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callmecallmecrazy · 4 years ago

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Keeping Up with Old Friends

*****

Well, it’s another odd one. Somewhere between preppy and stodgy, old-fashioned man I guess? This is actually brand spanking new! If it hadn’t been for Covid, this would have been the fastest story I’d ever written!

*****

“Josh? Is that you?” Henley saw his old college pal, the wannabe hipster with a scruffy beard and flannel button downs ordering coffee at a Starbucks. Except, scruffy Josh was smooth shaved with a gentle part in his hair and dressed in a tight fitting lime green polo, creased khakis, and polished loafers. And the Josh he knew would never order from Starbucks or any corporate chain for that matter. But the tiny polo logo on his chest suggested that had definitely changed.

“Henley! Hey man,” his voice was still the same chipper and little high pitched. Henley met his friend in a hug, noticing that his formerly thin arms had a plethora of veins bulging up over visible muscles. For someone who claimed to hate pretension, he sure had gone full tilt.

“Surprised to see you here,” Henley half-joked while teasingly pressing on the polo player on Josh’s shirt.

“Ha! Yeah man, turns out they have some good stuff! Plus, it’s close to work.”

“Where are you working now?”

“Hemplebaum Inc.” The big smile he offered was met by a wide eyed stare from Henley. Josh was a film and lighting guy. Last they’d talked, he’d been working on some plays downtown. Certainly not at “evil corporation incorporated”.

“What happened to the plays?”

“Ya know, I wanted a change.” Josh shoved his hands into his pockets. “Plus, the money sucks. I didn’t want to share a studio my whole life.” “Aren’t they, like, totally evil?” Josh frowned, his face taking on an overly broad and exaggerated look. Had his head grown?

“Hey man, they’re cool. I got headhunted by a department chief. I’m not one of those office drones filling foreclosures and manipulating bank accounts.” In response to Henley’s increasingly horrified look, Josh shrugged and laughed. “I don’t think they do that stuff anymore either.”

He glanced at his watch, a shiny rolex, and then back at Henley. “Hey man, great seeing you. Maybe we’ll hang out sometime? I gotta get back to the office!” Henley watched Josh walk out, noticing how well he filled out those khakis. His buttocks had developed a shelf like quality, curving the pants out awkwardly as he walked away.

“That was so strange,” Henley said aloud. But people change. Josh seemed happy and healthy. Maybe he always wanted to be a frat boy after all? Henley got his coffee, black, and took the train downtown. As he sipped on the scalding coffee, Henley did think about some of what Josh said. Downtown was prohibitively expensive. Henley paid in time what he couldn't afford in rent having to ride in everyday. Sure, he loved life down here but he really couldn’t enjoy it as much as he’d like. But then, Henley could never handle being some corporate drone.

-----

“Josh? Is that you?” The big man standing in front of the drink counter, picking up a gigantic fuzzy looking drink, didn’t physically resemble Josh at all. He was big, the Navy blazer he wore couldn’t hide the broad shoulders and his green and blue rep tie had a hard time lying flat over his bulging pecs. And his hair, last time well groomed but still with a youthful length, was sheared down into a practically flat bit of black hair, shiny and parted. The face was still the same, even though the hair made his face look extremely square.

The man looked back at Henley confused for a moment before a tinge of understanding glittered in his eyes.

“Henley Tator,” his voice was slower and deeper. While Henley went in for a hug, Josh replied with a one armed side hug and pat on the back. He practically grimaced when Henley went full hug.

“Josh! Man, it’s been awhile.” “Yes Henley, I’ve been very busy at work. And please, call me Joshua, it’s more professional.”

“Wow, still at Hemplebaum?”

“Yes, moving up the ladder. What about you, Henley?”

“Oh ya know, I’m still at the art funding startup. It’s hard but I enjoy it.”

“Pay well?” “Ha, you know it doesn’t.” “I can tell,” Joshua eyed Henley’s tattered jeans and waffle shirt with distaste. Henley was taken aback by the outright disdain.

“Well, I’m passionate about it.” Joshua just nodded. “You’re looking good. Gym time is really paying off.” “Yes,” Joshua’s stern demeanor dropped a touch, there a bit more levity in his voice suddenly. “There’s a corporate gym and it’s free and they even give you an hour a day to use it - paid!” He was practically giddy as he talked. Henley relaxed a bit. This was the Josh he knew, chirpy and friendly though not exceptionally outgoing. And honestly, Josh had always been the kind of guy who dove head first into anything. It really wasn’t shocking that he’d treat his job the same way he’d treated edibles, EDM, and frisbee golf.

“You still doing frisbee golf? Since you’ve got the bod now,” Henley playfully slapped one of Joshua’s broad shoulders and was shocked at how firm the muscle was.

“I’ve been doing a lot of golf! I play with several of my coworkers and even some of the junior partners. I’m getting my handicap down too.”

“Oh, you’re playing real golf?”

“Yes, it’s very enjoyable. And great for business bonding. Chance for men to talk about work, wives, sports. Say, you watch the game last weekend?” That was wholly unlike Josh. But again, he was probably throwing himself into the corporate world.

“Nah, man, I’m not into basketball.”

“It’s football season.” He replied so directly and sincerely Henley almost fell over. “I know not everyone is into the NFL, but I assumed you would at least watch your alma mater. And our Bulls are having a great season. 4-0 in conference play.” Joshua kept talking about football as Henley stared deep into his eyes. Was this really Josh? The guy hadn’t even known what sport a touchdown was part of.

“Anyway, Henley, it’s been great catching up. Maybe we can grab some beers and watch a game sometime. I need to return to the office.” Joshua checked his watch, flashing the shiny gold in front of Henley. As the muscleman walked out, Henley couldn’t help but notice the incredibly large derriere. The vents on his suit jacket hung awkwardly over the luscious rump and it jiggled every so slight as he walked. A stunning contrast to the hard muscle covering the rest of his body.

“Yeah, great to see you Josh-ua,” he forced out the last syllable. It made sense to do it. This was not the Josh he knew. This was apparently Joshua, his friend? Henley grabbed his coffee, black, and tried to sip on it on the train. It was a little too hot for him and he was stuck holding it between his hands awkwardly for the whole ride.

-----

“Josh? Is that you? I mean, Joshua?” Henley had avoided the coffee shop since their last encounter. He told himself it was all in his head, but everything about these encounters creeped him out. Joshua seemed like a totally different person. He wasn’t sure if it was steroids, the growth seemed extremely quick, or perhaps just the makeover itself made him look different. But he was finally caffeine deprived enough to step in, and there was Joshua. Or at least a Joshua facsimile standing next to another man.

This Joshua wore a tight fitting suit, seemingly straining at both the broad shoulders and around the crotch. It was exceptionally subdued, a rather pale black color with a white button down shirt and blue and green rep tie. His hair was the same, but his face had undergone a change. His jaw, formerly a little pointed and sharp, spread wide and hung low, giving his face a square, lantern shape. He stood ramrod straight, sipping from his milky looking drink. The man next to Joshua was older, but otherwise nearly identical. He was thicker around the middle, but any gut he might have was hidden by the extremely high rise of his pants, sitting above his belly button just under the rib cage. His tie was black and grey with a subtle windowpane pattern.

The man stared at Henley for a moment before tapping Joshua on the shoulder.

“John Howard,” his voice was slow and deep. “I believe this boy is trying to get your attention.” The younger man turned to look at Henley and then a faint bit of recognition crossed his face.

“Henley Tator,” the voice was practically monotone, low and deep. He took a few powerful steps forward and offered a large, rough hand. Confused, Henley accepted it and the grip practically shattered his bones.

“Mr. Amplebottom,” Joshua turned to face the older man. “This is a friend from college. Henley Tator. Henley, this is my boss.” He gestured robotically between the two. Amplebottom offered his hand and it was the same rough shake.

“Nice to meet you….,” Henley sort of trailed off, hoping to get a first name.

“And to you, Henley,” he put a very strange emphasis on the words, as though he had never said them before. Henley turned back to his old friend.

“So, Joshua,...” he was cut off by a cough from Amplebottom.

“Please call me John Howard,” Joshua said curtly. “Mr. Amplebottom thinks I would be better suited professionally as John Howard.” The way he spoke, extremely even in both rhythm and pitch, was unnerving. Henley could make out some of Josh’s features in the hulking face before him. An upturned nose and naturally thin eyebrows over wide eyes resembled the Josh he knew. But the rest of the face clearly belonged to this corporate meathead named John Howard.

“Okay, John-”

“John Howard.”

“John Howard. So, how is work?”

“I am very happy at Hemplebaum. I was recently put in charge of development acquisitions under Mr. Amplebottom. He has been a great advisor in my career.”

“That’s great. Glad to hear you’re doing good!”

“Yes, Mr. Amplebottom has assigned me to a downtown acquisition project.”

“Acquisition?”

“Correct, we have a potential development on 520 Porter and need to remove the building.”

“Huh, okay. So what building are you removing?”

“Currently the future site of Hemple Housing Porter is occupied by the Cherub Theatre.” “Cherub Theatre? You used to work there? You wanna tear it down?”

“It is an eyesore. And it occupies a lot with high economic potential. It is better suited for development.”

“Josh-,”

“John Howard.”

“What the hell happened to you?” The wide eyes suddenly narrowed sharply and almost seemed to sink back into his skull a little.

“I’m offended by your tone, Henley. And honestly,” he adjusted the cuffs of his sleeves while disgustingly eyeing Henley’s dirty clothes up and down. “I grew up. You could do with some growing.”

“You’ve grown into a soulless jerk. We used to mock those fucking money obsessed frat boys back in college.” “I just bought a house out in Chester. Right next door to Chadwick Statton. You remember Chadwick?” “Oh my god, he was that Kappa Kappa Kappa asshole.”

“The KKK joke is stale. Besides, it’s very difficult to purchase a home in that neighborhood. I was fortunate to golf with him and he gave me an in with the Board. Plus, I’m working on my country club application. The application fee is $50,000. Could you afford that?” “Jesus Christ! Fifty k just to fucking apply? You’re insane.”

“And you, Henley, are a child. But if you ever decide to grow up,” he reached into his suit jacket pocket and pulled out a thick black card and stuffed it into the breast pocket of his plaid shirt.

“John Howard,” Mr. Amplebottom suddenly interrupted the discussion. John Howard stiffened up and faced his boss. “I’m glad you had this chance to catch up with your fraternity brother, but we have wasted time. I assume you’ll stay late to make it up?” “Of course, Mr. Amplebottom.” They turned to leave. Henley got a good look at the pair. Despite the broad shoulders and bulging pectorals, both had a distinctly pear shaped body, with wide hips and massive butts that shook just a touch as they walked. Henley laughed to himself, realizing Amplebottom really lived up to his name.

Henley grabbed the card from his pocket and examined it. It was a thick card stock and slightly textured. The Hemplebaum logo was obnoxiously large in one corner. Right in the middle was John Howard Johnson, Associate. Henley was quite sure he was going mad. That was absolutely not his last name in college! Had he changed his entire fucking name to fit in with these people? Golfing with Chad, obeying his boss like some braindead goon, destroying his old workplace to build, what? Multi-use condos? Like there isn’t enough of that? The Cherub is a relic, in a good way. Had Josh been putting on the entire time he was in college? Was this who he truly was? No, no this name changing was a deeper sign. Maybe a psychotic break?

It occurred to him that standing in a Starbucks staring at a business card as people queued up around him made him look insane. And he had to get to work anyway. This whole thing had become so ridiculous he’d just ignore it. He ordered his coffee, adding a heavy dose of cream, and went downtown.

-----

“John Howard? Is that you?”

“You’ve reached Hemblebaum Inc acquisitions division. How may I direct your call?” Damn, his card didn’t even list a direct number. Henley had tossed the card around his apartment for a while, even starting to dial once or twice. But then he’d ask himself why exactly he was doing this. John Howard, whoever he was, wasn’t Henley’s old friend. He wouldn’t have even spoken to Henley back in the day. But theoretically this man was Josh or had been Josh. And Henley couldn’t shake him from his mind.

“May I speak with John Howard Johnson?” Henley’s voice cracked a touch as he spurt out the words.

“I’ll transfer you to his desk,” replied the chipper female voice. The line filled with static and then began ringing. After a few rings, he was bumped back to the secretary.

“Would you like me to give Mr. Johnson a message on your behalf?” “Oh, uh, no thank you.”

“If this is a private matter, I can forward you to his personal mailbox.”

“Sure.”

“One moment.” There wasn’t any ring, just straight to the mailbox. He could practically see the stodgy man who produced the recording.

“You have reached the desk of John Howard Johnson. Leave a message and I will respond.” Damn, he was so terse and humorless. And what exactly was he going to say? The words came out of his mouth before he could think about them.

“Hey, John Howard. This is Henley Tator, from college. I was thinking about what you said when you gave me your card. So, call me back?” He left his number and hung up. What on earth had he been thinking? I mean, the growing up thing had crossed his mind. His two bedroom apartment was rough to afford even with two roommates. It would be nice to have his own place. And his clothes could use an update from his student days. Of course, he wondered exactly how long he’d be waiting for a call back, which gave him far too much time to ponder his plans.

------

“This is Henley,” he wouldn’t normally answer the phone for an unknown number, but since he had no idea when John Howard would call, or from what number, Henley snagged the phone every time it rang. Sure, he’d fielded a few calls from telemarketers, but he was going to get to the bottom of this. Hardy Boy or something or other.

“Hello Henley, this is John Howard Johnson, I am returning your call from 2:15.” Damn, he was a total stiff. He was probably sitting at his desk, feet flat on the floor, back ramrod straight staring straight ahead.

“Hey John Howard, how’s it going?”

“I am well, Henley, how may I assist you?” Straight to the point.

“Well, you know I was thinking about what you said at Starbucks. About growing up and stuff.”

“Yes, you are quite childish.” “Can you help?”

“Of course, I think an interview with Mr. Amplebottom would be a delightful way to have a new start. I shall arrange an 8:00 a.m. appointment tomorrow. He’ll be expecting you. Check in at the lobby by 7:45. Oh, and please find more suitable attire. This is a professional work environment.” “Great, well, that’s a lot more than I expected.”

“What did you expect?”

“Umm, no idea.”

“You asked for help, I am providing it. Is something wrong?”

“No, no, no. Thank you so much! I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

“You’ll see Mr. Amplebottom.”

“Yes, yes, of course. Thank you, John Howard.”

“You are welcome, Henley.” Click. Well, that was brisk. But a development. Now of course, he’d need to find clothes. I mean, he had a suit, just the one, in navy blue, and it got pulled out once a year or so for weddings. A dab of cologne would top it off. He didn’t want to be suspicious. Of course, as far as he could tell, the only person who thought something was amiss was him.

-----

“This is Henley,” he replied to the officer checking name at the front desk. He was a private security guard, bulky and bull necked with biceps that practically shredded his sleeves. The stern faced man checked a list carefully.

“First name?”

“Henley.” The officer stared at him.

“Henley Henley?”

“No, Henley Tator.” He could sense the guard sighing internally. Henley was such an odd name, it usually was more than enough information for people to locate him. But, judging by John Howard, this was probably an extremely by-the-books business.

“39th floor. Please give your name to the secretary and she’ll let you in. Tator, Henley. Less confusion.” The man curtly directed him towards the elevator and returned to his post by the door.

Everything about the lobby, the elevator and the entry way on floor 39 was the same: wood, dark, overbearing. Harsh fluorescent lighting easily guided the path. The whole place was like a time capsule, the height of early 60s style. This might as well have been a set for the early seasons of Mad Men.

The sharp ping of the elevator signalled his arrival and after a quick check-in, he was led across a sea of cubicles towards a large office in the corner. Despite the early time, the office was already alive. He caught glimpses of suited men at some desks and a trio of buff suits standing by a water cooler.

Amplebottom’s office continued the trend. It was big with large windows along the wall. He had a gigantic wooden desk with an equally large chair that seemed twice as wide as normal. Which made sense given his butt. He glanced up as Henley entered but did not stand.

“Henley Tator,” the way he said his name was so peculiar. He spoke so slowly that emphasis ended up on the wrong syllables, making the words sound foreign to Henley himself.

“Mr. Amplebottom,” Henley walked over in front of the desk and offered his hand. Amblebottom leaned forward and shook it. He’d prepared himself for the vice grip and felt the muscles in his forearm swell as he clenched back. Once that was over, Henley pulled back a chair and began to sit.

“Before you sit down,” his thick words poured molasses over Henley’s movements. He found himself standing upright and looking at Amplebottom. The man was a practically a hypermasculine parody, low brow, big nose, wide jaw with a gigantic cleft chin. A touch of receding hair over the temples added more dignity than age. His clothing was similar to the other day, pale black suit and subtle tie.

“John Howard setup this interview. I am unsure how you can contribute to Hemplebaum.” Henley stood uncomfortably as Amplebottom stared at him. He took a dry swallow and stared into the big man’s eyes. They were a strange grey color, cold and severe and almost lifeless. He also found it hard to look away, they were enrapturing. “What do you expect from me?” Henley was almost sure he saw the grey eyes flash.

“I guess, umm, I was just hoping for a job?”

“That sounds very convincing, son,” the droll response unnerved Henley more.

“I want to try something new. More grown-up.”

“Hemplebaum isn’t some urban start up with billiards and soy milk. This is a very demanding corporation. I expect my employees to be eager and dedicated.”

“Yes, Mr. Amplebottom,” Henley found himself nodding in response. He spread his legs a little wider and clasped his hands behind his back. It was more comfortable than just letting them hang and it prevented fidgeting.

“This job can also be very rewarding. Acquisitions works on a baseline salary plus commission incentives and bonuses.”

“How much could I make?” Henley honesty hadn’t thought about the actual financial potential of the job. Sure, he’d casually looked up the cost of homes in Chester, but he hadn’t really considered the salary.

“As a Junior Associate, you’d start with a baseline of 100 plus three percent commission with incentives quarterly based on goals and projects. Do well, and you can quickly move up.”

“Shit, seriously?”

“I am always serious Henley.”

“No, sorry, Sir,” he tacked on the honorific quickly. The financial prospects were huge! “That’s more than twice what I make now.”

“Yes, the corporate world has perks.”

“I’d like a job as a Junior Associate, Mr. Amplebottom.” That caused the bigger man to smile.

“Are you willing to dedicate yourself to your job, Henley? We do not tolerate slackers.”

“Yessir!”

“Well, I think, based on John Howard’s recommendation, that I can give you a test run.”

“Thank you, Mr. Amplebottom.”

“However, there will be a few adjustments required. Your suit is fine, the sneakers are not. And ties are mandatory with a collared shirt. Human resources will give you a rundown of our policies. I’m assuming you probably won’t have work appropriate clothing. The company can offer you a corporate card to get yourself setup. You’ll receive automatic payroll deductions to pay it back.”

“Thank you, Mr. Amplebottom.”

“I appreciate this new eagerness from you. I assure you, if you work hard, you’ll find Hemplebaum the most rewarding place.”

-----

“This is Henley Tator,” he said confidently to the guard. The officer, a gruff man with visible tattoos on his hulking forearms, gave him a once over and checked his name off a list. He said nothing as Henley headed inside towards the elevator. The glass walls of the elevator gave him a great chance to reflect on the past twenty-four hours.

The employee handbook was massive. Something like 200 pages of rules, regulations, and suggestions mixed in with corporate speak and industry jargon. While HR had gone over some basics of the position, personnel forms, and whatnot, the only section he’d read closely was on wardrobe since Amblebottom specifically mentioned it. It wasn’t terribly confusing since it included not just general recommendations but pictures, stores, and tiers of items towards “building a man’s wardrobe.”

Henley followed the basic directions and found the elegant, tiny menswear shop the manual recommended. Upon hearing that he had recently gained employment at Hemplebaum, the elder employee immediately went to work, selecting an array of khakis and polos to start. Henley had resisted the creased pleats but to his dismay the shopkeeper insisted. He had successfully rebuffed the notion that he needed new underwear. He was an adult, he could make private decisions on his own. The man also said he’d begin working on a basic suit. Henley referred to it as “black” and was politely informed that the color was “charcoal” and black suits were only for funerals.

Which is how he found himself, smooth faced from new toiletries, in a salmon polo and crisp khakis, waiting on the elevator. He had a minor flashback to when he first ran into John Howard. Joshua. Josh. Whoever he was now. Their outfits were similar, but Henley took a moment as he brushed a lock of hair from his eyes to remind himself that he was just playing pretend. He was figuring something out. Capitalist finery was required. Although his mind had already started calculating exactly when he could get his own apartment.

-----

“This is Henley Tator,” he answered as the office desk rang. He’d quickly been put into a cubicle and signed into a company website to begin training. Usual stuff, safety procedures, privacy policies and intellectual property, then lots and lots of company information, acquisition and retail training, even negotiating for beginners. He had been expecting to find a diversity or harassment training, but the program, like seemingly everything else here, was highly structured and old-fashioned. It was probably deeper in the training. He’d swiped his new ID card when he got up for the bathroom or to get some water, the program seemed on a timer because if he dallied or got distracted the pages would time out and he’d have to start again. On the plus side, it made the day pass extremely quickly.

“Henley Tator,” he recognized that stoic bass. “This is John Howard Johnson.”

“Hey, John Howard, how’s it going?”

“I am well, Henley. I will be going to the cafeteria for lunch in 15 minutes. If you are hungry, you are welcome to come along.”

“Sure thing, John Howard! Thanks! I am getting hun-.”

“Please meet by the elevator in ten minutes.” John Howard was not a chatter. Never had been. But it gave him something to look forward to so he rushed to finish a basic finances video quiz narrated by a corporate casting finance bro in a tasteful suit talking about “life at the club” and “the importance of appearances.” Finally, he badged out of his computer for lunch.

By the elevators, in an impossibly rigid stance, legs apart, hands straight at his side, face forward, was John Howard. The square faced muscle man was packed into a charcoal suit and shiny dress shoes. Henley noticed the colorful tie had been replaced with a more muted one with barely noticeable muted black stripes.

“Henley Tator,” he offered his rough hand and Henley accepted.

“John Howard Johnson,” he said, half mocking but also happy to see a semi-familiar face.

“The cafeteria is on Floor 15,” John Howard said briskly as they stepped in.

“So, having a good day?”

“My day is doing well, thank you. How is your day?”

“Good, lots of new information. Guess I need a lot of training.”

“The gym is on the fifth floor. It is a good source of weight training.”

“Oh awesome! Yeah, man you look great. I definitely should hit that up.”

“I am happy to show you. I workout an hour before work each day and one hour afterwards.”

“Holy crap dude! And you live out in Chester? How do you find time to sleep.”

“A good night’s sleep is important for muscle growth. I try not to waste time on silly things.”

Henley had built a small salad for himself and grabbed some water. John Howard had taken the platter, a slab of meat in gravy, potatoes, and greens. Combined with what appeared to be a frothy glass of milk. He sat the two down at a table with two other men. One was a stoic, stern faced man who looked like he could be John Howard’s brother. The other was a much flashier man with smooth blonde hair and a plaid bowtie.

“Henley, this is Bert Anderson, accounting,” he gestured to his clone. “And this is-” he was cut off by the flashier man.

“Rotterham Casper Cornelius Southard, call me Rip. Accounts. So, J.H. mentioned you were his old college bro? Bet you got up to some mischief back in the day, eh?” he gave John Howard a playful punch, and he did not react.

“I prefer John Howard.”

“I know you do, J.H.”

“So, you’re both in accounting?” Henley asked. Bert shook his head while Rip laughed.

“No, Bert here is a number cruncher. I manage accounts. Management, keeping clients happy. Happy-hours, bars, strippers, the works. I’m the fun one.” “I’m sure your wife does not approve.”

“She approves of that pool boy I hired for her. She approves of our second home in Mayfield Valley. She can approve of my dalliances.” Henley mostly stayed silent as they talked about work, wives, and sports.

-----

“Take a seat, Henley,” Mr. Amplebottom gestured to one of the extra wide chairs before his desk. Henley hardly took up half, but he wondered if they were wide enough for Amblebottom’s ample bottom.

“Is everything alright, Sir?” Henley hadn’t seen much of his boss the past week, but he’d found himself thinking more and more fondly of his boss. The training videos included a lot of stuff on professional behavior, and while a lot of it seemed like a pathetically antiquated throwback to worse times, it wouldn’t hurt to adopt some of the culture. At least while he was here.

“Just doing a check-in, seeing how it’s going.” Amplebottom made constant eye contact. Those grey eyes were engaging, sort of hard to look away from.

“It’s good, Mr. Amplebottom.”

“Enjoying the training?”

“It’s very informative.”

“Glad to hear it. I take my employees personal development very personally. I want you to think of me as a mentor.”

“Yes sir.”

“So, let me give you some advice.”

“Yes sir.”

“I appreciate the fraternity makeover. Really, it’s a classic look. But it doesn’t say corporate. It doesn’t say rising star. It doesn’t say money. Does that make sense?”

“Umm, I guess so.” “Page 183 in the handbook. Suggestions for the transition between fraternal life and entering the corporate world.”

“I wasn’t in a fraternity,” Henley laughed.

“I was under the impression that was how you know John Howard. That you were one of his Kappa Alpha Sigma brothers?” “I, umm, no. And I don’t think… John Howard was either?”

“You should work on speaking directly. These umms and pauses don’t project confidence.”

“Yes sir.”

“Alright, you’re dismissed.”

“Thank you sir.”

One his way out, Henley took a moment to swing by John Howard’s desk. Partially just to wish his fellow worker a good weekend, but also because that fraternity question bobbed around his head.

“John Howard?” The stalwart man seated perfectly straight rotated his chair to face Henley. Henley noticed that he sat on an extra wide chair and seemed to fill it well. All those hours in the gym seemed to harden every muscle on his body except his butt.

“Henley Tator, do you need something?”

“Just wanted to say have a good weekend.” “Enjoy your weekend as well Henley. If you’re feeling comfortable, I can show you the company gym Monday. I workout at 7 am and 7 pm everyday.”

“Yeah, that would be great- wow you’re here a long time!”

“I take a lot of pride in my position at Hemplebaum. I hope to become a division partner. Legacy membership at Rolling Acres is five hundred grand. And that’s my place.” Henley pondered the man before him. Honestly, there was a lot to like about John Howard. He was honest, straightforward, and hardworking. But there was something callous, cold, and privileged about him.

“Hey, John Howard. Were you in a fraternity?”

“Kappa Alpha Sigma, you know that Henley.” Did he know? He looked like a K-Sig, the kind of former athlete who came to party hard and maybe pass a class or two.

“Anyway, enjoy your weekend. I need to finish up. Good night.” John Howard turned back towards his desk without another word, leaving Henley to shrug and walk to the tube and head home.

-----

Page 183 started with three pictures: a polo and khaki sporting college student, a man in trousers and blazer, and finally an old and noticeably thicker man in a conservative suit. Then it talked about the foundations of a man's future and his wardrobe.

“The navy blazer is a classic item that works for semi formal occasions and casual office places. Even as a man transitions to daily suits, the navy blazer will always have a place at a garden party or fraternity alumni event.”

“Ties and bowties are a delightful way to add color to an outfit. It is important to view the event and location when making a selection. Bow ties in particular are more flamboyant in a workplace and should be considered carefully. Business attire defaults to long ties, and more conservative workplaces require more conservative choices. Consider emulating the attire of your superiors.”

“Supports should be practical and supportive. Belts are fine for casual outings; however, braces are more desirable for suiting, both for support and style as it allows a more traditional and flattering cut. Similarly, undergarments should provide support and coverage. A traditional undershirt with sleeves is ideal, as it provides sweat protection. Briefs are the most appropriate underwear choice, as it provides support without being extraneous. It is also compatible with tennis for those who participate in sport.”

This had to have been the third comment someone had about his choice of underwear. It seemed a deeply intrusive thing for a company to comment on. But a lot of other sections are good information. It explained why men like Bert and John Howard wore ties and Rip, in a more colorful position, had the flashier bowtie. He took some basic notes and decided he’d hit up that menswear shop. They had a company account, he could probably just tack it on to his previous bill.

-----

“Henley Tator,” he said simply. The guard, the same one as every other day, checked the list and let him in. Uncharacteristically, the guard spoke to him.

“Early start?”

“I’m supposed to meet a friend at the gym.”

“Ah, good choice. I’ve been lifting since my football days,” the guard said while flexing a bicep. It strained the fabric of his shirt so much there was a tiny tear at the sleeve.

“Ah damn, gonna have to size up. Sorry, please don’t report me.” He suddenly seemed mildly afraid.

“Report you?”

“Some of the guys here are real sticklers about manners. They don’t like cursing.” “No, man, we’re cool. You look great! Not sure I’d want to be that big honestly.”

“Hey, once you start, you never wanna stop.”

Henley wanted to stop. John Howard was already changed and waiting on him, so Henley rushed to change and hit the floor. The next hour was a diabolic hell. John Howard started with squats. Henley got a good look at his friend's monstrous calves and steel cut quads, surprisingly pale but doubted John Howard wore short pants much. The most shocking feature was watching that jiggly ass clench and thrust with each repetition. Hard muscle lurked underneath the jelly-like layer. And it went on and on. Big lifts, slow lifts, legs, legs, legs, he was deeply certain he would never be able to walk again. John Howard had to help him strip down and lumber into a shower stall.

He took his time rinsing off, rubbing the corporate provided products into his aching muscles and letting the hot water relax him. Leaning against a wall, still gasping for breath, he let himself drift off for a bit.

“You alright, Henley?” John Howard asked, cracking the curtain.

“Just, just finishing up,” he said, turning off the water and grabbing his towel. In the locker room, he saw John Howard's muscled glory in more detail, the ravenous cuts of his back rippled as he walked. He was thick from below his pecs down to his butt, no real waistline, and most of that part of his back was covered in cotton fabric. His legs were bare below the butt, the garganuan thighs popping through the pristine white cotton of the briefs.

While Henley got ready, John Howard went to a mirror and began applying white shaving cream to his practically smooth face, treating every exposed piece of chin and neck to the cream and razor. Slipping back on his underwear, Henley donned a white undershirt and pulled up some pleated khakis. Out of his locker came a white button down shirt which he began hastily buttoning. John Howard was finishing his face with aftershave and examining himself in the mirror. As he approached the lockers, Henley got a frontal look at him. He hadn’t realized how high waisted these briefs were from the back. His bellybutton was completely hidden, practically cartoonish.

Henley went to the mirror and began combing and styling his hair, working in product and brushing a part in. His hair was getting trained for it, the strands beginning to grow a part on the right side naturally. It looked pretty good like this. More corporate that he had preferred, but it was a classic style for a reason.

As he returned to his locker, John Howard was pulling some trousers up his legs, hoisting them up with a pair of silk braces. Everything about John Howard was just so big nowadays, his proportions practically Marvel comic level, that he hadn’t realized how high waisted his pants had become. No one wore them like that nowadays. At least no one who wasn’t LARPing or Mr. Amplebottom. John Howard reminded Henley of Mr. Amplebottom, a lot. The book said to copy your bosses outfits. John Howard had taken that to heart.

Henley fashioned the gold and green tie around his neck before slipping into a navy blazer with prominent buttons. John Howard walked towards the mirror again as he rolled up the cuffs of his shirt and adorned them with cufflinks.

“Nice man,” Henley admired.

“Thank you,” John Howard was almost bashful as he showed them to Henley. He noted the onix black button had the letters J.H.J cut into them.

“Are they monogrammed?”

“Yes! It’s very popular at the club. And they were suggested by the haberdashery.” “Haberdashery? Wow, that sounds so English.”

“These are made in America. All the clothes recommended by Hemplebaum are.” John Howard seemed agitated by the suggestion. “I just meant the word.”

“I don’t want people to think I’m un American.” The stern response caused Henley to stay silent as the pair continued dressing.

-----

Henley was honestly looking forward to his weekly review meeting with Mr. Amplebottom. He was starting to get in the swing of this whole corporate thing. And the tantalizing prospect of his first paycheck was right around the corner. That wasn’t the only corporate benefit he was enjoying. His clothes were tight. Quite tight. At first he’d thought something was snagged, but the small strain on the buttons of his shirt was unmistakable. As he pulled up his pants this morning, he’d heard a slight tear as a few seams in the rear snapped. He’d have to get some things let out. Or maybe new ones altogether.

The growth had bothered him a bit at first, it seemed to come out of nowhere. But John Howard explained it was just the result of an effective workout and diet plan. On John Howard’s suggestion, he’d dropped the salads and switched to the daily platter, a fuller meal for growth. And the workouts meant he was exhausted everyday after work and went right to bed. Which kind of went against his reason for working here in the first place. Wait, why was he working here again? To make money. He wanted to enjoy more of life downtown. Wasn’t it something about John Howard?

“Take a seat Henley.”

“Thank you, Sir,” Henley gratefully replied. He plopped himself into the cushioned chair and did his best to keep his back tall and straight. The men around here had impeccable posture, at least the ones in acquisitions. Rip certainly knew how to relax. Which gave him an idea for after the meeting.

“How has work been proceeding?”

“Very good, sir. The trainings have been very helpful and I am eager to begin assisting with projects.”

“Good. I am pleased with the energy you’ve devoted to your job.”

“Thank you Sir.”

“I’ve decided to assign you to the Hemple Housing Porter project under John Howard Johnson.” “I look forward to it.” “Very good. We’ve acquired the property, but there is still concern about ‘historical value.’ You will be tasked with pricing and selling anything valuable inside.” “Yes sir… is that the Cherub theatre?” Henley got a touch concerned.

“We refer to projects by our goals. But the Theatre currently sits there. Is that going to be a problem, Henley?” His grey eyes seemed to flash.

“No, Mr. Amplebottom.”

“Good. You never struck me as the theatre type anyway, Henley. I assumed you were into sport.”

“Not really Sir.”

“That surprises me. Since you are friends with John Howard, you must have attended many football games with him. And that sport is your preferred leisure activity.” The words came out like a metronome, even paced and simple. But they stuck in Henley’s mind. What else would he and John Howard have done together? He was clearly obsessed with sports and his fraternity. And Henley was enjoying the gym, which was truly just another sport.

“Now,” Mr. Amplebottom continued. “You will be working with some old men from assets and banking. Really conservative types. You should try speaking slower. That will deepen your voice and give you more presence.”

“Yes, Mr. Amplebottom,” the words spilled out in nearly double the time. His tongue felt heavy as he spoke and every syllable seemed to require extra effort to spit out.

“Very good, Henley, with practice you will also be able to use a deeper, more masculine tone. That will be very helpful in business.”

“Yes Sir.”

“Now, just one last thing, Henley,” there was a venomous glint in his eyes as he stumbled over Henley’s name. “Henley is a very peculiar name. Unique. It sets you apart when you should fit in, don’t you think?”

“I don’t know, Sir.” “In business, you know how important it is to give the right impression. The men in these industries tend to be very old-fashioned. And so much of this business is based on rubbing elbows and social connections. You have to give yourself every possible advantage.”

“Yes, yes Sir.”

“I know you want my advice. I am a good mentor.”

“Yes Sir. You are a good mentor.”

“Professionally, I think you should introduce yourself as Henderson.” Henley’s brain practically exploded.

“Yes Sir,” he muttered weakly.

“Try it on me.”

“Hello, my name is Henderson.” More brain explosions. It felt partially like getting hit in the head and partially like taking really good meds. “Slower.”

“Hello, my name is Henderson.” A glitter bomb went off in his brain. It felt like magic.

“Very good, Henderson.” Hearing someone else say it, as though it always had been, made the magical glitter settle on his brain, covering it in an ashy fog. “Well, I figure you might want this before you go for the weekend.” He opened a drawer and pulled out a large printed piece of paper. He handed it over to Henderson who grabbed it eagerly. Upon seeing the amount of money on his check, Henderson’s pupils practically morphed into dollar signs.

“Associates get more than double that.” More dollar signs flashed before his eyes. “And it’s a fairly simple promotion. Good work is always rewarded.”

“Yes Sir! Thank you sir!” The first set of words rushed out of his mouth. He calmed himself and regained his slow speaking tempo. He glanced down at the check and realized it said Henderson Tator.

“I don’t think I can deposit this.” “You’ll use the company banking system from now on. You’ll find it has much better rewards for higher income brackets. We have built in direct deposit. But I wanted to see the look on your face the first time.”

John Howard was hard on work when Henderson knocked.

“Henley Tator,” monotoned his deep voice. Henderson had a flashback to Starbucks and a similar conversation, but now the shoe was on the other foot.

“Please call me Henderson, John Howard,” his thick, slow voice drawled out. “It is more professional.

“I agree, Henderson,” Henderson could have sworn a tiny smile crept onto the corners of John Howard’s mouth. But the stoic man’s face returned to it’s sculpted indifference immediately. “What can I do for you?”

“I was considering asking Rip for some... herbals, for the weekend and wondered if you cared to partake. Maybe watch a game?” Henderson had a distinct memory of two dudes chilling out to some cheap weed and beer while watching Reefer Madness and laughing their asses off. John Howard's face was not amused.

“No, Henderson. You know I do not partake in such things.” “What? You went through a whole rasta-ganja phase in college…”

“I did not,” John Howard was visibly angry even if his voice maintained its impressive monotone. “I do not approve of illicit substances or behavior and I do not appreciate your slander.” “Woah, calm down, big guy,” not that John Howard wasn’t calm. But Henderson knew that one punch from the dude would knock him silly. “I was just thinking back to our college days….”

“Yes, I remember Chadwick forcing us to try the stuff during Hell Week. As I recall, you disliked it even more than I did.”

“What? What does Chad have to do with this?” “The only time I ever tried marjiuana,” his voice gained a hushed tone as he said the word. “Was for a fraternity induction. And if you continued to use it, I was unaware. If you would like to watch the game and enjoy some beer or liquid that would be fine. But I will not associate with drug users.” Henderson was taken aback. This man, well maybe not this man, but this dude he might have been at one point spent nearly a semester acting like some sort of stoner God.

“I’m sorry, John Howard.”

“If you are still interested in watching the game and having a beer, I would not be opposed.”

“Yeah, totally!” Henderson swallowed awkwardly after he spoke. Those words felt wrong. But either way, he’d spend a little more time with Josh Howard and figure out what was going on.

-----

“Tator, Henderson,” he said at the gate. The officer was the same as before, but there were a few subtle differences. His tight uniform now had full length sleeves and he wore a cap on his even more masculine face. “Good morning, Mr. Tator,” the man’s deep voice spoke slowly and severely. His face had not a glimpse of recognition. That was fine by Henderson because he was actually quite tired. He’d ended up in Chester Saturday, bringing a small batch of beer to a football party. It was very strange to him, meeting several of John Howard’s neighbors, though Chadwick was mercifully absent. He had a great time, watching, drinking, and shooting the breeze. The evening went on far later than he anticipated and despite the offer of a guest room, he had taken a late night Uber back into town. Newfound interest in football meant he had spent Sunday watching football, drinking beer, and ordering pizza. And now he was meeting John Howard for a workout with a beer hangover on a Monday.

The workout was much better this week. He found himself making great strides in his max lifts which made him exceptionally proud. John Howard gave his butt a big swat after they finished cleaning up and he felt his rump shudder within his pants. His pants had gotten so much tighter and when he looked in the mirror, the back of his sportcoat practically lay flat from the shelf on his behind. As he admired his form in the mirror, Henderson couldn’t help but brush the smooth shaved line of his prominent jaw. It really stood out nowadays.

“Miss a spot?” John Howard asked, assuming Henderson was rubbing stray hairs.

“Hey John Howard, why is working out making my jaw bigger?” John Howard stared at him curiously and shook his head.

“I don’t think I understand.” “Since, I’ve been working out with you, my face just seems bigger. My jaw and chin in particular.” “Maybe losing some baby fat? Or maybe your improved posture is making your face look different?” Henderson couldn’t explain it. He examined the reflection a few seconds more, sure that something was amiss. But he didn’t have an idea better than John Howard’s so he let it pass and went into the office.

Henderson’s job required calls, lots of calls. Calls to landowners, historical groups, insurance companies, auctioneers, all with their own opinions and interests. Henderson wasn’t actually supposed to do any research, simply talk to the right people to get appropriate evaluations and transportation. He found himself mimicking John Howard’s voice, deep, slow, and disinterested. It wasn’t exciting work, but the progress was slow and consistent. Museums wanted some old posters, there was a buyer in Argentina for the chandelier, and several vintage stores wanted furniture pieces. A few calls were less productive, with upset protestors yelled at him. He’d tried being sympathetic at first, but quickly found that being stern and direct got them off the line quicker so he could return to work.

His days soon blended together. Morning workouts, work, lunch, work, home, sleep, repeat. He sometimes worried that he was missing out on stuff, his old friends called or texted but he rarely responded anymore. It always seemed to happen at an inconvenient time. Eventually, he joined John Howard for his evening workout as well, the results were great, even if he’d had to go up a size or two. Walking around with pecs straining a dress shirt felt incredible, like a huge dose of testosterone had been injected into him. Strangely, his buttocks were growing considerably, in strength and size. But it accumulated a soft layer of fat that spread across, making him even wider. He’d asked John Howard about it once, and he simply told him a big butt was better than a big gut. And Henderson had to agree. None of the men here had big guts. Mr. Amplebottom had a huge butt. And Henderson wanted to be like Mr. Amplebottom as much as possible. More and more, Henderson felt extremely grateful towards his superior. Not only had he hired an unqualified applicant, but he had acted like a mentor and guide and coach. He gave Henderson more and more advice, about standing, walking, talking, and each time he came back eager to learn more.

“Stand tall, Henderson. Head up, don’t slouch. Keep your hands at your side. And don’t fidget.”

“A deeper voice commands attention better. Be direct. Contain emotions, you are better suited to appear calm and in control at all times. There is no need to appear energetic or excited.”

“Wide steps, heel to toe. Legs apart.”

-----

“Tator, Henderson,” he said calmly as he buzzed in. It was old hat by now. The security guard was probably the same one as before. Henderson paid less attention nowadays to things like that. He had noticed that the security uniform had slowly been replaced with something more formal. The man wore a coat and bowtie along with his cap, looking halfway between a mobster and the world's most muscular butler.

“Good morning, Mr. Tator,” he intoned back as he let him inside. Henderson felt the weight of his body as he walked, his chest stuck out and helped keep his chin up. The broad shoulders made him feel like he took up the entire doorway. And his big wide stride made his butt and crotch kind of wiggle as he walked. He could feel the fabric of his pants tighten around his balls and release, then tighten on the other side. It was mildly arousing.

As he walked in, he greeted a few of his fellow coworkers as he walked to his desk. Moments after sitting down, he received a call to head to Mr. Amplebottom’s office.

He stood at attention in front of the desk, legs apart, arms slack at his side, and staring directly into the grey eyes of his supervisor. Amplebottom seemed to examine his employee for a moment before directing him to sit. Henderson did, his increasingly wide and plump bottom expanding out, consuming nearly 3/4ths of the extra wide seat. He bagged his pants as he sat, causing the crotch of his pants to ride up and give him a large moose knuckle.

“The last sales were processed by accounts payable. You did a good job getting every last dollar out of that disgusting building.” “Thank you, Mr. Amplebottom,” came the monotonous reply.

“How do you feel about the Theatre?”

“The Hemple Housing Porter project will be very profitable.” “Yes, but how about the Cherub Theatre. It’s an old building.” “The lot is better suited for new development.” “Do you like theatre, Henderson.” “No Sir, I was never interested in art.” “More of a sports fellow?” “Yes Sir, I love football.” “Bet you were a big ole lineman back in the day, huh?” “No, I never played.” “I’m pretty shocked,” Amplebottom smirked. “So, no hard feelings about tearing down a 100 year old Theatre.” “No Sir. The development will be very profitable for Hempelbaum.”

“Good man,” Amplebottom kept his eyes focused on Henderson, maintaining steady eye contact. “Well, looks like you’ve earned your first commission check.” He pushed a small piece of paper forward to Henderson, who picked it up. His eyes bulged and dollar signs flashed before his eyes.

“Holy crap!” “Don’t swear Henderson, it’s unbecoming.” “My apologies Mr. Amplebottom. I wasn’t expecting this.” “Three percent commission can be an awful lot when you do a good job. And your percentage goes up with promotions. And good work like this makes me think you’ll be getting on very soon.”

Henderson thanked Mr. Amplebottom profusely and headed straight to John Howard’s desk.

“John Howard Johnson,” he said in a deep, slow voice.

“Henderson Tator, what can I do for you?”

“I got my first commission check,” he said, flashing it for John Howard to see.

“Congratulations. It feels nice to receive appropriate compensation. Men like us work hard, we deserve to make money.”

“It feels great. I could get a down payment on a house.” “Or you could apply for a membership at Rolling Acres Country Club.”

“Oh, no offense, John Howard, but I don’t think I’m country club material.”

“I think you’d like it, Henderson. It’s very nice, and a good way to make connections with other successful men.” John Howard flicked his wrists and displayed a set of ostentatious cufflinks engraved with the country club logo, a laurel wreath surrounding a tree with “Rolling Acres” written over it.

“That seems flashy for you.” “I was accepted as a legacy member. They only let legacy members purchase them.”

“They’re very shiny.” “Yes, too much for the office normally. But I was very excited. Oswald Laurence Carrington IV called personally to inform me. It’s very rare to get a call specifically from the Director of the Board.”

“I’m happy for you,” Henderson said simply.

“Come golfing this weekend. I know you will enjoy it. I can bring guests now!” John Howard’s voice was still precise but there was just the subtle hint of mirth that made Henderson smile slightly.

“Fine, what do I need to wear? I’m sure they have a dress code.” “Meet at my home before. I will have appropriate clothing.”

-----

Henderson had thought a lot about Chester since his last time out here. The spacious green lawns, gigantic homes, and expensive cars cleaned daily should have disgusted him or at least made his eyes roll. Nowadays, he couldn’t help but imagine what life must be like out here. There weren’t music festivals or concerts, but there weren’t smelly people vomiting on the sidewalk or polluting cabs on every corner honking loudly. John Howard’s elegant home had a room dedicated for watching football. It wasn’t even the media room, he said there was a room with a movie projector on the second floor! This was just his man cave, except it was a sunlit, high-ceilinged game room. It was bigger than the apartment Henderson was currently living in alone. He’d kicked out his roommates a month back. They smoked too much weed, it made him dizzy, and he could easily afford the rent on his own nowadays.

John Howard answered the door dressed exactly as he went to work. Henderson had expected something more casual- he’d worn khakis and a pink polo himself. Instead, his bulkier counterpart was embarrassed by his attire and insisted he put on one of his old suits. Henderson thought about protesting, but instead allowed himself to be turned into a Ken doll clone of his coworker, the only difference being the subtle patterns on the tie. He asked John Howard if they were golfing like this, and he insisted they would be changing at the club. Henderson wouldn’t imagine most people showed up dressed like this, but whatever made John Howard comfortable.

Henderson was glad he’d been made to change. After they got past the gate and into the main clubhouse, every man he passed had a tie on. Some of the younger lads were dressed in polo and khakis, but the acne and baby fat on their faces made him happy to not be confused with them. They checked in and “Legacy John Howard Johnson” entered his guests name and they headed to the lockers to change. John Howard handed him a pair of black trousers made of a stretchy and breathable material.

“You sure this one is mine?” “They’re identical.” “Oh, I’m not sure I’ll fit.” “I’m certain we’re the same size, Henderson.” Which they were apparently. Henderson was shocked as the pants expanded over his thighs, showing off the thick trunks he’d developed and the amble jiggly buttocks that pressed generously backwards. They sat a little higher on his waist than he was comfortable with, but he didn’t want the pants to sag on the ground. John Howard handed him a white sport polo with the clubs logo on the left breast. Then he added a black golf cap. Henderson had been afraid he might be wearing jodhpurs and knee socks, so the mainstream outfit was relieving. They tidied up in the mirror, and seeing the two of them side by side, dressed exactly the same, Henderson had a bit of a shock realizing how much he looked like John Howard. His body had filled out tremendously, broad shoulders and baseball like biceps, a thick but strong core, that overly wide ass that led into legs and calves formed by deadlifts and deep squats. The biggest thing was his face. He really could swear that his face had been almost heart shaped, but now there was a distinctly square shape to the thing. His longish ivy league haircut gave him a more youthful appearance than his coworker, but otherwise he might have been a son or young brother.

As they walked out onto the course, golf bags strapped across their backs, Henderson could see a tall figure in the distance, seeming to greet them with a small wave. John Howard returned the small gesture.

“Who’s that?” “Chadwick Stratton. I invited him to play with us?” “You invited Chad?” “Chadwick, yes. He’s been a friend since my fraternity days. You know that Henderson. I thought you would get on quite well. Besides, he’s on good terms with many important people. No one is a better connection.” Chadwick was in stretchy salmon colored pants and a white polo exactly like the ones they were wearing. He had a ballcap on with their college logo on the front. Locks of blonde hair spilled under the brim.

“Hey bro,” Chadwick shook John Howard’s hand and pulled him in for a pat on the back. For his part, John Howard tensed up but did not resist. “Damn, you’re getting thicker all the time.” He groped John Howard’s shoulders aggressively.

“Henderson, this is Chadwick Stratton. Chadwick, this is Henderson Tator. We work together in acquisitions at Hemplebaum. He also attended college with us.” Chadwick grabbed Henderson into a similar handshake to hug and Henderson felt a strange repulsion in his stomach.

“You look familiar. Were you a brother?”

“No, I wasn’t,” Henderson replied.

“What fraternity were you in?” “I wasn’t.” “A big bro like you? Damn, we missed you. Would have loved to see you on our intramural teams. Bruiser like you can definitely rough some people up huh?” He laughed playfully and punched Henderson solidly in the chest. It didn’t hurt. “Well, let’s play.” “Are we taking the cart?” Henderson asked, pointing to a line of white, polished golf carts.

“Nah,” Chadwick reached out and gave both John Howard and Henderson hard butt slaps. “Figure you two fatasses need some cardio!” He laughed barkingly and John Howard laughed along. “Kidding, bro. I know dudes like you are all about that max lift. But I still got abs and the ladies love ‘em!” He pulled up the bottom of his shirt showing off the solid, smooth abdominals carved into his tiny waist.

Chadwick was extremely friendly and a little physical. Upon learning that Henderson had never golfed, Chadwick took it upon himself to teach him everything he could, resulting in him saddling up behind him to correct stance and form, but also jokingly pressing his crotch into Henderson’s butt and thrusting. The boys all laughed at the inappropriate horseplay.

Henderson had a hard time hating Chadwick. Taking away all the pomp of politics and social structure, Chadwick turned into an incredibly friendly alpha. The kind of guy who would be quarterback, homecoming king, and fraternity president (all things he learned Chadwick had been). And Henderson was just another one of his bros, dressed in expensive clothes, spending a morning on the course talking about work and finances and spouses. He could remember specific events, Chadwick being horrible during the election season when he was campaigning for a fraternity brothers father, taunting an LGBT students group, and pissing on Tara Kissimmee’s car. But his brain was giving each of these events a little different interpretation now: he was working hard to get Senator Mulligan elected, taunting the gay kids had been meant as a harmless prank, and he was drunk out of his mind with Tara and she never pressed charges so it wasn’t that big a deal. Chadwick was just being a drunken frat- fraternity brother like everyone expected.

“Wife’s pregnant with the third. I got started early!” He bragged while grabbing his crotch. “Chrissy Collop was always into you.” “Yup! Her dad’s super rich, he’s president of the C-Group, that big currency trading operation. Old, old money. But how about you?” Chadwick got a mischievous glint in his eyes as he hand reached towards John Howard’s crotch and gave it a hard smack. John Howard yelped as he grabbed his balls.

“Nut check!” Chadwick busted out laughing. “But seriously, bro, getting those fellas ready? Almost breeding season, boys,” he whispered to John Howard’s balls. Henderson was kind of disturbed but John Howard was laughing and so he joined in too.

“What does that mean?”

“J.H. is getting married. Missy Dorianger.”

“Congratulations!” Henderson said happily.

“Thank you. We’re finishing some final details. Her Mother is very specific. Sometimes she acts as though I’m unworthy.�� “Missy can’t do better.” “She is a perfectly suitable spouse. I am very pleased with the situation.” “Can’t wait til we can throw that bachelor party!”

“We’ll do something at the club. I have no desire to watch you stagger around Vegas and hold your head while you vomit.” “It’s your party bro! I’d be holding your hair for once,” Chadwick laughed. John Howard rolled his eyes as he set up his shot and launched the ball. He let out a whistle of appreciation.

“Good shot,” Chadwick and Henderson said simultaneously. John Howard suppressed a grin.

“Henderson, I know it’s late notice but I hope you can at least attend the wedding. The club has strict guest limits and I’m running out of passes for nonmembers for the bachelor party.” “Thank you John Howard. I’m sure I can make it.” “And if you get your membership before, you can enjoy all the fun!” Chadwick winked at Henderson and snagged at his nipple that pressed out firmly from the polo. The boys laughed and continued playing.

The locker room at the clubhouse was a lively place stocked with bathing supplies and also booze. Henderson intended on just showering up and getting dressed, but John Howard and Chadwick were both sitting in their briefs (Chadwicks a traditional cut, John Howard's extremely high waisted to fit over his enormous rump) and undershirts removing the cork from a glass bottle and pouring three full glasses of amber liquid.

“Bourbon,” Chadwick said shortly as he handed Henderson a glass before taking a deep swig of his own. Henderson was very confused about what to do. He was standing in a towel while his two golf buddies relaxed in their unmentionables sipping on a bourbon that probably cost more than those obnoxious club cufflinks John Howard has. He didn’t want to upset his new friends, and the financial connections they represented, so he pulled on his grey Hanes Boxer briefs (his growing buttocks had necessitated so many new underwear purchases that he was desperately searching for cheaper brands) and white undershirt and sat down. Taking a big swig of the liquid, he did his best to relax, leaning back in the chair and spreading his legs as his friends chatted.

“You’re getting pretty good at the trap shot,” Chadwick toasted John Howard.

“You’re still better,” John Howard was already refilling his drink happily.

“Always gonna be, dude,” Chadwick laughed again. “But keep trying. I enjoy competition.” He held out his cup which John Howard dutifully refilled. “Man, I’m glad you’re here, J.H.. I miss having some bros. This club is great, but too many of the brothers moved away. But at least I got you two!” Chadwick winked at Henderson and encouraged him to finish up as another round needed to be poured. Despite his increasingly sturdy frame, Henderson hadn’t been drinking much lately. He hadn’t been much other than working, but the alcohol was working its way through his golf dehydrated body quickly.

The trio continued chatting until John Howard excused himself to the toilet, leaving Henderson alone with a man he once thought of as detestable. But this afternoon was fun. He got a small knot in his stomach as Chadwick turned to him with a viperous grin.

“Henley? Henley Tator?” Chadwick suddenly said, dropping his voice low. Henderson was confused for a moment. He hadn’t thought of himself as Henley in a while. It was almost shocking. But then he cautiously nodded yes.

“Please, call me Henderson, Chadwick.” “Oh, I will, Henderson,” he emphasized the name. “You look good. I was pretty sure I recognized you, though you look a lot better now. Hemplebaum’s done wonders for you.” “Thank you, Chadwick. I am very happy working at Hemplebaum Incorporated.” Chadwick nodded and smiled as the robotic words left Henderson’s mouth.

“I like having fraternity brothers around. It’s a real lifetime bond, ya know?” He took another deep swig. “Something that really defines a man. Who he is. Who he’s going to be.” He seemed to stare at Henderson curiously. For his part, Henderson had no idea what to say, and so stayed silent. “If I’d known this is who you were going to be, I’d have made sure you were my brother. Of course, I knew Henley. Not Henderson. Not big strapping Henderson.”

“Yes,” Henderson stirred his glass and sat there. Chadwick was slurring slightly, but Henderson wondered if he'd be able to stand up. This drink was strong and Chadwick was pouring him a third.

“Now, Henderson. What do you think Henderson was like in college?”

“I’m Henderson.” “Yeah, but in college you weren’t. I just wonder what you wish you had done?”

“I wish I’d gone to football games. I love football.” “Fuck yes dude. Big guy like you played in high school,” it wasn’t a question.

“I’d want to have a group of men to watch sports with.” “Yup, every game we had a part at the house.” Henderson stared at him with glassy eyes. He was confused. It seemed like Chadwick wanted him to say something but he could only shrug.

“Would have been nice.” “I hope you apply for membership. The club would be a good fit for you.”

“I really enjoyed myself. It’s very expensive. I was kind of looking into getting a new apartment.” “Where are you living nowadays?” “I have a two bedroom downtown. It’s a heap, but I live alone.” “Thought about buying a house?” “I can’t afford a house in the city.” “What about in Chester?”

“What?! No, I haven’t, I mean, I don’t need a mansion,” Henderson sputtered as he spoke despite training himself to not.

“Not yet, but once you get a wife and some kids, plus Chester is right next to Rolling Acres.” “I’m not sure it’s right for me.” “It’s right for Henderson. For football playing, fraternity brother, corporate shark Henderson,” Chadwick smiled and let out a tiny burp as he finished another drink. Henderson blushed, though it was hard to tell through his liquor flushed face.

“It’s hard to buy a house in Chester.” “I can set you up.” “Really?” The idea was setting itself in Henderson’s mind. Far from feeling like a fresh fantasy, it embedded itself deep inside, as though it had always been there, as though he’d always wanted to buy a giant mansion in a gated neighborhood with an expensive country club. It was always the goal. It’s why he did what he did.

“I always support my Kappa Sigma Alpha brothers.” He poured two more drinks and raised his glass in a toast.

“Kappa Sigma Alpha, brothers strong, brothers long. Four years forged the lifetime bond.” Chadwick said and stared at Henderson. Henderson hesitated, but his mind wanted it so bad. He wanted Chadwick to like him, to be his brother, to go back and be a total frat boy in college.

“Kappa Sigma Alpha, brothers strong, brothers long. Four years forged the lifetime bond.” Chadwick smiled and the two chugged down their drinks. John Howard showed up a moment later and plopped down while pouring himself another, though he was several behind now.

“What did I miss?” The other two smirked and poured another round and the three K-Sig brothers passed another toast to their fraternity.

-----

Henderson woke up naked with a gigantic erection on the softest white sheets he’d ever felt. HIs head throbbed like never before. A glass of water and several ibuprofen sat next to the bed and he swallowed both without hesitation. Looking around, he admired the pristine cleanliness and order of the room. He was pretty sure where he must be, even if he’d never seen John Howard’s guest room before.

A white cotton robe laid over an old wooden chair, but no other clothes were about. Wrapping the fabric tightly around himself, he opened the door and peered down an equally clean and quiet hallway. He ducked back in the bedroom, helping himself to the toiletries in the attached bath before heading downstairs. John Howard was dressed similarly, though the half closure of his robe meant that Henderson could see the waistband of his briefs. He smiled weakly at Henderson and offered him a cup of coffee which he accepted happily.

“Where are my clothes?” Henderson croaked after a strong sip.

“Washing machine. You vomited all over your suit.”

“Your suit, sorry man.”

“Quite fine Henderson,” John Howard let out a quiet laugh. “Haven’t had a night like that in years. Reminded me of our fraternity days.” Our fraternity days. Henderson went to protest but found his brain muddled. They had talked about it a lot last night, keggers, hell week, initiation, rush, all kinds of random details of fraternity life flooded his brain. The memories seemed like his mostly, though they had a dreamy quality that he attributed to the hangover.

“Remember that party where Van Boegearden vomited after his keg stand? And then he insisted on drinking it up again?” Henderson laughed hoarsely and John Howard joined in. “He’s a congressman now,” John Howard added.

“Good, good. Always knew he’d do well in politics.” They both took large sips of their coffee. John Howard was reading a paper but also had ESPN on, reviewing yesterday's college football.

“We missed the game!” Henderson moaned.

“We watched the game, Henderson. At the club.” “Oh God. They’re never going to let me join now!” “I wouldn’t be so sure. Oswald V seemed quite amused by you.” “Which one is that again?”

“Son of the Board Chairman. I’d commit that to memory.” “I have now. Well, so long as he was amused. Hopefully he can appreciate old fraternity brothers getting together.” “We’ll have to do it again soon.” “Hopefully often once I’m a Rolling acres member.” “I’m glad you’re going to apply,” John Howard smiled.

“I belong at a place like Rolling Acres,” Henderson said with a new confidence.

“Men like us need places like Rolling Acres,” John Howard replied.

“I’m going to have to call a cab,” Henderson said looking at the clock.

“I can take you.” “It’s quite a drive into town.” “I slept through church,” John Howard said, yawning. “And I’m not feeling up to a workout today. Besides, I thought I might take you around Chester first. There are a few lovely homes for sale you might want to see.” “That would be delightful!” The two men turned their attention back to the TV and their coffees, nursing the kind of hangovers they swore they’d never get again but always did.

-----

Henderson strode into the building swiftly, impossibly perfect posture, dressed in a charcoal suit and tie that he borrowed again from John Howard. He noticed there was a new guard at the gate when he gave his name.

“Fine weather, Henderson?” the young guard, a redhead with a trace of a tattoo on his neck asked. Henderson was appalled. He’d ended up spending most of Sunday at the club, enjoying dinner at the men’s grill. At the club, the staff spoke using honorifics and only used questions relative to their service. He was deeply annoyed that this young guard spoke. However, he buried that feeling as he hustled to the elevator. He had a busy morning ahead.

After his workout, a grueling leg day that left him wobbly but his calves looked tremendous, Henderson asked Mr. Amplebottom’s secretary for a meeting, and his 9 a.m. was open. So it was that he found himself standing before his boss's beautiful desk, arms at his side, staring into his eyes.

“What can I do for you, Henderson?” Henderson had been trying to find the words to be concise but found that impossible.

“I want every piece of advice you can give me.”

“Why is that?” Mr. Amplebottom was suppressing a smug smile though Henderson didn’t notice.

“I want to be just like you. And John Howard. And the men at Rolling Acres.” “Enjoy the club?” “Immensely. I belong there. And here at Hemplebaum. I want to become a partner. I want to move out to Chester, in a house, not in some rubbish apartment in this squalid town,” he cast a disgusted look out the skyline of the window. “I want money.” That was low, deep and felt like a great truth awoke inside him. Mr. Amplebottom smiled.

“So, Henderson, are you willing to fully commit yourself to Hemplebaum?” “I am sir,” he replied like a soldier.

“Excellent. Well, I may say this suit is a good start.” “I’m borrowing it from John Howard.” “Yes, a good start. You should get a dozen I think, at least. Plus a few formal ones for special occasions. Many ties and shoes. New supports as well, you do look much better with your trousers at your proper waist.” “Thank you Sir.”

“A haircut. I’m quite surprised you’ve stuck with the ivy league so long. You are much better suited to something short. Like mine and John Howard’s. The part is a classic. But I can set you up with my barber.”

“Yes Sir.” “Now, there is a rather large change that I believe is a necessity for your continued progression at Hemplebaum as well as your new social circle.” “What is that sir?” “Tator. Just a gross, common name. You agree?” Henderson snapped back confirmation even though it made his head spin. “Personally, I’ve always been very fond of alliterative names. It’s a nice mnemonic device socially. And it looks so great monogrammed.” “You want me to change my last name? To something with an H?” Henderson asked, slightly confused.

“Well, I thought you wanted to. To succeed.” “Yes Sir.” “So you want to change your name? To what?” “I don’t know Sir.” “So you want my help, is that what you are saying?” The words were coming so fast and his eyes so enticing that Henderson nodded.

“Yes Sir, please tell me what my name should be.” Amplebottom leaned back in his chair, clearly relishing in the moment even though Henderson had no idea why.

“This is my favorite part.” Henderson didn’t say anything. His boss clearly didn’t want him to. And he’d just asked for help so there was no need to say anything. “It’s a great moment, when you realize you want to be whatever I want you to be. I was wrong about you Henderson. I did not think you’d make it. But here you are, willing and able. And looking much better with the muscles.” He reached into a drawer in his desk and produced something that looked like a ring box. Ceremoniously, he pulled it open before Henderson’s eyes. Inside were two silver and black cufflinks. LIghtly engraved in the black was three vertical lines and one horizontal connecting them all.

“Henderson Harold Hearst. H.H.H. Classic, but preppy, which seems to be the direction you’re taking. Though I believe you should at least be a Junior. Yes, Henderson Harold Hearst, Jr.” Amplebottom suddenly got a concerned look in his eyes and made even more intense contact with Henderson. “You’ll insist on being called Henderson. No nicknames or shortening it. Certainly, not Henry. Tell them it was Grandmama’s maiden name. A fitting tribute.” Amplebottom seemed deeply satisfied as he leaned back in his chair a bit. His jacket fell a touch to the side, and Henderson caught a glimpse of his black silk bracer. He eyed the waist of the trousers, noting the lack of wrinkles and the perfect transition from charcoal wool to starched, cotton white. Nothing was ever out of place on his supervisor, it was probably easier when you had such a boring wardrobe, each piece fit together without thinking.

-----

Henderson had set up an appointment at Winston and Co. right after his meeting with Amplebottom. They booked him for a half day on Saturday, which seemed like a very long appointment but they had assured him that this would be a one time appointment to get a permanent account situated. His palpable excitement made his workouts and work days fly by. He’d reworn the suit he borrowed from John Howard three times. It was remarkable how it made him feel, strong, manly, and also kind of plain. He’d talk shop with other men in his department, bland conversations about work and sports and home, that he found uninteresting but comforting. There existed very little variety among the men at acquisitions. No one ever brought up a thoughtful or challenging conversation, the most confrontational it ever got was between rival football teams.

And so it was that Henderson showed at exactly at 8 a.m. in front of the delightfully antiquated haberdashery (as John Howard had called it) for the full treatment. He was greeted studiously by an old man with silver hair and thick black glasses who introduced himself as Art Sebert and insisted on calling Henderson “Mr. Hearst.” That name made his blood jump and boil. He’d thought the concept awkward only days ago, but found himself spouting off the name with such a simple, natural cadence he might as well have been born with it.

Forced to strip down in a rather spacious dressing room fitted with a few chairs and mirrors, Art had offered him coffee which he happily accepted after adding some cream and milk. His personal fears around nudity had decreased in the corporate locker room but it still took him a minute to feel comfortable letting Art assess his bare form. But he measured every inch with such quiet professionalism that Henderson soon became quite comfortable. Art rattled off small measurements as he worked, informing Henderson that he’d need custom clothing for life. Henderson found his brain startled by that information, but an honest assessment in the mirror showed how true that statement was. He simply wasn’t built like a normal person anymore. His neck was thick and his shoulders cartoonishly broad. The jutting chest gave him a permanently puffed up vibe. Uninterested in cardio, his thick rib cage continued straight down into hard abs. And then the true shock, his sumptuous round booty. It looked unreal, not only were his hips and buttocks wide and strong, but somehow there was a gelatinous layer on top that wiggled and shook whenever he moved. It was a shockingly feminine touch on an otherwise hyper masculine body. Henderson loved his butt. It reminded him of being a lineman in high school, it was just like John Howard’s and Amplebottom’s. Ridiculous but masculine and prominent, it took up space, like a man should.

“Alright, Mr. Hearst, give these a try,” he handed Henderson two carefully folded white objects. The first was an undershirt, quite stiff and recently pressed. He pulled it on with little problem, the starchy material felt soft enough on his skin and he appreciated how there wasn’t any excess pulling or snugness. Even better, it actually reached past his belly button, which was further than his current shirts were doing, but still seemed undesirable. The next item was a comically cut pair of briefs, again seemingly starched and pressed, blindly white with a simple waistband with a thin blue line running halfway through. Henderson’s mind mounted a short-lived protest that didn’t even exit his mouth. He’d known it was coming, it was in the book, from his boss, even at the club. It was just another way he was going to fit in with the others. It was deceptively erotic, something overly personal but seemingly inconsequential that he was giving up to fit in. He pulled the cotton fabric up his body, watching the white fabric stretch perfectly across his rump. He attempted to leave the underpants lying low, just above his hip bones, but Art stepped up and dutifully pulled them higher, keeping the undershirt tucked in as they stretched over the belly button, up the stomach, before settling just below his rib cage. He looked like a strange sort of sausage stuffed into a bleached white packaging. There was something about, so uniform and simple, that Henderson couldn’t stop himself from smiling broadly at his reflection.

It went significantly faster after that. Art offered him a range of trousers of slightly different fits, making marks and eyeing alterations, seemingly finding the best base. An overly starched, white button down slipped over his upper body. Henderson let it hang open as he sat in his skivvies and shirt, drinking a whiskey the store offered, as a suitable pair of trousers were whipped up for the day. Half an hour later, he was being ordered to button up his shirt, as silky black dress socks were pulled on his feet and the wool fabric of the pants began their climb. Higher, much higher than his old pants, even seemingly than the borrowed ones, these custom trousers rose up until the very top of the pants rested just millimeters below the briefs. The pants were already designed for braces, completely lacking belt loops, and Art adjusted them precisely, ensuring that his pants would sit at this exact height forevermore. Henderson recognized something was being pushed out, some bits of color or variance in his lifestyle and perhaps personality as he allowed himself to be dressed like a doll, clothing cut and shaped so he wouldn’t even have an option on how to wear it, let alone what to wear. It was a deeply comforting thought.

The process was repeated with the coat, explaining why he had been required to book hours of time with a salesman and tailor. But they assured him, everything would be perfect afterwards. All his measurements would be on file, new pieces would be created on a strict schedule to ensure he had neither too few nor too many pieces. He enjoyed another libation as he waited, the old fashioned television in the room had been flipped on to college football and he delighted in sitting back and watching. Not that he really sat back as it were, the stiff shirt and exact cut of his trousers seemed to keep him upright and tall, legs planted firmly on the ground, the crotch of his pants pulled tight into a prominent moose knuckle, head staring almost directly forward. Henderson sort of laughed to himself about it, feeling slightly robotic, and enjoying the rigid pose. It reminded him of John Howard. And he liked John Howard. He liked being like John Howard.

The cut of the jacket was phenomenal, even with a thick waist, his broad shoulders and bulging pecs required a fantastic V shape that made him look thick and strong and almost debonair, in a sort of boring way. Art selected a beautiful silk tie, completely generic and tasteful, and made it taut around the neck. He stepped back, admiring his work and checking the length of the cut of small sections as Henderson stood, militaristically straight posture, arms at his side, staring straight ahead. Once everything seemed to be in order, he instructed Henderson to remove the tie, jacket, and oxford shirt. He’d continue working as another man offered him a pair of house slippers and escorting him into a room that looked like an old-timey barbershop with two chairs.

The wall had four pictures on it of generic hairstyles, each numbered. His barber pointed at number one and told him he would receive that cut unless he did not approve. Henderson felt nothing and simply nodded. The shearing began, his back and sides thinned and trimmed and the edges shaved smooth. The top was reduced and thinned repeatedly, clumps of hair falling lazily to the floor. Each time, the barber seemed to be examining something on his head, but he said nothing to Henderson, who was silent in turn. Finally, apparently satisfied, he squirted a greasy clump of goo into his hands and began working through Henderson’s much thinner hair before combing it aggressively. The final look should have been shocking, but Henderson seemed to have accepted it already. His hair was now dark, short, and combed and parted within an inch of his life. The product gave his hair of bright sheen that was the only notable trait on the otherwise generic hairstyle. It was an exact replica of John Howard’s and Amplebottom’s and almost every man in acquisitions. It was perfect.

The only thing left was a hot shave, which left his skin buttery smooth, and tingly once the aftershave was applied. The barber briskly informed that all the items would be added to his order, so he’d have everything he needed to maintain his appearance. Henderson thanked him shortly and was directed back to the dressing room. The slippers were removed and a highly polished pair of black oxfords were slipped onto his feet. He was redressed in shirt, tie, and jacket and Art began applying a few small touches. First, his french cuffs were closed with shiny silver cufflinks, square, with a delightful HHH cut in them. A white handkerchief was tucked into his breast pocket and folded ever so carefully so that the monogrammed HHH was just visible over the jacket. A dab of cologne followed, smelling woody, leathery, and astringent. They informed him he could leave today with undergarments, ties, and grooming products, and to return in three days to pick up a large order, twelves suits, twenty four shirts, plus two speciality suits (one in seersucker and a formal black) in addition to a tuxedo. He shook hands with the salesmen who had helped him, feeling quite pleased with the whole experience.

-----

“Heart, Henderson,” he said curtly to the well dressed guard at the gate. Henderson noticed that he was far less chatty than last time. In fact, the security officer barely seemed to register Henderson as a person, and more as an item line to check off. He marched dutifully to the elevator. Henderson admired himself in the mirror as he waited. Quite frankly, he embodied everything a man should be: big, strong, soon to be rich. Those commission checks had added up quite quickly, combined with incentives and the fact that Amplebottom had been hinting that he would be moving up to Associate very soon, so Henderson was feeling mighty pleased with himself, and honestly a bit haughty, as he slipped how hands up and down the tasteful braces holding up his trousers. Despite the fact that his clothing hardly moved an inch in any given direction, he still unconsciously attempted to pull up his pants and underwear, making sure everything was in place. It was a big day after all.

Mr. Amplebottom took John Howard and Henderson out to a large lunch in a company car that was clean as a whistle and beyond luxurious. As they stepped out of the Partner elevator, they were greeted by a strapping man in a full chauffeur outfit, cap, gloves, and jodhpurs. He greeted the men properly before taking Amplebottom’s keys and practically running to fetch his car. He held the door open militantly as each man entered. Henderson stopped to give him a good look, there was something familiar about him. Henderson realized this was the old door man from his side, although the corporate makeover and more servile uniform gave him a less threatening appearance, and his empty obedience was a far better look than the military scowl and tattoos that were once visible.

The car took them downtown. Amplebottom had made casual conversation about work but the atmosphere in the car was mildly tense. Henderson had never been invited to something like this and he wanted to make a good impression. John Howard seemed rather himself, upright and professional, nary a mention of personal life unless questioned.

They exited the car and Amplebottom led them into a high rise building with black reflective glass covering the outside, making it look kind of like a supervillain’s lair. They rode the elevator up, stopping at the 6th floor. Unfinished with not even a desk or chair in site, they ambled over to the window and looked out. They weren’t high enough to have a great view of the city, but they did overlook one particularly small building below. Police had cordoned off a section as a throng of protestors with signs seemed to be confronting them. Behind the police, by the building, were construction workers.

“I thought you’d want to see the results of your hard work,” Amplebottom said slyly. John Howard and Henderson stared down curiously as the protestors seemed to get louder. He hadn’t been here in so long, Henderson was unsure what he was looking at. The chintzy building was old and surrounded by expensive real estate. His mind began wondering how much the lot was worth and who could possibly own it when John Howard spoke.

“Cherub Theatre,” his voice was different than usual, quicker and lighter. Amplebottom smiled.

“The future site of Hemple Housing Porter,” he gloated. “And it’s all thanks to you.” John Howard seemed uncomfortable, shifting from foot to foot. Henderson just looked quietly. Then something happened. The entire building shook and collapsed.

“Well, it wasn’t very grand, I admit. But that’s the start!” Ample said happily. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out two envelopes and handed one to each of the men. Henderson opened his tenderly, wondering what awaited him. It was a very formal letter, on thick paper, declaring his promotion to Associate with a new salary of 400k a year, four percent commission, and a new set of company perks. Henderson practically came inside his briefs and when he looked at Amplebottom he was holding out his hand. Henderson accepted the firm handshake happily.

“Wow,” John Howard spoke quietly as he read the letter.

“Surprised?” “Yes, I, thank you, Sir!” John Howard’s momentary trepidation was gone, replaced with a beaming smile and he shook both their hands with the energy of a toddler on redbull.

“You’re a little young, to be honest. But I think you’ve demonstrated a dedication and promise that will benefit Hemplebaum for years to come. And Hemplebaum rewards good employees, Junior Partner John Howard Johnson.” Amplebottom emphasized the last bit so Henderson understood. J.H. had just moved into a whole new income bracket. A whole new way of seeing the world. There had been some trepidation, some fear, as he had looked at the theatre, but now all he saw were profit margins.

“I'm starving. There’s a great steakhouse nearby. I say we get some prime rib and bourbon and have a toast.” The three fatasses business men strutted out of the building, richer and more content than ever before.

-----

Things had progressed really well for Henderson. He was now a member in good standing at Rolling Acres Country Club, which meant he’d been bumped up from guest to groomsman at John Howard’s oversized wedding. Apparently, everyone and their dog walker’s best friend had been invited, so long as their net worth was greater than John Howard’s. Which is how Henderson found himself, sitting in an auxiliary dressing room with the rest of the groom’s party, in nothing but their skivvies getting toasted hours before the ceremony. John Howard himself was maintaining a pretty stoic demeanor, but several of the groomsmen were going whole hog.

“Just brilliant, J.H.,” Rip patted John Howard on the shoulder again, his eyes were slightly unfocused.

“Careful, you’ll be unconscious before the ceremony,” came a stern warning for their co-worker Bert.

“Imma juss wishing my buddy all the damn- happiness in the world! Hopefully, your marriage is happier than mine!” Rip sat down clearly woozy. Rumor around the club was that his wife did not “approve of his dalliances” like he had hoped. He’d recently spent some time warning the college boys about the value of pre-nups.

“Have some water, Rip,” Chadwick said, forcing a tall glass of sparkling water into his hands. Even though it was John Howard’s day, Chadwick did a great job of ensuring he was generally at the center of things. He’d been the best man, the bachelor party planner, the one who got everyone to relive fraternity induction by sitting around half naked drinking whiskey straight on a saturday afternoon. There was something deeply fraternal about the thing. Henderson could recall himself and a few dozen other young freshmen in a similar situation as their pledge master and rush chair had guided them through a vow committing them to the fraternity.

“I’m ready for another, not you Rip. You’re sitting this one out,” came a highly affected male voice. It belonged to Oswald V, practically a guest of honor. John Howard had been absolutely beside himself when Oz had agreed to be a groomsman. Henderson was happy for him. J.H. was definitely a social climber and at Rolling Acres he could not do any better. For his part, Oz was charming and congenial, born into a life of socializing and money, he had all the natural airs of an heir apparent.

“So, I got the bridesmaid situation worked out,” Chadwick leaned into John Howard and Henderson. “Missy was insisting on Kitty Bell being third, but I got her to swing her down the line and swap in Millie Cashon. Oz doesn’t like her, but fuck him, he’s married. So, Henderson, I got you set up with the hot one. And the single one.” Henderson looked bashfully at the floor as the other two stared at him.

“Oh, okay,” he sort of shrugged.

“Listen, Huck,” Chadwick had taken to calling Henderson “Huck” because apparently all men needed a nickname among brothers. “This took a LOT of work on my part. I’m not saying you have to marry her, but if you don’t get to at least second, I will consider you a waste. Also, I owe Missy a doubles game of tennis now,” John Howard looked horrified at the prospect. “So, J.H. is gonna have to slip into some tiny white shorts and I’m gonna deal with a ticked off aristocrat. So have some fun!” Chadwick slapped Henderson’s shoulder in a paternal fashion as he returned to keeping up the fun in the room. John Howard and Henderson made awkward eye contact for a minute.

“Sorry,” Henderson said sheepishly.

“She’s hot,” J.H. appraised. “Dad’s not worth too much, but he does have some great boats. Might as well make the most of it.” He tipped his glass up to Henderson who met it solidly, producing a harsh click in the room.

“Here’s to J.H.!” Rip was attempting to make a toast, seemingly recovered from his drunken daze.

“To J.H.-John Howard!” Henderson polished off his drink and happily accepted a refill. Without John Howard he never would have gotten a job at Hemplebaum, he’d never been sitting in this room, drinking liquor that cost more than a cable bill, planning on making an offer on a home in Chester, and planning on how to get into Kitty Bell’s dress tonight. Cheers to J.H. indeed.

#callmecrazy #preppy #mental transformation #suit #nosex

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