. "I'm surprised at the two of you, letting something like that slip! There has to be an information service, or a clearinghouse, or a tracking system."
I didn't bother to comment.
We had a brief hello/goodbye/see-you-tomorrow with the men on the code floor. — It was fun, for as long as Leon allowed it to last. The general reaction was incredulity mixed with welcome. At first, most of them thought it was a practical joke — an idea that didn't last very long. Leon would never be party to anything so frivilous, so not-rule-based, but once the coders began to grill me, asking questions only Anson would know, they were quickly convinced.
Something else that didn't escape their notice was the difference in Mukti's bearing. "His posture is better than yours," Dave commented. "He walks in a... smoother way. He's a lot more relaxed than you were."
Mukti had generally kept his mouth shut while Carrie outlined her PR campaign, but the moment we got in my car and closed the doors, he grabbed my arm and confided, "There's a very obvious next step for the two of us here, dude."
"What next step would that be?"
"The podcast!" he exclaimed. "Are you kidding me? I mean, I never considered THIS aspect of life after switching! This whole question about employability! See, I've always been self-employed: I've had to market myself, find clients, keep clients... and for me, that hasn't changed. But someone who has a full-time job... who can't rely on simply demonstrating what they know... I mean, your world, this world, where your resume is required... where, if you don't tick all the boxes, you don't even exist... It's just..." He shook his head in disbelief. "I mean, wow."
"Yeah," I agreed, in an isn't it obvious? tone. "That's why I wanted you to come with me. There's no objective, documented way for me to prove that I was switched. Especially to someone like Leon. It *is* like trying to land a job without experience, without a resume. I do have a resume, though, I just can't use it."
"Yeah, yeah," he nodded. "Think about all the people who were switched, and then cast out into the world. It's like—" he opened his hands, searching for an image "—it's like a vast shipwreck in a huge, dark ocean. It's so dark that we can just barely see the people floating right next to us, while out there, in the near distance, in the far distance—" he opened his arms to gesture at the entired world "—there are.. how many? Hundreds, thousands of people? Fighting to keep their heads above water." He gaped at me, earntestly struck by the enormity of it. His eyes teared a little. "Think of all that pain! that suffering! And who is helping them? Who, Merope? Who?"
"No one," I said, and turned my head away. The look on his face was loaded with pathos, and I wasn't in the mood to cry. I was too irritated. Even though I'd done what I came to do, all I'd really done was get my old, crappy job back -- and I had to beg for it. Yay, me, right?
At the same time, I knew I had no right to complain. In similar situations, most Switcher victims would be shit out of luck.
Mukti gave my arm a shake. "Dude, you have to help with this podcast. You have to."
"Okay," I agreed. "I will. But can we hold off until Carrie gets her shit underway? I mean, for one thing, I really need this job, and for another, she has the resources to make things happen. Not just for me, but for all Switcher victims, I think."
He gave a doubtful, sideward smile. "We'll try to coordinate," he promised. "But remember — she doesn't own this issue. And I don't want her stealing *my* opportunity to do good."
"I understand," I told him. "It's just, maybe, a matter of timing?"
He looked thoughtful. "Maybe *she* could be our first interview." He thought some more. "I don't know. I have to run it by Linda. I'm sure she'll have ideas on timing, sequence, buildup, payoff. Right! Merope, can you drop me at Linda's house? I need to bring her up to date, hear her reactions... We need to plan, project, manifest." He nodded.
Then he added, "Don't worry. I'll do my best with Carrie. I don't have her number though, do you?"
"Ah... no. I'll get it from Leon tomorrow morning and text it to you, okay?"
After dropping Mukti off, I became aware of a buzzing. It was my phone. My new phone... so not a familiar buzz.
The buzz signified a missed call. I had turned off the ringer while visiting Leon. I didn't want a random call interrupting my interview. I turned it back on now, and listened to the message.
"This is Agent Lassrop with the Springfield FBI office. I got your message about, uh, alleged industrial espionage? Do you think you could drop by our office tomorrow? We'd like to get some more details. Give us a call back, and, uh, hopefully we'll see you tomorrow."
I didn't like the tone of Agent Lassrop's message. He sounded pushy and arrogant. That frat boy Paul from the processing center came to mind.
Even so, I had a civic duty to report what I knew.
However, tomorrow wasn't going to work. Tomorrow is my first day on the job. I wanted to sit in my old chair: take ownership, take possession. Occupy.
I checked the time on my phone: nearly ten after ten. Why not go see the FBI today? It was twenty-something miles, if I remembered correctly.
I called the number back and was told that they'd be happy to see me now.
Twenty-five minutes later I pulled up outside a one-story office building in Springfield. It was on the edge of town, with grass and trees all around. The facade wasn't very wide, but the building ran deep.
There was no shade whatsoever in the parking lot, so I parked close to the entrance. The sun came in at an angle, lighting my car's interior. It made me glance at my legs. I was still wearing the peach shift dress, which showed a fair amount of leg. Nothing indecent, of course. Femke helped me choose it, specifically for my interview. Office attire, but not too dressy. If it was good enough for Leon and the crew, it would be fine for the FBI.
However— it did make me realize that I needed to start shaving my legs. I'd pick up the necessaries on the way home. It'd be smart to shave before my date tonight, too, I realized, my face reddening.
Regarding the FBI: I thought that I had no expectations, but as it turned out, I had them, and how! Expectations, I mean. I assumed that an agent would have me tell my story. He'd listen, take notes, ask a few questions, and that would be it. Simple. My civic duty, done. See something, say something.
They had me wait in reception for nearly five minutes. Fine. Not a problem.
They brought me to an interview room. One of the walls was entirely glass, and the whole time I was in there, people passed by. Most of them took a long look at me. I sat there for about three minutes by myself. Again, no problem.
Then, Agent Lassrop entered, accompanied by a female agent, Kirchmeyer. Neither of them gave their first names.
Lassrop brought a pad and pen with him. Kirchmeyer came empty handed. He offered me coffee, water, tea? I declined.
We sat on opposite sides of a very plain table. There was nothing else in the room, except for a large, broad-leafed plant in the corner: nothing on the walls, no furniture other than the table and four chairs. On the table was a microphone, but it wasn't turned on, and they didn't bother to turn it on.
Lassrop took my contact information, and asked me to tell my story. He compared it to the message I'd left — he had a printed transcript of my call.
I tried to be brief. It was a little daunting, the telling, because the two of them simply sat there, poker-faced. They didn't ask questions, take notes, or react in any way.
When I finished, Lassrop scratched his head. "Merope. Unusual name." I shrugged. "Tell me, Merope, if you switched last Friday — it was Friday, right? So that's—" he counted on his fingers "—four days. Why did you wait four days to report this?"
"In all fairness," Kirchmeyer put in, "it's only two business days. And one of those days, well, she was just switched, right? So, there's some shock, confusion, right? We could say it's only one business day."
I immediately twigged the good cop/bad cop routine. Still, I smiled at her response.
"Actually, I reported this on Saturday, at the processing center."
"Ah, right, the processing center. The one up north on I-60?"
"Correct. They said they would 'pass it up the chain'."
"Did you hear that, Kirchmeyer? They told her that they'd pass it up the chain. Do you think that we're up that chain? You and me?" Her eyebrows went up, but she didn't reply.
"They told me they have a special channel for observations like these."
He smiled a smarmy, self-pleased smile. "Hmm. A chain. A channel. Did you hear anything from a chain or a channel, Agent Kirchmeyer? Maybe I forgot to check our chains and channels this morning."
"No. I didn't hear anything," she replied. "Maybe I'm not on that chain."
"Or in that channel." He shrugged.
My indignation rose. I could feel my face turn red. They wanted to mock me, did they? Okay. Maybe it was part of their interrogation technique. A friend who worked in security once told me, If you get a person angry, they're more likely to tell you the truth. Okay. I took a breath and tried to keep a lid on my anger. I told them, "They interviewed me at the processing center on Saturday morning, a little after nine o'clock. A guy named Matt. He recorded the interview. You can listen to the tape."
"We could. We could do that," he agreed, "if there *was* such a recording, but there isn't. Not only is there no recording, there's no record of your ever visiting that processing center at all." He cocked one eyebrow at me. Gotcha!
I felt my face go white. It's that fucker, Stan, I told myself.
"Oh, really!" I exclaimed. There **had*** to be a way for me to prove that I'd been there. "Hang on, hang on, give me a minute." I stopped to think. "I have a lanyard at home. They gave it to me at the processing center. They assigned me a number. You can check that. I mean, check the number."
Kirchmeyer glanced at Lassrop. Lassrop's eyes narrowed.
"Also," I continued, "There's the daisy chain. The people who deal with the Switcher, they keep track of who got switched into whom."
"Hear that, Kirchmeyer? Who... whom. Somebody knows their English grammar."
"Each person who's switched, is in the body of the person the Switcher met before them, and they know the name of the person the switcher met after them. It's a linked list; it can't be broken or changed. I'm in Merope Goddard's body; she came before me. The person who comes after me is Anson Charpont, because that's who I am, inside. He'll tell you the same thing. He's in Anson's body, my body, because I came before him. And he saw the Switcher run off in *his* body, so he knows who came after him."
My explanation was too complicated and too logical for Lassrop to easily scoff at. I took advantage of his being on the back foot for a moment and pressed on.
I told the two of them: "I don't care what you think about me, or what you think about what I saw. I have a civic duty to tell you. And now that I told you, I want to leave. And if there is a God above us, hopefully we will never meet again."
That was a bit more honesty than either of them was ready to hear, but they still had a few cards up their sleeves.
"Here's the thing, Merope," Agent Kirchmeyer said. "If we take what you said at face value, what do we have? Something about cylinders. We don't know what these cylinders are. Frankly, they sound like rolls of money. Which, of course, is nice for him, but not really remarkable, if you know anything about the Switcher. On top of that, the area of Harmish that you mentioned is full of businesses of every kind. You know that: there are towers full of offices, laboratories... and I don't know what."
She tapped the table, tap tap tap. "The thing is, none of those businesses reported a loss of any kind. No theft of material, no theft of intellectual property, no theft of little metal cylinders. And so, you see... if all we have is your story — and for the sake of argument, let's say that everything you said is literally and completely true — What do we do with it? Where do we go with it? Without a victim, how can we investigate a crime. Do you follow me?"
I felt lost for a moment, as though the rug had been pulled from under me. But then I remembered...
"I have the USB drive," I told them.
"Great!" Kirchmeyer replied with a smile. "Let's see it."
Crap. "I came here..." I hestitated. I sighed. "I came here on the spur of the moment," I told her. "I left the USB drive at home."
"But you said that you didn't see any copyright notices, or company name on the drive itself, am I right?"
"Yes," I said, deflating.
"Or in the files on that drive?"
"No," I agree. My head bent down, looking at the table. They let me sit there in silence, soaking in my unsupportable assertions. They'd gotten to the end with me. They were done with mocking and teasing. They unwrapped my observations and found nothing inside them.
"I can send you the drive," I said without looking up. "And my lanyard from the processing center." Then I lifted my head and looked at each of them in the face. "I was only trying to do my civic duty. I saw something; I said something."
Kirchmeyer reached out her hand and covered mine. I wanted to jerk my arm away, but it would have been a pointless gesture on my part. All I wanted was to get the hell out of there. 'You send it to us," she told me. "We know where to contact you if we have questions."
"Okay," I said, and stood up.
My car was hot from sitting in the sun. Luckily my seats were cloth, so there was only one quick moment of sitting down before the heat subsided. I turned the air on high and drove out of the parking lot to a space on the street under a tree. I was too upset to drive. I kept the windows open until the air conditioner was able to kick in.
"Fuck them!" I shouted, once my windows were closed. It was the only appropriate thing to say. They didn't have to treat me like a... like a what? Is there a word for people who make silly claims so they can talk to law enforcement?
Whatever it was, the FBI didn't need a name for it. They just assumed that I had it: That I was making things up, simply to get their attention.
Do you know what I wanted to say to them? I was so angry. What I wanted to ask them, was: What about J. Edgar Hoover? Wow, talk about somebody with problems! That man, the one who founded the FBI, he was one hot mess, and yet these agents had the nerve to act like there was something wrong with me?
Eventually I calmed down enough to feel hungry. I asked my phone for "restaurants near me" and the only listing anywhere nearby was a place called The Peckish Perch. It was a ten-minute drive, to the town of Devall, which is only known for the Devall Small Mall.
The Small Mall features a bowling alley, a Department of Motor Vehicles office, and a few oddly-assorted stores. It's anchor was a large Gimbrels department store — the last remnant of a once-booming national chain.
Naturally, the Peckish Perch was nestled into the mall. The restaurant — and the mall in general — were surprisingly busy. I asked how long it would take for them to seat me.
"Right away," the hostess replied. "We have a lot of ones and twos over there — see?" She pointed, in case I missed it.
"Okay, uh, but one question: Is this a fish restaurant?"
She gave me a strange look. "No, of course not. Why would it be?"
"Well, perch," I replied. "A perch is a type of fish."
She smiled and touched my arm with her fingertips. "No," she informed me, and explained as if she was talking to a somewhat slow child. "A perch is where a bird sits, and when a bird eats, they peck. See? Peckish Perch means that this is a place where you can sit down and eat."
It called itself a restaurant, but really it was nothing more than a fast-food joint with table service. One of my high-school teachers liked to say that fast food tastes good at first, but when you're halfway through, you ask yourself why you're eating it.
I had a "Perch Burger" with fries and a vanilla milkshake, and it fit that description. I stopped exactly halfway through my meal. Stopped dead. How on earth did it manage to taste good at the start? It not only made me feel cruddy inside, it made my skin feel greasy. If I were still Anson, I would have kept going, and eaten it all, in spite of how it made me feel. But I wasn't Anson any more. My metabolism, my tastes, my nutritional needs, were all changed. It was a good change; clearly a salutary change. I pushed the food away and left the restaurant.
Even so, the portion I'd eaten was enough to weigh me down. I took a walk through the mall to try to help me digest. True to its name, the mall wasn't very large. It did include a pharmacy, where I picked up my shaving supplies. After circulating through a quarter of the mall, I wandered into Gimbrels. All of the perfume and cosmetic counters were right there at the store entrance.
I stopped and on impulse, decided to get a makeover. I told the woman that I needed a light office look. "It has to be dirt-simple to put on," I told her. "I'm not very good at this."
She suggested that I make a video on my phone as she worked on my face. She talked the entire time, describing what she was doing, the effect she was aiming for, and so on. It was extremely helpful and reassuring.
I was pretty pleased at the end result. She was pleased that I was pleased. She was about my age, and dressed in a way that looked both professional and comfortable. It was the sort of look I figured I'd be wearing to the office. When she asked me whether there was anything else she could help me with, I immediately responded: "What would you wear to a first date in a bar?"
"Jeans and a nice top," she replied, without a moment's hesitation. "As for shoes, I'd wear flats, but you could really wear whatever you want."
When I got back to Femke's apartment, she wasn't there.
The first thing I did was to sit in the tub and shave my legs. I think I held my breath the entire time, but I was careful enough that I didn't nick or cut myself.
Then I removed all my makeup, took a shower, redid my makeup and fixed my hair. When I say I fixed my hair, it's not as though there was a lot to do. Luckily the old Merope favored a bob, which took a little styling, but not much.
While digging through my duffle bag, I happened on an outfit for the office tomorrow: black flared pants and a sleeveless cream-colored top. I also found some tight jeans and a black one-shoulder top for my date tonight. Remembering what the Gimbrels woman told me, I picked a pair of black flats that went with both outfits.
I'm going to have to start accessorizing, I quickly realized. A nice necklace and a bracelet or wrist watch would have finished off the look nicely.
But then, as I was pushing the duffle bag out of my way, my eye fell on a dress. It was — I want to stay "a little black dress" because that's the stock phrase: the LBD. When I saw it, I wanted to touch it, and once I touched it, I had to pick it up. Whatever material it was made from, it felt like magic under my fingers. It was stretchy, but soft. It wasn't shiny, but it almost seemed to glow.
I had to try it on.
Once I tried it on, I had to wear it.
Once I wore it, the flats I'd chosen simply didn't do it justice. I knelt down and fished around the bottom of the bag, where I found a pair of black strappy heels.
But then, once I put the shoes on, it made me see how awful my toes looked. I mean, I needed a pedicure. The blue nail polish the original Merope had applied a week ago was now chipped and cracked. My fingernails, too. I don't know how I hadn't noticed.
When I asked my phone for "nail salons near me" it showed a place just a block away called "Best Hygenic Nail" — a name that inspired both confidence and doubt at the same time. I clopped on over in my new heels — without calling ahead! But lucky me! they were able to accomodate me right away.
It was, as advertised (and much to my relief), hygenic, and they did a wonderful job of restoring the Ocean Blue favored by the original Merope. I wasn't totally convinced by the color, myself, but didn't feel that now was the time to experiment.
The women at the salon tried to sell me false eyelashes. She pushed me hard. Her colleagues joined in. They were ready and willing to apply them to my eyelids. They showed me a surprising variety of lengths and styles. To tell the truth, I was tempted. Not sorely tempted, but a little tempted. What stopped me? It was the fact that I was already dolled-up. As feminine as I felt, as feminine as I wanted to feel, I was uneasy about going any further. I was wearing black heels — not stilettos, but even so, they were seriously feminine heels. My legs were hairless and smooth to the touch. My dress wasn't exactly short but I felt pretty exposed in the salon chair: my knees were at the same level as the head of the woman painting my toes.
And my face! I could feel the make-up. I was very conscious of it, and was startled each time I'd see my red lips in a mirror. It wasn't uncomfortable, no. In fact, I liked it. I liked it a lot. I felt attractive. I felt like a work of art. I wanted to be seen.
Even so, false eyelashes was a step farther than I was ready to go. I mean, it was all new to me, and it was wonderful. I suppose I could have told myself in for a penny, in for a pound, but I didn't. If I had to put my reticence into words, my problem was this: What I'd done to myself, for myself — shaving my legs, having my face made over (and learning to do it myself), choosing the little black dress and the heels — and getting my nails done! That was all me.
The lashes, it seemed, would have pushed me over into a very different feeling: the feeling that I was wearing a costume. That it was all pretend. I didn't want that. I wanted to be me tonight. The new Merope, as far as I could.
By the time the salon finished with me, it was a quarter to six.
More than three hours until my date.
I returned to Femke's and forced myself to sift through some more files on Stan's USB drive. It was both tedious and interesting at the same time. I didn't learn anything new about old Merope, but going through her records gave me a feeling of solidity, of reality.
I'm glad I didn't let the processing center stick me with a new name. Here, now, if I asked myself Who am I? I had material at hand to help answer that question. If they'd given me a made-up name, that question of Who am I? would have landed in a void. Oddly, or paradoxically, I the more I learned about Merope, the more I felt I was learning about myself. I mean, I *am* Merope, at least in a physical sense. I'm somebody's daughter; maybe somebody's sister or niece. Those are physical facts. Merope paid taxes and has money in the bank. That, in a societal sense, makes her real.
I have relatives. I have objective correlatives. I have roots. I have history. It's a history I can learn.
Opening and sorting the files Stan gave me was a slog, but I fell into it, deeply. I got into the zone, the way I do when I'm writing computer programs. It's a state where the work flows easily, almost effortlessly through me; I'm not aware of time passing or the conditions around me. I forget to eat or drink. Usually the only things that rouse me are external: a person calling my name, my phone ringing, or — as in the present case — the need to use the bathroom.
As I trotted off to the smallest room, the kitchen clock caught my eye. Somehow, the time was 9:25! I had five minutes to meet Wayne downtown!
While sitting on the toilet, I called an Uber. At this point, driving myself would take longer. I'd never find parking anywhere near Olduvai Street, and if I had a few drinks, I wouldn't want to chance driving myself home.
The driver pulled up as I stepped out the front door. I gave the street address of the bar, and we took off.
It occurred to me while I was going through my files that I could take time this Sunday and start reading through Merope's life, one year at a time: starting with her tax return, her bank statements, her credit card statements, and whatever other documents memorialized that year. I'd read through as if I were reading a novel. It would help to steep me in my new life.
I was called out of my reverie by the driver. He was talking to me.
He complimented me on my appearance. I thanked him. He asked me where I was going, exactly.
"I know Olduvai," he told me, "but the street numbers? Not so much. A lot of those stores, they don't put the street numbers on the buildings. So: where are we going?"
Honestly, I was a little distracted, a little anxious. Anxious about being late... in fact, did I have my bag with me? Yes, yes, here it is. Do I have my phone? Yes. My wallet? Some money? Yes and yes.
Also, a large part of my consciousness was still immersed in the Merope files I'd been reading.
So I looked up, almost as though he'd woken me from a sleep, and told him, "The Golden Farting."
He scoffed, disgusted. "Why do you young people have to do that?" he demanded. "It's the Golden **Farthing***. The Golden Farthing. Do you even know what a farthing is?"
The smartass in me wanted to reply that a farthing was a fart-thing, but as amusing as I found it in that moment, I bit my tongue. A quick search in my trivia memory gave me the answer. I replied, "It's a coin. A fraction of a penny, I think."
"Hmmph," he grunted. "There's hope for you yet. And here we are!" He stopped in front of a building with a very active crowd out front. "The Golden Farthing. Have a lovely time."
I climbed out of the car. A couple of young men watched my legs as I exited the vehicle. Damn — I needed to practice that move. No — before practicing, I needed to learn how a woman gets out of a car. Maybe there was a YouTube video I could watch.
The time was 9:35. Not bad. Not on time, but not too badly late.
Looking up, I checked the sign. Of course, it wasn't the Golden Farting. There was never a chance of that. However, it wasn't the Golden Farthing, either. The name of the pub was the Golden Fairling. I had no idea what the name meant, not that it mattered.
As with most businesses on Olduvai, the entrance was set back several yards from the street. About a dozen people lounged on the sidewalk: some of them were smoking or vaping (breathing out huge billows of cloud, like two-legged dragons), others simply chatted with their friends. None of them were waiting to enter; there wasn't a queue. These people were taking a break, coming up for air — or for smoke — whatever the case called for.
I'd never been to the Golden Fairling; never even glanced inside. So I was relieved to see the range of ages of the people gathered out front. A few were clearly north of fifty. Most were somewhere in their thirties or forties. As to people in their twenties? If I was any judge of ages, there were few.
I pushed past the hangers-on, flashed my ID at the bouncer at the door, and entered another world. I imagined I'd quickly scan the room, pick out Wayne, walk over and connect.
Instead I was overwhelmed by the atmosphere.
By "atmosphere" I don't mean by the smell. Sure, it smelled like a bar: the accumulated aroma old burgers and fried food, of spilled beer and ketchup. Not that they didn't clean: the place was hygenic enough. I'm just saying that if you were blindfolded and taken there, with nothing but your nose to guide you, you'd immediately know you were in a bar. If — again, guided only by your nose — if you were asked, Would you eat a meal here? Your nose would reply, Sure. Why not?
What struck me, what knocked me back a half-step, was the darkness. All the furniture — the bar, the shelving behind the bar, the tables and chairs, the hostess' stand and the cashier's desk — all of it was dark walnut. All of it dyed deeper black by cigarette smoke back in the years when smoking indoors was still allowed.
Somehow the air itself seemed darker, like the air at night.
And the sound, too, was overwhelming. The music, which I couldn't recognize, was loud and pounding. I felt it in my chest. A young man approached me and said something. I shook my head and pointed at my ears. He leaned closer and shouted to me, asking if I wanted... something. I couldn't make out what.
When I shrugged, made an apologetic face, and shook my head no, he looked disappointed, but he walked away.
Here, inside, the demographic was quite different than the people I saw outside. The crowd was predominantly young; college age. Tattoos and piercings abounded.
I had to run my eyes over the room three times before I spotted Wayne. He was sitting at the bar, talking to a young man who was very nearly his twin. The two were roughly the same height and build. They had the same open, smiling face, the same full, untamed head of hair. Of course, there were obvious differences between them, but at a glance they were nearly interchangeable.
As I approached them, those differences became more evident. Wayne was a golden boy. If a sculptor sought a model for a statue of Alcibiades, he'd stop looking the moment he met Wayne.
If Wayne was gold, his friend was silver at best. I never found out his name; never met him again. As soon as I put my hand on Wayne's shoulder, his friend nodded in my direction, said something to Wayne that was inaudible to me, and stepped away to dissolve into the crowd.
Wayne turned to face me, and a sunny smile lit up his face. I felt the sun respond inside of me.
He said something that I couldn't hear. The music rendered normal speech impossible. I shouted back. He smiled, not even trying to hear.
The bartender approached. Somehow his voice was able to penetrate the noise: he asked me what I wanted to drink. I pointed at Wayne's beer and he nodded.
I moved my head toward Wayne's, intending to talk in his ear. Instead, he gently took my head with his fingertips, steered my mouth toward his own, and he kissed me.
It was a warm, wet, soul-absorbing kiss. The kind of kiss that teenagers experience: the kind that closes out the world and everyone in it. I rested my hands on his chest, feeling his muscular torso, making my hands feel small. I realized I was on tiptoe while he was sitting down.
We kissed for a long time, it seemed. His hands moved to my shoulders, then down my back. When his hands reached my waist, my hip bones, he pulled me closer to him. His knees closed, holding my thighs. I wrapped my arms around his neck.
I can't tell if anyone noticed us kissing. I'm sure I didn't care whether they did.
When we came up for air, we pressed our foreheads lightly together and gazed into each others' eyes.
He spoke again. In spite of the closeness, I still couldn't hear. I moved my mouth next to his ear.
"It's so LOUD in here!" I said, stating the obvious.
He nodded, moved his lips to my ear and suggested, "Let's finish these beers and take a walk."
I nodded. The beers came in a tall glass, too tall for me to hurry through. By the time I was halfway down, Wayne's glass was empty. He touched my glass and raised his left eyebrow, asking silently if he should finish mine. I nodded.
A few swallows later, my glass was empty as well, and the two of us emerged in the cooler night air.
As we sauntered up the avenue, Wayne told me about his business as a personal trainer. He had a couple of interesting and amusing anecdotes about his clients. After we'd walked slowly hand-in-hand for several blocks, he glanced at me and said, "I've been doing all the talking. Why don't you tell me something about yourself?"
"What do you want to know?"
"Anything. What do you do for a living, for instance?"
"I'm a Cobol programmer."
Wayne chuckled. "Like Mr Charpont."
"Yeah," I agreed. "Exactly like Mr Charpont. I keep telling you, Wayne. I've been switched. I *am* Anson Charpont. I know your family. I used to live next door."
"Oh, right," he responded, clearly not giving me any credence. I don't know why I felt the need to insist on this point with him, but somehow it rankled me that he either didn't get it, or didn't believe it. Maybe he just didn't care, which seemed the worst option of the three.
He abruptly stopped; stood still in the middle of the sidewalk, and looked at me. I'm pretty sure he sensed my irritation, so he placed his hands on my hips, smiled a wary smile, and said, "Can I ask you something, then?"
"Sure."
"If you're Anson Charpont, recently switched, does that make you a virgin?"
"Oh!" I exclaimed. I never expected *that* question. "Well... ah..."
"Have you ever had sex as a woman? That's what I'm asking."
"Well, no."
A heat radiated between us, from him to me and back again. He stood there, looking at me, not caring about the crowd of pedestrians around us. He was fully at ease, as if we were standing alone in a grassy field. I stood there, looking up at him. People milled around us, like a flood -- parting when they encountered us, splitting briefly as they passed us, then fluidly joining back up again, the the way a stream flows and shapes itself around a rock in a stream.
Wayne tugged on his earlobe. He rubbed his chin.
"Do you know what I'm thinking?" he asked.
"I'm pretty sure I do," I replied.
"And yet I don't see you running away," he teased.
"Nope, not running, me."
"I'm going to call an Uber," he warned me, conspiratorially.
I nodded slowly. "Good idea."
"Wow, you're so easy!" he teased, and gave me a playful push on my shoulder.
[ Melanie Brown’s Switcher Universe ]
by Iolanthe Portmanteaux
Our Uber glided to a stop next to where we were standing. After giving a mock salute to the driver — who nodded in return — Wayne stepped gallantly down from the curb and put his hand on the door handle. Then he paused so he could look me in the face with a serious expression.
"Listen: we have to behave ourselves in the Uber. No making out or — you know — anything more."
I gaped stupidly. "I wasn't planning—"
He shook his head at my protest, and waved it away with his free hand. "See, *we* rate the drivers, sure. But did you know the drivers rate us passengers, as well? If you're a bad passenger, they're less liable to pick you up. So: model citizens, agreed?" He punctuated his explanation with a wink.
I've never liked winks. I don't know why. But they've always bugged me.
So: serious face, followed by conspiratorial wink. I found it a bit confusing.
In any case, the moment passed too quickly to process; Wayne had the car door open before I could even blink. His admonition was there and gone before I was able to offer any reaction whatsoever. Wayne gestured to me, and watched my legs with great attention as I got into the back seat. Noting his avid gaze, I had a sudden inspiration: I sat down first, knees and ankles touching, then swung my legs, with knees and ankles still together, into the car. Elementary. I'm sure I've seen many women do this — in real life, on TV, and in films. I should have caught on to this move a lot sooner. But it was only just then, in that moment, that it struck me as something I should do as well. Wayne looked mildly disappointed.
On the other hand, he didn't wait for me to shift over — he didn't expect me to. Instead, he closed my door and scurried around to the far side of the car .
At least he was raised well, I told myself. Then again, I already that already. In life as Anson, I was well acquainted with Ross and Pamela (Wayne's parents). They were good people.
And yet, Wayne was still young. He had plenty of mistakes and wild oats to sow — for example, what the two of us were doing right now. Wayne, oddly conscious (for once!) of the potential appearance of impropriety, left a few inches of space between us. He didn't scoot closer to me or drape his arm over my shoulders. In fact, he glanced once or twice at the driver's eyes in the rear view mirror. It made me feel almost as though we were sitting in the high-school principal's office.
I had a sudden suspicion. "Wayne," I whispered, "Have you gotten in trouble with an Uber driver?"
His eyes narrowed, as if I'd caught him out. The expression on his face said, What have you heard?
I persisted: "I mean, did you overdo it in the PDA department?"
"PDA?" he whispered, frowning, puzzled.
"Public Displays of Affection," I explained, laughing quietly at the easy tease.
His response was a soft "Pfft!" He leaned back in his seat, sat up straighter, and took up more space, opening his chest.
In what I guess was meant to be a daring move, he reached over and set his large hand on my left thigh. I caught my breath. The width of his palm covered nearly half my thigh. His fingers and thumb came near to touching the seat beneath me. His grip was warm, as well, and its warmth made me very aware of my posture and breathing. I don't know why, but it did.
None of us spoke. The driver didn't make conversation. Aside from the hand on my thigh, Wayne and I were on best behavior — not that I wanted anything more in that moment. Even so, the silence, the weight and warmth of Wayne's touch, and the fact of being closed in a car that someone else was driving, brought to bear the finality of what I was up to. I'd allowed myself to be swept along, and here I was: swept to a point of no return.
Or was it?
I suppose there were a few emergency brakes I could pull. I could tell the driver, "Stop the car — I need to get out. Yes, right here!" Or I could look Wayne in the eye and say, "I'm sorry, but I can't do this. This was a mistake." Or — maybe the most cowardly and desperate move of all — I could wait until we arrived in front of Wayne's house, and run off to seek refuge next door, with Cloe and Mukti.
My eyes roved around the inside of the car, as if I were a prisoner absurdly looking for a way out.
Sure, I was being melodramatic, but wasn't melodrama appropriate to the moment?
Everything about this moment was stupid. *I* was stupid. The situation was stupid. What I was doing was stupid. Even Wayne bore his share of "stupid" — although it wasn't his fault. Mainly it was me: I was up to something stupid, me.
Ever since the car door closed on me, a song was playing in my head: it was the theme to Guys and Dolls. In a nutshell, the song is about all the crazy, misguided things a man might do if he fell for a woman: things like: get a job, rent a decent apartment, bathe more frequently... I had to think for a moment to remember what Vitalis and Barbasol are, but the message was plain — a man could twist himself into a new shape for the sake of a woman... if he lost his head.
You could infer from the song that, if only he didn't get entangled, a man could live a less complicated life: a more peaceful, less demanding, less hygenic life.
Why that song? What prompted it? My subconscious was being surprisingly clear: I was doing the same thing as the guy in the song. Not that I was getting a job or an apartment or using Barbasol for Wayne's sake... it wasn't literally that. What I'd done, like the "guys" in the song, was that I'd lost myself. I hadn't changed my life... but I was doing things I ordinarily would never do. Not in a thousand years.
I was acting impulsively.
I've never been impulsive. I could count on one hand the times in my life that I've done anything on impulse: most of them happened on the day I met the Switcher. First, I'd eaten that weird, roasted-tea scone. Second, I turned left rather than right at the river. If I hadn't done that, I'd still be Anson.
The third impulsive thing was calling Rowan, rather than the processing center. If I hadn't done that, Femke wouldn't have been assaulted by Stan. We wouldn't have risked jail on account of Stan's "presents." Was there any upside to that impulse?
Well, yes, I had to admit that there some upsides: I had Femke's help. I had a place to stay. Rowan and Javier had my back. And I had the USB drive with all of Merope's records.
Plus one little thing: I got to taste Maude's excellent strawberry/rhubarb pie. It was worth remembering.
And come to think of it... going back further in my life... when I asked Cleo to marry me, *that* was on impulse. I hadn't meant to do it. At least not at that moment. On pure impulse I went ahead and did it.
So how did *that* turn out? Well? Badly?
Probably a combination of both, sometimes both at the same time.
Did I have a good marriage, overall? Was being impulsive a bad thing, in and of itself? I sighed heavily, and louder than I meant to. Wayne cocked his head and gave me a quizzical look.
"This is crazy!" I muttered, then shocked, I put my hand over my mouth. I hadn't meant to say it out loud! I was talking to myself, referring to the mad jumble in my brain, the unreconcilable mess of experiences that I couldn't sum up into a neat, categorical judgment: good or bad, right or wrong, crazy or sane...
And now Wayne was sure to think that *I* was crazy...
His face lit up in surprise, and his eyebrows danced. He glanced at the dashboard, then hunched over me, bringing his face close to my left ear. In a low voice he confided, "Yeah, taking the ring road definitely isn't the best choice. We'll end up coming into my neighborhood from the back, so to speak. But these guys just go wherever the GPS tells them."
I glanced out the window, then back at Wayne. "Uh, I didn't mean..." I began, then gave it up.
"I guess I don't know where I am," I pretended to confess, and gave him a weak smile.
He smiled and gave my hand a squeeze. "We'll be there in five minutes," he whispered.
"Great," I breathed, dreading and wanting it in the same moment.
Although he'd moved his hand to cover mine, I could still feel his handprint on my thigh. I could probably take a pen and trace the outline of his hand from the residual warmth. Somehow, that thought — the mental image of tracing his contact on my skin — made me feel even more an idiot than I did already.
Anxious, I wet my lips with my tongue and set my hand on top of his. I anteed up. He smiled at that.
And then we arrived at his house.
Wayne and I stood in the darkened street, watching until the Uber faded from view and a suburban silence descended over us. His house stood directly in front of me, across a well-kept lawn. My old house (Anson's house) was visible mostly as a shadow in the darkness.
I let out a shaky, uncertain breath. "So quiet!" I observed in a hushed voice, afraid of breaking the silence. "Not even crickets." Wayne didn't answer. Instead, he raised his eyes and scanned the houses around us. I realized later that he was checking the windows; looking for lights, watchers, silhouettes of vigilant neighbors... Nosy Parkers who might spot us and tell Wayne's mom and dad.
At the time he looked to me like a hunter, surveying the terrain. I couldn't help it: physically, I was in a kind of awe of him. I was Jane to his Tarzan. If he'd picked me up, tossed me over his shoulder and run off with me, I'd be all for it. My mouth actually watered at the thought. I had to swallow twice.
Neither of us had moved from the spots where we descended from the car: the width of the absent Uber still separated us. I held my breath, acutely aware of my heart beating. The car had left me in the middle of the road in the semi-darkness; Wayne stood closer to the curb. I felt exposed, almost naked, perched on my high heels, wearing my little dress — that suddenly seemed quasi-immaterial, nothing more than a little scrap of fabric.
I hasten to say that I wasn't naked. I only *felt* that way: vulnerable, foolish... alone, small, defenseless.
"Don't move," Wayne cautioned in a low voice, and in a few steps he stood in front of me. He put his hands on my upper arms and squeezed me, the way you'd squeeze a loaf of bread, and my subconscious tossed up the word perfunctory. I'm sure that the part of me that used the word knew perfectly well what it meant, but the part of me that stood in the street — gaping, big-eyed, impelled by desire — could only silently repeat the sounds, the syllables: perfunctory? It didn't register. The doubt in me wanted desperately to pump the brakes, but by this point I hardly knew where they were, let alone reach them.
"Give me your shoes," Wayne whispered. "Your heels will go click-clack and wake up the neighborhood."
"It's still early," I whispered back. "It must be ten-thirty or thereabouts. And why are we whispering? We're not in a library." I gave a little smile and teased, "Plus, the Uber's gone."
He frowned, not getting the joke, and took a deep breath before explaining. "Look: I still live with my parents—"
"I know, Wayne," I interrupted. "I know that." I felt more than a little irritated. How many times did I have to tell him that I used to live next door? That I'd watched him grow up? At the very least, did he not remember that he'd already told me he lived with his folks when his little dog licked me?
He seemed put out by my interruption, so he said, "Do you know what's great about older women? They know what they want."
I frowned at his non sequitur. My brain didn't seem up to the task tonight. I couldn't even manage an indignant what? I guess he meant to remind me why we were here; that I wanted it, that he hadn't dragged me along. At the very least he meant to throw me off a bit. While I waited for the gears in my brain to turn, Wayne pressed on. "The point is, I have to sneak you into the house, understand? There's no way you can sneak around when you're wearing heels."
I took a look at his driveway. "Do you expect me to walk barefoot up—"
"I'll carry you," he told me, cutting the negotiation short.
Carry me? That sounded like a great option to me.
I slipped out of my shoes and handed them to him. He hooked the heel straps over his left pinky, where they dangled like baubles on a charm bracelet. I placed my hand on his shoulder and jumped up, into his arms. He caught me neatly and held me close. Then he flew up the driveway: quickly, silently, without no trace of effort whatsoever. It left me breathless. His hold on me was so firm, I didn't bounce in his arms. He didn't seem conscious of my weight. He didn't grunt or strain, not even slightly. He moved fast, but he didn't breathe hard. When he set me down next to a window at the rear of the house, he didn't need to catch his breath. He seemed totally unfazed by the effort — which was rather exciting in itself. In fact, he looked ready to pick me up and run another mile, just for the fun of it.
I felt like a silly goose, but his muscular power gave me a physical thrill.
"Wait here," he commanded, and he looked me up and down, as if evaluating something. He glanced at my back. Then he reached out, took my bag from me, and ran back around the house the way we came.
If I didn't feel foolish before, I felt ridiculous now. I mean, less than a week ago I was a portly retiree. Before encountering the Switcher, the biggest events in my day were my new bucket hat, and a weird new scone. Now I was a thirty-something female wearing a little black dress, standing barefoot in the wet grass behind a surburban house, waiting for a twenty-something fitness buff to open his window and let me inside.
Wayne didn't leave me waiting for long. When he appeared at the window, he paused before opening it, to put his finger to his lips. Yes, okay: he wanted to remind me. When he continued to stand there looking at me, not opening the window I made impatient motions with my hands, miming the raising of the sash. He frowned with pursed lips. He huffed. Then he put his finger to his lips three times quickly, as an imperative. I raised my eyebrows. Seriously? But when he didn't move, I nodded vigorously, making the same shh gesture. Then and only then did he begin to open the window.
With agonizing slowness he raised the sash, millimeter by millimeter. His intent was clear: he was trying to minimize the groans and creaks the window gave out, and it released those sounds liberally and loudly. From the noise, you'd imagine an elderly asthmatic with a bad back was struggling to get out of bed. I can't imagine that anyone in the house could possibly remain asleep at the concert of screeches and squeals. They'd have to be deaf or under the influence of a potent narcotic.
By now, the sham of my "indecision" was clear. If I could stand here, watching Wayne's face as he labored manfully but uselessly to silently raise that wailing window, I couldn't pretend that I was anything but all-in. Fine: I was here for the sex. I was here for his muscles. I didn't have a single ounce of doubt, not one tiny iota. My hesitation and fluttering were nothing but a pretence, a fig-leaf, a sop for my conscience.
When at last the window sash let out its final trumpet, I stepped up to the window and set my hands on the sill. I looked down for a toehold. I was more than ready to climb inside.
"Wait a minute," Wayne whispered, holding up his palm. His face assumed a wolf-like, hungry aspect. "That's a really lovely dress."
"Um, thanks," I replied, puzzled.
"You don't want it to get dirty, climbing in the window. That would be a shame, wouldn't it?"
"Uh, yeah, I guess." I looked at the opening; touched the sill. It's true. It was a little dirty. "What did you have in mind?"
"Why don't you take your dress off, and hand it to me. That way it will stay nice and clean."
I regarded him for a minute. He waited. Then he said, "You know you have to get naked at some point."
"Okay," I conceded. I turned my back and Wayne unzipped me. I slipped out of the dress — which honestly was a lovely dress; it felt amazing as it slid off my body — then I folded it in half and carefully handed it to him.
Now dressed in nothing my bra and panties, I put my hands on the sill again, and looked for a toehold.
"Wait," Wayne stopped me again. I scoffed. "Seriously?" I asked him. He shushed me and shrugged, smiling.
"In for a penny," he offered.
"Fine!" I muttered, and slipped out of my undergarments. When I passed those inside, he had me turn my shoulder toward the window and reached out to take me. "Don't make any sudden moves," he cautioned, "or you'll throw my back into next week."
At his coaching, I rested my head on his left arm while he lifted my knees with his right. Once my head passed inside, he shifted both hands under my butt and glided the rest of me inside.
"It's a tricky move," he confessed. He wiped the perspiration from his forehead using the back of his hand.
I was about to ask how the effort compared to running up the driveway with me in his arms, but he planted a sudden and dramatic kiss — I think he wanted to kiss me, sure, but I'm pretty sure he wanted to forestall any talk.
We didn't kiss for long, but it left me out of breath.
Panting, out of breath, I stood on tiptoe and reached up to touch his upper arms, feeling his muscles with my fingertips.
Then, in spite of my longing, I noticed the way my dress lay in a crumpled bundle on his bed. Admittedly, I hadn't exactly folded it, but I didn't ball it up like that! I picked it up, shook out the wrinkles, and asked, "Where can I hang this?"
"Just leave it on the bed," he replied in a distracted tone, as if my dress didn't matter. "Anyway, we can't stay in here — my parents will hear everything."
Then, absurdly, he reached for the window.
"What the hell are you doing?" I demanded.
"Closing the window," he answered. He frowned and shrugged. "Isn't it obvious?"
"If you didn't already wake your parents when you opened that thing, for sure you're going to wake them when you close it."
He shook his head as if I'd said the most errant nonsense, and in one swift movement he pushed the window shut. It closed with a quick, soft squeak.
"Are you kidding?" I exclaimed in a soft voice. "Why didn't you sweep it open that way?"
"You ask a lot of questions," he countered defensively. "It only makes noise when it's going up. If you go fast, it's worse. My dad says it's like the brass section is slaughtering a hog." He shrugged. "Whatever. Come on now, follow me."
With that, he pushed me ahead of him, out the door of his bedroom, into the hallway. He kept his hands on my shoulders, and steered me this way and that. I'd been inside the house before, but not so much in the back of the house, where the bedrooms are. And the fact that I was completely bare, without a stitch of clothes, frightened and excited me, but paradoxically I found it confused me. The possibility of discovery, of being caught naked by Wayne's parents, lurked around every corner — and we seemed to be turning a lot of corners.
I want to say At last we arrived in the kitchen, but it was only a matter of moments. I blinked two or three times, utterly confused. Did he want to have sex on the kitchen island? Mentally I worked out that if I lay on the counter, Wayne would need a step-stool, or he'd come up short—
—but of course, silly me — that wasn't the idea at all.
Wayne soundlessly opened the door to the basement. "There's a rec room downstairs," he whispered. "It's nice, and it's the perfect place."
My mouth fell open. I meant to ask, Can I bring my clothes along? but he didn't give me a chance. He spun me around and gently guided me to the top of the stairs. Then, suddenly, he said, "Stop."
"What?" I asked, but I got my answer immediately. He slid his hands over my derriere, softly moaning in satisfaction. "I couldn't resist any longer," he cooed in my ear. "I had to touch you." Then his hands slid up my sides and made their way to my breasts, which he gently but thoroughly fondled.
I have to say, I liked it. I wanted it. I enjoyed it. I could feel his excitement pressing against my backside, but when his hands slid down south of my belly button, I grabbed his hands and said, "Wait — let's get downstairs," and without waiting for his pushing, prodding, or guiding, I quickly and quietly descended the stairs.
I won't give you the blow-by-blow. I'm sure you can imagine. A lot of my excitement and arousal — and pretty much every ooh! — was due to it being my first experience of sex as a woman. Yeah, and a lot of it was due to Wayne's youth, stamina, and musculature. He certainly delivered, so I shouldn't complain, but while the sensations were powerful and sustained, and though I hit heights of pleasure I didn't know were even possible — and God, if I had circuit breakers in my brain, they would all need to be replaced after that night.
But even so, one part of me found itself sort of standing to the side and watching, and that part couldn't help but notice that for Wayne it seemed to be a purely physical act.
Which is not to say that he wasn't attentive and considerate. He most definitely was. He was also kind and sensitive.
Still, there was a point when he was fully invested in his labors — and yes, it felt good; it felt very very good — but he was in such deep physical concentration, that I very nearly wanted to ask him, "Hey, Wayne — what's my name?"
Of course, I didn't. I wouldn't. I couldn't be that unkind.
But seriously, in that moment, I could have been anyone, any woman who happened to be lying underneath him. I wondered at one point whether he was being careful to not say my name, in case he got it wrong.
Okay: I'll admit I'm nitpicking. But there is one moment I need to mention. It was absolutely the most significant moment. We were lying on an uncomfortable narrow couch. Wayne was on top of me, going at it, full bore. I'm not sure how to explain this, but until that moment, I hadn't considered what we were doing — or better, the *implications* of what we were doing. In my mind, to this point, it was all about pleasure, excitement, about this being my very first time... Until I kind of woke up from my passive state to realize that his breathing and movements had changed — like music, when it shifts to a deeper, more serious key. There was no mistaking what the key change signalled: it abruptly became irresistably obvious that he was about to climax... inside of me — without protection.
My entire body stiffened at once. The realization, the implications, the possibility of a truly life-altering event, exploded in my brain with a piercing, blindingly white light. The shock of my sudden awakening showed on my face and Wayne, true to form, completely misinterpreted it.
"Oh, yeah! Oh, yeah! You like that, don't you. You do, you do. Oh, yeah, you love it. You love it. Here we go— uh!"
And then, paradoxically, I climaxed with him — a happenstance that immensely pleased him. It was a long, intense, electrical explosion that didn't just go bang! and stop. No, it grew to an intensity that rocked us both, and then unexpectedly grew and didn't stop. Then, thinking/feeling it was over, I relaxed. My body let go, and in that slackness another climax hit in a second, even stronger wave. My mind, overwhelmed, went blank. I don't mean that I lost consciousness — not at all. But the level of pleasure was so high, so global, that I was pushed beyond words, beyond analysis, beyond any articulation.
I lay there, spent, like a rag doll. If I had any energy left in, I'd be trembling and shaking, but I didn't. Like I said, I was spent. And shocked.
Wayne lay atop me panting, catching his breath, coming down, cooling off, kissing me over and over.
I wanted nothing more in that moment than to climb out from underneath him and go wash myself. I wanted to find a trampoline where I could jump stiff-legged, like I'd seen Queen Victoria do in a limited TV series, in hopes of shaking out a pregnancy, of keeping it from taking hold.
But I didn't. I doubt that the jumping would work, although it would probably make me feel a little better — at least I'd have tried something! But... the real reason I didn't? I didn't want to seem rude or ungrateful. So, instead, I waited. While I waited, patting his back and ruffling his hair from time to time, his breating slowed. Then his breathing deepened, and next — he fell asleep! He fell asleep on top of me!
He was too big and heavy for me to push off. I couldn't slide out from underneath him because I was blocked: Directly above my head an arm of the couch stole all my wiggle room. I was trapped. Luckily, I had no trouble breathing. Go figure.
What to do? I felt sure he'd shift or roll off at some point, although rolling off would mean falling on the floor. Falling on the floor might wake his parents.
So I waited. At least I didn't need to use the bathroom.
At some point, I too fell asleep.
I woke to find myself still trapped by Wayne's dense and muscular body. Apparently he hadn't moved or changed position all night long. It was still dark outside, and my alarm hadn't gone off yet. I had it set for 6:30, to give myself plenty of time to get ready for my first day on the job. No need for concern there, yet. On the other hand, my right foot had fallen asleep, and I needed to use the bathroom. "Wayne?" I softly called, but he kept right on sleeping, his breath deep and even. I poked and prodded him. I called his name, I hissed his name, but nothing would rouse him. I tugged his hair and twisted his ear. No joy.
At last I decided there was nothing for it but to roll him off me — even if it meant his landing heavily on the floor. But how to do it? My legs were under his legs. Only my arms were free, but I couldn't get any leverage there, either. I wiggled and twisted every part of my body. It didn't help me escape, and it had the unfortunate collateral effect of arousing Wayne in his sleep. I quit my wiggling and lay still, waiting for his tumescence to subside.
All I could do was wait. At some point my wake-up alarm would sound, and hopefully Wayne would stir.
I waited and waited. I desperately needed to pee. I began to groan and gasp with the effort of holding it in. I considered just lettting it go, and peeing on Wayne's parents' sectional. It was leather; I should be able to wipe it up and clean it off...
When will my alarm go off? I cried out silently to myself.
Then it hit me: my phone was upstairs, in my bag, in Wayne's bedroom. Shit. I had to get up there before it went off.
"Wayne! Wayne! Wayne!" I croaked hoarsely. I needed to wake him without waking the rest of the house. While I quietly barked his name, I tickled his armpits and ribs.
"Wah, wha, huh?" he grunted. "Wass happenin'?" While he mumbled incoherently, he managed to make enough space beneath him for me to execute a desperate maneuver. With one hand on the couch's arm, and the other on gripping the couch's base, I tugged and pushed with all my might, and in one smooth slip I was able to slide my body to freedom. Once I escaped from under him, he collapsed back onto the couch and fell right back asleep, as if nothing had happened.
For a moment I lay on the floor, soaked by our combined perspiration. As I gathered my wits, his hand descended and very nearly closed around my leg. I scooted backwards on butt until I was safely out of reach.
My right foot was still asleep. I had no feeling in that foot. Was it unhealthy for it to be in that state for so long? I pinched and shook the foot. It was warm, but it was dead to all feeling. I could have stuck a pin anywhere from my ankle on down and not felt a thing. It felt as though I was touching someone else's foot, not my own.
I worked on it for a bit, massaging, shaking, rubbing. No change. And I still needed to use the bathroom.
I got to my feet and nearly fell right back down, but I caught myself, leaning on the couch. It was a weird sensation: it was like having a block of wood at the end of my leg.
I couldn't wait for the situation to change. Clutching one thing and another as I nobbled my way around that basement rec room.
Behind the bar I found a half bath. If you're not familiar with the term, it means a little room with a toilet and a sink. This particular one was also outfitted with a old, crusty hand towel, bent permanently into its draped position. I didn't touch it. I was afraid to.
But in that little room, in that basement space, I sat down and enjoyed the most glorious, pent-up wee I've ever had. It was absolutely true to the phrase "relieving oneself." Oh, lord, was I relieved.
Next came my Mission: Impossible. I had to sneak upstairs and retrieve my clothes and belongings before my alarm went off. How much time did I have? There was no away of knowing.
So: up the stairs, no problem. Nary a squeak. Into the kitchen, no problem. The door opened smoothly and quietly. The clock on the stove read 6:27. Shit! But then again, the clock on the microwave read 4:35.
Next, how to find Wayne's room? I remembered that we'd left the door open, so that was a major clue. As I pictured last night in my memory, it seemed that all the other doors in that hallway were shut. Shouldn't be hard to find, then.
In fact, it wasn't hard at all. After two quick two turns, I found myself in the same hall, and the same door left open. I padded inside. Wayne's bedroom. No doubt. There was my dress on the bed, my underwear on the desk, my shoes on the floor, but where was my bag?
Naturally, it was exactly 6:30 when I asked myself that question, and my phone began to chime: a silly, ding-a-ling-ding-dong melody meant to softly wake me. But where was the damn thing? At first frantic, I scanned the room, looking everywhere (or so I thought), but finding nothing. Then, calmly, I stood and listened, turning slowly until I realized...
There! My little backpack sat on a shelf, high up on the wall. Why did Wayne put it all the way up there?
I snatched it down, fumbled with the flap, fished out the phone, and killed the alarm. Whew. Was my mission successful? At that moment it seemed so: I hadn't heard a sound from the rest of the house. Thank God, thank God, thank God.
6:30, and all is well.
Then I turned, and there in the doorway stood Ross, Wayne's father, his mouth hanging open.
I, for my part, stood in the center of Wayne's bedroom, as naked as a person could be. I held my phone in both hands in front of my chest, but the sight of him so startled me that I dropped my phone to the floor. It landed with a fairly quiet bounce on the rug, but in any case, Ross had already seen and could now see everything there was to see. I had no secrets from him, at least anatomically speaking. I gaped at him, frozen, voiceless, with no idea of what to say or do. I didn't cover my breasts and privates; it didn't occur to me, and would have been pointless anyway.
Ross was slightly less surprised than me: after all, he'd been able to study my backside as I searched for my phone and fished it out of my bag. He held up both hands, in a gesture of surrender or harmlessness, and he backed away, out of sight.
I retrieved my phone, dropped it into my bag, and gathered up my clothes. Before I left the room, I checked three times that I had everything: dress, bag, shoes, underwear (both pieces!). Dress, bag, shoes, underwear. Then I scurried back downstairs.
The reason I didn't immediately dress myself was this: Although by now it had dried, when I first slid out from under Wayne, I was drenched in sweat - both his and mine. I couldn't bring myself to put my clothes — especially that beautiful dress — over my skin in that state.
But of course, I couldn't face using that crusty old hand towel, so I rummaged around the rec room until I found a clean bar towel and three tea towels. With those and what remained of an ancient bar of hotel-size soap, I managed to give myself something like a sponge bath. I did the best I could.
After I dressed, I regarded Wayne. He was still down for the count. I shook him. I called his name. I pinched his ear. Nothing. I considered giving his ass a good hard slap, but knew that they'd hear it upstairs. I thought about leaving a note, but didn't. I figured he didn't need one.
And then—!
Next to the bar, there was a door. A metal door, without a window. With a little effort, I tugged it open and found myself outside! And if that didn't beat all, the door opened — and shut — with hardly a sound.
Oh, Wayne.
Though I was dressed, I hadn't put my shoes on yet. I didn't want to clip-clop down the driveway. I made my way barefoot through the grass down to the road. I wiped my soles with the bar towel (which I'd brought along for just that reason), and slipped my shoes on. Then I clip-clopped away from Wayne's house until I was stood in front of my old house. Hopefully no one would see me.
I pulled out my phone and was about to open the Uber app. But then... a car came rolling down Wayne's driveway. Ross, Wayne's father, my old neighbor, was at the wheel.
He pulled up next to me, rolled down the window, and asked, "Would you like a ride somewhere... Anson?"
[ Melanie Brown’s Switcher Universe ]
by Iolanthe Portmanteaux
Ross pulled up next to me, rolled down the window, and asked, "Would you like a ride somewhere... Anson?"
My first thought was: It's only Thursday morning.
Thursday morning! Not even a week since I encountered the Switcher! Almost a week... nearly a week. And in that almost-a-week, so many emotions, so many new experiences. So much that was new, so much to get used to... a whole new person to be.
But honestly, as interesting and amazing as my experiences have been, it was beginning to get a little tiresome. Could I just go through ONE DAY without experiencing something new? Without having to sift through an avalanche of conflicting, confusing feelings? Without having to figure out how to respond, what to do and what to say?
So, Thursday... Sure, Thursday! Why should today be any different? Today, like every other day this week, I was astonished. Unprepared. Beset by a cascade, a kaleidoscope of feelings and emotions — no, I was beset by cascading kaleidoscopes of feelings, emotions, reactions, imprecations, reservations...
What I wanted to do was to simply and politely tell Ross, Could you just fuck the hell off right now? Could we sort this out a week from now? A month from now? A year from now? How about NEVER? Would that work for you? Whatever on earth this is, could you cut me a little slack? Just for today, my dear old ex-next-door-neighbor?
Yeah — unfortunately, though, quite unfortunately — even though today was the only the sixth day of the rest of my life, for Ross it was only Thursday: the day after yesterday, the day before tomorrow. Just another day. And as Jesus put it, "Sufficient unto the day are the problems thereof."
For Ross, I was one of the "problems thereof" and today was sufficient for dealing with me and the horse I rode in on.
Anyway, as the fellow told me at the processing center, being switched wasn't a get out of jail free card. I didn't have an I've Been Switched! certificate to wave in Ross' face.
But most of all, the thing that decided my next move was a feeling. There, amidst all the feelings I felt as I stood there in the street, gaping like an idiot, the feeling that stood out the most was the feeling that I'd been caught.
Caught, yes. Maybe I'd been caught doing something wrong. Maybe. Arguably? At least it wasn't something I could be arrested for. Wayne was an adult. His level of maturity was another question, but as far as age, in the eyes of the law, Wayne had both feet firmly planted in his majority. He was an adult, whether he behaved like one or no.
And yet, Ross caught me. He caught me out, literally: I was out there, out on the street.
And sure, I felt guilty. Or maybe not guilty, exactly. Maybe I just felt stupid, and guilty was the next closest feeling.
So when Ross said, "Don't just stand there. Get in the car!" I opened the passenger door and climbed in.
I didn't want to seem rude.
After sneaking into the man's house at night and — in his eyes, maybe — after grabbing his son by the hormones, and having my way with him... I didn't want to seem ill-mannered.
So I got in the car.
"I thought you'd be grateful," Ross told me. "I'm sparing you your walk of shame."
"At least part of it," I muttered.
He ignored what I said — or maybe he just didn't hear. He asked me where I was going, and when I told him Teteree, he commented, "Fancy!" and steered the car in that direction.
And then... I waited for the next question. I expected Ross to ask me Why Teteree? or how I'd landed there, or who was I staying with? A friend, maybe a male friend? But he didn't seem to want to know any of that.
Instead, while I sat there expectant, he turned for a moment to look at me, and I felt the most curious thing: It was as though I could see an app, a filter, activate in his mind's eye. It was a filter that subtracted all my clothes and let Ross see me utterly naked.
I was sure that's what developed in his head. It wasn't as though he made any effort to undress me in his imagination, though; it was purely, totally automatic. And I felt it. I wanted to cover myself, but it would have done no good. He had a perfectly accurate 3D map of my naked body, uploaded into his memory while he stood in the doorway of Wayne's bedroom, watching me scurry around searching for my telephone.
Looking to change the subject — or to find a subject — I asked him, "How did you know who I am?"
He laughed. "I am your neighbor, you know." He smiled, turning his eyes back to the road ahead. "Or I was. I saw you walking the other day with Mukti."
"By the way—" he interrupted himself— "Do you mind if I call him Mukti?"
"No, it's fine. It'll be less confusing."
"And you're going by... Merope now?"
"Yes, I'm Merope," I replied.
"Merope. Yes... well... you were wearing those short shorts..." he grinned and gave me a look. "I had to find out the name that went along with those legs—" he shot me another clothes-removing look— "So I called Anson — or I thought I was calling Anson — and I asked him the age-old question: Who was that lady I saw you with? and he replied, That was no lady — that was Anson Charpont!" He followed his narration with a throaty chuckle.
"Huh," I grunted, and shifted in my seat, uselessly tugging the hem of my dress down toward my knees.
"I had my doubts, of course, but Pamela spoke with Cleo later... in any case, to say I was surprised is an understatement. I thought I couldn't be MORE surprised until I saw you this morning... hunting for your phone in your birthday suit."
He flashed me another smile. "Or should I say your second birthday suit?" He paused and drew a deep breath. "In any case, you were naked. Very naked. You couldn't have been more naked." I could see from the expression on his face that the scene was replaying in his mind's eye.
"Yeah," I muttered. "Sorry."
"Oh, don't be sorry! Please don't be sorry. You've really made my day. Or my week? Or month?"
"Um," I replied, feeling uncomfortable. Where was Ross going with this? Was he hoping to follow his son into my secret garden? Or what?
"So," on a sudden inspiration I tossed out a tangent: "Does Pamela know?"
"Oh, of course she does." He grinned to himself. "Do you know what's funny? She knows... she knew... Mukti. She actually took yoga classes from him when he taught at her health club. She said he's one of the best teachers, and she's looking forward to when he starts teaching again."
"And you—" Ross went on. "What are you going to do?"
"I'm going back to my old job," I told him. "Programming. In fact, today's my first day back."
"Hmmph," he said. "That isn't what I meant, though. I meant, are you going to be sleeping around? Preying on susceptible young men? Or just men in general?"
My mouth went dry. For a moment I didn't know what to say. Words didn't come. But then I found myself with exactly the right reply:
"Ross, would you let me out here? Right up here? Thanks." Right here, as it happens, was nowhere in particular. Just a suburban corner. "I can call an Uber."
My request caught him up short. He realized that he'd gone too far.
"Wait, no," he temporized. "Hold on: I'm sorry. I didn't mean— it's just that..." He paused to find a good starting point.
"Okay, look: I apologize. I didn't— I wasn't— I mean, I guess this whole thing has been confusing for you. Your whole life has gone topsy-turvy, hasn't it."
"Well, yeah."
"And then, to end up female on top of all of the rest of it... that's got to add confusion on top of confusion, doesn't it."
"Ah..." I almost felt like explaining... I almost caught myself talking about hormones, pheromones, about how I was never wild when I was Anson... but his phrase confusion on top of confusion struck me the wrong way, so I kept my explanations to myself.
Ross didn't notice. He was too busy NOT stopping; he continued to drive, as though I hadn't asked to be let out.
"Actually, I was curious about something. I didn't feel that I could ask Cleo or Mukti, but if you don't mind my asking you: your house, your car, your bank account... all your assets... what happens to them?"
"Mukti is Anson now," I replied. "They all belong to him."
"Hmmph." After a pause: "And does that mean that Mukti is *married* to Cleo? If not in fact, at least... legally?"
I gave him an irritated look, that he missed entirely. "By in fact, do you mean, have they had sex?"
We stopped for a red light. Ross took advantage of the moment to give me a lofty, supercilious look. "I wouldn't be too quick to throw stones in that particular arena, if I were you."
"I'm not throwing stones," I retorted. "I'm just asking what you meant." He opened his mouth to answer, but I cut him off. "Legally they are married. Mukti is Anson Charpont, for all intents and purposes. Whatever that means between him and Cleo is none of my business."
"That's very... open minded of you, I'm sure," Ross commented.
We drove in silence for a bit. I studied Ross' face, trying to understand what he wanted. I mean, not what he wanted from me, but what he wanted from the situation, from the conversation. Was he upset? Was he amused? Was he curious? I couldn't read him.
Finally, to break the silence, I offered, "About last night—"
Ross cut me off. "Let's make one thing clear: I don't want to talk about my son."
HIs son? "Okay," I ventured. "But if it's any consolation, I feel like an idiot."
He gave me a few seconds of incredulous stare, his eyebrows raised. "I don't need consolation," he replied. "I mean, you're the adult in that equation. What I need, what I hope, is that you'll behave like one."
I didn't know what to make of that.
I tried to put myself in Ross' shoes, but couldn't make the psychological adjustment. I, too had a son: Herman. But Herman had never snuck anyone into our house, young or old, male or female. Or, at least, if he had, Cleo and I were never aware of it...
Ross sighed. "So, what are your plans for today?"
"It's my first day of work at my old job," I replied. "I told you."
"Oh, right. Forgot."
"What about you?"
"I work remotely now, and my first meeting isn't until ten. So I have some latitude."
We were getting closer to Teteree. "What will you tell Pamela, if she asks you where you've been?" I ventured.
"I'll tell her the truth," he said.
"Even about seeing me naked?"
He shrugged. "Sure."
"Is she ever jealous?"
"I've never given her reason to be."
Despite his answers, I couldn't help but wonder whether he was going to proposition me, or make a move.
And did "making a move" imply doing something physical? If so, what would he do? I've never "made a move," so I didn't know what was involved.
And if he did, how would I react?
"We're coming up on Teteree," Ross observed. "Now what?"
"Um, you can let me out here, at the light." I said. "It's close enough to walk, and I can spare you all the one-way streets and funny turns."
"I appreciate that," he said, although I wasn't sure he did.
He stopped to let me out. I opened the door, but I had to ask: "Ross, did you hear that window last night—?"
He rolled his eyes and said, "Get out of here," in what I think he hoped was a tone both jocular and dismissive.
After he drove off, I finally got it. I finally figured out his emotional setting. Ross was angry. Angry and jealous.
And... I was cured in that moment of my infatuation with Wayne. In fact, I never set foot in that house again.
What followed (from that point until after lunch) was essentially a normal day. NOW, I felt as though today was the first day of the rest of my life. I would like it be, if I could take it as a template. The weather was picture-perfect: blue sky, clean, crisp air, the faintest whisper of a breeze, and a temperature of 74 degrees.
As I walked to Femke's apartment, every single man I passed said Good morning to me. Not "hello"; not anything salacious, or thirsty, or lustful. Just a civil morning greeting. I felt respected, appreciated.
It seemed so life-affirming.
Femke wasn't home, so I dawdled a bit in the bathroom, getting ready. Thankfully I'd already chosen my outfit: the black flared pants with a sleeveless cream-colored top. And the black flats that I meant to wear last night. I liked the overall effect: attractive, but not provocative. Professional, but not cold.
Again, my neck and wrists seemed bare. I was going to have to accessorize soon.
Earrings, too.
Then, after another short walk to my car, I drove to work in a calm, almost leisurely mood. I felt good.
In the office, my presence created a bit of a stir at first, but I spent most of the morning in a room with a woman from the company that does our benefits. I was filling out paperwork — literal pieces of paper — signing up for benefits, putting my direct-deposit into place, and so on.
I took over my old desk, which (to my surprise) needed an complete cleaning. It wasn't so much dirty as dusty, and my computer monitor was absolutely covered with fingerprints. I'm assuming they were my own. Did I really touch the screen that much?
After spending an hour going through Anson's emails, and taking over his client contacts (as though I were a new employee). As I did so, I put together a list of systems I'd need access to. Most of Anson's accounts were (quite rightly) locked when he/I left the company, and I needed new accounts in my own name with the same levels of permissions that I formerly enjoyed.
I stood and took the list to Dave, whose desk was opposite my own. "Hey, Dave. I need some accounts created. I've got a list here..."
To make a long story short, Dave — like all the other coders — was about to start his lunch. I'd forgotten: we coders had all, long ago, gotten into the habit of eating lunch at our desks. It was economical, and often we had to work through lunch. Today, for my part, I'd brought nothing, and Dave, for his part, was just about to begin eating.
Still, he took my list, smoothed it out next to his keyboard, and told me, "First thing... after lunch."
I went outside, to a nearby sandwich shop, and sat down to a generously-sized Cobb salad.
That's as far as I got with my "normal" day: maybe five or so hours, from the moment I stepped out of Ross' car, to the moment my cell phone rang.
I dug the phone out of my backpack and looked at it. An unknown number. I picked it up and said "Hello?"
"Uh, hello," a strong male voice responded. He sounded a trifle uncertain, but only a trifle. "Is this, uh, Merope Goddard?"
"Speaking," I replied. "Who is this?"
"I'm the— I'm— Oh, dammit to hell! I'm Merope Goddard."
"Oh! Wow! Okay," I replied, after I caught my breath. "How are you doing?"
As old Merope spoke, in her clear male voice, I could hear another person there, with her: a young female voice, in the background, muttering to old Merope. She clearly had no idea that I could hear her.
"No chit-chat!" she hissed. "Stick to business! Don't stay on the phone too long!"
Old Merope took a breath, and tried to sound airy and dismissive: "I'm just peachy. But it doesn't matter. I think you have some things that belong to me. I'd like to have them back."
"Um, yeah, sure," I replied. "I'll be happy to give you your things. But first... can you tell me something so I know you're really Merope? Something only Merope would know? Like... what color is your car?"
"Yellow. I have a yellow Toyota Corolla." She sounded a little puzzled. "Do you have it now?"
I heard the young woman go pffft! impatiently. She whispered, "You don't need that car! You don't need it!"
"Tell me one more thing. Something only Merope would know."
The girl hissed: "Ask her about the pen. Does she have the pen?"
Aloud, old Merope: "Do you have my pen?"
"Your beautiful $600 pen? Yes, I've got it."
In the background, a whisper: "Tell her to bring the pen. And everything else."
"I heard," I told him. "I'll bring the pen. I've also got your Monopoly pieces and your money."
Old Merope, surprised: "My money?"
At the same moment, the voice in background: "Fuck that Monopoly crap! And fuck her Monopoly money! We don't *need* her fucking money! We're not a charity case! Ask her about the IP!"
IP? Later on, I figured she meant Intellectual Property.
Old Merope: "Do you have the, um, prototypes and the USB drive?"
Me: "Prototypes? You mean the cylinders?"
The girl scoffed. Old Merope answered: "Yes, the... cylinders."
"I have your USB drive, but the Switcher took the cylinders."
The young girl swore, briefly but strongly. Honestly, I was a little shocked — both by her language and by the violence in her expression. I heard her hit something three times, hard, with her fist... probably a table. Then, sotto voce: "Okay, okay. We need the USB. The USB is enough. Tell her."
"What about the love letter?" I threw that in, the way you drop a stone down a well: to see how deep it is. "Do you want me to bring that as well?"
"The love letter?" Old Merope was struck, surprised.
The girl: "Did she read that? Did she read that? The bitch!"
Old Merope, scrambling a little, to close the conversation: "Okay. Listen. Can we meet? Let's meet tonight at -- do you know-- do you know Braeke's Height? Am I saying that right? Braeke's Height? At seven o'clock tonight. And bring all the stuff."
I considered for a quick moment. "Okay. I'll be there. With all your stuff. But listen, can I ask you a few things?"
The girl in the background make a weird zzzt! zzzt! zzzt! noise — probably to tell old Merope to cut the conversation short.
"I've got to go. I can't stay on the phone too long. But... tonight. We can talk tonight. Braeke's Height, seven o'clock. Will you be there?"
"Yes."
"Just you, okay? Only you."
"I'm bringing a friend," I declared.
"No. No friend."
"You're bringing a friend; I'm bringing a friend. If I can't bring a friend, then I'm not coming."
A few seconds of stunned silence was followed by some whispered discussion. Then: "Okay. One friend. No cops. Don't forget: bring the USB."
Click.
[ Melanie Brown’s Switcher Universe ]
by Iolanthe Portmanteaux
As you might easily imagine, I had a hard time concentrating on my work after lunch.
I did manage to get my work done, though, in patches. My brain would whirl in anticipation of tonight's meeting with Merope... but after ten or fifteen minutes lost in the future, the thread of imagination would weaken. At that point, I'd come back to the present and get back to work for a spell.
Old work habits kicked in, and in particular a phrase that I coined for myself: Being professional means doing your job well, no matter how you feel.
I came up with that gem after a conversation with a co-worker who used to play college football. He mentioned one morning that he spent a half-hour each day psyching himself up before coming to work.
"What do you mean, psyching yourself up?" I asked.
He looked at me as though I was from another planet, then explained, as if talking to a child, "I need passion to do my job. If you don't have passion, it isn't worthwhile." He shook his head, put his hand on my shoulder, and said, "You wouldn't understand."
Passion? I didn't need to have passion for my job. I didn't *want* to have passion for my job. It's a job!
The idea of having do mind games with yourself every morning—! I couldn't conceive of it. In my mind — only in my mind, never to his face — I told him, Okay, passion is fine, but I've got something better: it's called being professional.
Even so, in spite of my slogan, in spite of my good intentions, I was all over the place. Still, I kept coming back to my work. Today I needed to get organized, to get my system accounts into order. My to-do list crept onto two pages, and started growing branches.
There were several programming projects that needed my attention: fixing bugs and adding features, mainly. I decided to put those efforts off until Monday, knowing that once I dove into a program, it could be hours before I'd surface.
Then, each time I'd raise my head and take a breath, I'd think about tonight.
I had told Merope and her whispering friend that I was bringing someone with me. One person, one friend. Was I, though? I'd only said it on the spur of the moment, because I was irritated by the whispering voice over old Merope's shoulder.
On a separate piece of paper, I started a second list: I created a to-do list for tonight. The first item was a question: Who to bring? In my head I replayed that whispering little-girl voice: "Did she read that? Did she read that? The bitch!"
I scowled at the memory.
Dave, whose desk obliquely faces mine, caught my abrupt change of expression, and called out, "Something wrong, there, Merope? Anything I can help you with?"
"No, Dave, I'm good. Thanks for asking."
He nodded, pleased with himself.
Then, for some reason, it suddenly struck me: The voice, the person with old Merope — It must to be Laura! It *had* to be! Laura, the girl from the processing center, the eighteen-year-old who ended up in her boyfriend's body.
I contemplated the daisy chain. There couldn't be many people from Harmish behind me on the chain...
Laura, Pete, and the homeless guy in the blue shorts — they all came before me. They all came before Merope.
Laura and Pete got switched on Thursday evening. I got switched on Friday, after lunch.
Merope came before me, and now she was a man... So what did that mean? Which man was she? At a minimum, the Switcher hit Laura, an unknown man, Merope, me. In that order.
I gasped. I gaped with the sudden realization. Dave, noticing, sat up straighter and was about to ask me—
I pre-empted him. "Dave, it's fine. I just figured out some tricky logic in one of my programs. Just, um, chill, okay?"
"Okay," he acquiesced. "Just trying to be helpful!"
"Dave, if I need help, you'll be the first person I'll ask, okay?"
He nodded and returned to his work.
I took my smaller to-do list, the one for tonight, and at the bottom of the sheet wrote:
Blue-shorts guy => Pete => Laura => Boyce? => Merope => me
It made sense, right? Boyce being the guy who wrote the embarrassing love letter. I must have unconsciously understood that when I mentioned the love letter on the phone. No wonder the girl was stung when I brought it up!
I returned to my work for a few minutes, until, again, my mind strayed. I took tonight's list and wrote down all the items I had to bring; all of Merope's stuff that I was giving back to her.
I'd need to stop at an ATM to make up the money I'd spent. I didn't need Merope's money, and I sure didn't feel like it was mine to keep. Between Femke's hospitality and the money Mukti and Cleo had given me, I'd have no problem waiting for my paychecks to begin. For money, luckily, happily, I was fine.
ATM, then: I wrote ATM on my list.
As far as the fake IDs, I'd already cut them in pieces and scattered them in various trash bins around town. There was no way I could feel badly about that. Besides, it would be impossible for the now-male Merope to use them!
There, I stopped, I blew out a breath and tapped the page with my pen. The next item to consider was the USB drive.
What should I do with it? Should I keep it? Should I send it to the FBI?
I felt my lips twist sideways in disdain. The FBI didn't want to hear about it when I took the trouble of driving out to see them. Instead, they treated me like some sort of loon.
No, I wasn't sending the USB drive to the FBI. In the unlikely event that they asked me about it, I'll tell them that I tossed it. Or lost it. Or — better yet — I'll tell them that I mailed it to them. Let them think that they are the ones who lost it. Yeah. In fact, they didn't ask me to bring it to them. They told me to send it. Not as though they cared, though. "Yeah, send it: we'll put it in a file somewhere."
No, thanks. If the FBI didn't give a damn about it, I might as well give the USB drive back to Merope. Maybe the gesture would help me find out what the damn cylinders were all about.
And then... Laura. I wrote Laura? on my list. I was pretty curious to find out who was Laura now. Was Boyce having as much trouble adapting to his new gender as old Laura was having? It sounded that way. The intense, angry fire in her whispers and commands... she sounded crabby as hell. Resentful. She sounded like a spoiled teenager: seething, offended by everything. I pictured a little girl with balled-up fists, stamping her little foot. Hard to picture the whispering witch as the guy who penned the abject love letter.
Okay, that's Laura.
My next question for myself was: who to bring tonight? Rowan? Femke?
They said "no cops" — and Rowan does look like a cop; he absolutely does — but who are they to tell me who I can and cannot bring?
Then again, I don't want to scare them off. And... I want them to talk to me. I don't want to simply hand over a goodie bag and watch them leave.
So, no to Rowan.
Femke? Okay, Femke is formidable. She's loyal and true and I know she has my back. I love having her on my side, but at the same time she can be a loose cannon. A very loose cannon. She could say anything, even something unintentionally offensive that ends up shutting down the whole negotation.
So no to Femke.
Rowan and Femke weren't my only possibilities, though. Javier, for instance. Yeah, he would come, I'm pretty sure, but no. Not Javier. He's too focused on justice, on doing things by the book. I was pretty sure that tonight would go way off book. So, no: not Javier.
One name, one possibility, got me thinking: Mukti. Mukti might be a great choice! He'd definitely provide a jovial, calming influence. He radiates trust. Also, he's pretty good at reading his audience, and he definitely doesn't look like a cop.
On the other hand, he could easily go off on a long tangent, one that prevents me from getting answers to my own questions. Or... he might — I thought with a laugh — he might, right out of the blue, grab somebody's shoulder and give them a Vulcan death squeeze.
I stroked my chin. Probably best to go by myself.
But all way up to Braeke's Height?
Braeke's Height. If you're not from around here, or not interested in leaf-peeping, The name probably means nothing to you.
"Leaf-peeping" is all about traveling to view the change in autumn foliage. If you're into that, you've probably seen pictures taken from Braeke's Height. It's iconic. The Height is a hill that rises to the northwest of Harmish. It has an incredible, far-as-the-eye-can-see view of gentle hills and forests teeming with deciduous trees. There's a panoramic lookout at the top with a huge parking lot. By day, it's beautiful. At sunset, it's spectacular. At night, though, you can't see a damn thing.
In fact, there are some local jokes about "the view from Braeke's Height at night" — not very funny jokes, but they underline the fact that once the sun is gone, the Height becomes a desolate, deserted — even spooky — location. It's a long drive and a steep climb to get there, so no one goes there. No one uses it as a Lover's Lane. No one even does drug deals up there. It's too far; too out of the way.
Probably the old Merope — or more likely, the new Laura — wanted to meet up there so we'd be sure of being alone. The sunset crowd would evaporate once twilight begins to fade.
I didn't want to make the drive up and back, especially in the dark, but I was too curious to say no to old Merope's invitation. There was so much I wanted to ask her! So much I wanted to know!
I jotted my questions on my to-do list.
However, in spite of the plan, in spite of my to-do list, the situation changed at around three that afternoon. Abruptly, the winds reversed direction and began to blow, hard. Gray clouds down from Canada covered the sky and within minutes were replaced by a dark, opaque canopy. In a matter of minutes, we moved from brilliant, beautiful day to bleak, nearly dismal, night.
I stood at the window, watching the coming storm fold itself over the scene. My nose wasn't pressed against the glass, but all ten fingertips rested against it. When nature gets its back up, it's hard to look away. The transformation was dramatic, almost melodramatic. As I watched, people scurried out of our office park, like mice by the dozen escaping a pack of feral cats. They ran to their cars, even though the rain hadn't started. They fumbled open their car doors, hopped inside, and took off in a rush. The parking lot was quickly emptying out.
Flee from the wrath to come, I told myself... and hearing myself, reacted: Who's being melodramatic now?
In any case...
"Hey," I called to my co-workers, "People are leaving the building. Look at them, how they're running! All the good spaces are opening up!"
"Will ya look at that!" Dave interjected.
I continued: "I'm going down to move my car closer. I'm gonna grab my umbrella while I'm at it."
Dave consulted his phone. He gave a low whistle. "There's a severe weather advisory." He read some of the details, then called out, "Hey, Leon, do you mind if we take off? It's going to get pretty bad out there. All of us are set up to work remotely, anyway. Oh, well, I don't know about you, Merope — but the rest of us, yeah."
"Yes, go," Leon agreed, after looking out the window and consulting his phone. "Some of you have a long drive ahead... so yeah, take off now; see if you can beat the rain."
No one needed to be told twice. In less than a minute they were gone, leaving me alone with Leon.
"You should go, too," he said. "From the sound of things, if you don't go now, you could end up spending the night here." He rolled his eyes. "NOT a great option. Take off, now. Go. You don't want to get stuck somewhere."
"Yeah, thanks, Leon." I agreed. "I'm off."
"By the way," he said as I gathered my things, "Just so you know: On Monday we're going to put your photo on the company website."
"Just mine?" I asked, curious, half-laughing.
"No, of course not. That would be weird, and probably... well, anyway, no. We're creating a new page for our coding team. It was Carrie's idea."
I chuckled.
"The thing is, we can't show *you* off without putting the other mugs — the rest of the coders — up there."
"Makes sense," I said.
"Also — and again, just so you know — I've gotten some feedback from your contacts with our clients—"
"Already? I haven't even worked a full day yet! What do they say?"
"Well, it's all positive. That fact that you're a young Cobol programmer helps sell the idea that the language is far from dead."
I nodded. "I get that."
"And of course, I shouldn't say, but they're excited by the fact that you're female. Some of them were pretty curious about, um, about your physical appearance, you could say."
"My what?" I chuckled.
"They wanted to know whether you're attractive." He told me in as even, as neutral, a tone as he could manage.
"Our clients asked you whether I'm good-looking?"
"No, of course not! That would be entirely inappropropriate! They tried to find ways to ask without asking, if you get my meaning. And I wouldn't — I didn't — answer the, uh, the, uh, unasked question."
I grunted assent, but honestly I didn't see how anyone could "ask without asking." Still, it hardly mattered.
He raised his hand to pat me on the shoulder, but stopped himself mid-gesture. He ran his hand through his hair instead. "Anyway... go, get out of here! I'm leaving in a minute. You should leave now, too!"
I don't know how it's possible for one drop of rain to fall at a time, but it happens. As I approached my car, one big, fat drop landed with a splat on the parking lot, not ten feet in front of me. The rest of the ground was bone dry. A second drop landed loudly off to my right. A third one struck the back of my hand as I unlocked my car door.
I settled myself in my car, arranging my bag on the passenger seat, fastening my seat belt, putting the key in the ignition, and then the deluge began.
In a slow build-up, one full, heavy drop after another hit my windshield, staccato, building rapidly in tempo: plop! plop! plop-plop! plop-plop-plop-plop! plop-plop plippity-plop-plop! until the god of rain grew tired of teasing. He gave up even the pretense of restraint and bombarded my car, the road, the landscape, and all the known world in river of endless rain.
"Oh, Noah!" I groaned. "Wherefore art thou, Noah?"
Clearly, there was no shortage of water up there in the sky, and whatever force of magic or nature that usually kept it suspended, well, today was their holiday. Gallons of water, buckets of water, tons of water — nothing held them back. The invisible dam in the sky left its spillway off the latch, and Greater Harmish was in for the drenching of a decade.
The rain came heavy and thick. It came constant, not in waves. The air was super-saturated. Visibility was, for all intents, zero. In spite of that, I started my car and slowly moved forward until I reached the row of bushes at the edge of the parking lot. I turned right and kept the hedge visible at my left shoulder until I found the exit to the road.
I've driven in dense, thick fog. I've driven into the wind in a heavy snowstorm. Both experiences were bad. Both experiences were frightening, but let me tell you: torrential rain is far worse. At least in the fog and the snow you can see something, even if it's terrifyingly close. Rain, on the other hand, not only cut visibility, it also distorts whatever comes close enough to be seen — it's like putting on a pair of coke-bottle glasses. Shapes, when there are shapes, get pulled, twisted, and grotesquely elongated like images on stretchy film. I almost said like fun-house mirrors, but unfortunately fun-house mirrors show an image much closer to reality.
Well, there was ONE thing I could see; one category of things: I could see the iights from other cars. White headlights. Red tail lights. I followed the car in front of me. He seemed to be going in the right direction, my direction.
In any case, even if I was going the wrong way, still, I was going somewhere. Stopping was not an option, until I got a better idea of where I was. I didn't want to stop in the middle of the road, if that's where I was.
Leon's comment about getting stuck at the office began to sound downright inviting.
Eventually the car in front of me led me under an overpass, which gave a brief respite from the incessant drumming. At last I could see! There wasn't any room to stop, though: every bit of parking at the curbside was taken by drivers who'd already given up and stopped here to wait out the rain.
Me, though? I knew a better place. I knew this overpass. I knew where I'd gotten to, and where I should go. It wasn't far.
In about a thousand feet I'd come to the Harmish train station. Now that my windscreen and my brain were clear, I set my GPS for the station parking lot. Even if *I* couldn't see, the GPS could.
Of course, I should have done that earlier — right from the start — but I guess I was taken too much by surprise.
Slowly, gingerly, I passed the car in front of me, left the shelter of the overpass, and dove back into the downpour.
My nerves taut, my eyes straining, I came at last to the parking lot entrance, and pulled inside. Blessed relief! Gratefully I turned off my wipers and looked for a parking space. The first two levels were full, but the third level was not. About three-quarters of the spaces were free.
Struck by a sudden idea, I drove up the fourth level. It was practically empty.
I picked a spot and got out of the car. I took a few moments to shake off the experience. The drive here was brief, but very intense.
Then I called Merope. Old Merope.
"Hi," I greeted her, "I'm the New Merope."
She actually laughed, which was a huge relief. "Okay," she replied. "Do you go by Merope now? Do you call yourself Merope Goddard?"
"Yes, I kind of have to. I used to be a man. My name was Anson. It's not a name that works for a girl."
"No." She thought for a moment, and offered "Ansonia?"
"That's a town in Connecticut," I told her. "And no. Just no."
"Hmm," she mused — or he mused. Old Merope's male voice was far too masculine for she.
"Okay," he said. "I felt a little weird using his name, but I guess you can me Boyce. Okay?"
"Sure," I agreed. "I think it makes things easier."
"I guess!"
"Yeah. So, Boyce, you-Boyce, did you switch with the Boyce who wrote the love letter?"
"Oh my God! Did you read that? Why did you read that? It was private!"
"Yes, sorry! I was looking for clues, to understand who you are... who I am now."
"Well, you're not me!" he contested, a little hotly.
"Sorry, but — not that I *want* to be, but I am you now." He was silent, digesting this, so I asked, "Did you go to a processing center? Or check in with anyone who deals with Switcher victims?"
"No. Boyce said not to."
"I see. Is Boyce there now? Are you two together?"
He sighed. "No. He — she — went out. She's on her period. It started last night, while she was sleeping. She really freaked out. I told her I would go get everything she needs, but no! You would not BELIEVE how stubborn he — she — can be! It's like... it's like she constantly wants to speak to the manager or something, do you know what I mean?"
I smiled to myself, but didn't comment. I asked, "Where did she go?"
"CVS."
"Um, oh God. Boyce... do you think she will actually complain to the manager at CVS?"
"About her period? I, uh — oh, God! Probably! Yes, I think she will!"
The two of us burst into laughter. I was just catching my breath when he cooed, "But it's not funny!" and *that* set the two of off again.
"Okay, look," I said. "The reason I called you is this: the weather is horrible, and as much as I want to meet you, there is no way I am driving all the way up to Braeke's Height in the dark in this rain."
"Yeah, it wasn't my idea—"
"Once the rain stops, whenever the rain stops, I have to go home to get your things. I have your pen, the expensive pen, the love letter, your monopoly pieces—"
"Oh!"
"—your money—"
"My money?" He sounded both surprised and hopeful. "Yes, you said yesterday—"
"Right. The Switcher didn't take it. I spent a little, but I'll stop at an ATM and replace that—"
"You're going to give me my money? All of it?"
"Well, yeah. It isn't mine."
"That's really nice of you."
"And I have the USB drive."
"Good. Boyce will be happy about that. But you really don't have the prototypes?"
"The cylinders? No, I told you earlier: the Switcher took them."
The rain lasted a solid three hours. Near the end I felt so hungry that I ventured across the open breezeway into the train station, looking for something to devour. The selection was embarrassingly small. I ended up settling for a three-for-two deal on hot dogs, but only managed to eat one and a half.
The first bite was fine. It was fun. I thought, wow, I haven't had a hot dog in so long!
Soon after, revulsion took over. I tossed the remaining dog bits into the trash. Luckily or unluckily, the horrible taste demolished my hunger.
I wandered the train station until the rain stopped. It was just after six-thirty.
Femke and Rowan were home when I got there. They took little notice of me until — after quickly changing into jeans, a t-shirt, and sneakers — I headed for the door.
"Hey, where are you off to?" Femke called.
"I'm going to meet Merope — the old Merope," I said. "And I've got to go, right now."
"Alone?" Femke and Rowan said at once. "We'll come with you!"
"It might be dangerous," Rowan cautioned.
"We could even call Javier," Femke offered in an artful tone.
I took a breath, about to explain myself — then thought better of it. "See yas!" I crooned, and took off out the door, before they had the time to follow.
The fourth level of the parking garage was still virtually empty when I returned. Merope arrived soon after me, driving a Benz. It must have been garaged during the rain, because — not only was it dry, I noticed that it was a little dusty, a little dirty. It could use a quick drive through a car wash. Or a drive in the rain. But... oh, well. Not my problem.
The two of stood behind her yellow Corolla. I tapped the trunk and said, "I was going to ask you whether you wanted your car, but it doesn't look like you need it."
"Naw," he said. "That's Boyce's car, obviously."
"How's she doing?" I asked.
"Well... I guess you wouldn't know this, but when Boyce got switched he ended up in the body of some random eighteen-year-old girl. She's actually really cute! Unfortunately that makes a huge contrast to Boyce's character, which is the exact opposite. And he's not adjusting to being female very well."
"Ah," I responded. Was the daisy chain complete at last? "Is the eighteen-year-old girl named Laura?"
"Yes! How on earth did you know?"
"I met her and her boyfriend Pete at the Switcher processing center. The old Laura ended up in her boyfriend's body, and she isn't adjusting well, either." Something Mukti said came to mind: "A friend of mine told me that the Switcher, even when he doesn't physically hurt people, he does a violence that sometimes has no remedy."
"That's very poetic," Boyce rejoined, a little drily. But it did affect her. He looked off in the distance, thinking. "I love Boyce, but now that his— his character is, you know, distilled or whatever, into this young woman's body... I'm seeing that he's really a big ball of resentments and complaints..."
He broke off. I waited a few beats, then asked, "So, what about you? Are you adjusting?"
He gave a little shrug and a little smile. "I'm okay. It's really different, being a guy. And my life up to now hasn't been so great." He lifted his arms as if showing off himself. "It's actually not bad, being a guy. In fact, it's a better than not bad. So far, I'm liking it. I feel like... people finally take me seriously for a change." He hesitated and studied my face for a moment. "Can I tell you something? It's a little embarrassing and stuff, but..."
"Go ahead."
"I really like having a penis," he confided. "I really do. It's like, the wildest add-on you can imagine." He leaned close, and grinning, told me, "I just want to piss on everything, everywhere. Do you know what I mean?"
"That's hilarious," I replied, chuckling.
"Did you feel that way, when you were a man?"
"Uh — did I feel that way? Oh God. Um, well hey — I get it. I understand the feeling. Hey, uh, did you know that Freud, when he talked about penis envy, he said it was about women not being able to put out a fire by—"
"—by peeing on it?" he was incredulous. I nodded. Scandalized, he cried, "Gross! That is the weirdest, most dumb-ass thing I've ever heard!"
"Is it?" I asked. "It kinda goes right along with what you just said."
"Pffft!" he shook his head.
"Okay — changing the subject: let me give you your stuff." I took a clear plastic bag out of my car — the one from the car wash — and handed it to him. It contained the envelope full of money, the Monopoly tokens ("You didn't need to give me those!"), the love letter, the USB drive, and the expensive pen.
Boyce ran his fingers over the pen's length, and frowned when he touched the cap. "Did you put this in your mouth?" he demanded. "Did you bite on this pen?"
"No," I responded, offended.
"Well, somebody did!" he retorted. "This is really going to piss off Boyce! Look! Touch it! Feel it! Somebody put their teeth on this pen!"
He passed the pen back to me, and as he did, our fingers touched. Ever so slightly.
Now, of all the things I've told you, you might find this the hardest to believe, but when my skin touched Boyce's, my breath caught in my throat, and a new sensation filled my entire body. All at once. It radiated through me: a sensation I have never felt before.
It was goodness, well-being, contentment. I want to say joy, but that might be too strong a word.
What it was, was CHEMISTRY. I know Boyce felt it, too. I could see it in his face. I took hold of his hand to see if I could feel it a second time. I did. And I liked it. I liked it a lot.
It wasn't like what I felt with Wayne. That was lust. Pure and simple. This was something more.
I looked into his eyes. In that moment, the world stood still. It really did, but only for a moment. A flicker of doubt twitched in his left eye, and he pulled his hand away.
"Stop it," he said.
"Okay," I breathed.
"I'm with Boyce," he insisted. "With Laura. Whatever. I'm in love with someone else. I'm involved."
He snatched the pen from my hand and dropped it into the bag.
"Okay," I said. "I didn't mean anything—"
"Thanks for all the stuff," he interrupted gruffly. "I guess that's everything — and this is goodbye."
"Goodbye?" I exclaimed. "Why does it have to be goodbye?"
He gestured helplessly. "I don't know! What else could it be?"
"Wait!" I called as he headed for his car. "I have questions!"
He gave me a confused, conflicted look, so I thought quickly.
"Two questions. Can I ask you just two questions?"
"Okay," he acquiesced, deflating a bit. "Sure. Two questions. Shoot."
"Do you still have family in Omaha?" I ventured.
His face contracted in angry surprise. "Do I still have family in Omaha?" he repeated, shouting. "Do I still have family in Omaha? THAT is what you want to ask me? What do you care?"
"I'm Merope Goddard!" I shouted. "This is *my* life now!"
He stopped and stared at me for ten or fifteen seconds, his jaw set. Then he threw up his hands and said, "Fuck it! What the hell! Fine! Yes, I do have family in Omaha. My mother, my brother, my sister. One of each. A few cousins I never see. Okay? They are all stupid and boring as hell. They all live in Omaha, and you can have them! You're more than welcome to them, okay? Just don't tell them who I am now, or where I am now. I do not want to see or hear from them. Can you do that?"
"Sure."
"My mom's address is on the car registration, okay?"
"Yeah, thanks."
"What's the other question?"
"How did the Switcher do— I mean, when the Switcher— oh, dammit—" I was losing the thread of my question. "Did the Switcher have anything to do with taking the cylinders and the USB drive?"
"The cylinders?" he repeated. "Why do you keep calling them that? Okay, so technically they're coils or relays or embedded somethings... I don't know what. They're prototypes for a new... whatever they are. Maybe like a... solenoid thing?"
"What's a solenoid?"
"I don't know! How would I know? I'm not a technical person. What I said is probably wrong. I can't explain what they are. Boyce is always going on about their myriad applications and what else?" He thought for a moment and added, "Something about an embedded OS."
"OS? Meaning operating system?"
"I don't know. If OS means operating system, then yes, operating system. Look: I told you, I'm not technical."
"But... look — I don't know what a solenoid is, but if the cylinders are some kind of electronic device, it would have to have an input and an output. There would have to be a power source. Those cylinders are completely smooth. You can't attach them to anything."
He threw up his hands and noisily blew out a breath. "Ah, okay. I remember one more thing: It has something to do with wireless power transfer. Does that make you happy? I hope it makes sense to you, because that's all I know. That's ALL I know, okay? So stop asking me questions, and stop calling them cylinders. It makes you sound stupid."
I blinked a few times and bit my tongue to keep from answering back.
Merope went on. "Anyway, Boyce was going to sell the prototypes and stuff — the documents on the USB drive — to a Chinese firm for a lot of money. Now he thinks that he was double-crossed. Maybe someone in his company figured out what Boyce was up to, and that someone got in cahoots with the Switcher." He looked away and took a deep breath before going on.
He nodded and said, "I mean, if you think about it, the way everything went down, the Switcher *had* to know our plans in advance. In detail. I mean, like pinpoint."
I frowned, not getting it.
"Maybe they read our emails somehow," she offered.
"You planned an act of industrial espionage by email?"
He looked at me like I was stupid. "Not email emails. We shared an email account and wrote drafts to each other. We never sent them." He gave me a look that said Pretty damn clever, eh?
I nodded. There wasn't any point in explaining that there was nothing secret or safe in that approach.
Merope frowned. "*I* think that Boyce's Chinese contact made another deal. Maybe he made a deal with the Switcher himself, or maybe the Switcher started from that end first."
"Okay," I said. There seemed to be a lot of holes in the story, but it wasn't like I really needed to know.
"We almost got away, though! I was supposed to meet Boyce in the parking garage under his office building."
He heaved a heavy sigh.
"What happened?" I prompted.
"The Switcher happened. When I got there, Boyce was acting really weird. Totally out of character." He looked up, looked me in the face.
"First of all, he didn't kiss me." He spread his hands as if to indicate an obvious lapse. "See, Boyce was always touching me. He was very handsy. Kissing and touching. But this time, he kept dancing out of reach, and saying Don't touch me yet; I have a surprise for you! At the same time he was all excited and happy. Almost giddy. Smiling and grinning. Boyce is never like that.
"He led me to his car, and asked me, Hey, do you want to see something hilarious? I mean, really hilarious?" Merope frowned. "He opened the trunk, and my jaw hit the floor. There was a young woman, lying in the trunk. It was Laura. Of course, at the time, I had no idea who she was. Just this cute teenage girl in a cute outfit, lying in his trunk. Anyway, at first I thought she was dead, so I was stunned. I couldn't even speak. But then I saw her breathe, so I knew was just unconscious. Still, I was so shocked! More than shocked! I stood there like an idiot with my mouth hanging open.
"Finally I said, Boyce, this isn't funny. This isn't funny at all! Why did you do this? Who is she?
"He grinned like an idiot, and he said, She's Boyce! She is your boyfriend! Isn't that funny? Isn't that just high-larry-us? Then he sticks his face close to mine and says, Now *you* can be Boyce! Won't that be fun? and he kisses me. He grabs me an he kisses me — right on the mouth! With tongue, and everything!"
He sniffles and almost starts to cry. But he does't. He lets out a long, low, ragged breath, and wipes his nose on the back of his hand. He straightens up, and goes on.
"It felt like he punched me in the gut, and I fell to the ground. Then, the weirdest thing, I was looking up at myself, standing there grinning. Grinning! I saw myself put the prototypes and the USB into my bag, and then I watched myself walk away."
He sniffed and took a few deep, long breaths.
After a long pause, I asked him, "What did you do then?"
"I closed the trunk and drove to Boyce's condo. I waited for Laura to wake up.
"It turns out that before I got there, Laura met Boyce in the garage when he was standing near his car. At the time, SHE was really the Switcher, not a young girl. So... she came up to him, near his car. Just before she approached him, before he saw her, she drugged herself. See, when she came up to Boyce, she was starting to pass out. She asked him for help, you know, as if she really needed help. The bitch!
"Boyce thought she was a druggie, so he didn't want anything to do with her, but she kept getting closer and asking for help. Then her head spins, and she gets this wicked, evil grin, and says, I want to show you a cool move, and she collapses onto him."
I was puzzled for a minute. He let me work it out. "So Laura fell against Boyce and ended up being switched. But Laura was already drugged?"
"Right. She was nearly unconscious. Boyce ends up being Laura, drugged. The Switcher, who was now Boyce, lifted her into the trunk and waited for me. Boyce and I figured all this out later. See, Laura had a drug and a needle in her fanny pack. She injected herself in the thigh." Boyce pointed to a spot on his leg.
"Okay. Wow." I was going to have to think about that for a while. While it would be interesting to continue to dig into the story, I still had other questions. "So... now... do you think the Chinese firm will still want to pay for the USB drive?"
"Royce thinks so. I have no idea."
He didn't sound very hopeful.
He looked at the ground for a few beats, then said, "I better go. Boyce will be all kinds of pissed off if I'm gone too long." Then, remembering, he asked, "Hey — did you talk to law enforcement about this? The police? The FBI? Anybody? About the prototypes, the USB?"
"Yeah," I said, and as her face began to register alarm, I quickly added, "They were completely uninterested. Apparently Boyce's company didn't report the theft. So the FBI thought it was all in my head."
"Oh," he said, her level of alarm dropping. "Are you sure?"
"Very," I said. "It really pissed me off. They treated me like some cheap attention-seeker."
He smiled. "See? It pays to be a man. They would have given you more respect if you walked in as a man."
"Okay," I said, "I don't know." I couldn't agree or disagree. "Anyway, they told me that Boyce's company didn't report the theft."
His eyebrow's lifted, but he didn't say anything.
I could see he wanted to leave, but I felt the need to leave a window open... some way to keep in touch, or to get in touch again. I mean, he used to be me. I might need his help, and frankly it looked like old Merope would need mine. So I asked, "Listen, just, um, before you go — can I give you a hug?"
"A hug?"
"This has been the absolute weirdest week of my life. Something kind, something human, would be nice. Do you mind?"
He shrugged and almost laughed. But he said, "Why not? What the hell, sure!"
I stepped closer to him, and a little awkwardly, we embraced. He gave me a squeeze. I gave him a squeeze. I heard his back let out a soft crack. I didn't mean to do that — I didn't even squeeze him that hard, but in any case, he gave a soft grunt of surprise — and in the next moment, something stiffened and came to attention between his legs.
I cleared my throat but I didn't let go.
"Oh, yeah, hey," he said. "Sorry — I'm not 100% used to that thing yet." But he didn't let go, either.
"It's okay," I said, gently extracting myself from the embrace. "You'll get used to it, but often you'll find it has a mind of its own."
"I've been seeing that," he agreed, rubbing his chin. "It's like the heart wants what the heart wants — except, it's not the heart." He laughed at his own witticism and got back into his car, his arousal still largely apparent.
I stood there, feeling once again like some kind of idiot.
He started up the engine and was about to put the car in gear, but I stepped forward rapped on his window with my phone.
"Hey!" I shouted. "Call me. Anytime. Okay?"
He smiled and nodded. Then he rolled down his window.
"Hey," he asked, "where did you find those Monopoly tokens?"
"They were in your car," I replied. "Do they have some significance to you?"
He laughed. "No. I have no idea where they came from. But... shit accumulates, you know?"
"Yeah, that reminds me," I shot back. "Why was your car so dirty? Did you ever clean it?"
His eyes and mouth opened wide. "My car was dirty?" he exclaimed. "My CAR was dirty? What are you, my mother?"
"Hey, it's just a question!" I told him, defensively.
"Oh, God, my mom will love you!" he retorted, dripping with sarcasm, shaking his head. "Go to Omaha, clean your car, and go visit my mother!" he exclaimed. "Live the dream, why don't you?"
With that, he drove off, leaving me alone on level four.
[ Melanie Brown’s Switcher Universe ]
by Iolanthe Portmanteaux
There were two more downpours during the night, each one lasting about three hours. The rain itself was pretty loud, but the noise that kept waking me was the wind, which whipped through the region like a fury, landing random punches on vulnerable structures, windows, and trees. In the nearby park, an enormous maple was ripped from the earth, and now lay on its side, half its roots exposed like a naked nerve plexus.
The theme of the weekend was aftermath.
Luckily, local flooding was limited and not too serious. On the other hand, fallen branches, and consequent downed power lines were nearly everywhere. Femke's apartment, like much of the city, was without electricity. The power company sent emergency text messages that cautiously projected it would take a week to fully restore power.
Even if we assumed that the estimate was high (that the power company's "week" was meant to lower expectations and to encourage planning), we still had no idea when it would come back on. Rowan's neighborhood, as it turned out, hadn't lost power, so Femke took refuge with him.
They invited me to come along, but I declined. I didn't want to be a third wheel in that little apartment, and I figured I could tough it out alone.
I could, but in the end it was profoundly boring. To my surprise, I had nothing to read! The only books in the house were Femke's, and were generally either psychology texts or murder mysteries written in Dutch.
Thinking, or imagining, that Dutch was something like English, I picked up one of the novels and read aloud. I thought maybe the sounds would eventually resolve into some kind of sense.
They didn't. The words did seem almost-English, but strangely altered, as though someone had taken the text, added extra vowels and other obfuscations. There was no way. I put the book back.
After two hours alone with nothing to do, the phrase climbing the walls began to echo in my brain. I went for a walk, but the streets and sidewalks were still heavily littered with debris, and very few stores were open. After returning home, I thought about taking a bath just for something to do... and I do mean quite literally that I spent some time thinking about it: I sat on the edge of the tub, fully clothed, and weighed the pros and cons of filling the tub and immersing myself.
In the end, I didn't take a bath.
I felt foolish, like a character from Waiting for Godot, like Gogo and Didi, who say about everything, "It will pass the time."
I thought about using some of my precious phone minutes to look up quotes from Godot, but didn't.
Happily, as I held my phone in hand, weighing the pros and cons of looking up something so eminently useless, a text from Cleo rescued me. Her neighborhood, like Rowan's, hadn't lost power, so she invited me to wait out the storm with her and Mukti.
In spite of my soul-deadening boredom, my initial inclination was not to go. The thing that decided the issue, that tipped me in favor of Cleo's offer, was battery power: I was down to about two hours on my laptop and only 26% remained on my phone, so I packed a quick bag and carefully made my way to Cleo's house. It took some slow, careful, sometimes nerve-wracking driving. I passed three telephone poles leaning perilously, one of them snapped off about three feet up, and suspended only by a few splinters of wood and by the wires connected to it. Black cables (electrical? internet? telephone?) lay draped across the streets. On one block I had to drive with two wheels on the sidewalk to avoid the massive limbs of a thick old tree. In another place I happened to glance up and brake just in time to avoid being struck by a log falling from above — courtesy of an earnest citizen with a chain saw, busy on his own, self-appointed DIY mission to make the world a better place.
I parked in my old driveway and entered through the kitchen. Mukti was busy cooking a fragrant stew.
"Don't judge me," he told me, half-embarrassed, half-apologetic, half-comic.
"Why would I judge you?" I countered.
"It's beef stew," he confessed. "Aren't you a vegetarian?"
"Not by a long shot," I replied, grinning. "Beef it up!"
Mukti had no comeback for that, so he told me that Cleo was on the phone, on a series of phone calls. "She said you should find a room that suits you. You know the house."
"I kind of thought I'd camp out in my old office."
"Oh!" he exclaimed, and apologetic: "I took your office over, I'm afraid. Hmm. Give me a half-hour. I can clear my stuff out—" I could see from his face that he was calculating the level of effort required, so I pre-empted:
"Don't do that. Don't put yourself out. What about the guest room in the basement — is that free?"
"Free and unencumbered!" he responded with a benificent glow. "Do you need help with your bags?"
Nice of him to offer, but no, I didn't need help. All I had to carry was my laptop bag and an airline carry-on. Neither of them were heavy. I'd only brought toiletries and clothes for a few days. I had no problem clumping down the stairs, although I did bump and thump the walls and stairs a bit as I went.
In less than twenty minutes I settled in. It was honestly a good choice of room: private, separate, clean, comfortable.
I plugged in my phone and laptop. They were happily sucking up power, looking forward to reaching 100%.
Once I booted my laptop, the first thing I did was check my email. Leon had thoughtfully sent a message telling us all to stay home both Monday and Tuesday as well. "The office will be closed both days. I've informed our clients. Given the current conditions, no one will be expected to work." Nice!
I listened for a moment, for sounds from upstairs, for my hosts walking around at least, but there was nothing. Quite a contrast to Femke's place, where the neighbors on the floor above dropped some heavy object on the floor each morning, and clomped back and forth from one end of their apartment to the other several times before leaving for work.
After a few moments appreciating the silence, I dove back into the contents of Stan's USB. So far I'd gotten through about half the documents, and that was just a superficial sort into categories, and the occasional jotting of notes. I was absorbed, lost in it, almost immediately, and had no sense of time passing.
Mukti had to call me three times before I heard him at all. "Lunch is ready!" he bellowed. "Are you coming?"
"Yes, yes!" I called. "Just give me a minute to wash my hands."
When I arrived upstairs, I found the kitchen table set. Mukti was dishing stew from a large pot with a big ladle. "Sit where you like," he told me. I took the seat farthest from the stove, thinking he'd be getting up and down.
Cleo sat directly across from me, her phone pressed against the side of her head. She waved a greeting at me, pointed at the phone and mouthed the words one minute.
I could only hear one side of the conversation. At first I thought she was talking to another psychologist, but the conversation quickly devolved into administrative matters, using words like funding, grants, outreach, and extension (whatever that last word meant).
She managed to close the conversation before Mukti set a basket of warm bread on the table and sat himself down.
"This smells amazing!" I exclaimed. Then, to Cleo, I asked, "Working on a Saturday?"
Cleo smiled in a way I hadn't seen in quite some time. It was that sort of smile that says I have a nice surprise for you! — as if it was my birthday.
"You've started a fire," she told me, and took a sip of water.
"You say that like it's a good thing," I replied, cautiously.
"Oh, it is! Do you know what a gold mine you've opened up?"
"Um, no, I don't. What are you talking about?" I prayed she didn't reply with yet another metaphor.
"This whole Switcher business! I've been talking to other mental-health professionals for days — almost every free moment — and every single one of them has the same reaction I had. No one can believe that there is no counseling, no follow-up, no anything for Switcher victims!"
"How can that be?" I asked. "How many years has the Switcher been, uh, alive? I mean, all the people he touched—"
"At first, law-enforcement agencies, intelligence agencies, government agencies, wanted to keep the whole business hushed up. They were afraid of panic, of fraud, of all kinds of disorder. I mean, if you can't depend on a person being who they are, who they've been, what kind of society can you have?"
"It sounds like a science-fiction novel," Mukti threw in.
"Now that people DO know about it, it's all wrapped up in conspiracy theories, and just when the government needs to put a strong hand on the tiller, the very agencies dealing with it are crippled by lack of funding and by a growing realization that they can't stop the Switcher; they can only mop up after him."
Cleo stopped to take a few mouthfuls of stew. Mukti picked up the thread. "Haven't you been following my podcast? Cleo and her colleagues are setting up a national network of mental-health professionals to treat and study Switcher victims! It's ground-breaking stuff!"
The two of them took turns, tag-teaming me in explaining the story.
"It's amazing how it's mobilized the therapy community. Imagine it: it's a totally uncharted area. There are no books, no academic papers, no protocols, not even the most rudimentary surveys..."
I took it in as well as I could. It was fairly overwhelming.
Then Mukti gave me a tap on the arm. "Hey — your friend Femke is involved as well. I'm surprised *she* didn't tell you all this."
"Oh, right," I replied. "She didn't. We live together, yeah, but we don't see each other all that much. She's over at Rowan's or at school, or wherever she goes. I don't see her much, actually."
When I said, don't see her much, Mukti raised his head and looked at the clock. "Oh, speaking of that— I have a PT session coming up in fifteen minutes. You might want to make yourself scarce... until about... well! I can call you when the coast is clear."
"What are you talking about?" I asked, puzzled. "And what's PT?"
"Physical therapy," he explained. He and Cleo exchanged glances.
"So?"
Cleo toyed with her waterglass, a faint smile playing on her lips. "Mukti's client is Pamela, from next door." [pause] "Wayne's mother."
"Oh!" I groaned, like a balloon deflating.
"She was over here Thursday afternoon, and she had quite a story to tell."
"She was spitting fire," Mukti added. I could see he was trying not to laugh.
"Well," I began defensively, although I'm not sure what I meant to say next.
"She thinks you took advantage of her son."
"Oh my God!" I cried.
"She called you a succubus," Mukti added.
"What the hell is a suckerbus?"
"I looked it up, just to be sure," Mukti informed me. "Succubus. Not Soccer Bus. It's a malign supernatural being, a female demon, who seduces vulnerable men and steals their soul through sexual activity."
"Whaaa!" I breathed, all the air going out of me. I'd never been accused of such a thing in my entire life!
Once I caught my breath and was able to speak, I told the story as it *actually* happened, from the little dog licking my ankle to my ride of shame with Ross.
I didn't leave anything out: I told them about the squeaky window, about being trapped beneath the sleeping Wayne, about the naked search for my phone, and the silent door that led outside.
Cleo's only comment was, "Ross always was a dog. Did he really say he never gave Pamela cause to be jealous? That's a laugh!"
After a moment's reflection, she added, "I guess it's natural to want to kick the tires..."
"I don't intend to make a habit of sleeping around," I declared, my cheeks burning.
Mukti and Cleo's cheeks were twitching, so I gave a reluctant huff and told them, "Go ahead and laugh. I don't care."
At that, the doorbell rang. "It's Pamela," Mukti announced. "I'll take a slow walk to the front door while you get out of sight."
Cleo grabbed my table setting and disappeared it into the dishwasher. "Pamela notices everything," she explained. Then (because the door to the basement was visible from the front door) she grabbed my arm and pushed me into hiding behind the couch. "Not a sound!" she hissed.
"What about my car?" I whispered.
Cleo made an exasperated noise and rolled her eyes.
In fact, the first words out of Pamela's mouth was, "Whose yellow car is that?"
Mukti, jovially: "A friend parked it here, so it wouldn't be damaged by the storm."
"Hmmph," Pamela replied in a doubtful tone.
Once Pamela and Mukti were closed in my old office, Cleo grabbed my arm. "Get downstairs and stay there quietly until we give the all clear. Got it?"
Mukti later told me that Pamela's eyes roved everywhere, looking for any sign of me.
"There wasn't a square inch of surface area on the entire first floor that she missed. If you'd left a single stray hair, she would have spotted it," he told me, grinning. "She could have a career in CSI."
By Wednesday, most things had returned to normal. Power was restored to Femke's apartment and to the office complex where I worked. Not everyone was back at work; some of the more far-flung suburbs were still in the dark and still encumbered with downed trees.
This meant that our shared parking lot was mainly empty. I was able, for once, to park close to the building, in view of my office windows.
At 10:30 I leaned back in my chair, stretching my upper back and shoulders. My movements stirred Dave, who smiled at me, then turned to look out the window.
"Hey, Merope — you drive a yellow Corolla, don't you?"
"Sure do. Why do you ask?"
"There's a kid, looks like a punk, sitting on the hood of your car."
I came over to look. It seemed like such an unlikely thing to happen. Our office park isn't within walking distance of anywhere or anything — not a convenient distance, anyway.
The "kid" was dressed in baggy jeans and wore a dark gray sweatshirt — not a hoody, I noticed — but she did wear a olive-colored watch cap. On her feet was a pair of dark blue Vans.
Dave bristled a bit and offered, "I can call Security for you, have him run off the property."
"It's a girl," I told him.
"How can you tell?"
"Something about her face."
Speaking of her face, the kid's face suddenly turned and looked me in the eye. She nodded directly to me, and gestured come on down here with her index finger.
"I'm going down there," I told Dave. "Do NOT call Security."
"That's a not a good — uh, do you want me to come with?"
"No, I'll be fine. I'll be back in a jiffy."
It had to be Laura. Somehow I knew. By now she was probably over her period, or at least over the shock of it.
The air outside was clean and clear, as though the recent rains had washed and purified it. The world was quiet, as far as I could hear, so my footsteps sounded loudly as they crunched over the grit and stones tossed here by the storm.
The girl was about five inches shorter than me and looked young, oh so young. I remembered that Laura told me she had just turned eighteen.
"What name are you going by?" she challenged.
"I'm Merope, Laura."
"No," she countered. "I just left Merope at home, and I'm not Laura, I'm Boyce."
"Is that what your driver's license tells you?" I asked quietly. "Do you have three forms of identification that prove you're Boyce?"
Frustrated confusion played across her features for a moment. She swept it away, and poking herself in the chest, hard, with her index finger said, "Inside. I am Boyce here, where it counts."
I told her — and I meant to say it kindly, but it came out much harder than I intended — "There are maybe five people in the world who'd give a shit about what you just said. Everyone else on earth will say, What's your name, little girl?"
Her face twisted in anger, but before she responded, I pushed on. "I'm Merope. You left Boyce at home, and you're Laura. I mean, what can any of us do? Explain our story to every single person we meet? If a cop pulls you over for speeding, will you say, Hey, funny story about my drivers license? When you go for a passport, do you think they'll be interested in your secret identity?"
"It's not a secret identity," she muttered.
"Look, I will try to not call you by any name, but if you say Boyce, I'll be thinking of the person who looks like Boyce, and if you say Merope, I'll think of the woman who looks like Merope."
She looked down at the ground. She cocked her right leg and rested her heel on my bumper.
"Can I do something for you?" I asked. "Why did you come here?"
She seemed deflated, a little discouraged. After a sigh and a shrug, she pulled herself together enough to ask, "Are you sure that the Switcher took those prototypes? The metal tubes about yay-big?" She illustrated the measurements by using thumb and forefinger like calipers.
"I'm absolutely positive. I saw him take four cylinders out of my bag, and he dropped them into his pockets."
She ran her hand over her mouth. It occurred to me, right in that moment, that the Switcher got rid of the cylinders before switching with Mukti. I mean, I knew, even if I didn't know for sure. Anson's pockets were empty by that point, and he was carrying a briefcase. Possibly a briefcase full of money?
I didn't mention it, because I didn't want Laura to go bother Mukti and Cleo.
"Okay. Tell me this: did you make a copy of my USB drive?"
"No."
"Did you download the files anywhere? To your computer? To any computer? To the cloud?"
"No to everything you asked. There is no copy. No download. No anything."
"Has anyone else seen what's on there?"
"No," I lied.
"Have to talked to anyone about the prototypes and the USB?"
"Boyce asked me this already," I pointed out. She bristled at the name. "I told the people at the processing center that the Switcher took the cylinders. They said they would tell the FBI, but they didn't. As far as the USB drive, I didn't even know I had it at first. It was stuck under a hem in my bag."
"And you told the FBI, right? Did they look at the files? Did they understand what it was about?"
"No, they could not have cared less. And I didn't have the USB with me when I talked to them. I don't think they believed there even *was* a USB drive. They acted like I was an attention-seeking loon."
She ruminated, quietly processing what I'd said.
"They told me that no theft of intellectual property had been reported, and that no one reported any industrial espionage. Does that make any sense to you? Do you believe it?"
She took a breath, thinking. "Yeah, it does." She looked up at me. "If it got out, it could kill the current round of VC funding. Just for starters. It could pull the plug on the whole thing."
"VC?"
"Venture Capitalists. Investors. Actually, I still have a contact inside the company, and they told me the same thing. You were the only loose end I needed to check on."
"I'm a dead end," I told her. "I don't have the prototypes, I don't have the USB drive." I shrugged.
"And you never met me," she said.
"Fine. Can I ask what you're going to do? Can you still sell the USB drive?"
She laughed. "You know, people talk like the Switcher is some kind of criminal mastermind. He's not. He's a guy with one weird-ass skill or trick. He took the prototypes, but they only get you so far. It isn't a complete implementation. It's not a guide to manufacturing. It's just a proof of concept."
"And the USB?"
"It gets you a little further, but there's one thing the Switcher couldn't steal."
I considered for a moment. I've never worked in manufacturing, but I did know a little something.
"Are you talking about know-how?" I asked her.
"Yep. And that — in spite of what the Switcher did — is still inside me."
"And the Chinese firm will pay for that?"
She smiled. Then Laura turned. She didn't bother to say goodbye.
"Hey," I called. "What about Merope? I mean, the original Merope?"
Laura stopped and stood up straight. "Yeah. I left her a note. Like you said, now she's Boyce. She's got my house, my car, my bank account. She'll be fine."
"But she won't have you."
Laura looked at the ground. "I thought we were going to be the Bonnie and Clyde of the twenty-first century. Then look what happened to me." She spread her arms. "I got screwed. Royally. Hey, is it true that you can only get switched once?"
"That's what I've heard."
"If I ever meet the Switcher again, I'm going to beat the living crap out of him, and then I'm going to kill him." She nodded several times. "That would give my life meaning."
With that, she turned and walked away. A black sedan waited at the edge of the parking lot. I turned away before she climbed inside.
There isn't much more to tell. Six months later, I got my own apartment, and was training in a more modern programming language, Elixir. I had hopes of changing jobs by the end of the year.
Nearly a year after Femke's experience with Stan, he landed on the FBI's Most Wanted list.
It began when Femke finally confided with Javier about her experience up north. Javier spoke with his brother, the state senator, who started an investigation. There was already some momentum to take apart the whole Switcher processing system, and that lent power and media interest.
Stan, predictably, went on the run, but was quickly intercepted in Belize.
At the beginning of November, my second November as Merope, I got an email. It was from Merope's mother. An invitation to Thanksgiving.
I'd been thinking about Merope's family, curious, wanting to get in touch, but not knowing how to start. A phone call? A visit? I couldn't work up the courage, but Merope's mother did.
I replied immediately, and gave her my number, proposing a video call. It was awkward at first, until I asked them to tell me about Merope, and that opened one door. Then, Merope's mom said softly, "Now, what about you, darling? Tell us about yourself."
The kindness in her voice brought tears to my eyes, and we started having nightly calls: some long, some short. We got to know each other.
"I always seemed on the wrong foot with Merope," her mother confessed, "and I didn't know how to fix it. Now I know that you're not really her, but at the same time I feel I've been given a second chance."
I flew to Omaha on the Saturday before Thanksgiving. I stayed in a hotel, just in case some emotional distance was needed.
On Sunday morning, I went for a walk, looking for a cute, friendly coffeeshop.
I hadn't gone far when a man, a good-looking thirty-something with reddish-brown hair and a nice smile stopped in front of me and exclaimed, "Merope? Merope Goddard! Is that really you?"
I laughed and told him, "Yes and no. Maybe. I'm Merope, maybe."
"Maybe?" he repeated.
"Yeah," I responded.
"Where do you get the maybe from?"
"Well...," I took a deep breath. "How much do you know about the Switcher?"
"Oh, come on now," he scoffed, but he was laughing when he said it, and he sounded interested. Very interested.