Alex was at a standstill. The 27 year-old had been a Starbucks barista for five years, and his college degree wasn’t helping him any. His shift had just ended, and Alex was walking back to his apartment to get some sleep. On his walk, Alex noticed a building that he had never seen before. A neon sign flashed OPEN below Ben’s Brewhouse. Alex figured it was new and craved a drink to unwind. With a short thought for his wallet, Alex decided that he had enough to spend on something to drink. He crossed the dark street into the light of the bar; the doors released warm, cozy air as he stepped inside.
Alex took in a chatty room with TVs and buzzed people huddled into their own groups of discussion. Flushed cheeks smiled, and all that seemed to matter was the bar and the TVs. Alex sat at the bar and was immediately greeted by a corpulent man in his late 40s. “Hey bud, lookin’ for a drink?” He asked this as he poured a pint, and Alex said yes as he was being handed the beer. “On the house.” The man grinned, and his rough face turned up into something that could understand anyone, a smile which welcomed all the unfortunate people of the world. He added, “On the house,” and Alex felt giddy at his luck. He smiled nervously and thanked the bartender, who nodded with his smile that seemed to melt Alex’s financial concerns. Alex sipped gingerly from the foamy top of the glass, and his eyes drifted to a TV to his left. A group of men dressed for colder weather was gathered around the TV eagerly watching a game of hockey. Alex regarded them with curiosity, wondering why anyone was dressed in layers during the warm California night. Alex had drunk about half of the pint while half-watching the game. He felt a bit of gas in his stomach.
Alex was feeling a bit bloated from the beer, and the bloating was more than just a sensation. Alex’s white t-shirt began to lift slightly as his belly had slowly blown out, stuffing his formerly baggy shirt. Its front stretched out over his rounding belly. His sleeves became more and more full as his biceps grew, leading down to his growing forearms. His hands widened over the glass, and his fingers turned rough with calluses. Alex’s shoulder-blades popped out of place, turning his back to a large expanse of growing muscle under his straining shirt. His chest widened just as much while hard pecs grew out, making visible impressions under his shirt. Below his thickening waist, Alex’s thighs pushed out against his jeans. His meaty calves gave way to large feet, crushed in his small shoes.
Alex shifted uncomfortably as he finished his beer; he hadn’t even noticed the great changes done to his body. He wondered how he should get the bartender’s attention. From the back of his mind came a name.
“Hey, Steve! Another beer!” The bartender strode to Alex, quickly serving him another pint.
“There ya go.” The bartender walked away again with a smile, and Alex was left wondering if his own voice had always been so deep. He swiftly got to drinking his second beer.
His eyes wandered back to the game of hockey which so invested the men below the TV. Something seemed more engaging now about the sport, and Alex kept his eyes more trained on the moving players as they hurtled across the ice. He sipped his drink more unconsciously as he watched.
His arms, already stacked with bulging muscles under tight sleeves, grew further. A lifetime of heavy eating and drinking caught up with him, packing thick fat onto his hard muscle. Threads snapped along his sleeves until the seams, in one swift break, tore from the shirt and slid onto the ground. His shirt changed slightly, the material changing into something more flexible; the collar shifted down, revealing the center of Alex’s solid chest. Alex breathed easier without his old shirt constricting him, and his chest rose and fell smoothly under his new wife-beater. The material stretched even more than it already had as Alex’s beer gut wrapped around his torso. Love-handles fell over the sides of his waist; his rock-hard pecs softened into piles resting atop his globular gut.
Alex’s jeans stretched some, welcoming his fatty legs into their snug embrace. His crushing shoes shifted. They expanded from size 9 to size 14, and his feet stretched out happily inside. The material became tough leather; the tops grew upward. His old sneakers became hefty steel-toed boots built for harsh wilderness conditions.
Alex still remained unaware, focusing on the hockey game. The Montreal Canadiens were winning 5 to 1, and Alex synced his mind to the motion of the game, losing himself in the bright screen hanging from the wall. His own mind was a fuzz; he wasn’t thinking much about himself, but he had unconsciously forgotten his own name, where he came from, where he was, where he should be.
“Hey Hudson! I’ve got your shirt.” Alex’s mind seemed to click into place out of disarray. He instantly turned to the bartender, who was presenting an XXL plaid button-down to him. “The missus is great with stains.” Hudson thought of the bartender’s sweet little wife, who he suddenly felt he’d known for many years now.
“Thanks, Steve. Tell her I said thanks.” Hudson gave a lukewarm smile to Steve, who had been bartending as long as he had known him. Of course, Hudson reminisced how Steve hadn’t always been so wide. He slipped the billowing shirt over his massive shoulders, and it bunched atop his gut. Hudson pulled it down to his waist; he rolled his sleeves up past his elbows. His hands brushed along a summable amount of hair as he did so. A coarse cover of dark hairs had grown in along his meaty forearms. Hudson unbuttoned the shirt all the way down his chest. As he did so, he uncovered a thick coat of hair across his chest, peeking out of his undershirt in swathes of curls and tangles. Hudson gulped his beer, the drink flowing down his thick neck. A bit of beer trapped in his growing mustache. He wiped it with the back of his hand and proceeded to scratch his ever-thickening beard. The mess of hair became full and covered the entire lower half of his face. The wrinkles of age appeared about his eyes and forehead, a testament to his 45 years of age. His hairline rose, but not as much as some other men his age.
The game ended in a victory for the Montreal Canadiens, and Hudson felt warmth and booze in his fat gut. He hefted himself out of his chair, nodding to Steve with a goodnight, and pushed open the doors into the stinging cold of night. Hudson looked around seeing a completely different set of buildings surrounding him than when he entered. Hudson made no note of this, only seeing the same buildings he had known since he moved to Maine from New Brunswick when he was still a young man. Hudson walked a very familiar path leading home, thinking of little but his bed and making sure to be up in time for work tomorrow. He had a long day of wood-cutting ahead of him. His round stomach growled loudly; Hudson craved some warm clam chowder and perhaps another bottle.