“If something bad happens you drink in an attempt to forget; if something good happens you drink in order to celebrate; and if nothing happens you drink to make something happen.”
Bukowski, Charles. (1978). Women: A Novel. HarperCollins Publishers.
__________<p>
Alone and afraid, Jacob roamed about town for a good half-hour. Perambulating with no particular destination in mind, his only thought was to try and escape himself. But each plodding step forward reminded him again and again of his present predicament: the stylish, knee-high boots of an adult woman were there on his shapely legs and petite feet. And it was these women's boots that made the rhythmic stepping sounds that accompanied the movement of Jacob's feet, legs, and body. It was his breasts that heaved with each breath and bobbed almost imperceptibly with the motion of each step he took. Try as he could, there was no place Jacob could walk to in order to escape the skin he was now in.
And so it was, by pure accident, that Jacob found himself approaching the bustling, downtown district of his town just about the time in the early evening when “ordinary” social people begin showing up at restaurants, bars, and clubs.
“Well, why not?” he said to himself in a silky, sultry voice he did not at all care for. “I'm a grown-up. I can drink if I want to. Maybe I can even get half-price drinks if it's Ladies' Night or some such rubbish.”
The interior of the bar wasn't anything Jacob had been expecting. As a shy, nebbish, adolescent boy he'd naturally had little-to-no experience with bars, pubs, and clubs. Nonetheless the dim, dusky interior caught him off guard, as did the resounding volume of the thumping, pulsing music.
It was early, so the place wasn't too crowded yet. Jacob easily threaded his way through a light cluster of people milling about, smiling and drinking, and quickly found a bartender: a short, wiry blond woman who looked to be in her 40s but still dressed like she was in her 20s.
“What can I get for you?” she asked Jacob. Her warm smile seemed genuine enough, the way it cracked thin lines in the woman's otherwise thick enamel of glazed-on makeup.
Here was a problem, though: Jacob had no idea what people ordered in bars. Should he just ask for a beer? A whiskey? Rum and Coca-Cola? He was clearly out of his element in this place.
“Uh … I'd like a White Russian, please?” he mumbled, remembering the drink from an old movie he'd once seen. He hoped it was a normal enough request not to draw attention to himself.
“Sure, and can I see ID honey?” said the bartender.
That was unexpected, thought Jacob. Somehow, in the pit of his very being, he knew his approximate physical age now – and it was above the legal drinking age. But, until the moment, he hadn't thought to check the contents of his purse to see what, precisely, his current legal identification said about who he'd become.
Flashing the bartender a patient yet clumsy smile, Jacob began rummaging through his purse for the first time. There was the metal doughnut he'd blindly dropped within earlier … a bunch lipstick and mascara tubes … a compact mirror … a small package of tissues, here? Nope! They're clearly labeled “pantyliners.” Well isn't that lovely? … come on, come on, come on … where's the wallet?
“Here, we go!” Jacob said, finally withdrawing a small, zipped-up bag he assumed was the sort of thing women used as wallets. It was a rich, plum colored thing with a stylized “VL” and a series of decorative floral designs embossed across it. Unzipping the bag, Jacob was relieved to see an orderly stack of paper currency and a series of equally well-organized plastic cards. His new driver's license was right there on top, and he blindly handed it over to the bartender.
“Hmm,” she said. “Your name is 'Jacob Douglas Smith'? Uh … Is that right?”
Shit, thought Jacob. It seems everything about him physically had changed – but mentally and nominally, he was still himself … just an older and markedly more female self.
“My … uh … parents really wanted a boy. So they named me 'Jacob,'” he replied, his cheeks flushing hot red with embarrassment. “Most people just call me 'Jamie' though.”
“No need to explain,” laughed the bartender, handing back the card. “I've seen enough IDs over the years to tell a fake from a real. You've got the weirdest name I've ever seen for a girl, but your ID is definitely legit. Now, what was it you wanted?”
“White Russian, please,” replied Jacob, sighing with relief and actually looking forward to a stiff drink for the first time in his young life.
After paying for the drink, Jacob took his creamy cocktail and wove a path back through the crowd to an isolated, lonely table along a back wall. Sitting down, he took a quiet sip of the drink and mused it tasted something like a frothy milkshake with a touch of something caramel-like … and a distinct hint of something slightly chemical. Must be the booze in it, thought Jacob. Not too bad though, he thought.
Then he looked back down at the glass and spotted the burgundy imprint of a lipstick mark. His lipstick! Sighing with irritation, Jacob withdrew the corroded, copper ring from his purse, set it on the bar table, and tried again to wish himself back to normal.
And then the Toroid spoke.
In a fashion.
It was actually more along the lines of somehow transmitting information directly into Jacob's mind. And not just “information” – conversation. The Toroid telepathically sent into Jacob's brain the sensation of hearing all the sounds of a phantom voice that wasn't really there in the room. It was a distinct voice, too: squeaky, high-pitched, and vaguely juvenile sounding in a way that belied the venerable artifact's true, eldritch nature.
You don't get to wish your way out of this, the voice intoned in Jacob's head.
“What?” Jacob said aloud.
The Toroid “spoke” again:
Don't say it; think it. And don't wish. I'm not a genie, leprechaun, or garden variety fairy. I don't grant wishes. I am a tool designed to facilitate human exploration of the multidimensional cosmos. You already tapped into my capabilities in a most improper, albeit inadvertent, fashion. It didn't feel nice, did it? Don't try again. That's not what I'm designed for, and I can pretty much guarantee you won't enjoy the outcome! What I recommend is that you sit back, enjoy your drink, and do a bit of good-natured exploration of your own new and improved life.
“I don't want to explore my life. This isn't my life. Change me back now!” Jacob hissed.
The Toroid spoke:
Again – think it; don't speak it. You're only making an unusual situation increasingly challenging for yourself. I have little volition in this matter, dear boy. I cannot change you back. You could attempt that yourself. However, I'd point out you have already utilized a small fraction of my powers and abilities to effect reality transformation, and you hardly seem pleased with the results of that change. I'd strongly recommend you kick back, enjoy your new life, and drink your little drink.
“I don't care about the drink,” Jacob thought furiously, wising choosing to hold his tongue this time and carry out a purely internal dialog with the magic, metal doughnut.
The Toroid spoke:
You should care. It's a good drink. Nice choice, by the way – a “White Russian.” Yum! You know, the particular cocktail you've selected isn't named for partisans of the Белое движение in the Russian Civil War. You mix together vodka and coffee liqueur, in a short tumbler, and that becomes a “Black Russian.” Now you add cream to it, and you've transformed the substance into a “White Russian” (isn't alchemy fun?) It was actually a Belgian mixologist who devised the concoction in the first place. Neither drink has anything to do with Россия-Матушка. However it has everything to do with водка (i.e.,vodka). The so-called “bread wine” is simply more associated with Russia than Belgium; otherwise, you'd be drinking a “White Belgian,” nietwaar? But in terms of consumption of C2H6O, humans are pretty cosmopolitan (no pun intended). Although you tend to associate certain substances with certain nationalities, for the most part you're all the same under the skin, and that includes a predilection for the ingestion of ethanol in various differently flavored forms. Why? Because it feels good! There's a chunk of grey matter in the lower, mid-front part of your head: the nucleus accumbens in your basal forebrain. It helps regulate the rhythm of endorphins. When you drink, your brain chemistry transforms. Within your head, β-endorphins bind to μ-opioid receptors, and you feel pleasure: a “buzz.” Now where you get into trouble is when you start seeing the overexpression of a protein with the unwieldly name of, “FBJ murine osteosarcoma viral oncogene homolog B.” And, lest we paint with too broad a brush, let us make clear it is but one variant of this protein that triggers trouble: a truncated protein variant called ΔFosB activates a vicious cycle of obsessive compulsive reward-seeking behavior. Once the ΔFosB protein gets switched on, weeks of intense craving for a repeat of that “buzz” ensue. Unlike many of the other brain proteins that do this, that, or the other thing, ΔFosB is uniquely stable and possesses a conspicuously longer half-life than many of its cousins. The whole thing is biochemically insidious – at least for some; your mileage may vary, and not everyone craves the same way. Bizarrely enough, cytoskeletal defects in neuron structure seem to bestow a tremendous degree of alcohol resilience upon the carriers of such genes. An immunity to intoxication? Never! Oh, yes, yes, yes. Many (indeed, most) animals love to consume the alcohol produced by naturally decaying fruit found in the wild. Their β-endorphins and μ-opioid receptors function much like yours! Many – but not all. In the wild, the humble Drosophila melanogaster (i.e., the fruit fly) demonstrates great resistance to ethanol intoxication. In fact, they regularly feed and breed in rotten fruit with alcohol concentrations as high as 6-7%. These marvelous little bugs are utterly unbothered by spending their entire lifecycles in the equivalent of a glass of warm beer! Granted, a properly mixed White Russian ought to have a considerably greater “alcohol by volume” value than either a glass of warm beer or a pile of fetidly fermenting fruit. But you are a human being – not a fruit fly. And though most creatures enjoy an ethanol buzz, none on planet earth save man pursue inebriation with such dedication and diligence. “To be now a sensible man, by and by a fool, and presently a beast! Oh, strange! Every inordinate cup is unblessed and the ingredient is a devil.” Yes, Cassio – the devil is in the details of this most voluntary madness, indeed! “Quid non ebrietas designat? Operta recludit; Spes jubet esse ratas; in prælia trudit inermem.” Or something like that … and so we say cheers, Proost, L'Chayyim, Salute, Skál, and Ваше здоровье! Drink up – but know your limits, dear lady. “I like to have a martini. Two at the very most. After three I’m under the table. After four I’m under my host.” And so, consider yourself warned: before you get started drinking, 'tis best to have a long, sober look at whomever is playing host for the evening. To a novice, one simple drink can lead to more heart-wrenching pleasures than an abstemious mind ever dreamed could exist! Welcome to your new life, dear boy. Welcome!
Exasperated, Jacob audibly sighed and shoved the loquacious, copper ring back into his purse, vowing to deal with the obstinate artifact at a later date – preferably when Emily and Kaitlyn can offer more information on the whole experience.
But no sooner had Jacob disposed of the weird relic than he found himself staring up at the smiling face of a bearded, dark haired man.
“Hi. I'm Kevin,” the man said. “Mind if I join you? I'm happy to buy your next drink. Looks like you could use a little company, though?”
And before Jacob could even reply, Kevin had taken a seat at the table and was eyeing Jacob with the same sort of appreciative expression Jacob himself had formerly employed on Emily.
“Great,” thought Jacob. “I've got an admirer!”
What do you do now?
No options available - Create your own addition below!
Title suggestions for new chapters. Please feel free to use them or create your own below.