Howie’s Birthday

By: Kat Morgan

He woke slowly. Hovering in that gray area between sleep and wake, his mind taking on several quick trips of fancy before bringing him back to reality. He stretched first, long arms pulling against the air, his neck twisting, straightening, and his legs kicking at the covers. Finally he let his eyelids slide open to reveal his milk chocolate dark eyes.

The sun streamed in, slightly diffused by the off-white sheer curtains that were flowing in the subtle breeze from coming in from the open windows. He could hear the call of the seagulls, and the answering crash of waves.

All in all, it looked and sounded like a great day.

But not for him.

It was his birthday.

Not that there was anything wrong with that really. It’s just that things always seemed to go wrong on his birthday. Some years it was little things: a flat tire, a missed appointment, or a spill on his new shirt. Other years it was much worse: broken relationships, fights with the record company that ruled his life or major illnesses.

It may not be his birthday that caused all that; it may just be that he is in a heightened state of attention because it is his birthday. Whatever the cause, all he really wanted to do was hide under the covers and pretend the day wasn’t happening.

But he couldn’t do that.

Not only would his family never let him forget, his “job” made it impossible. Being a member of the most popular group on the planet meant that even if he wanted to forget, millions of fans didn’t. They wanted to see him happy-go-lucky and celebrating. He loved his fans, really he did. He just wished that they would leave him alone on this day. Let him suffer in peace.

“What a grump,” he muttered to himself as he got up. “Old age is getting to me.”

He looked at himself in the mirror. Didn’t feel any older. No sudden wrinkles. Hair was still its usual mass of twisted curls. No receding hairline. Was that a gray hair?! No, it was just the light. Phew. Body was still its well-kept self. Sure, his abs were a little slacker now because he’d been enjoying Mama’s cooking and not constantly performing. It would tighten up fast once the next tour started. He wasn’t worried: he’d done is push-ups and sit-ups last night, as always. And he was heading over to the gym later.

The phone rang: a discordant rattle. He picked it up and was immediately greeted by an x-rated rendition of the happy birthday song.

“Morning, Bone.”

“Hey, old man. How’s it hanging this morning?”

He chuckled. “A little to the left.”

“Yuck! Too much information. Man, you never answer that one honestly, why you starting now?”

“You know us old-timers. No need to be shy anymore.”

AJ snorted. “So I‘ll see you later at the party? I have this way cool present to give you.”

“Just remember my Mom is going to be there. Nothing too outrageous, okay?” Howie warned.

“Would I do that to you?” AJ cackled then hung up.

“Oh God,” Howie whispered to the dial tone, suddenly very afraid.

Other than the bird poop that landed directly in his sightline as he was driving to the gym, the day had been uneventful. He had smiled amiably through all the birthday wishes (phoned in or otherwise), waving at the few fans who had managed to crack his daily schedule code and had lain in wait for him at various points along his route. He’d had to wait a while to get on some of the weight machines, but that was nothing to be nervous about: it always got busier in the gym a few weeks before September started. It was an exclusive gym, but everyone suddenly seemed to remember that they had been lax over the summer and needed to look tighter and firmer for the Fall rush, whether it was at the office or university or wherever.

The long shower had made him feel better. Though he had dropped the soap. He’d giggled a little at the idea, and then bent over provocatively to pick it up. Fortunately he was in an enclosed shower and all alone. Still, it felt good snubbing his nose at the belief.

He glanced at his watch and swore. He was late. Damn. He still had to get back to the house and grab a few things before he headed over to the restaurant where he would be subjected to the indignity of his birthday party. He hopped into his Corvette, revved the engine and peeled out of the parking lot.

And came so close to hitting a woman cycling by that his sudden swerve away unnerved her and she fell off the bike.

“What the fuck do you think you are doing?” She wore at him as she got up, dusting herself off.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t see you,” he explained as he hopped out of his car, wide-eyed at his near miss.

She seemed similarly shaken. He could tell by the way her hands shook as she tried to right her bike. But shock usually presents itself with aggression, once the scare is over. “What? The reflective suit not bright enough for you?” she asked snidely. She finally got her bike upright, then realized that her jacket was torn and her elbows bloody. “Oh great. Just great. I just bought that.”

“Look, I said I was sorry. Are you okay?”

She loosened her helmet, shaking out her long auburn hair. She wiped a hand across her face, leaving a small track of dusty blood from the cut on her hand. “Just peachy. Can’t you tell? Christ, what is it with little men and their goddamned muscle cars? Penis not big enough so they have to drive one?”

Howie had heard more than enough jokes about his height recently and was not in the mood for more. It was his birthday, dammit. People should be nice to him.

“There is nothing wrong with my penis. I just happen to like the car. You always such a bitch?” he shot back.

“Only when I almost get killed by some idiot with more money than sense.”

“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

She pointed to her bike and then to his car. “Hello? Me: riding a bike because it’s all I can afford right now. You: driving some souped-up sports car. I may not be brilliant when it comes to cars, but I know that those ones cost a pretty penny.” She finally finished cataloguing her assortment of cuts and bruises and looked up at him. “Oh shit!” she whispered as recognition spread across her face.

Great. Just what he needed. A fan.

“You have some…” he pointed at her chin. She wiped quickly at it, swearing softly when she say the streak of dried blood. “I really am sorry. I admit I wasn’t looking. And I didn’t actually hit you. Just swerved too close.”

“True,” she replied a little more evenly. “It could have been worse. Happy birthday, by the way.”

Yeah, turning into a real happy one. Yet again. “Thanks,” he replied brusquely, eager to be on his way. “Is there any way I can apologize? An autograph or something?”

She looked at him, taking in his anxious demeanor. And was suddenly angry all over again. “No, I do not want an autograph. What I want is for you to really be sorry for almost killing me. I want you to be gracious when someone wishes you happy birthday. I want you to be a little less self-involved. And I want you to keep trying to be those things until you get it right.” She slapped her helmet back on, climbed on her bike and started cycling away.

“Bitch,” he muttered angrily. He glanced down at his watch seeing that this incident had cost him valuable time, and climbed back into his car. He started the engine, glancing carefully for any obstacles this time, then headed off. But not before give that woman the finger as he drove past her.

The rest of the day when pretty much according to plan. The party was nice; everyone there more to see and be seen than to be around him. AJ embarrassed him in public again. Same as every year. Only this time, Nick got in on the game, and Howie wasn’t sure if his mother was ever going to stop blushing. Jesus, couldn’t they wait until later in the evening, after Mama had left to go home before they pulled those stupid stunts? He never embarrassed them like that in public. Okay, so a few times, but not like that.

It was late, very late when he finally got to bed. His birthday was thankfully over, he thought as he staggered drunkenly to his lonely bed. And tomorrow would just be another day.

Woohoo.

All in all, it looked and sounded like a great day.

But not for him.

It was his birthday. Again.

He didn’t notice at first. Just went about his day with that little niggling feeling of déjà vu. But that was probably because this birthday, so far, had been remarkably similar to all of the ones in his past.

Usual check to ensure that he hadn’t mysteriously aged over night: All systems okay.

Obligatory obscene birthday threats from AJ: check.

Assorted greetings from friends and family, eager to remind him how much they cared (if only so they can be remembered kindly in his will, he thought sarcastically as he replaced the receiver in the phone handset): Right on schedule.

The regular car chase by some of his more outrageous fans who waved signs, or breasts: Yep.

It wasn’t until his windshield was hit, dead centre, by some pigeon dropping that his complacent, and jaded, demeanor was shaken. Just looking at it, as it dripped down the glass, in front of his face, blocking his view somewhat… It was as if he’d been through all of this before. It was something more than the déjà vu feeling he had: it was as if he could predict exactly what was going to happen next.

“Man on hip adductor machine will drop his water bottle…. Now!”

It happened.

“Phone on reception desk will ring when that lady walks past that point right… there….”

Ring.

It was like a game for a little while. But when he was taking his shower, and dropped the soap in the exact position and at the exact time he’d just finished predicting in his mind…

“Just an urban legend,” he reminded himself as he checked the lock on the shower stall door. “No real need to fear.”

And nothing happened when he bent over and picked up the slippery bar. “Told you,” he chuckled to himself as he started to work up a lather with his hands, then spread the creamy bubbles across his firm body.

When he got to his Corvette, he carefully wiped the grey streak off his windshield, and then climbed into the car. He glanced at the clock on the dashboard, and then swore as he realized that he was behind schedule. Very behind schedule. He shoved the key in the ignition; turning on the engine with a loud rev, then popped the car in gear and streaked for the exit.

He knew as soon as he turned the corner that something was about to happen. And it did. His front bumper came so close to hitting a woman on her bike that for all intents and purposes her had hit her. It did, after all, have the same effect: she fell over.

Shit! Okay, he hadn’t meant to do that.

“Are you okay?” he asked worriedly as he jumped out of the car. She was so busy swearing and dusting the dirt off her clothes that she didn’t hear him.

“What the fuck do you think you are doing?” she finally asked angrily.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t see you.”

She reached down to pick up her bike, shaking as her body tried to deal with the near-death shock it had just had. “I suppose this bright reflective suit didn’t catch your eye,” she said snidely.

“It did. But too late. I’m really sorry. Umm... I think...,” he pointed to the jacket she wore. There was a huge rip along the arm, and he could see scraped and bloody skin underneath.

“Oh great. Just great. I just bought that,” she replied faintly.

“Hey! Are you okay?” Her sudden switch from angry to quiet worried him. “You didn’t hit anything when you fell did you?”

She removed the bike helmet she wore, and her long auburn hair fell out. She wiped a hand across her chin, then looked at it and realized that her knuckles were bleeding and that she’d just spread it across her face. “I’m fine. Jesus, what is it with men and their damn sports cars? Is it that penis thing? Or is it just a testosterone thing?”

Okay, he had been having a bad day, a typical birthday. He didn’t need this.

“No, I just liked the car. You always such a grouch?”

“Only when some mutant tries to kill me with his car,” she shot back.

“What were you cycling for anyway? This isn’t a bike path,” he pointed out angrily.

“Not all of us can afford cars, okay? Not all of us…” she looked at him. Actually looked at him. And he could see the recognition cross her face. “Are rich famous singers who…” her voice drifted off.

“Who what? You going to make some more cracks about my penis or my car?”

She looked down then back up at him. “Actually I was going to say, happy birthday Howie, but something tells me I better not.”

“Yeah, happy birthday, me! Whoopie,” he replied mockingly. Yep, typical birthday. He meets an attractive woman -- by almost killing her. Lord knows what else could happen today.

“Look, I am honestly very sorry about almost hitting you. Is there something I can do to help? I admit I wasn’t paying enough attention. Is your bike okay? Should I take you to a hospital?”

She glanced down at the bike, noting that the front tire was slowly, but surely, deflating. “Oh fuck. Just what I need!” She knelt down to try and see if she could find the hole.

“Umm… Miss? I am really sorry, but I am in a big hurry. Do you want some help?”

She looked up at him. “Can you give my bike and I a ride to Orange Avenue? There is a bike shop I know there that can get this fixed up quickly.”

He frowned quickly. “A little out of my way, but I did almost hit you. I’m just not sure how we’ll…” he gestured from the bike to the car. A Corvette was not really build for lugging things.

“Does that roof pop off?”

He nodded, then smiled. “I hope you don’t mind wind in your hair. Not to mention bugs and stuff like that.”

She laughed. “You really do say ‘stuff like that.’ And I figure if I was afraid of wind or bugs I wouldn’t be cycling, would I?”

“Guess not.”

They managed, with a little twisting to get the bike into the car. Howie was wincing throughout the entire process, worried about his precious car, but other than a few derisive snorts at his behaviour the woman ignored him. She finally settled in the front seat, holding onto her bike frame, as he started the engine.

“Umm. Quick question. You know who I am. Who are you?” he asked as he pulled back onto the road.

“Kat. Nice to meet you. I’d shake your hand but I’m afraid the bike’d go flying. Probably scratch your finish as it went.” She said the last part teasingly and he laughed weakly.

“With the kind of day I’m having, it probably would.”

He was uncommunicative the entire drive. Except for when the tie on his hair snapped and his long curls flew wildly in the breeze. Then he had a lot to say, and none of it good. It was a relief for both of them when he pulled up in front of the bike shop that Kat frequented. The wincing and flinching process of removing her bike was undergone, and then finally she stood on the sidewalk, a little worse for wear, but a lot better than she had been before.

“Thanks for the ride.”

“Least I could do. I am really sorry about almost hitting you.”

“S’okay. I can get this fixed up and all will be okay.”

“There anything else I can do? An autograph or something?”

She shook her head. “How ‘bout I do something for you? A piece of advice. I know we didn’t meet under the best of circumstances, but the next time someone wishes you happy birthday, at least try to be gracious. And you might want to be a little less self-involved. Those damn “I’m gonna be late” asides the whole drive through weren’t a lot of fun.”

“Look…”

“I know, I know. I have no idea of the pressures you are under in your position, blah, blah, blah. That’s a two-way street, Howie. Try and get it right next time.” Then she turned and rolled her bike into the shop, shutting the door after her.

“But…” He honestly didn’t know what to say to that. And was saved from trying to formulate an answer by the chirping of his watch.

“Oh shit, really late now!” He hopped back into the car, checking very, very carefully before pulling away from the curb and headed home.

He was a mess once he got there: he hadn’t taken the time to pull the top back up and his hair had danced several dervishes in the wind. He stopped for another shower, not dropping any soap this time. As he brushed his rebellious, damp curls back into a ponytail he realized that that feeling of déjà vu was, well, not gone, but certainly lessened. As though something subtle had changed. He shrugged it off as his imagination and headed to the restaurant for his “I better act surprised because everyone expects me to” party.

As always AJ embarrassed him in public, though not as badly as the year before. Mama D was still chuckling as she waved goodbye, ‘leaving the children to their fun.’ Nick, however, was a dead man. Hiring a stripper was ha-ha funny. At least he had waited until after Mama had left before bringing “her” out. The fact that it was a she-male….

It was late, very late when he finally got to bed. His birthday was thankfully over. Not quiet as bad as some in the past, but still somewhat aggravating. He climbed into his large, empty bed, thankful that at least he hadn’t drunk enough to make the room spin. Tomorrow when he woke up at least all he’d have to deal with was the memory of his birthday. Not a hangover too.

All in all, it looked and sounded like a great day.

But not for him.

It was his birthday.

“What the fuck?!”

Okay, this was getting ridiculous.

He clearly remembered going to bed last night. AFTER his birthday party. Yet here he was again. Waking up in the same way, to the same visual and auditory clues. And to a calendar that clearly stated that today was August 22.

Again.

Now, if it had been a paper calendar he could understand it. But it was a top-of-the-line electronic personal organizer. And it just couldn’t be broken yet.

Could it have just been a vivid dream? I mean he’d had those before. Ones where you wake up and feel like you spent the whole night working rather than sleeping. But he usually only got those in the middle of a really long and busy tour. He hadn’t had one on the last tour: the Boys had finally gotten to a place in their career where THEY could make some decisions about how many concerts they did. No more doing two concerts in one day and then on to the next city to do it again and again and again. Compared to some of their previous tours the last one had been a cakewalk.

But it didn’t feel like a dream. It felt real. Really real.

He looked at his face in the mirror. “What have you been smoking, Howie?” he asked the familiar visage. “And when the hell did you smoke it, ‘cos I don’t remember doing something like that at all.”

Then again, it was his birthday. Maybe this was a sign of aging… Forget about wrinkles, gray hair and a drooping body: the real killer was thinking that you’d been through it all already.

The phone rang and he reached to answer it.

AJ.

He’d known it would be. He stood there, looking at himself in the mirror, trying to figure out if he was going nuts, listening to AJ sing his rendition of a birthday song. Then, once the caterwauling had stopped, said, “get some new material,” and hung up.

He was too young to be going crazy. Wasn’t he?

The phone rang again. He thought quickly to the list of people who were going to call him this morning (according to what he was sure had happened the day before). So he picked up and the receiver and answered it with a “Hi, Brian.”

“I’m not B-rok, and why the hell did you hang up on me?” an angry voice asked.

Okay, this was a deviation from what he expected. Maybe there was hope!

“Sorry, Bone. Just had a very weird dream, I think. Its kind of spooking me out.”

“Well, they say at your age the brain goes fast,” AJ joked.

“Ha ha.”

“Look at it this way: all your hair could have fallen out.”

Howie inspected his head surreptiously. Nope, hair line was at the same spot it had been the day before (or whenever he’d checked it last).

“Or you could have shrunk, you know, where it counts.”

Nope, quick pajama bottom check shows that everything is A-Ok.

“Or you could have turned into Nick.”

“Ouch! Things will never get that bad,” Howie chuckled.

He could hear AJ grinning even through the phone. “Yeah, that’s what I always tell myself when I’m having a bad day. At least I’m not Nick.”

“Really? And what colour is your hair today?”

AJ snorted. “Lay off, man. Its not blond ‘cos I want to be Nick. Its blond ‘cos that was the mood I was in when I coloured it.”

“Omigod! So you must have totally been in a surfer-dude, white trash, Eminem-head mood then. Totally.” Howie gave his best Valley-girl impression.

“As if!”

Howie laughed. A good deep, hard, belly laugh. “Thanks bro, I needed that.”

“Yeah, well you always get grouchy on your b’day. So I’ll see you later?”

“Yeah.”

He hung up in a much better mood. It was going to be okay. Whatever weird notions he’d had when he woke up… they were obviously not real. He was not living this day over. It had just been a dream. He chuckled at himself for believing something like that. Wasn’t that some sort of bad Bill Murray movie or something? Not something that was going to happen to him.

He reached over to the phone as it rang again.

“Hey, D. How’s the birthday boy?” Brian’s voice came through loud and clear.

Alright, so he’d written down exactly who was supposed to call him, and in what order. And for the most part it had been right. A change here and there. Not enough to totally put his mind at ease, but enough that he felt he had some control over what was happening to him.

Time to take charge. First things first: he couldn’t change his appointment at the gym, but he could alter his route to get there. That should throw off any of the strange twists of fate that were screwing with his day.

He still got the waves from fans (and a few flashes): how did they always seem to know where he was? Did they have radar or something? A homing device on his car? Maybe he should check… Okay, Dorough, that is one step too far into the world of paranoia.

The gym was busy, but to his mind seemed a little less so than he had expected. Where was the guy on the adductor machine? And wasn’t that lady supposed to be on the Stairmaster and not on the rowing machine?

He hopped in the shower after his workout, sweaty though strangely sated. It was birthday jitters. Lord knows, he had enough reason to hate his birthday. It had not been a good day for him in the past. So this year he’d just let it get to him a little much. That was all.

He moved under the spray of the shower, letting the water glide over him, caressing every taut muscle in his chest, and run over the ripples of his stomach. He’d needed that workout. Just to get his head back on straight.

His hand closed over the bar of soap and he scrubbed the sweat off of him vigourously. “You know,’ he said, addressing the soap, “if I was to suddenly drop you I’d feel a little weirded out. But that is not going to happen, so I’m okay with it.”

The soap didn’t answer.

He grinned at his own thoughts, then went to replace the soap in the dish. But it started to slip out of his hand. He tried to catch it. Honest he did. He almost had it a few times. But no: it fell to the floor of the shower stall with a thud.

He just stared at it.

“On that note, I think its time to go.” He retreated from the stall, leaving the traitorous soap where it lay.

He climbed into his car and sat behind the steering wheel, his hands shaking a little. “So things are a little weird. So you are feeling some very major déjà vu. That’s it. That is all that is happening. Now start the car and let’s get home and changed and off to the party,” he said, giving himself a pep talk.

He drove slowly out of the parking lot, looking cautiously both ways before moving onto the street. “There’s supposed to be a woman on a bike,” he mumbled to himself. Nope. No woman on a bike. No one on a bike at all. He gave a sigh of relief. Things were going to be okay.

The drive home was slower than usual, because he had gone out of his way to avoid any bicyclist he saw. One can never be too careful.

It wasn’t until he was almost home that he started to speed up. And that is when, as he was turning into his condo, he almost knocked over a woman on a pair of rollerblades.

“Are you okay?” he asked worriedly as he jumped out of the car. She was sitting on the ground, swearing up a storm.

“Yeah, I always like being knocked on my ass when I’m blading. What’s the matter with you? Roads not big enough? You have to take over even the little space on the side?” she asked sarcastically.

“Sorry. Really I am. I just…”

“I know, I know. Didn’t see me. Well, try and keep your eyes open.” She tried to get up, but her feet kept rolling out from underneath her.

“Look, can I…?” He stepped forward, coming round to help her up. Only that didn’t work either. He ended up on the ground in a pile with her.

“I don’t think this is working,” she said sardonically. Then turned to look at him. He could see recognition spread across her face. “You’re…”

“Yeah, I know. Howie D of the Backstreet Boys. Let’s try this standing up thing again.” He pulled himself up, then braced one of her feet against his. Her other leg tried to roll out again, but he held her steady.

”Much better,” he said with a smile as he looked up at her. She started to slip, and grabbed onto him again.

“Easy for you to say.” She gingerly started to sit down again, then unbuckled the blades. “Sorry I barked at you. I’m a little new on these. I have the going forward, and the slowing down and the upright stops and starts down okay. I just haven’t perfected the falling.”

He chuckled. “Having my car swerve close to you probably didn’t help.”

“Not really,” she agreed as she pulled some sandals from her backpack, tied her blades together and held them up. “Somehow I get the impression that this is the way I should be wearing them for a while.”

“You’ll get the hang of it. Just like I’ll get the hang of driving.”

She laughed. It was a nice sound.

It did. But too late. I’m really sorry. Umm... I think...,” he pointed to the jacket she wore. There was a huge rip along the arm, and he could see scraped and bloody skin underneath.