Chapter 10: Best Dressed Man in the Office

On his first day of work, Tom’s closet contained five premium dress shirts, two suits, seven ties and a handful of trousers. Of the suits, one was the Hugo Boss piece he had worn to the holiday party. The other had just come back from the tailor; it was a rich navy Valentino number with faint light stripes, closely-spaced. Tom wore it with a fresh white shirt.

He’d also acquired a hot tie made by John Varvatos, an article crafted of woven silk in alternating diagonal black and blue stripes with silver ridges between them. For Tom, the real beauty of it was how perfectly the black and blue worked together. There had been a time, not so long ago, when someone told him such a combination was forbidden. This individual claimed fashion prowess but — despite having the means– did not shop beyond Banana Republic.

“You should never wear black and blue together,” he had said to Tom. “Makes you look like you got beat up.”

As Tom looked at the tie, he realized with finite terms the ignorance of his former colleague as well as well as the danger of thinking in absolutes and ultimatums. So much of Tom’s thinking would seem unorthodox to those who wished for nothing beyond the herd. Often called sheep, Tom loathed the idea that he might be anything less than a superstar in five years.

For example, Tom understood his path to success came in a manner less common and more privileged in many ways. He would rise not from backbreaking labor, but from the charm he had discussed of late. The way he saw it: no matter what he did or how he erred, no one could ever deny that he looked the best out of anyone who ever failed. He understood the power of design, the influence of fashion, and the intangibility of the human lust for understanding.

Regarding the outfit he’d chosen, the idea had come to him as he drove back the morning after Stacey. In fact, he couldn’t think of anything else. Just clothes and woman.

“You still never told me how old you are,” Stacey had said as Tom dressed in her apartment.

Tom laughed.

“More on that later.”

Stacey strutted around the room in her panties, black lace lightly clinging to her tanned hips. Naturally, Tom’s eyes grew hazy from the legs. After another moment’s indulgence, he stood to leave. Tom knew a woman’s charms must be met and matched, lest they become addictions. As he reached the door, Stacey’s voice could be heard behind him.

“Later comes closer all the time.”

Tom paused to smile as he always did when a beautiful woman gave him something to think about. Then she stepped closer. “Why did you want me?”

Tom suddenly realized that he could not help but have wanted her. He wanted the best of life’s options. Just as he could never step from his home in any state save dressed to kill, he could only be expected to crave the hottest woman in the room.

“It didn’t seem to me that there was any way we could live with not having each other,” Tom said. “I would have always regretted it otherwise.”

Tom still saw her body in his mind as he stood before the front desk of his new firm. It was a place of plush chairs and cherry wood. Tom examined the knot of his tie, noting the logo stitched to the back. He felt a surge within himself — a burst of power forged in the depths of nights spent with hot women.

He would conquer here.

Chapter 9: Runner’s High

Tom left town to visit his alma mater for the weekend. He wore Hugo Boss jeans and Ecco street shoes. As he arrived, eager to impart his wisdom on the younger generations, a game of beer-pong had just ended. Some of Tom’s closest friends stared down the barrel of graduation; this weekend was the last big party of the year.

Neil, Kevin and Ryan collectively pointed him towards the keg. After a couple refills, talk turned to hook-up prospects for the night surrounding one girl in particular. She stood across the room watching the beer pong game, alternately sending text messages and sipping a drink. She wore a skirt — short enough to catch eyes yet long enough to keep them guessing. Her name was Stacey.

“You could bounce a quarter off her ass, I swear,” Kevin said.

Tom had noticed the ass. But he’d been a leg man all his life.

Everyone mingled, downed some more beer, then decided to leave for the track to catch the end of the bike race around which the party weekend had been scheduled. Stacey fell into step with them on the way. She kept looking at Tom as Neil and Kevin talked. She nodded and spoke with each of them, but her intentions were quite simple: she wanted to experience Tom Drake.

Finally, she tried to meet him.

“He’s an alum,” Kevin said in response to her question, as if that explained everything.

“Oo, creepy.” Stacey said. “How old are you?”

“As old as one can possibly be and avoid being truly creepy,” Tom said. “I’m Tom; it’s a pleasure.”

“But I never said creepy was a bad thing.”

Tom wondered how she had come to have such an incredible body. You never knew with women. It could be starvation, cocaine, exercise. Sometimes women seemed to be the most perplexing of all the species. Tom knew — at least — that the best ones needed space; they panicked when put to a decision point. They’d rather grab your arm one minute and prepare you for disappointment the next than to give you the satisfaction of knowing they might actually be into you.

But as they talked and drank and repeated, Tom felt himself tingle not only from the rigid muscles of her legs, tight and shaped under the skirt, but her voice and her lips and her scent. The combination of these took Tom aback, and he stumbled a bit in conversation. He had not met anyone like her, and he sensed this fact empowered her to belittle him. When they spoke, Tom resisted the urge to lean ever closer.

The hours passed. They drank, they talked, they bounced from bar to apartment to frat party and back again. At one point Tom found himself without Stacey, and Kevin took the opportunity to explain both her fickle nature and the source of her body: she was a runner.

Tom was not prepared to complete a 5k, but that did not mean he did not understand something very deeply about what he’d just heard. It brought him back to the days before graduation. On warm spring nights, Tom wrapped an iPod around his bicep and bounced down the steps to the Indiana air, thick and sweet with apple blossoms. Tom remembered the way he flew around the track, eyes engaged to the stars, panting and sweating, music blasting in his ears. Raw, pure hope propelled him. He could not be defeated. The feeling bordered on frantic, even fanatical. He felt that if he did not seize that short time he had left to become something — to take back what had been taken from him — no other period in his life would afford him the opportunity again.

He still remembered the contents of the playlist that carried him through the nights. The songs he’d selected all tore at him, filling his mind with visions. In a very literal sense, the songs made him want to run away from something or other and his feet obliged him. When he’d first moved to Chicago, he ran along the lake: a hobby as rewarding to the eyes as it was to the heart and lungs. The legs he’d seen by the lake made him dizzy in their power and elegance. He felt that again as the frat band launched into their final cover for the night: Fall Out Boy – Thanks for the Memories. Stacey pushed her beer cup into Neil’s hand and jumped onto the center of the dance floor, bouncing with the chorus.

“I love that song, don’t you? I love how it makes people do bad things. But in a good way.”

Her hand remained. She seemed like a woman who had been born hot, but had resisted the temptation to become arrogant or self-absorbed. She knew what she had, but she also knew there could be men who had done different things to achieve their own greatness, and that arousal might come from having a way with words as easily as having legs for which men lusted.

In no time at all, Tom wanted her. And badly. She danced here and there, tried to make him jealous and damn-near angry. When she neared again, Tom leaned close and held her arm.

“Let’s go downstairs and have a cigarette,” Tom said. “Finish your song.” Then he turned and allowed her to make the choice: she could stay there and wait for more of the same, or take her chances with Tom.

He waited at the bottom of the stairs, and soon enough, he heard her heels click upon the pavement. She rounded the corner and their lips connected. Tom pinned her against the wall as she attacked him, hands grabbing the back of his head. Stacey leaped into the air, wrapping her legs around him as he held her airborne, tight against the wall. Her hands groped and clawed at his face, fingers trailing across the scruff of his weekend beard, a phenomenon rarely seen and more rarely felt. They sucked air and dove back into each other.

Tom could think of nothing practical, nothing reasonable– well, nothing at all except for her. She flooded each of his senses. Thoughts tempted him to figure out how and why it had happened. But he didn’t want to think, not till it was over. Only fools waste time trying to quantify that which is so far from empirical. His arms strong and far from tiring, Tom gripped Stacey around her thighs and ass.

Her legs tightened.

Chapter 8: Loungebeats and Supermodels

A five-day weekend greeted Tom the morning after the resignation. He spent the first day reliably wasted in some form or another, flipping through websites, old pictures and songs. Plenty of articles lay earmarked in Rolling Stones, strung around the room. Stubs of stale cigarettes lay bent and broken in an ashtray. The same old songs played on repeat. Tom’s music no longer inspired him.

Sure, he had a few pieces of Portishead that he cycled through. And he liked the Morcheeba he’d heard so far, but he hadn’t found that one song that would capture him and propel him towards iconography. Lexi knew a lot about music, but her music didn’t do anything for Tom. “Your music makes me want to kill myself,” he reminded her just yesterday. The comment did not phase her. Her playlists displayed artistry, introspection and lyrics anchored in reality. But Tom wanted to soar.

Tom had begun to believe it was the role of music to provide that context in which something amazing could be accomplished. It would not be the first time a song had transformed him. Three years ago, a single Eminem song had facilitated the loss of thirty pounds, an event that singularly redefined his entire life. He remembered how every painful hour in the gym eventually melted from memory, fled from consciousness as he consumed the deep brown eyes and smile of a particular brunette. Even a brief moment of that reality — a sip, really — made him drunk.

As he remembered these things, a new song rolled into his consciousness. It laid out a strong bouncing beat and kicked-up the first verse. The female vocals dripped with sex and seduction. Tom’s eyes drifted shut as he swayed. He saw himself reclining with a signature cocktail, a mix of North Shore gin and prickly pear puree, smooth and garnished with an edible orchid. The prospect of this cocktail made him feel confident — not insecure the way it would with the type of men who are comfortable only when slugging shitty suds: the American dream, as it were.

“You’d think I learned by now,

There’s never an easy way….”

Suddenly Tom didn’t want it to be easy. He didn’t want to relax; he wanted to attack. He wanted to be the most unstoppable person in the room. He wanted to be the object of lyrics and critics, if only to tan in the spotlight. Then, he knew the way to conquer the weeks ahead.

“If you think about it, that’s been the secret to my success in the corporate world,” Tom said.

“What is?” Lexi said.

“Charm.”

Lexi waited: the puzzle finally about to unravel itself. Then Tom continued. “It’s sure as fuck not hard work.”

A knock-out.

After an small eternity, Lexi shook her head.

“No, no it’s definitely not hard work.”

Tom erupted in laughter. It would be no different this time, he thought as he thumbed through the designer labels of his dress shirts. This is supermodel shit. That’s where he competed now.

Tom left for the gym.

Chapter 7: Resignation

Tom Drake chose a white shirt and black trousers for his last day at work. He didn’t feel altogether too dramatic about the whole predicament at 7:00 am as he dressed. Of course, Tom chanced the odds in assuming he would not work the two weeks customarily required as notice. No one had worked past his departure announcement since Tom had been with the company. Then again, Tom Drake rarely found himself on the easy side of any statistic.

“I know why you’re here, Tom.” The voice belonged to his boss, the same one from the holiday party. Tom did not think highly of many people, but his boss was an exception. The fashion revelation from the holiday party was no cause for disdain — it had served Tom’s interest and he was grateful for it. In matters of character, Tom could find no fault nor flaw in his boss, who was the type of person who knew Tom well enough to foresee this conversation months in advance, yet he still put on a smile and paid for lunch. Tom harbored no long-term malice towards the company. It had employed him since college, sent him to a dozen cities across the country and genuinely considered his interests to be important.

“I want this to be a productive conversation. I want to leave as a friend,” Tom said. He spoke of these things to preserve the purity of his memories — even if the memories were not of pure events, Tom wanted to preserve that time of his life, including the moment it ended. See, when Tom had discovered the new job, he knew he would be leaving behind not just a position, but an entire lifestyle. The new job would be grueling, demanding, taxing in a way this one wasn’t. He would have to be responsible, serious and mature — all qualities that made him feel old in the worst way, like every part of his life that was actually worth living had come to an end. Here. In this piece of shit coffee shop.

“This will be an amazing opportunity for you,” the boss said. “Glad you’re not going to work for some competitor. Pretty impressive stuff.”

“Thank you.” Servitude always came disguised as an opportunity. But he had no choice — or the choice had become more about reputation and less about freedom.

“I want you to come back for happy hours, events, whenever you’d like.” In his mind, Tom saw one of those events, looking at it through tired eyes while the rest of them — those who remained — chatted and clinked glasses laissez-farie style. But what could Tom say?

“I will. And I appreciate it.”

The rest of the day contained pleasantries, well wishes and administrative busy-work. He spoke to HR for the final hour, offering his best wishes for the continued success of the company. Then it was over.

At home, he lit a cigarette and shivered for a few minutes on the balcony, trying to take in all of the skyline. Exposing himself to the elements, he felt the whole scene was very cinematic, especially with the rhythmic flicking of ash from his cigarette, his mouth releasing smoke into the icy gusts.

“Ah, fuck it.”

Tom didn’t need cinema; he needed to absorb — in his few remaining moments of freedom — something resembling peace and emptiness. He closed the balcony door behind him and walked to the bedroom. From there, he reclined, listening to chilled Morcheeba bouncing from his iMac, staring at trippy animated art. Wind tore against the window and cold leaked inside. Tom rubbed his arms, clawing through his closet. His hands rested upon a wool Polo sweater. As he pulled it over himself, a laugh escaped him, though his voice was hollow.

Chapter 6: That Endlessly Ignorant Time Before Spring

Tom Drake was a true product of education. That had been his life, a cause around which his entire childhood had been painstakingly crafted. So as the employment paperwork dragged on, Tom spent free evenings studying fashion. Alternatives were slim, anyway. Winter refused to release its grip on the city, forcing Tom and everyone else into their homes. Night still came quickly. One evening as Tom rubbed his arms to get warm, he ran across an article on button-down collars. It suggested such apparel suited old-school, WASPY types who’d likely pair a baby blue button-down with a yellow tie. The combination made Tom gag as if he knew as a matter of reflex that such a style would not benefit him in any capacity.

Then he remembered why.

Over a year ago, when Tom Drake dressed like one who had not yet found enlightenment, he’d spent an evening with his colleagues at a hotel lounge. Located near the office in downtown Chicago, the subtle yet powerful ambiance let the drinks slip down easily. By the end of the night, Tom was hammered. The bartender — a long, lean brunette with tight trunks of thighs — used all her charms to make jaws drop and lips wet. Tom didn’t notice, being engaged in a heated discussion with a mediocre project manager from his company, who had a sadistic side. Her name was Cindy.

“What can I tell you? It worked,” she said.

“I could have gotten her too. You see this symbol?” Tom pointed towards the Polo horse on his shirt. “This means quality. Women notice that.” Tom actually had no idea what he was talking about. He borrowed the line from a blond roommate he’d had in college with a preference for all things Polo. This roommate seemed to fare well. What Tom did not realize was that he was not blond, not rich and lacked the appropriate physique to benefit from Mr. Lauren’s creations. Cindy beckoned the bartender to join the conversation, asking her what she thought about Tom’s choice of clothes. She glared at him, wrinkling her nose in disgust. Tom’s body flooded with anger, a rolling boil of anxiety mixed with confusion and outrage.

“You don’t like it? You got a fucking problem with the horse?” Tom lost control. His voice got louder and louder till he shouted. “Tell me what’s wrong with the fucking horse!” No longer the timid boy asking for a prom date, Tom demanded this respect with ferocity. Arms caught him and yanked him from the bar. Cindy’s husband pushed him in the other direction with an order to get some air and walk it off.

He woke up alone with a headache. A few days later, the event melted into just another painful part of the early twenties, that random and bizarre time when college feels both too painful to remember and too wonderful to forget. In this way, each of life’s most horrible moments must be confronted and transformed into something better, lest the chill become paralysis.

Chapter 5: Michigan Avenue

Shopping became an addiction for Tom Drake. He’d had the quick wins early on, blindly accepting the pre-selected pairings of shirts and ties. But it wasn’t a wardrobe, and anger filled him each time he reached into his closet to find it empty of designer brands. Truth told, he didn’t even own a week’s worth of outfits.

He felt like a fraud, bouncing into the office on Monday in Hugo’s finest, slumping on Tuesday in no-names. By the grace of God (also known as random chance), he still had at least a month before he could begin his new job. In this way, circumstance had artificially slowed Tom’s ascent. He fidgeted at work, picking and biting his fingernails: jittery nervous energy with no outlet to become anything more. Nothing ever happened quickly enough for Tom Drake. Patience was more folly than virtue.

So went the acquisitions. What frustrated Tom more than anything was that he couldn’t have given two shits about impressing anyone he saw in the office. He had only himself with which to compete. For a man who had always felt the world had a special plan to keep him down, every little bit of growth in his closet made him high. As he felt the thick, woven fabric of the white BOSS shirt for which he’d exchanged nearly $300, he believed — at least for a moment — that after all these years he had harnessed the quality that had so often eluded him: the feeling of being unstoppable.

Chapter 4: Nowhere But Up

Tom Drake knew nothing of the city lights until he had completed high school. Two years before that glorious graduation, he sat on his bed in tattered GAP khakis and a red knockoff golf shirt. Junior prom loomed like an execution date, inching its way closer to him as if it were animate. The entire concept of the event placed rocks in Tom’s gut, wrenching him into fits of worry with increasing frequency. He could think of only a few date prospects. Worse, he knew he would not appear on any of their respective lists.

Not that anyone could reasonably blame him too much. Struck down and weak from illness, he could barely attend all his classes, much less party on the weekends. It was, after all, alcohol which made the panties fall. Happy thoughts like those were little more than distant fantasies for Tom. Besides, he was fat.

And sick.

And poor.

Despite the menu of afflictions that stole each potential smile from his medically-inflated face, Tom possessed the unique ability to make one particular girl laugh. A chatty brunette named Sarah shared a lab table in Chemistry with Tom and often doubled-over when Tom nailed a punchline. His joke style was damp: intelligent but not disgustingly arid. Many of the girls would find him fuckin’ hilarious when they became women. Perhaps Sarah was a touch before her time.

It was on that fleeting hope that eventually Tom placed himself, dialing the phone with clammy hands.

“Hello?”

“Sarah?”

For all the worry, the call ended quickly. Afterwards, Tom called his best friend, who consoled him at some length. “It’s really okay,” Tom said. “It’s not like I expected anything else. I just had to try. For myself.”

He was quiet for weeks after, noticeably humorless in Chemistry. Sarah forgot about it by summer. But when the memory flickered into Tom’s consciousness, his hands balled into fists. He excused himself to be alone, because he could not stop shaking.

Chapter 3: A Lesson in Iconography

Approximately five months from the day Tom Drake first heard word of the potential job, his infamous recruiter — who was more like a sleazy talent agent, if anything — called him with words akin to a happy yapping dog.

“You did it, buddy. You excited?”

Of course he was, and they spoke at length about next steps, strategies for resignation, and immediate action items. Going corporate was the only way to get it done, and as much as Tom hated it, he recognized the immediate needs and benefits it would provide. Flexible spending account, for example. Tom knew he could tuck away a few grand in the first year and outfit himself with prescription Prada sunglasses, new reading frames and enough contacts to change them weekly. All at twenty percent tax savings. This was the kind of thrift which it did not shame him to practice.

As for the glasses, they were — of course — only a small part. That which had begun to form within him was much greater: it would become a confidence without carelessness, an aura and an essence.  After all, Tom Drake had style: the sort everyone hopes to see at least once in a day, if only to harness the inspiration.

Interim

Burning lamps spilled soft light onto Tom Drake as he left the office on Madison Street. Underneath his parka, he wore a brown checkered dress shirt of modest brand with brown trousers that had faded to transparency between his legs. This sad fact could be concealed from almost everyone, except Tom himself. And, having bitten from that bitter apple of knowledge, he found his appetite pang him with pleas to fly faster towards his escape.