George looks up at the game board and whines. "Man, but we're only a few rounds in!"
This time it's Colby's turn to shoot George a glare. "What do you care, you suck at bowling, anyway! Look, he's in trouble and needs our help!"
You look over at Colby, who portrays genuine, deep concern on his weathered face. The guy he turned into must be a dad or something. You were pretty sure he was a dad, in fact. You recognized him as Joe, or Joey as you and the guys called him. He had three kids, two sons and a daughter. He liked to show off their pictures whenever he could. They'd all graduated high school years ago, but his daughter was going to get her master's in-
You pinch your forehead and take a deep breath, trying to drown out the stolen memories. This wasn't good. You could feel yourself slipping away.
Joe glares at Mark, the muscle-head jerk who thought he was the hottest guy on Earth. As much as Mark always tried, there was no hiding he was approaching middle age. No! Those weren't Joe and Mark, they were Colby and George, your friends from school.
George leans in and pats your shoulder. "You alright, bud?" He looks concerned now, too.
You sit up and paste on a reassuring grin. "Yeah. Yeah, I'll be fine. Let's just get out of here, alright? I think... I think I'm done for tonight."
George nods apologetically. "Sure, sure. Uhm, here!" He slips off his bowling shoes and hands them to you. "Wear mine. Maybe it'll give you some buffer time or something."
You grimace at the shoes. There was no way you wanted to become that conceited asshole. You'd much rather be stuck in this body than his. "Ah, no. Thanks, Mark, but no. I just want to get back to Joe's house and get my old shoes on."
Mark stares at you, bewildered. "Uhm, I'm George. He's Colby."
You nod vigorously. "Yeah. Yeah, I knew that." Your memories feel extremely jumbled. You're having difficulty separating your memories from the stolen ones.
Colby's eyes are as large as dinner plates, a look of horror on his older face. "That's it. We're getting out of here."
Without warning, Colby grabs your legs and pries of your bowling shoes, first the right, then the left. He repeats the action with the socks. He looks, over at George, suddenly maintaining an air of authority, barking orders to his muscular friend. "George, take his phone. Open the photo gallery. See if you can find pictures of him and us."
George hurriedly follows his commands, tapping away furiously at your phone. You sit still, not sure how to respond. Colby quickly pulls on the socks, then the shoes he had walked in with.
George glances at him, eyebrows raised. "What are you doing?"
Colby grimaces. "Changing back so we can leave. Is there any way to speed this up?" He receives blank stares from both of you. "Right, stupid question. Got those pictures yet, George."
George nods. "Aww, here's one form last week. It's us at class field trip." He turns the phone around. You see a picture of your son putting his head in a dinosaur skeleton's mouth, a tall red headed kid standing nearby is laughing as a short, fat kid stands nearby, not amused.
Colby points at the picture while looking at you, his face growing more square and angular, losing its softness. "Who's that a picture of?"
You glance at him quizzically, it's easiest question in the world. "That's my son."
Colby looks even more concerned, his hair retracting into a short buzz cut, his brow becoming heavy and serious, the subtle lines on his face smoothing over. His tone becomes more authoritative, losing the warmth it had before. "No. That's not. Try again."
You glance at the picture. You shake your head, trying the clear the memories. "No! Agh! Sorry. That's me. I know it's me. Sorry. I'm just..."
Colby continues, not giving you time to think. "How old are you?"
George leans in, trying to be a part of the action. "Here's a hint: It's less than 40."
Colby shoots him a cold glare with his steely gray eyes, forcing George away. "I need him to answer on his own."
You take a breath. "I'm 15. We took that picture at the museum last week. I thought it would be hilarious to make it look like I was getting eaten. So did George. You didn't agree with us."
Colby nods, looking perhaps a little less intense. He then winces and raises his sleeve, noting the appearance of some military tattoos. After a moment, he begins to remove his shoes and socks, tossing the latter at George. "Get changed."
George holds up one of the socks, noting it was beginning to feel a little moist. "Do we really have to? Can't we just leave as is?"
You hold up a finger, not wanting to be sidelined from the conversation. "I think they might find it odd that we left as different people than we arrived."
George gives you an "oh really?" look. "Do you really think the half-comatose kid at the desk will notice? And so what if he does? I doubt his first thought is going to be that we switched bodies."
You return George's look. "Hey, Bobby notices more than he lets on. Besides, you're a regular here. If he knew what my lucky shoes were without me asking, then he'll definitely remember a loud mouth like you."
George seems to take offense to this. With about to respond with what was probably a snoot remark when you're all interrupted.
"Hey, Mark! What's the trouble, here?" A man, perhaps a little older than you, stands just outside your play area. He's wearing a bowling shirt that does little to hide his gut. His head is shaved, but you can easily make out the steel-grey stubble that horseshoes around the sides and back of his head. He has a goatee of the same color, and is looking a the three of you with concern.
You gently kick George in the shin. "You wanna answer the guy, Mark?"
It takes George a minute to realize what's going on. "What? Oh! Yeah, we're all good here." George slips on the socks and his father's shoes, not wanting to be barefoot while talking to this man.
The man points down the row of lanes. "We were a couple lanes down and noticed a little commotion over here." He gestures at you. "We just wanted to make sure your friend here was alright."
You smile and wave at the man. "I'm fine. Nothing to worry about."
The man looks at you closely before breaking out into a wide grin. "Well, I'll be! You're the guy from last week!"
You feel Colby tense up next to you. You continue to force your smile. "Last week?"
He nods and leans on the table. "Yeah. You almost had the perfect game! In all my time here, I've never seen anyone get that close before. What was the score? 270? 280?"
The memory surfaces. It stings a little. It was the tenth frame. You had bowled 9 strikes in a row, a personal record. It had really been your lucky day. You threw the ball, only to end up with a 7-10 split."
"288." The response was automatic. The memory stung. though it had been your best score of your lift, it was so close to being a once in a lifetime perfect game.
The man whistles. "Man, what I would do to get a score like that."
The memory has destabilized your thoughts once again. The fragile balance that George and Colby had managed to establish in your psyche is sent toppling with the strong memory, like a tower of Jenga bricks.
Colby notices your thousand yard stare. He glances around the room, trying to formulate a battle plan. His eyes settle on the man leaning on the table.
He gestures at the man's arm. There's a tattoo half hidden by his sleeve. "Excuse me, I couldn't help but notice your ink. Marines?"
The man smiles broadly. "Damn right. You a military man?"
Colby nods, shaking the man's hand, taking the attention off you. "Yes, sir. I'm, ah, Corporal Colby Summers. I served a couple tours in..."
You look over at George. His changes are well under way. He seems to be growing, quickly reaching his father's height. His body looks to be filling out, his form steadily growing rounder. His beard is becoming unkempt, getting longer and messier, as well as his hair, which is retreating across his scalp.
Colby stands up, taking the man's full attention. "We were just about to leave. We only came for a few rounds, anyway. But I can't go without buying you a beer first."
The man smiles. "Sure, sure." He half turns his head in George's direction, keeping his eyes on Colby. "It was good seeing you, Mark."
George sighs with relief, his belly seeming to expand with the expression. His face has completely rounded out, his cheeks and double chin lost under his wild, brown-red beard. His high forehead and bald spot are only separated by thin, wild hair. The rest of his body is swallowed in a coating of body hair, poking out of every hole of his clothing.
He smiles a wide, reassuring smile at your, which is nearly invisible under his bushy beard. "You alright?"
You nod. "Yeah. I'm 15. I'm a teenager. We went to the museum last week."
He nods back, looking a little concerned. "Yeah. I know all of that."
"It was more for my benefit than yours."
He tosses you the socks. "Let's get out of here."
You slip the socks on first, then the shoes you came in with. You feel the sensation of change as you do, though nothing actually changes. Perhaps your stubble gets a little longer, or something minor like that. You grab the good ol' 44's and Colby's bowling shoes and return them to the desk.
You grin at Bobby as you hand him the shoes. "Good ol' 44's. You take care of them, now."
He takes them and gives you a quick half grin before settling back into his seat, bored as always. It was probably the most emotion he ever showed anybody at the bowling alley.
George tugs you toward the door. You linger. "Shouldn't we wait for Colby?"
George manages to steer you out of the building. "He'll be fine. You're the one I'm worried about."
You shrug his think hands off as you walk down the street. "I told you, I'm fine."
"Maybe now, but you weren't before. You've been in that body too long, guy. It can't be good for you."
You walk about a block when you hear running footsteps from behind you. You turn to see Colby jogging after the both of you. It isn't long before he catches up. He isn't even out of breath.
George grins at him. "Nice work. How did you know he had a Marines tattoo?"
Colby, straight faced, shrugs. "I recognized it."
You glance at Colby incredulously. As far as you know, none of his family members were in the Marines. "From where?"
Colby taps the side of his head. "From here. As soon as I saw the tattoo I just knew."
George looks impressed. "What about all that stuff about serving tours and all that army stuff?"
Colby's expression winces, his eyebrows cinching up a fraction and his frown deepening. "Once I recognized that tattoo, I was able to sort of open a valve. I just let some of the memories in."
George's eyes widen. "You can do that?"
You grimace at George. "I don't recommend it."
Colby shakes his head in agreement. "It's not all memories. Just strong memories. Ones that would float on the surface, and only if you know what to look for. The reason he's having problems, I think , is because he's been his dad too long. He's gotten too much of his personality and its had time to seep into him."
"Hey!" You shoulder your way back into the conversation. "I'm right here, you know. And we're talking about my dad, not some infectious ooze."
Colby sighs and speeds his pace, walking ahead the two of you. "Let's just get back to my house and get this over with."