Chapter 20: The Crack in the Armor

One afternoon in July, Tom called a friend of his to gauge her interest in attending a reading by a new novelist who was visiting the city. To his dismay, he found that she already had plans.

“A baseball game?” Tom asked, recoiling.
“Yes.”
“Wouldn’t you rather hear a novel reading? Or anything else at all?”
“Another day, Tom.”

This did nothing but contribute to Tom’s frustration, which had become a theme as of late.  Tom Drake loathed sports.  But he loathed emptiness more.  The void that he felt manifested itself as a consciousness of the absense of so many moments which so easily can be taken for granted.  The easy laughter of a wine-infused dinner.  The summer breeze caressing one’s cheek like a woman’s soft hand.  The rich, full breath when longing lips meet longing lips.   

Emptiness and loneliness often came together, but the worst emptiness was that which Tom felt even when surrounded by people.  He tried relentlessly to keep smiling, keep moving, keep grinding along.  But the mania he maintained during the workday gave way to overwhelming exhaustion when he returned home. Time was not really his own anymore. Practically every minute of his day belong to someone else.

He drank more than usual, a surprising twist since alcohol had never really appealed to Tom since the days in his freshman dorm when he blacked out on a regular basis. Now, it was not unusual for him to take Tylenol immediately upon waking each morning, to attempt to silence the thud of his bloated brain from abusing him.

The baseball game which had trumped Tom’s plans for the afternoon was just the sort of thing that induced some of Tom’s greatest fury, particularly games scheduled for a weekday afternoon or evening. He did not lament missing the novelist, nor his friend’s company. He did lament the clogging of the city’s arteries and subsequent sickening gridlock. 

Tom chomped chewing gum and gnashed his teeth and tapped his foot and his heart pounded all the way home as the bus crept its way north.  But by the time his few moments of freedom finally arrived, all his strength had left him.  He shuffled home.  On either side of the path, flowers bloomed in abundance, brilliant colors of crimson and cream, azure and violet and bright gold.  The city air even smelled fresh for a change, the flowers’ aromas mingling with the familiar scent of freshly-cut grass.  Tom remembered the latter fragrance fondly from childhood.

When he finally arrived at his apartment, he tiredly removed the day’s armor: blue-gray Valentino shirt, navy tie and slacks, brown shoes. Then he stood back, admiring the wardrobe. As debt had accumulated across a swath of credit cards, Tom Drake’s closet finally –fleetingly– satisfied him.

Hanging with appropriate spacing behind two wide bi-fold doors, Tom’s clothes struck awe into his guests when they found themselves privileged enough to see them. A dozen and a half ties hung from a tie rack in the center. Shelves housed his dress blacks and browns, which he had polished weekly.

All the beautiful shirts hung, boasting their fine, woven cloth: brilliant whites and blues and the lavender stripes and the solids and the occasional orange mixed with shiny cream. Suits cut by Boss, Valentino and Zegna in shades of black, navy and gray.  As for trousers, his favorite pair had been designed by John Varvatos.  Tom wore flat-front, never pleated.  The very sight of them was enough to roll his eyes involuntarily. 

“Is this what you wanted?”  The voice belonged to no one in particular.  The sad and present reality Tom had begun to grasp was that his beautiful wardrobe was not infallable.  The shirts could stain.  The pants could wrinkle.  The ties could fray.  It seemed to Tom that his life could now be measured entirely by the putting on and taking off of clothes. First thing in the morning.  Prior to entering the steam room to sweat away the hangover.  Before his workout.  And after he arrived home, like now.  He thought of all of this as he faced the closet, and a wave of emotion siezed him so hard that he shook.  A shudder that ripped through his whole body, like chills and aches bound into one rolling force. 

This was one of those times in life in which not a single thing is certain.  Each morning brings more questions than answers, and those questions pile up higher and higher until the only emotion truly able to be felt is anxiety.  It grows and grows like a tumor, sucking the sustenance from the healthy feelings once known: friendship, empathy, love.

Looking at himself in the mirror had once been the source of some of his greatest joy.  Despite the implied vanity or connotation others might ascribe to the practice, Tom did not believe himself to be especially attractive, but he attempted to be at peace with that, for a while.  Occasionally he would actually believe he was attractive, and in those moments, when the sun had tanned him just right, or the pupils in his dark eyes dialated, he would gaze into the mirror and smile.

But now. 

But now when he looked into the mirror and saw those empty eyes, he wanted to fall, wanted to fail, wanted to weep.  Then, he did.   And when it was over, he pulled himself up.  Through blurry eyes, he caught his reflection in the mirror: red and splotchy, worried and weak.

“Jesus,” he gasped.  “What have I done to myself?”

Chapter 19: Machina

Would anyone believe that a few simple lifestyle changes could take hold of a soul and mold it?

Tom didn’t on that fateful day he bought the Hugo Boss suit well over one year ago. He didn’t during the Holiday party where he laughed with Lexi when his boss had ogled over him. He could never have guessed that the attention he received would morph into the first of many visions which would seize and inspire and transform him.

But with those visions came paranoia.

Those who had once known and loved Tom had abandoned him, left him to ponder life alone, void of support or encouragement. They claimed he was not the same person they once knew. Whether this accusation held any truth, Tom did not know. But as he looked in the mirror one Friday morning before leaving for work, he stopped himself abruptly as he saw a physical manifestation of change.

He was just on his way out the door, having recently completed the final steps in his routine.

Tom wore a French cuff shirt, light shiny blue with darker blue stripes running vertically. The sight which caused Tom to pause was that of his own chest pressing tight against the thick, rich fabric. He had used exercise as a means to make himself numb to life’s pain, just as fine clothing functioned as armor against the stress of the work day and the piercing gazes of the populace.

Once his smile had displayed as a huge grin, silly and naive. Now, his smile narrowed and accompanied eyes which intrigued and this physique which tempted. What scared him was the relatively short time he had committed himself to his training. Merely three weeks had brought him another inch of height through posture and hardened his chest such that the cloth lay across it perfectly, stretching ever so slightly such that others might be called to view the powerful mass which lay beneath it. Just as Tom had thought clothes could not be any more intoxicating or addictive, he found that he had — once again–underestimated.

After work that day, he sat around with friends at an outdoor bar, reminiscing over a party they had attended together the previous week. The friends, a college buddy and his girlfriend, teased Tom about the fine fabric of his suit, shirt and tie.

“One of my friends is a personal shopper. She would eat you up.”

“Plenty to talk about, I’m sure,” Tom said. He knew no emotion but confusion. Confusion over what he wanted, confusion over who he was, confusion over what to do in each minute of this life. How much of his day did he abandon to tedium? How often did he sacrifice lucidity?

“You were certainly a hit at that party,” his friend admitted.

“Everything about you was different,” the girlfriend continued.

“Everything? I wasn’t even wearing a new shirt,” Tom protested.

“Not just the clothes, Tom. You seemed like someone else. The way you stood; the way you walked in. Nothing like you were in college. Not a bit.” She paused. “Everything about you was different.”

Tom decided not to waste the energy lamenting the implied insult in this comparison. He knew it was meant as a compliment, but the person he once was disgusted him in so many ways. Even though that person brought so much happiness and joy to some, he did not see how he could return to it. No great gain may come without sacrifice. One cannot have both past and future. The only choice is always acceptance.

As clouds rolled across the sun, eclipsing its comforting light, he heard the reverb of thunder and felt the breeze quicken and the air chill. It pierced even the fine fabric of his Valentino suit, the proverbial armor which had given rise to his new self.

And he shivered.

Chapter 18: The Art of Compromise

Tom Drake felt pensive.

Everything about the way he viewed his life had changed. He knew how to match brown with black. He knew he could bounce to Europe and visa-hop for at least a year before he had to think twice. But being a person with that kind of talent, with access to those kinds of possibilities, is not easy.

For Tom Drake, it predisposed him to an unusually high level of bluntness when approaching topics others might find sensitive. He became annoyed with groups of large, self-important people. He loathed crowds and pretenders. Such was the scene of summer, and Tom found himself choosing between tan and sanity.

Tom stood from his seat in an outdoor bar to great his college friend, Erica, who hugged him.

“Tom Drake: man of the world,” she said.

“How long has it been?”

“Three years I think. I see you’re still living the dream.”

“Thank you.”

“So you’re into this whole fashion thing now,” she said. “How do you like it?”

“It’s intoxicating at times. Frustrating at others. Rewarding in all of the above.”

Erica lit a cigarette. She said nothing, but her eyes never left Tom.

“And what’s so frustrating?”

“I’m never satisfied. I’m the eternal consumer: as soon as I get something I use it up and demand another one. But better. I bounce from highs to lows like heartbeats, but more reliably. One second I hear violins, the next the rasp of my own gasping as I try to convince myself that everything’s okay.”

The bar where they sat had a Southwestern theme, and a waitress approached wearing a tight black tank-top and jeans. Tom nodded, and she winked at him.

Chapter 17: Fiction

Tom went to work dressed like a gentleman. He still lacked the overpowering wardrobe necessary to propel himself to the top, so he settled for a position parallel to the societal category of upper middle-class. One of his favorite combinations was Lavender and Black, a pairing that sounded more like a fruity law office than a style, what with that three syllable opener clipped by the stark jet finish.

But it wasn’t a law office. To think such a thing would be ridiculous. It would be a clear example of a fool not understanding the difference between fact and fiction. A story, for example, is a work of fiction. When Tom Drake was younger he published a horror story in a small fiction newspaper with a paudry circulation. He liked reading Stephen King and found it interesting to explore similar topics. Immediately after this publication hit the stands, some small-town hicks got hold of it and tried to paint Tom as sacrilegious, nefarious and dangerous.

“For someone even to think those things is grounds enough for concern,” one had said. Family friends questioned him about it — those that dared approach him, anyway.

“Tommy,” they said. “What would make you write such a thing. You shouldn’t think those things.”

As if we all have such control.

“Sometimes when I’m in a situation that’s a little scary, my mind suddenly displays the most horrific possible scenario in my head in crystal clarity,” Tom said. “So I wrote about one of those.”

What Tom didn’t say was that he had written a terrific love story which never saw publication, and he had written that by examining a fairly boring scene from his own life and making up some things he thought the readers might find interesting. Of that piece, Tom simply said “and in that case, I took some of the best of what my mind had to offer and wrote about that.”

By then, the lynch mob had found other prey.

Chapter 16: Rain Run

Tom Drake ran his index finger around the cold silver edge of his Dolce & Gabanna glasses. Just where the ear pieces met the bridge, they flared, expanding to provide the metal canvas upon which ‘D&G’ now glinted from its grooved outlines. Tom believed that glasses occupied a unique position in the world of fashion. A sexy pair of frames provided that extra edge to the wardrobe which could even compensate in situations where Tom felt otherwise under-dressed. Despite the caliber of the establishment from which Tom had purchased these particular glasses, he had detected a flaw on the left lens, directly in the center where he needed to look in order to see properly.

Of course, Tom wore them anyway.

He stood in the pantry of his office, blinking his eyes to relieve them from the strain which had come throughout the day. The glasses lie on the counter by the sink. Distracted as he was, Tom did not hear Ginger enter the room behind him.

“Did I interrupt a ritual?” Ginger said.

Startled, Tom turned to her. She held his glasses dangling from her fingers, grinning. Tom couldn’t believe she was not greeting him with ridicule. What Tom did not know was that Ginger’s interest in him had been solidified long before, a result of her observations and interactions with him in moments when he was not trying, not pretending, not performing — not doing anything except reacting in the biological ways that made him Tom Drake, mind moving freely, churning of hope and promise.

Although Tom remained in the dark of this wonderful occurrence, he still managed to recover from his shock.

“What are you doing after work?” Tom asked.

“Running.”

“Running,” Tom repeated. “You’re a runner?”

Then Tom saw himself with Stacy again, that night at his alma mater, when their bodies battled each other for the title of pleasure-giver. The intensity and respect –which had come to them so easily through words–also fueled their fucking. Tom did not feel the need to call it anything else. He did not care for the word love, believing it to be more of a feeling which arrived and invaded the consciousness, tormenting it, carving it up to leave a big yawning cavern.

Empty.

Empty until the passions of sex and speech and understanding filled it again, allowing life to resume.

“I might hit the lake trail myself,” Tom said.

“You’re a runner?”

“Hardly. More like a wannabe. But I bike.”

Predictably, Ginger rolled her eyes. Tom had never encountered self-pronounced runners who would not hesitate to criticize the cyclist who whizzed by them while they were wheezing. The resentment did not run equally strong in each direction, but he had some friends who thought all runners were masochists.

“Which way do you go?” Ginger asked. She lived south of Tom, closer to the Loop.

“North,” Tom said. “You?”

“South.”

“Guess I won’t be seeing you.”

“Unless you catch me,” she smiled.

“There’s always hope.”

Then she was gone. Tom noticed the perfections of her body as she left, but his attraction spanned much greater depth. For her part, she viewed her body with both happiness and disdain. What could so easily lure the eyes and minds of boys and men also led those fools to ignore the rest of her, not thinking to engage her in the powerful ways of language, indifferent to the stories and secrets she might share. Thus when Tom Drake — far from fool– spoke to her, he could not be stopped. She admired him for the ease with which he discussed the world and the problems within it: his knowledge and presentation being so specific and so studied and yet so easily eclipsing the hollow attempts she had received from other men. And, he was hilarious.

———–

The sky had begun to cloud by the time Tom approached the trail. He pedaled nearer, then veered south as a pack of parents pushing strollers blocked the northern path. The sky rumbled as he cycled south, noting the scenery which he had not seen since his first days on this Chicago trail. Tom had not forgotten about Ginger but — moody as he was — he’d told himself anything he wanted with her remained far, far away.

From the first drops of rain, Tom knew a deluge lie before him. Heavy drops fell faster and faster as Tom leaned forward and pedaled faster, scanning the blurry horizon for shelter. The rain drenched Tom in seconds and increasingly the wind chilled him. Finally he observed the dim overhang of some sort of shelter, and soon enough pulled from the path and dismounted his bike. Then he stood under the overhang with his bike, watching sheets of rain fling themselves at the earth. Some bounced and ricocheted and splashed Tom, forcing him to retreat. That’s when he saw her.

Bounding north, legs cycling faster and faster, Ginger was unmistakable. She wore the shortest of black running shorts and a thin white tank top. As if to taunt the rain, she raised her face to the sky and defied it, never breaking stride. Something about this sight reminded Tom of the stuff of visions and fantasies. He stood frozen, transfixed. Then his mind instantly washed itself with the cool confidence which arrives when choices suddenly became. To ignore that would have been to betray himself.

He dropped the bike and ran towards her. She saw him as he left the cover of the overhang and the rain began pelting him. Soaked through in seconds, he continued. She slowed then trotted backwards, panting and watching him. Then she stopped. As he neared, his chest rose and fell from his anticipation of her. The distance between them narrowed. Tom began to think uncountable, uncontrollable thoughts all at once, thoughts that tangled with each other, threatening again to confuse him or cause him to hesitate.

His right hand caught her behind the waist and pulled her to him as he stepped forward. In a single split moment, only observable through the eye of omnipotence, Ginger tossed both of her arms around Tom’s neck as his free hand’s fingers slipped over her cheek, clearing it of a few wet hairs which had escaped her ponytail.

Finally, they kissed.

Shivering in unison as the wind blew icy water into them, Ginger’s hand gripped Tom at the back of the neck, arching her back and pressing herself against him. A moan escaped her as she caught Tom’s bottom lip between her own and bit it gently. The rain had soaked her shirt and her breasts hardened and then warmed as she pressed them against Tom’s chest. He held her by the waist and the back as her hands trailed down his face, slipping from the rain.

As the cars zipped past, Tom and Ginger tasted each other again and again, finding the flavors both perfect and insufficient in small doses. The thought of stopping did not occur to them, nor any thought, for they had finally stopped thinking. The rain ridiculed them for it, attempting to break them like an evil force somehow unsatisfied with the magic of the event. But theirs was the passion of blockbuster films and sonnets and pornography all rolled into one, lacking nothing but gaining everything as its spark caught kindling and flared. The rain tried to stop them, but it would not be the first force they had overcome.

They ignored it like a sprinkle.

Chapter 15: Anemia

Tom did not know that he had scarcely any red blood cells left. He was a freshman in high school at the time. In the mornings before school began, the staff supervised everyone in the cafeteria, and Tom sat on one of those backless stool seats, the kind affixed to tables which can be folded up and stored elsewhere.

His acquaintances largely ignored him, engrossed in their grandiose plans to get this girl or that girl, or to start a band, or to make the basketball team. It was winter, but no one shivered as frequently or furiously as Tom. He wore khakis and a loose-fitting maroon sweater, the finest he owned. The label announced it as an Eddie Bauer. Tom, flaky-faced and skinny, held his arms close to himself. He tried to concentrate on Algebra 2, but his head nearly bounced off the table as a wave of chills and exhaustion washed over him.

When he walked into his home that night, he found himself alone. He shuffled to his room, ran into the bathroom and collapsed. He clenched his teeth to prevent them from chattering. The waves had returned and kept coming. Miserable cold mixed with weakness tore at Tom.

As the bathtub filled with water and steam, he drug himself across the floor, waiting to wiggle out of his clothes at the last minute. Then, just as he thought the water might cover most of him if he entered the tub, he heard voices downstairs, coming nearer. Soon he could discern words. The voices bellowed with demands.

Had he finished his homework?

Had he fed the dogs?

Had he practiced the piano?

Had he been watching tv when he was not supposed to?

Had he tied up the phone line with the internet?

Had anyone called with an important message?

Tom turned off the water. He would have to begin answering soon and he could not shout over the noise.

Poor little Tom Drake, an invisible and unidentified voice laughed in his mind. All alone with no one to help him, the voice continued. You will never recover from this.

Suffer it now and bear it with you for the few years left ahead.

Chapter 14: Give the People What They Want

On a particular night in April, Tom Drake stood on the balcony of his condo, smoking a Dunhill. He’d picked up the new brand from Alexandra, a friend of a friend with whom he used to drink with during his early days in Chicago. His neighbor, James approached from his respective balcony. They exchanged greetings.

“You got another cigarette?”

Tom handed an extra across the short distance spanning the balconies. James began smoking. The topics they collectively discussed spanned books and movies to fashion and women. To the latter, James believed that everybody always gets all fucking confused when it comes to the best way to approach a woman.

“You want to know what the wrong way is?” he said. “Wasting your time thinking about what the right way is.”

Tom remembered those days, stricken with worry, unsure if the women he wanted to be close to him could handle knowing he was not perfect. James’ girlfriend Kelly emerged with a cigarette already burning. A stark blond, she wore a white tank top. They continued to talk of fashion.

“You’re just getting into this aren’t you?”

“Fashion?”

“Yeah.”

Tom nodded.

“You want to come over and hang out?”

When he arrived moments later, the discussion resumed.

“In the last couple months,” Tom said, after Kelly repeated her previous question.

“Just wait. You’re gonna end up like me,” James pointed at the chairs of his kitchen table, each of which had an article of designer clothing draped across it: a blazer, a tie, a woven dress shirt and trousers.

“You better give him the first rule of the addiction,” Kelly said. James laughed.

“Don’t pay retail. Ever.”

Tom laughed, nodding his thanks. “Just stick with that and you’ll be fine.”

“I feel like it’s slightly more complicated than that,” Tom said.

“You’ll get there,” Kelly answered. “So how did it happen? What do you like about it?”

“I feel like I have this power over other people,” Tom shifted from one foot to the other, eyes darting from James to Kelly and back and forth.

“Oh it totally does,” Kelly said. “Don’t kid yourself.”

They both spoke with such confidence that Tom felt joy surge through him. He had been right all along about this power of fashion, known to these elite circles who would not have introduced him into their ranks of their own accord but — sensing he might understand the secret knock — beckoned him nearer to their greatest secrets.

“At the end of the day, you have to give the people what they want.”

“And what is that?” Tom said, eyes wide and ablaze, requiring the information with both desperation and wonder to the point where he could not hope to mask it. Kelly answered.

“They want to see that guy, the one who no one can help but be drawn to, to stare at, to envy and admire. The guy who should obviously have the hottest girl in the room on his arm.” She paused as James smiled at her eloquent presentation.

“Just think about it in your head: giving it to the people. You have to own it. It helps to think of the most amazing girl you can imagine.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Tom grinned. No matter what had hurt him before, no matter what had broken him as a boy, he had been reformed as a man — the kind who could own a room, sign an autograph — the kind whose eyes burn with a never-ending rage to achieve and to conquer. He realized then that everything he accomplished took so much more weight, so much more gravity, and left others with even more wonder when they knew what he had fought and beaten to get it.

Anyone can be dealt a straight-flush, but Tom Drake was the man who caught a low pair on the deal and made himself a full house.

As he thought of Ginger, he couldn’t help but wonder if she could handle it.

“You have someone in mind?” James asked.

“I do.”

For Tom Drake, that choice no longer existed. Few would be the women who could handle the power of what he had to give to the world anyway. And finally his vision was complete. When he saw her again, their eyes would inevitably find one another, and within Tom now pulsed that renewed charge:

“You want it? ” he thought, “I’ll give it to you.”

Chapter 13: Theology

Fifteen years ago, Tom Drake sat in a majestic church. His back ached as he listened with bowed head to pronunciations of his inadequacy, wealth of sin, and condemnation to death for a laundry list of atrocities. He felt sick as his mother breathed on him, reaching to hold his hand as if to console him for all these things he had done wrong unknowingly.

Nearly choking on the sick stench of perfume that diffused away from her, Tom exhaled slowly and regarded church as nothing more than an extension of his home life, in which blame fell upon him for all wrongs committed within or in violation of the laws of the household– of which there were many. His eyes drooped with shame and misery, but he survived the sermon.

Outside afterwards, finally filling himself with the lightly fragrant spring air, his eyes widened and betrayed a man who stood on the edge of humane and animal, literally a moment from surrender to any force — literal or metaphysical — that would take him away from that place.

Chapter 12: Raw Bar

Tom Drake walked into the bar like he owned it.

He wore a charcoal blazer with gray pants, golden BOSS shirt and diagonally striped Burberry tie, alternating violet, gray, azure and bronze stripes. Tom tied it earlier that morning using a Pratt knot, a new style he’d acquired in which the back sides of the tie are both facing out as the knot begins. Maybe that made the difference. On this particular Friday, he began to believe that everything he had learned would — in fact — place him that much closer to the top, to the coveted state of being unstoppable.

He’d survived the first month in Corporate America and now spat smiles and names better than Bill Clinton. He knew who dressed well and who remained clueless. Most importantly, he had met all the hottest girls. He still didn’t own the office, but he’d advanced. And that little bit of momentum propelled him into the evening, when he would meet some of these newly-found work friends for drinks.

The bouncer regarded him as he entered. Tom got the impression the guy was dim based on how he clearly saw Tom enter but had not yet reacted visibly. Then he nodded at Tom, who had reached into his pocket for an ID, then raised his eyebrows as the bouncer raised his hand.

“Not at all sir. Enjoy yourself tonight.”

The power of fashion surged within him. The bouncer considered it too much of an imposition even to card someone like Tom, who realized that fact as he advanced to the third floor. There he saw the pairs and cliques of his company, predictably spread from the bar to the pool table. Tom approached a blonde named Ginger who sat near him in the office.

“You made it,” she said, a hand playing lightly on his arm. She looked like a cross between a model and a porn star, and Tom could easily explain which traits mapped to each profession. He believed her to be just a little bit dirty inside, but coated with faux sweetness that rested within her smile.

“Time for a drink,” Tom grinned.

They made their way to the bar; Tom nodded at a number of office acquaintances. Tom shouldered his way into an open space and ordered them two pints of New Castle. They chatted aimlessly. As the beer warmed him, Tom lusted for all the talent in the room, though his eyes were increasingly drawn to Ginger’s breasts.

‘Easy, boy. You’re still at work,’ he reminded himself.

And that conflict embodied Tom Drake — eager to be edgy but indissolubly tethered to responsibility. These two forces had fought themselves inside him for over a decade, since the first moment he had broken free of the monarchy which had held him back for so long prior. With so many years worse than lost, he had since fought to unmake what had been made. On this particular day, responsibility had been weakened: already he found his hand aching to grab Ginger’s ass. She was a girl who could make a man hornier than a few dozen oysters shot with vodka, and the power imbibed from this reality sent Tom’s blood roiling.

When Tom looked at her, he felt like she was a woman who made him think of the hottest scenes he’d observed in films like Cruel Intentions. They returned to the middle of the floor to mingle with a few other familiars. New faces approached and interjected themselves into the mix. Tom stumbled when asked about his upbringing in a popular basketball town in the Midwest.

“What do you mean — you don’t like the Spartans?”

“Hey man, you gotta love small town basketball,” Tom said.

“Did you see where one of their guys got a full ride to IU this year?”

Tom hadn’t, and had no clue how to go about obtaining that information. He found himself with no one to talk to, as pairs formed and reformed and he clutched his drink and downed it faster and faster till it was gone. In mere moments he had crashed, dropped like lead and smacked pavement.

Nearly tripping as he reached the stairs, Tom Drake bounded for the exit to save himself from further embarrassment.

Chapter 11: The Forest and the Rain

The first weeks tried to destroy Tom.

Each night he went home beaten and tired, shaking his head in a vain attempt to empty it of everything that had corrupted it. He stared at the walls, empty of inspiration. He didn’t work-out. He felt himself grow slow, tired and fat. He rubbed his eyes each morning and saw a falling star.

Fallen.

During the days he slouched in his chair, nervous and insecure. Around him he saw threats to destroy him, to take him down at the knees and beat him till he bled. And at night he grew slower and weaker, eating and wishing and hoping. It wasn’t one thing; it was everything: pair after pair of eyes staring at his every move. When he walked into the room, dozens of people saw him, and he hated it. And somehow the power of fashion failed him. He could not understand how he’d been betrayed by all of them. A younger man would have fallen and given-up. But yet within Tom were the weathered trials of five lifetimes and the sorrow of a man much older and beaten. And, as with all of the worst sorrows, there was a girl involved.

Tom often thought about his childhood, thought about those nights in the woods when he built campfires and slept in a tent, rising early to walk the rounds and stoke the coals for breakfast. He remembered the training he’d been through, waking wet and shivering in the forest with two matches and an egg. All the firewood was wet from the rain. But mostly he remembered the worst times of all.

The sickness.

Tom had been the happy age of eleven, running through the summer grass of his family farm, chasing his golden retriever through the ponds and the weeds and the fields. But that Christmas he had been struck down and left with the impossible before him: to overcome that which could not be overcome. Sometimes he still felt it return, like horror movie flashbacks threatening to breach reality.

But what had once been sadness and despair had hardened to anger and bitterness. He wanted to trust, but he was so often presented with qualities that could not be trusted, such as he saw in the eyes of everyone in the office who threatened to destroy him. He thought of this one night after work, hunched over his computer. He stumbled to a mirror and stared at himself before speaking:

“Do you know what kind of pain you have to endure, the torture and the misery in order to keep going hard enough to become so good that complete strangers tell you how perfect you are and how you’ve done so much for them even though you haven’t done a thing for yourself? When the whole time all you had was a pipe dream clogged with delusions.”

Then, Tom went to bed, his mind confused and stretched by so many desires — more than anyone can ever hope to handle gracefully. It’s like when you meet a beautiful girl, the kind that inspires you to become more than you deemed worthy of yourself. You know it will become too powerful to control, yet you cannot stop it.

Tom knew he must rise, even if it meant falling again to the dirt and the ridicule.