Joining the Club
When I first stumbled into the Boar’s Head, I hadn’t the slightest idea that it might change my life forever. If I had, of course, I might have run into the pub at breakneck speed. As it was, I sauntered into the bleak looking place at the pace of a snail, expecting nothing in particular from the shabby establishment.
After about an hour, I felt content to remain the place the Bore’s Head. The place was so slow that you could nearly hear the ice melt in my glass of Red Bull/Vodka mixer. A few individuals, about my own age, popped in for a spell, but I no interesting topics of discussion presented themselves. I asked for directions to the loo, and after I hit it, I fully intended to leave the establishment and refrain from a repeat visit.
Fate, though, can sometimes have other ideas. As I moved towards the exit, a short, barrel shaped man with large walrus moustache hoisted himself up from his seat in the corner and waddled towards the same door. I’ve always attempted to place my manners on a level above my own upbringing - something which has caused some friction among friends and relatives - so I opened the door for the older man and let him pass.
As soon as the man left the pub, he pulled an ornate gold pocket watch from his waistcoat. Upon reading the time, his eyes lit up, and he began to hurry down the street as fast as his stubby little legs could carry him. The shock of puffy white hair near the back of his otherwise bald hair seemed to bounce with each step. The event was highly reminiscent of “The White Rabbit” in Alice in Wonderland.
Following a stranger, or even making extended eye contact with one, is of course not polite. Yet I felt a strange compulsion to mimic “Alice” and follow my white rabbit. My pulse quickened as I ran across the dark streets, struggling to keep as much distance as was possible without losing him.
Eventually, the man slipped into an alley, towards a rundown courtyard hidden between two buildings. The area had no street sign, and no address or mailbox could be found. A single, old fashioned looking lamp provided only enough illumination to find the door. As my “White Rabbit” ran in, he neglected to close it behind him. As it was about to swing shut, I placed my hand near it and tried to prevent it from going closed completely. I hesitated for a moment - how could I even think about doing something like this? Following a strange man into his home, completely uninvited? It seemed ludicrous, yet again I felt strangely compelled.
I pushed the drab, heavy, unassuming door open, fortunately without a sound, and stepped inside. As I did, my entire reality seemed to shift. The dank smell of city streets was gone, replaced by the musty aroma of old furniture and the sweet scent of pipe smoke. Soft lighting from old fashioned burners illuminated beautiful Victorian era wood carvings. It was easily the most beautiful home I had ever stepped foot in, and here it was, quietly tucked away where nobody would ever think to find it. As I followed a luxurious red carpet down a hallway, I wondered if I really was Alice in Wonderland - or perhaps Dorothy in Oz?
Before I could reason out exactly what was going on here, or why, or what metaphor most aptly described it, my train of thought was interrupted. Loud coughs and throat clearing seemed to erupt from nowhere, and following them, the sound of old chairs creaking. I tried to peek around the corner of the next bend, and I saw a nearly a score of similar looking gentlemen rise from their seats to greet the man I had followed in. Many offered salutes in addition to stiff looking handshakes.
Each of the men was dressed in a slightly different, but equally dazzling old fashioned dress coat. Most of them had stylized beards or moustaches, and many sported monocles and fancy hats and walking sticks. Quite a few smoked pipes or cigars, and the smoke was so thick that I couldn’t help but start coughing.
“By Jove, Barnaby, where you followed?” one of the men asked, with as much emphasis as he could muster on the final word of the question. The entire room fell silent, except for my continued hacking.
A few moments later, I found my arm grasped by a surprisingly strong hand. Barnaby, my “White Rabbit,” dragged me into the central hall.
“Scamp! Scoundrel! Scalawag! Throw him out!" There was a chorus of denunciations, and then with a firm yank of his stout hand, Barnaby pulled me from the room and down the hallway.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” I blubbered, mortified. As soon as we were out of sight, Barnaby relaxed his grip significantly. We left the hall arm in arm, and as we reached the front door.
"My most sincere apologies for all that," Barnaby began in a posh accent. "I know you must be quite mortified."
I was shocked and surprised. Why would he offer an apology to me?
"I'm not quite sure what you mean," I began, feeling quite befuddled. "What exactly is this place?"
"Technically, you know, it's against the rules for me to tell you," Barnaby said cryptically. We left the front door of the mysterious manor together, and made our way further into the alley. Eventually, we reached what looked like an old garage.
Barnaby fiddled with his belt for a moment, pulling aside his gold watch and several other gold chains to find a silver key. He used it to open a small box, which in turn revealed a hand crank. After a few turns, the garage door finally started to slide open. It was too dark, though, to see what was inside.
This didn't stop Barnaby from calmly entering the darkness and turning a dial. Within moments, the same faint glow that had lit up the manor was glossing over the garage's contents: a stunning collection of classic cars.
Without any sense of pride or puffery, Barnaby gingery walked up to one of the old machines and squeezed his stout frame into it. For several moments, he simply sat there, staring straight ahead. Then, sound issued from his mouth that sounded like a "harrumph." Finally, he leaned over and opened other side of the car door.
I stepped into the car, still not sure what was going on.
"Where are we going?" I asked, finally daring to say the obvious.
"My home, of course," Barnaby replied, as if I was an old friend. "But I suspect you're the impatient type and can't wait for an explanation. In my case, I always prefer to tell a good story from the comfort of a good chair, with a pipe in my right hand, a shifter of brandy in the other, and…"
"Yes, yes," I interrupted. "I confess, I am impatient. Please tell me what's going on."
"Very well, if you insist," Barnaby conceded, looking a little perturbed. "You happened to stumble upon a very important, very private meeting, young man," he started. The way he intoned the phrase 'young man' made me feel ashamed of my youth.
"I said I was sorry, I didn't know. In fact I don't even know why…" I began, but was cut off.
"Quite all right, you don't need to explain yourself. It is I that needs to explain myself to you. Our group is called 'The Crust,' it's a…very exclusive little group affiliated with 'The Carlton.'"
I gasped. The Carlton was about as upper class and exclusive as one could get.
"I take it you are intrigued?" Barnaby asked as the city lights faded behind us and we drifted into the countryside.
"Of, of course," I stammered. "Who wouldn't be?"
"Dear me, most people your age wouldn't be!" Barnaby exclaimed, and let out a loud, deep chuckle. His big belly shook as he laughed, and I cringed at the second reference to my age.
"I'm not like other people my age," I began. "I've always been fascinated with groups like the Carlton."
"I see," Barnaby replied cryptically after a long pause. "Well it certainly is a fortunate coincide that you found us, isn't it?'
"Not at all," I answered. "I feel so embarrassed for crashing the meeting uninvited. I can't imagine anything more rude and out of place than showing up at such a meeting by sneaking into it."
"You didn't know what you were doing," Barnaby said, trying to ease my concerns as we pulled into a long gravel driveway at the end of an old forgotten road. We exited the car together, and walked up a surprisingly steep hill to finally reach Barnaby's home. It was a tall, slender building that seemed far too old fashioned to be this close to the city.
A butler opened the front door as we were about to reach it. "Welcome, Mister Barnaby and," he hesitated, looking down at me, "and, uh, guest."
"Well then," Barnaby said as we stepped inside, "let's make ourselves comfortable." The style of the building was similar to the manor, but was far more modest. We walked over to some kind of den or sitting room and sat down on an ancient looking sofa.
"I’m assuming you want something from me," Barnaby said after he poured himself a glass of spirits.
"What makes you say that?" I asked.
"Why did you follow me in the first place?" Barnaby countered. I felt myself blush.
"I don't know. It's not something I do often - I mean, ever!" I said nervously.
"Still, I think you must want something, otherwise you would have made a hasty exit after you were discovered," Barnaby continued. "You said you've always been fascinated with clubs like the Carlton - is it your ambition to join?"
"More than anything," I confessed.
"Well, let me see," Barnaby began. "Your accent sounds a bit muddled - let me guess, South London?"
"Roehampton," I replied nodding. "I know, not the best place in the city…"
"Not the worst either," he said, trying to be polite, but I know what he meant. "Did you at least attend a good prep school?"
"No, though I did want to very much as a child…" I said, my voice trailing off.
"Well, I'm sure you come from good English stock, with an impressive linage," Barnaby offered.
"My mother's parents were Welsh and Scottish. My father was a descendent of Swedish and Polish immigrants," I confessed, and Barnaby visibly winced.
“Regular member of the Anglican Church?” he asked.
“Well, no, I’m a big fan of Richard Dawkins, trying to decide if I’m an atheist or an agonistic…” I said with squirm.
"Dear me, please say you're a military man. Did you do your country proud and head off to...Iraq or Afghanistan?" Barnaby asked, clearly becoming exasperated.
"Sadly, uh, no," I said weakly. Barnaby shook his head.
"Did you at least vote Tory the last time 'round?" he asked after a long sigh.
"Labour," I said at last. "Though I sincerely thought about going Lib Dem…"
"Well, then," Barnaby said, "Ordinarily, there wouldn't be much hope for you."
"Ordinarily?" I asked, hanging on the word.
"Yes, I think that in any normal situation, they'd take one quick look at you and laugh you right out of the building if you wanted to join, and it's invitation only in any event. The club's exclusivity is designed specifically to keep people like yourself out," Barnaby said as he stroked his moustache.
"I know, but that's exactly why I want to join so much," I explained. "I've always felt like I was meant to be someone else, somebody who could join that club. I've never felt comfortable with my own station. I'd give anything to be a part of 'The Crust,'" I begged.
"Anything?" he repeated, with a twinkle in his eyes.
"Yes," I replied quickly.
"Well, as I said, ordinarily, your case would be quite hopeless. But you're lucky you ran into me, as I can be quite…" Barnaby paused for the moment, looking for the right word. "...sympathetic. It would take some work to make you into the right kind of man, but it could be done if you really want to."
"Oh, thank you so much," I started to gush.
"No need for any of that," Barnaby chided. "Stiff upper lip, you know."
"Yes," I said, trying to remember my manners. "I greatly appreciate the opportunity," I said with as much stoicism as I could muster.
"Much better," Barnaby said. "I'll have transformed you into a Carlton man in no time." Barnaby turned his head to the hall and shouted "Winston?"
"Yes, sir?" The butler said as he approached us.
"Bring us some of my reserve scotch. A toast is in order."
"As you wish, sir," the thin servant said through a bow.
"You have a penchant for mixed drinks, is that right?" Barnaby asked, and I nodded in reply. "Well, I'll have mine straight, but I think I have a new type of energy drink that would be just the ticket for you."
Winston poured the drinks, and Barnaby pulled a silver energy drink can from a mini-fridge nearby. "To the new you," he said, and we raised our exceedingly tall glasses.
The harshness of the alcohol almost made me choke, but the sweet smoothness of the energy drink helped balance it out. The cool sugar helped soothe the burning sensation on my throat.
"Nice combination, isn't it?" Barnaby asked. I nodded, and continued to drink. I felt a cool, calm sensation come over me, followed by a warm, tingly glow. I felt indescribably content and relaxed, far more so than I had felt in years. Even my clothes seemed to fit better, hugging up against my frame.
Barnaby cocked his head slightly, looking me up and down. "Excellent progress, excellent," he proclaimed.
"But all I've done is had a drink," I said in a strange, huskier sounding voice that surprised myself. Had the drink been that harsh on my throat?
"Perhaps you ought to go take a look at yourself in the mirror," Barnaby intoned, that same twinkle back in his eyes.
Pulling myself off of the sofa proved a slightly more difficult task than I anticipated, and as I walked to the dressing room, I felt like my centre of gravity had changed somehow. When I finally reached the full length mirror, I gasped in shock. A man 10 years older stared back at me.
Small wrinkles littered my face, and patches of hair had started to go grey. My body had changed as well. Gone was the gangly figure of my youth - it had been replaced by a slight softness, particularly around the middle.
"What's happened?" I asked Barnaby, in my strange new tone of voice.
"Why, you've taken your first step towards becoming the new you," he remarked matter-of-factly, as if there was nothing out of sorts about the entire thing.
"How is this even possible?" I asked in shock.
"Does it really matter? You're not a scientist. Admit it, you don't really care how it works, just that it does work. I'm well on my way to giving you what you asked for," he said.
"What I asked for?" I asked, utterly bewildered. "You don't mean…"
"But, of course! You said you would give anything, didn't you? Don't tell me you're having second thoughts now," Barnaby chided.
I gave myself a second look in the mirror. The transformation was so strange, yet I couldn't help but feel excited.
Still, I hesitated. I couldn't just blindly accept what was happening to me, could I? Most people would be horrified by what was going on. For a moment I considered running out of the house screaming.
"You're only becoming who you were meant to be," Barnaby said. "Embrace it. Commit to it. Your old life is already gone."
I had often wished to be a different person, yet was going farther than I had ever dreamed. Was it too late to turn back? Maybe not, but I wasn't sure I wanted to.
"Have a pipe with me," he said, "and we can work on your elocution."
"Doesn’t that take months of intensive study?" I asked, following him.
"Ordinarily, yes…" He said, and this time I distinctly got the meaning of the term this time.
We parked ourselves back on the sofa, and Barnaby produced two pipes. Barnaby knew that I wasn't a smoker - that much was obvious from my earlier coughing outburst - but he offered one to me anyway. The smoke was sweet tasting and much more pleasant than I expected.
"Say something," Barnaby encouraged, after I had taken a few drags.
"Say what?" I asked. But even in these two words, there was a difference to the sound of my voice. "Dear me," I said, surprised at both my word choice and my accent. "How can this be?"
"You always want to know the why," Barnaby scolded. "Why not just enjoy yourself? With that accent, you might as well have been my next door neighbour. Wait, that's it!" he exclaimed, jumping up. "You were my next door neighbour, and you family moved just before you could attend my prep school."
"What are you going on about?" I asked, still enjoying my new accent.
"Your new identity," he said excitedly. "You know, I never did get your name."
"Oh, my name's - " I began, but was cut off.
"No, don't tell me. Whatever your name was, the person doesn't exist anymore. You're now Hubert Reginald Hawkins, my former next door neighbour. We both served in the armed forces together too - that's how I know you're a man of good character. You're the last living member of a prestigious family, a confirmed old bachelor, and a proud Tory," he said. I felt myself melting at the description - that was exactly who I wanted to be. I tried my best to keep my emotions at bay, just as Barnaby had instructed.
"Quite right," I said at last, beaming. "You certainly know me very well."
"I figured this was what you wanted from the moment I saw you," Barnaby said. "All I had to door was open the door - you were the one that walked through it. Of course…" Barnaby began, but trailed off mid sentence.
"Of course what?" I inquired.
"Of course, if you really were about to attend prep school with me, you aren't quite the right age. And even if we changed the story, you'd still be the youngest member of 'The Crust.' Hardly a recipe for fitting right in, wouldn't you say?"
"I don't know…" I replied.
"Of course, if you'd like, you could always simply wait a decade or two, then I'm sure you'd look about right," Barnaby said. "Then again, we haven't recruited new younger members in quite some time. I don't know what it will be like in a few decades."
"I know what you mean," I said. "It seems like the old fashioned English Gentleman is going extinct."
"Wait too long to join, and there might not be much of a club left to join," he said.
"But you just said I wasn't quite right," I said. "What can I do?"
"Well," Barnaby began, twilling the tip of his white moustache with his finger, "I could fix you another drink."
"Another?" I asked, feeling a little frightened. "Should I?"
"I think you should. In fact, I insist," he said. He snapped for Winston, and soon the drink was being poured and mixed.
"Take your final step into becoming the man you've always known you should have been," Barnaby said as he handed me the fizzing drink.
I looked at Barnaby, in his classic splendor, and realised that I couldn't wait to join the club - the time was now.
The drink tasted a bit stronger than before, and again I felt awash in a pleasant tingling. This time, though, I tried my best to be aware of the changes.
The first was that I noticed the entire world seem to get taller. The walls stretched up a few inches, and I quickly realised I had shrunk a bit. After that, I felt my pants start fighting against my waistline - a portly, middle aged belly had started to grow in earnest. After that, I felt my narrow shoulders expand and my chest become bigger and a bit flabbier. I was getting the classic, barrel chest look.
Getting up from the sofa this time required a little grunt, but I did it. When I made my way to the mirror in the dress room, I barely recognised myself. Not only had more wrinkles decorated my face, but my hair had become greyer and whiter. I even sported a fancy looking grey moustache. I looked like a short, stout, pillar of a man, a conservative war-relic gentleman. My body, however, badly distended my clothes.
"Those garments - hardly worthy of the label 'clothing' - are certainly unsuitable for a gentleman of your stature. And I mean that in both the literal and figurative sense," Barnaby said. "At some point, I'll take you to one of the finest fitting places in the city, but for now I think I could lend you one of my old suits. I think we're about the same size."
"Quite generous of you," I replied. What I was wearing was not just fit for a younger man, but for a taller and thinner one as well. It had to go, and it was time for me to wear something that reflected my new life.
“We’ll go to church together as well,” Barnaby added, as we headed for the dressing room.
“Are you really a believer?” I asked.
“Of course not, in fact I’m not sure anyone is anymore. It’s not about belief, it’s about tradition, national unity, and respect. And a chance to show off your Sunday finest. Winston, help my friend into some proper attire.”
Before long, Winston was helping squeeze my fatty barrel chest and stout shoulders into a very fine suit. I had to suck in my big belly to fit into my equally stunning new pants. Putting a belt on was a new sensation - it was the first time the device had been used to keep my tummy in, rather than hold my pants up. I used a moustache comb, and wore a pair of the nicest shoes I'd ever seen.
“There you are, Mr. Reginald Hawkins,” Winston said. “All changed, as it were,” he said with a knowing wink.
"Today is the first day of the rest of your life, Hubert," Barnaby said, a wide grin on his chubby cheeks.
"Quite right," I agreed, wearing an identical expression on my own, similar looking face.
~~~
After about an hour, I felt content to remain the place the Bore’s Head. The place was so slow that you could nearly hear the ice melt in my glass of Red Bull/Vodka mixer. A few individuals, about my own age, popped in for a spell, but I no interesting topics of discussion presented themselves. I asked for directions to the loo, and after I hit it, I fully intended to leave the establishment and refrain from a repeat visit.
Fate, though, can sometimes have other ideas. As I moved towards the exit, a short, barrel shaped man with large walrus moustache hoisted himself up from his seat in the corner and waddled towards the same door. I’ve always attempted to place my manners on a level above my own upbringing - something which has caused some friction among friends and relatives - so I opened the door for the older man and let him pass.
As soon as the man left the pub, he pulled an ornate gold pocket watch from his waistcoat. Upon reading the time, his eyes lit up, and he began to hurry down the street as fast as his stubby little legs could carry him. The shock of puffy white hair near the back of his otherwise bald hair seemed to bounce with each step. The event was highly reminiscent of “The White Rabbit” in Alice in Wonderland.
Following a stranger, or even making extended eye contact with one, is of course not polite. Yet I felt a strange compulsion to mimic “Alice” and follow my white rabbit. My pulse quickened as I ran across the dark streets, struggling to keep as much distance as was possible without losing him.
Eventually, the man slipped into an alley, towards a rundown courtyard hidden between two buildings. The area had no street sign, and no address or mailbox could be found. A single, old fashioned looking lamp provided only enough illumination to find the door. As my “White Rabbit” ran in, he neglected to close it behind him. As it was about to swing shut, I placed my hand near it and tried to prevent it from going closed completely. I hesitated for a moment - how could I even think about doing something like this? Following a strange man into his home, completely uninvited? It seemed ludicrous, yet again I felt strangely compelled.
I pushed the drab, heavy, unassuming door open, fortunately without a sound, and stepped inside. As I did, my entire reality seemed to shift. The dank smell of city streets was gone, replaced by the musty aroma of old furniture and the sweet scent of pipe smoke. Soft lighting from old fashioned burners illuminated beautiful Victorian era wood carvings. It was easily the most beautiful home I had ever stepped foot in, and here it was, quietly tucked away where nobody would ever think to find it. As I followed a luxurious red carpet down a hallway, I wondered if I really was Alice in Wonderland - or perhaps Dorothy in Oz?
Before I could reason out exactly what was going on here, or why, or what metaphor most aptly described it, my train of thought was interrupted. Loud coughs and throat clearing seemed to erupt from nowhere, and following them, the sound of old chairs creaking. I tried to peek around the corner of the next bend, and I saw a nearly a score of similar looking gentlemen rise from their seats to greet the man I had followed in. Many offered salutes in addition to stiff looking handshakes.
Each of the men was dressed in a slightly different, but equally dazzling old fashioned dress coat. Most of them had stylized beards or moustaches, and many sported monocles and fancy hats and walking sticks. Quite a few smoked pipes or cigars, and the smoke was so thick that I couldn’t help but start coughing.
“By Jove, Barnaby, where you followed?” one of the men asked, with as much emphasis as he could muster on the final word of the question. The entire room fell silent, except for my continued hacking.
A few moments later, I found my arm grasped by a surprisingly strong hand. Barnaby, my “White Rabbit,” dragged me into the central hall.
“Scamp! Scoundrel! Scalawag! Throw him out!" There was a chorus of denunciations, and then with a firm yank of his stout hand, Barnaby pulled me from the room and down the hallway.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” I blubbered, mortified. As soon as we were out of sight, Barnaby relaxed his grip significantly. We left the hall arm in arm, and as we reached the front door.
"My most sincere apologies for all that," Barnaby began in a posh accent. "I know you must be quite mortified."
I was shocked and surprised. Why would he offer an apology to me?
"I'm not quite sure what you mean," I began, feeling quite befuddled. "What exactly is this place?"
"Technically, you know, it's against the rules for me to tell you," Barnaby said cryptically. We left the front door of the mysterious manor together, and made our way further into the alley. Eventually, we reached what looked like an old garage.
Barnaby fiddled with his belt for a moment, pulling aside his gold watch and several other gold chains to find a silver key. He used it to open a small box, which in turn revealed a hand crank. After a few turns, the garage door finally started to slide open. It was too dark, though, to see what was inside.
This didn't stop Barnaby from calmly entering the darkness and turning a dial. Within moments, the same faint glow that had lit up the manor was glossing over the garage's contents: a stunning collection of classic cars.
Without any sense of pride or puffery, Barnaby gingery walked up to one of the old machines and squeezed his stout frame into it. For several moments, he simply sat there, staring straight ahead. Then, sound issued from his mouth that sounded like a "harrumph." Finally, he leaned over and opened other side of the car door.
I stepped into the car, still not sure what was going on.
"Where are we going?" I asked, finally daring to say the obvious.
"My home, of course," Barnaby replied, as if I was an old friend. "But I suspect you're the impatient type and can't wait for an explanation. In my case, I always prefer to tell a good story from the comfort of a good chair, with a pipe in my right hand, a shifter of brandy in the other, and…"
"Yes, yes," I interrupted. "I confess, I am impatient. Please tell me what's going on."
"Very well, if you insist," Barnaby conceded, looking a little perturbed. "You happened to stumble upon a very important, very private meeting, young man," he started. The way he intoned the phrase 'young man' made me feel ashamed of my youth.
"I said I was sorry, I didn't know. In fact I don't even know why…" I began, but was cut off.
"Quite all right, you don't need to explain yourself. It is I that needs to explain myself to you. Our group is called 'The Crust,' it's a…very exclusive little group affiliated with 'The Carlton.'"
I gasped. The Carlton was about as upper class and exclusive as one could get.
"I take it you are intrigued?" Barnaby asked as the city lights faded behind us and we drifted into the countryside.
"Of, of course," I stammered. "Who wouldn't be?"
"Dear me, most people your age wouldn't be!" Barnaby exclaimed, and let out a loud, deep chuckle. His big belly shook as he laughed, and I cringed at the second reference to my age.
"I'm not like other people my age," I began. "I've always been fascinated with groups like the Carlton."
"I see," Barnaby replied cryptically after a long pause. "Well it certainly is a fortunate coincide that you found us, isn't it?'
"Not at all," I answered. "I feel so embarrassed for crashing the meeting uninvited. I can't imagine anything more rude and out of place than showing up at such a meeting by sneaking into it."
"You didn't know what you were doing," Barnaby said, trying to ease my concerns as we pulled into a long gravel driveway at the end of an old forgotten road. We exited the car together, and walked up a surprisingly steep hill to finally reach Barnaby's home. It was a tall, slender building that seemed far too old fashioned to be this close to the city.
A butler opened the front door as we were about to reach it. "Welcome, Mister Barnaby and," he hesitated, looking down at me, "and, uh, guest."
"Well then," Barnaby said as we stepped inside, "let's make ourselves comfortable." The style of the building was similar to the manor, but was far more modest. We walked over to some kind of den or sitting room and sat down on an ancient looking sofa.
"I’m assuming you want something from me," Barnaby said after he poured himself a glass of spirits.
"What makes you say that?" I asked.
"Why did you follow me in the first place?" Barnaby countered. I felt myself blush.
"I don't know. It's not something I do often - I mean, ever!" I said nervously.
"Still, I think you must want something, otherwise you would have made a hasty exit after you were discovered," Barnaby continued. "You said you've always been fascinated with clubs like the Carlton - is it your ambition to join?"
"More than anything," I confessed.
"Well, let me see," Barnaby began. "Your accent sounds a bit muddled - let me guess, South London?"
"Roehampton," I replied nodding. "I know, not the best place in the city…"
"Not the worst either," he said, trying to be polite, but I know what he meant. "Did you at least attend a good prep school?"
"No, though I did want to very much as a child…" I said, my voice trailing off.
"Well, I'm sure you come from good English stock, with an impressive linage," Barnaby offered.
"My mother's parents were Welsh and Scottish. My father was a descendent of Swedish and Polish immigrants," I confessed, and Barnaby visibly winced.
“Regular member of the Anglican Church?” he asked.
“Well, no, I’m a big fan of Richard Dawkins, trying to decide if I’m an atheist or an agonistic…” I said with squirm.
"Dear me, please say you're a military man. Did you do your country proud and head off to...Iraq or Afghanistan?" Barnaby asked, clearly becoming exasperated.
"Sadly, uh, no," I said weakly. Barnaby shook his head.
"Did you at least vote Tory the last time 'round?" he asked after a long sigh.
"Labour," I said at last. "Though I sincerely thought about going Lib Dem…"
"Well, then," Barnaby said, "Ordinarily, there wouldn't be much hope for you."
"Ordinarily?" I asked, hanging on the word.
"Yes, I think that in any normal situation, they'd take one quick look at you and laugh you right out of the building if you wanted to join, and it's invitation only in any event. The club's exclusivity is designed specifically to keep people like yourself out," Barnaby said as he stroked his moustache.
"I know, but that's exactly why I want to join so much," I explained. "I've always felt like I was meant to be someone else, somebody who could join that club. I've never felt comfortable with my own station. I'd give anything to be a part of 'The Crust,'" I begged.
"Anything?" he repeated, with a twinkle in his eyes.
"Yes," I replied quickly.
"Well, as I said, ordinarily, your case would be quite hopeless. But you're lucky you ran into me, as I can be quite…" Barnaby paused for the moment, looking for the right word. "...sympathetic. It would take some work to make you into the right kind of man, but it could be done if you really want to."
"Oh, thank you so much," I started to gush.
"No need for any of that," Barnaby chided. "Stiff upper lip, you know."
"Yes," I said, trying to remember my manners. "I greatly appreciate the opportunity," I said with as much stoicism as I could muster.
"Much better," Barnaby said. "I'll have transformed you into a Carlton man in no time." Barnaby turned his head to the hall and shouted "Winston?"
"Yes, sir?" The butler said as he approached us.
"Bring us some of my reserve scotch. A toast is in order."
"As you wish, sir," the thin servant said through a bow.
"You have a penchant for mixed drinks, is that right?" Barnaby asked, and I nodded in reply. "Well, I'll have mine straight, but I think I have a new type of energy drink that would be just the ticket for you."
Winston poured the drinks, and Barnaby pulled a silver energy drink can from a mini-fridge nearby. "To the new you," he said, and we raised our exceedingly tall glasses.
The harshness of the alcohol almost made me choke, but the sweet smoothness of the energy drink helped balance it out. The cool sugar helped soothe the burning sensation on my throat.
"Nice combination, isn't it?" Barnaby asked. I nodded, and continued to drink. I felt a cool, calm sensation come over me, followed by a warm, tingly glow. I felt indescribably content and relaxed, far more so than I had felt in years. Even my clothes seemed to fit better, hugging up against my frame.
Barnaby cocked his head slightly, looking me up and down. "Excellent progress, excellent," he proclaimed.
"But all I've done is had a drink," I said in a strange, huskier sounding voice that surprised myself. Had the drink been that harsh on my throat?
"Perhaps you ought to go take a look at yourself in the mirror," Barnaby intoned, that same twinkle back in his eyes.
Pulling myself off of the sofa proved a slightly more difficult task than I anticipated, and as I walked to the dressing room, I felt like my centre of gravity had changed somehow. When I finally reached the full length mirror, I gasped in shock. A man 10 years older stared back at me.
Small wrinkles littered my face, and patches of hair had started to go grey. My body had changed as well. Gone was the gangly figure of my youth - it had been replaced by a slight softness, particularly around the middle.
"What's happened?" I asked Barnaby, in my strange new tone of voice.
"Why, you've taken your first step towards becoming the new you," he remarked matter-of-factly, as if there was nothing out of sorts about the entire thing.
"How is this even possible?" I asked in shock.
"Does it really matter? You're not a scientist. Admit it, you don't really care how it works, just that it does work. I'm well on my way to giving you what you asked for," he said.
"What I asked for?" I asked, utterly bewildered. "You don't mean…"
"But, of course! You said you would give anything, didn't you? Don't tell me you're having second thoughts now," Barnaby chided.
I gave myself a second look in the mirror. The transformation was so strange, yet I couldn't help but feel excited.
Still, I hesitated. I couldn't just blindly accept what was happening to me, could I? Most people would be horrified by what was going on. For a moment I considered running out of the house screaming.
"You're only becoming who you were meant to be," Barnaby said. "Embrace it. Commit to it. Your old life is already gone."
I had often wished to be a different person, yet was going farther than I had ever dreamed. Was it too late to turn back? Maybe not, but I wasn't sure I wanted to.
"Have a pipe with me," he said, "and we can work on your elocution."
"Doesn’t that take months of intensive study?" I asked, following him.
"Ordinarily, yes…" He said, and this time I distinctly got the meaning of the term this time.
We parked ourselves back on the sofa, and Barnaby produced two pipes. Barnaby knew that I wasn't a smoker - that much was obvious from my earlier coughing outburst - but he offered one to me anyway. The smoke was sweet tasting and much more pleasant than I expected.
"Say something," Barnaby encouraged, after I had taken a few drags.
"Say what?" I asked. But even in these two words, there was a difference to the sound of my voice. "Dear me," I said, surprised at both my word choice and my accent. "How can this be?"
"You always want to know the why," Barnaby scolded. "Why not just enjoy yourself? With that accent, you might as well have been my next door neighbour. Wait, that's it!" he exclaimed, jumping up. "You were my next door neighbour, and you family moved just before you could attend my prep school."
"What are you going on about?" I asked, still enjoying my new accent.
"Your new identity," he said excitedly. "You know, I never did get your name."
"Oh, my name's - " I began, but was cut off.
"No, don't tell me. Whatever your name was, the person doesn't exist anymore. You're now Hubert Reginald Hawkins, my former next door neighbour. We both served in the armed forces together too - that's how I know you're a man of good character. You're the last living member of a prestigious family, a confirmed old bachelor, and a proud Tory," he said. I felt myself melting at the description - that was exactly who I wanted to be. I tried my best to keep my emotions at bay, just as Barnaby had instructed.
"Quite right," I said at last, beaming. "You certainly know me very well."
"I figured this was what you wanted from the moment I saw you," Barnaby said. "All I had to door was open the door - you were the one that walked through it. Of course…" Barnaby began, but trailed off mid sentence.
"Of course what?" I inquired.
"Of course, if you really were about to attend prep school with me, you aren't quite the right age. And even if we changed the story, you'd still be the youngest member of 'The Crust.' Hardly a recipe for fitting right in, wouldn't you say?"
"I don't know…" I replied.
"Of course, if you'd like, you could always simply wait a decade or two, then I'm sure you'd look about right," Barnaby said. "Then again, we haven't recruited new younger members in quite some time. I don't know what it will be like in a few decades."
"I know what you mean," I said. "It seems like the old fashioned English Gentleman is going extinct."
"Wait too long to join, and there might not be much of a club left to join," he said.
"But you just said I wasn't quite right," I said. "What can I do?"
"Well," Barnaby began, twilling the tip of his white moustache with his finger, "I could fix you another drink."
"Another?" I asked, feeling a little frightened. "Should I?"
"I think you should. In fact, I insist," he said. He snapped for Winston, and soon the drink was being poured and mixed.
"Take your final step into becoming the man you've always known you should have been," Barnaby said as he handed me the fizzing drink.
I looked at Barnaby, in his classic splendor, and realised that I couldn't wait to join the club - the time was now.
The drink tasted a bit stronger than before, and again I felt awash in a pleasant tingling. This time, though, I tried my best to be aware of the changes.
The first was that I noticed the entire world seem to get taller. The walls stretched up a few inches, and I quickly realised I had shrunk a bit. After that, I felt my pants start fighting against my waistline - a portly, middle aged belly had started to grow in earnest. After that, I felt my narrow shoulders expand and my chest become bigger and a bit flabbier. I was getting the classic, barrel chest look.
Getting up from the sofa this time required a little grunt, but I did it. When I made my way to the mirror in the dress room, I barely recognised myself. Not only had more wrinkles decorated my face, but my hair had become greyer and whiter. I even sported a fancy looking grey moustache. I looked like a short, stout, pillar of a man, a conservative war-relic gentleman. My body, however, badly distended my clothes.
"Those garments - hardly worthy of the label 'clothing' - are certainly unsuitable for a gentleman of your stature. And I mean that in both the literal and figurative sense," Barnaby said. "At some point, I'll take you to one of the finest fitting places in the city, but for now I think I could lend you one of my old suits. I think we're about the same size."
"Quite generous of you," I replied. What I was wearing was not just fit for a younger man, but for a taller and thinner one as well. It had to go, and it was time for me to wear something that reflected my new life.
“We’ll go to church together as well,” Barnaby added, as we headed for the dressing room.
“Are you really a believer?” I asked.
“Of course not, in fact I’m not sure anyone is anymore. It’s not about belief, it’s about tradition, national unity, and respect. And a chance to show off your Sunday finest. Winston, help my friend into some proper attire.”
Before long, Winston was helping squeeze my fatty barrel chest and stout shoulders into a very fine suit. I had to suck in my big belly to fit into my equally stunning new pants. Putting a belt on was a new sensation - it was the first time the device had been used to keep my tummy in, rather than hold my pants up. I used a moustache comb, and wore a pair of the nicest shoes I'd ever seen.
“There you are, Mr. Reginald Hawkins,” Winston said. “All changed, as it were,” he said with a knowing wink.
"Today is the first day of the rest of your life, Hubert," Barnaby said, a wide grin on his chubby cheeks.
"Quite right," I agreed, wearing an identical expression on my own, similar looking face.
~~~
Did you enjoy this story? Then check out my Male AP/WG ebook, Becoming the Handyman. Clifton has hired a handyman to fix his pipes - a fat, oafish, low-class bum named Frankie, who talks his way into moving in. Every day, Clifton starts to become more like Frankie - he's getting older, losing his trim figure, and he's becoming low class. This is an erotic transformation tale with homoerotic themes.