Toil & Trouble Page 2
Howie, Kristy, and even Mr. Candy Rots Your Teeth Arthur all stare at the lollipop with yearning.
“It’s so beautiful,” Kristy breathes.
Cora looks at the lollipop sadly, then bites right on into it. Howie flinches. Sometimes he wonders how Cora has any teeth left at all, let alone all of them.
“Our dinky little display is such shit,” she says, crunching forlornly.
“It is not!” Kristy protests. “It’s classic!”
“Between that and this play, I swear, I am soundly bested by the universe. October isn’t supposed to give me this much pain. It’s not fair.”
“Oh, but you’re going to be great as lady Dr. Frankenstein, though! And look at it this way – now you don’t have to flop around almost naked in front of a bunch of strangers.”
“Dude,” Cora says, “you literally just described my dream.”
“I know,” Kristy says wistfully. “I totally heard it as soon as I said it.”
Cora hugs her, then announces, “I need to drown my sorrows in pumpkin ale and Bette Midler.”
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It’s possible that the combination of pumpkin ale and Bette Midler is more dangerous than anyone could have anticipated.
Kristy’s pumpkin spice candles flicker ominously on the coffee table as they all sit in Hocus Pocus-dazzled silence. The only sound in the room, for a long while, is the end credits music.
Then:
“Can I just say,” Cora says brazenly, “that fuck Holly’s?”
“Hear, hear!” Arthur clinks his bottle against hers.
“Huzzah!” contributes Howie. Then he eats a celebratory handful of candy corn. Why does anyone ever eat anything that’s not candy corn??
“A pox on Holly’s!” Cora shouts. She starts swaying back and forth in what is either a super cool dance move or some kind of mystic trance. “A putrid, stinking pox! An ocean of piss and vinegar upon them and their reasonably priced crafting materials!”
“Um,” Arthur says, “well, okay!”
“What is that?” Kristy asks delightedly, giggling. “Like, a witch dance?”
“Hell yeah!” Cora ups her sway game by like two hundred percent. She waves her hands over the pumpkin spice candles witchily. “DOUBLE, DOUBLE, TOIL AND TROUBLE, HOLLY’S IS A BAG OF DICKS.”
One of the candles flickers and goes out.
“Damn, Maleficent,” Howie says.
Cora shrugs daintily.
+
Later that night, Howie is almost asleep, but he can tell that Arthur isn’t. And, well, when you are as loving and devoted as Howie is—when you are the love and devotion master—then you don’t just ignore that kinda thing.
“You okay, Artie?”
“I can feel the sugar,” Arthur says, his voice faint and sleepy. “I can feel it dissolving my insides.”
“You had like three Starbursts and a chocolate bar.”
“It was still too much.”
Howie kisses his shoulder. “Aw, you rookie.”
After a few minutes, sleepy Arthur asks, “Did we do witchcraft?”
“There might have been a spot o’ witchcraft.”
“Hmm,” Arthur murmurs. “How garish.”
Then he finally drifts off to sleep.
What a doof, Howie thinks with, oh, oodles of affection.
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And then on Monday, everything changes.
Howie, Cora, and Kristy are hanging out in the kitchen, chatting. Totally normal workday morning behavior. Kristy isn’t even on the schedule; she just dropped by with pumpkin spice lattes because that’s the kind of marvelous human being she is.
It is an inevitable truth that nobody shows up in the first hour after the store opens, so they are all pretty comfortable just kicking back and chillin’. They haven’t even put on their work aprons yet.
But then—
“Did you guys hear something?” Kristy says.
“There’s no way that was the bell,” Cora replies, but she pulls her feet off the table all the same.
(It’s best that Arthur doesn’t know. Dude is such a hygienic weirdo about tables.)
Then the noise comes again: a jolly little ringing that sounds eerily like the bell tied to the store’s front door.
“Or was it???” sneers Howie.
“That was super dramatic, dude,” Cora says.
“I’ve been bored in this building for a year,” Howie answers. “I have learned to make my own fun.”
The bell jingles again.
And again.
And again.
By the time the three of them have aproned up and made it out front, the store is packed. The air is full of the pleasant buzz of multiple voices talking over each other. The aisles are actually full of people instead of emptiness!
“Are they lost?” Howie says, gaping.
Cora puts on a bright smile.
“Hey there, customer,” she calls to the nearest invader, a middle aged woman. “What’s the haps?”
The woman very graciously does not get stuck on the use of the word ‘haps.’ Instead, she comes closer to the counter and says, in hushed and scandalized tones, “Part of the candy cottage collapsed at Holly’s yesterday! Right on top of a little girl.”
A POX UPON HOLLY’S, thunders Cora’s voice in Howie’s head.
Well, that’s freaky.
“Oh my God!” Kristy gasps. “Is she okay?”
“Broken arm,” the woman says. “I’m definitely not taking my kids into that death trap again anytime soon. Those chain stores—they’re so cold and unconcerned about anything besides making a profit. At least a little store like this cares about its customers. Even if this,” she adds, “is the most expensive crochet hook I’ve ever seen.”
“But it’s also the best crochet hook you’ve ever seen,” Howie says jauntily.
“Really?”
Howie fights the urge to shrug a shrug of pure cluelessness. “You bet,” he says instead.
“Well, then I’ll take twelve,” the woman says. “For me and my crocheting group.”
“Holy shitballs,” whispers Cora.
“What was that, dear?”
Louder, Cora chirps, “Coming right up, ma’am!”
And that’s how they sell twelve overpriced crochet hooks before they’ve even been open for twenty minutes. And that’s just the first lady in line.
There’s a line.
“Friends,” Cora announces, awed, “we’ve made it to the big leagues.”
“But at what cost??” Howie intones. The moment feels right.
“Okay, Drama King, shut up,” Cora says through a bright, gleaming smile.
“Nevah,” says Howie.
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At least Howie’s not the only one remembering the whole, you know. Pox-upon-Holly’s thing.
“I’m not going to say that we cursed Holly’s,” Arthur begins at the next staff meeting. “Because that would be ridiculous.”
Everyone carefully doesn’t look at each other.
“All right, yes,” Arthur continues, more flustered. “The fact remains that part of the Holly’s candy cottage did collapse on a poor, unfortunate child. And that it has caused such a public outcry that we’ve made double the usual amount in sales this week. But just because we—”
“Put a motherfucking hex on Holly’s!” contributes Cora.
“—comedically expressed ill-will toward that establishment while hovering over pumpkin-scented candles,” Arthur finishes, “does not mean that we had anything to do with this. It’s simply not possible. And I know that at least two of you are reasonable enough to acknowledge that.”
He looks at Howie imploringly. His eyelashes are, as always, all but impossible to resist.
And Howie technically gets that magic isn’t real.
But at the same time, who is he to deny the infinite mysteries of the universe?
Howie gives him an I dunno, man kinda shrug.
Arthur sighs wearily and looks at Kristy inste
ad. “One of you. One of you is reasonable enough to—”
“It is kind of eerie,” Kristy interrupts.
“I’m not denying that it’s an odd coincidence. But we’re all in agreement that magic isn’t actually real. Even in October. And—”
“We are witches, bitches,” Cora interrupts triumphantly. “Admit it.”
“We are not witches,” Arthur says, desperate.
“The dark and unholy powers are alight within us!!!” Cora booms, swept up in what can only be described as a witchgasm of gladness. “All rival merchants of craft-related goods, bow down before our magnificence, lest we let a thousand thousand spools of cursed yarn rain down on you in our fury! A ha ha ha ha—”
“You’re enjoying this entirely too much,” Arthur informs her. “A child was hurt.”
“Oh, please. She broke her arm. I broke both of my arms when I was a kid, and I’m flourishing.”
“You certainly are,” Arthur says dryly. “The point is – unfortunate as the incident was, we might as well take advantage of this increase in customers and do something to gain some more public favor. So I’m thinking ... haunted house for the local children.”
Kristy squeals, delighted.
“Oh my God,” Cora says. “What is this feeling? Am I—is this—you guys. I’m actually excited about working here.”
“Ha ha ha,” Arthur deadpans.
“I mean it! I will put on one glorious-ass haunted house. It will blow your mind. It will change your life. The people will come in droves! Droves! And it will be a night they won’t soon forget.”
“It has to be family friendly.”
“You think I can’t put together a cute-as-shit family friendly haunted house that still has touches of elegant horror? Mr. Kraft, you wound me.”
“I’m just saying,” Arthur replies, “that your taste is a little ... eclectic.”
“I can tone it down for the mainstream Halloween crowd,” Cora promises.
“Speaking of mainstream,” Kristy says excitedly, “we should totally do—”
“No,” says Arthur.
“You didn’t even hear what I was going to say!”
“I know what you were going to say. You’ve been talking about it nonstop for the past several months. And I just don’t see what a magical snow princess movie has to do with Halloween.”
“She’s a snow queen,” Kristy corrects. “And I promise, it will be a hit. It’s totally every kid’s favorite thing right now!”
“And yours,” Howie points out.
“And mine,” Kristy agrees, smiling. “And I already have the Halloween costume!”
“What are you envisioning here, exactly?” Arthur says. “An ice castle haunted house sounds a little too elaborate.”
“Not necessarily!”
And then it dawns on Howie. “I’m not dressing up like a reindeer again. No fucking way.”
“But you’re such a good reindeer!” Kristy protests, genuinely aghast that he’s not super keen on the idea of ever again returning to a lifestyle of festive reindeering. “The antlers are still under the cash register counter, waiting for you!”
“I’ll consider it,” Arthur says wryly, “if it means Howie has to be a reindeer again.”
“Gothic ice castle madness,” Cora rhapsodizes.
And just like that, the world is bright with infinite possibilities.
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Howie adds a little blurb about the haunted house on the store’s Facebook page, which until this week had a grand total of 17 followers. Including himself, Arthur, Kristy, Cora, Mitch, Amber, and Howie’s mom. So ... 11 who actually count.
When he checks back in an hour, his status update has 78 likes.
And comments. Comments!
None of them are even verbally abusive.
Well, except the one that says ‘you sold me a shitty halloween gingerbread house kit last year and i will never forgive your abysmal service, even if they break 1000 kids arms i will still shop at hollys.’
But there’s always one weirdo, right?
And everything else—it’s all praise and excitement!
“Magic,” Howie mutters to himself, dazed.
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The next day, the universe decides to have its revenge.
Howie is just chillin’ at the cash register, scrolling absently through Facebook on his phone (they’re up to 148 likes now, what what!), when he looks up and—
It’s her.
He blinks.
She’s still there.
The customer of his nightmares.
On his first day of working, she’d more or less verbally eviscerated him. Over glitter glue. So at least, you know, it was something really important.
NOT.
The plus side, he has always figured since, is that he pissed her off so much that she’d never come back. Like, she’d promised never to come back. Really profanely.
But here she is, all deceptively pleasant-of-look, with short dark hair and Tina Fey style glasses. She’s also wearing a scarf with brightly colored umbrellas all over it.
He knows better now. He is weary and jaded by the horrors he’s seen.
Never trust an umbrella scarf.
She breezes up to the counter, and Howie realizes, with great despair, that running and hiding will definitely look conspicuous.
He’ll just have to ... tough this one out.
Awesome.
“My name is Annie Fabray,” she says when she reaches him.
“My name is Howie Jenkins?” Okay. Probably shouldn’t have ended that as a question.
“I don’t care,” she says smoothly. Ouch. Then, behind the Tina Fey glasses of unexpected doom, she narrows her eyes. “I remember you. You’re the shopboy who wouldn’t help me with the glitter glue.”
And you’re the woman who haunts my worst arts ‘n crafts nightmares! Howie does not answer. It just doesn’t seem to pack the right kinda punch. Instead, he grins broadly and says, “Thaaaat’s me!”
Yep. Definitely the right choice, based on her vaguely-nauseous-with-disdain expression.
She stares at him for an awkwardly long time. He tries to stare back with the innocence of a woods-wandering fawn. Or some other creature that doesn’t deserve to die for its past glitter glue sins.