The Old Switcheroo

Jim and Kip sat in the dappled shade of the great elm on the eastern hill, their hats on their knees, eating their lunch, watching the procession from a distance. The mourners, along with the chaplain, were already sweating in their suits, moping their brows and fanning themselves in the late morning sun. Jim and Kip recognized the cues and started packing up their lunch boxes. Kip set his by the stump he was sitting on, flipped his hat from his knee to his head and snapped his suspenders onto his shoulders with a sigh. “Welp, looks like it’s gonna be a hot one.”

“Mm,” Jim agreed, as he mulled over the final bite of his sandwich.

By the time they finished packing up, the service was drawing to a seemingly welcomed, tastefully abridged conclusion. The dark clad grievers embraced and dispersed.

The blue, beat-up groundskeeper pick-up trundled down the hill and pulled to a stop with a squeak at the grave site. Jim and Kip rolled up their sleeves, tucked on their wide brimmed hats, and drew their shovels from the bed of the truck.

The coffin still sat on the frame and straps of the lowering mechanism. It was unusual for the casket to not be lowered into the grave at the end of a service. Jim tapped the nameplate on the foot of the box as he passed it.

Kip leaned in to read it. “Xander, The Great Xentauri.” He poked his shovel blade in the grass as he rubbed the back of his neck. “Who’s that?”

“One of the best to ever do it.”

“Do what?”

“Magic.”

“Magic?”

Jim set the crank and began turning it slowly, the straps groaning as the coffin lowered. “Magic.” He gazed off. “The Great Xentauri,” a reverent hush to his already gravely timbre.

“Rabbit in a hat, and such?”

Jim scoffed, the crank squeaked, the coffin settled into the shadows of the grave. “Rabbit in a hat?” He scoffed again. “Why, he could pull an elephant out of a hat if he wanted to.”

“An elephant?”

“He could disappear, right in front of you.” The straps slackened as the box met the soft earth. “Heck, he could make someone else disappear and then reappear in Miami.”

“Miami?”

“I saw him pull the ‘Old Switcheroo’ with my own eyes.”

“The old switcheroo?”

“That’s when he trades places with you.” Jim punctuated his point, unsnapping the straps, green ribbons snaking.

“He traded places with you?”

“Well, not with me,” Jim admitted with a shrug and stood. “But I saw him trade places with another fella, and sheesh.” He shrugged, and then with nothing else to add, he added, “Could you imagine?”

“Imagine?”

They lined up on either side of the grave “Swapping places with someone else.” They bent and grabbed the metal frame

Kip joined in the obligatory grunt, even though the lowering rig was light “Swapping places?””

“I’m me, you’re you, and all of a sudden, I’m over there and you're over here. Looking at me”

They loaded the frame on the truck, “I’m me?”

grabbed their gloves, “But you're over here, looking at me.”

They gathered their shovels.

“Looking at you?” Kip pushed his hat back scratching his forehead. “Sounds kind of confusing I guess.”

“Exactly.”

They marched back to the grave, and in an unpracticed habit of routine, they both sunk their spades into their respective sides of the unearthed pile of dirt and pulled their gloves tight.

The shovelfuls fell, coarse showers rattled like earthen hail on polished mahogany. The tone thickened until they slowly subsided into padded thumps and then only the churning of the earth.

Their shovel blades rang thinly as they tamped the earth. An orange and purple sunset cast them in delicate silhouettes of dried rose and lavender against the gravestones and rolling hills of the forest. They loaded the frame and their shovels into the bed of the truck and crowded into the cab, Jim behind the wheel. They puttered through the grounds, up the arcing road.

The funeral home was as beautifully antiquated as the rest of the grounds, a remnant of the colonial era, its pillars thick with vibrant vines, decorative reliefs both weathered and meticulously cared for, white wood and red brick. Jim backed the truck up to the loading door of the casket vault. Kip hopped out and, leaning almost thirty degrees as he put all of his weight into the gargantuan metal door, pushed it open. The door squealed a protesting peal and thudded to rest. Jim backed the truck into the cavernous garage. The motor sputtered and the truck lurched as it thunked to a stop. Jim’s usual way to kill the engine. They had no need to unload the lowering mechanism, as they’d be using it again, first thing tomorrow.

Jim tucked his gloves into the back pocket of his trousers. “Guess we should get Mrs. Gertty ready for tomorrow.”

“Yep.”

They strolled shoulder to shoulder across the garage and pushed through the strips of dingy plastic sheeting that separated the prep room. They made their way to the single coffin at the end of the room, Kip dragging the bier, what they called the coffin cart, behind him. He set it at the foot of the coffin, locked its wheels with a kick of his toe before each of them came to stand on either side of the coffin. They gripped the bars, nodded, and with a smooth and practiced lift, pulled the coffin onto the bier.

Kip held a steadying hand over the crown of the coffin. Jim pulled it into place and locked the wheels. “Goodnight, Miss Gertty, see you in the morning.”

Kip squinted, noticing a patch of greasy smudges around the foot of the casket. He pulled a rag from his pocket, spit on it for good measure, and began buffing the brass, finishing up with the name plate, polishing it to a high shine. He froze.

Jim gave the coffin a final pat, “Night, Kip.” and turned to go.

“Jim.”

Jim stopped, raised his chin in a half-turn. “Hmm?” Kip didn’t answer, Jim turned and froze as well when he saw his flabbergasted expression. “Kip?” He took a careful step toward him.

Kip was backing away and pointing limply at the name plate. “How?”

Jim walked around, put a reassuring hand on Kip’s shoulder and gently pushed him aside, pulled off his hat and leaned in to read the nameplate. He stared at it for a good long while before standing straight and putting his hands on his hips. ”Well, ain’t that something there.”

“The Great Xentauri,” Kip let his name out in a whisper as if he was afraid he might hear it. “You think he’s in there?”

“Hmm.” Jim flapped his hat back on and crept to the side of the casket. He pinched the clasp and slipped his fingers under the edge of the lid and turned to Kip. “Abra Cadabra.” He pushed it open and stepped back.

Kip craned his neck. “Is it him?”

“Come take a look at this.” Jim waved him over.

“Just tell me,” a convictionless command, his feet already carrying him. He stood next to Jim and marveled down at the great Xentauri, thin mustache and pointy goatee, sharp cheekbones, jet black hair pulled taught, and maybe the tiniest smirk that might not have been there before. Kip whispered in awe, “The Old Switcheroo.”

“The Old Switcheroo,” Jim confirmed with a slow reverent nod.

They took it in, the prestige of it all, a posthumous final trick.

“Who did we just bury?”

Jim surprised himself as he let out a relieved chuckle. “Sure hope it was Miss Gertty.”

Kip chuckled too.