User:JonBuck/After Hours
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After Hours A Paradise Story
By Jon Buck
August 17, 2009
JP Rooney's wasn't a bad place to work. The borderline schlocky décor inside the sports bar suited Sean Frost's tastes very well. He lived only a few blocks away, easily walkable in good weather. Hyannis was a traffic nightmare in summer. Sean rarely left the Cape during the busy season anyway. Twelve hour shifts from one in the afternoon to one in the morning will do that to a person.
Besides, just trying to get across the Sagamore Bridge was a nightmare in August, in either direction. It was an order of magnitude worse now since the state decided to remove the rotary.
Sean ventured out into the sultry Monday afternoon from his cool one bedroom apartment. With the thunderheads building to the southwest he expected the weather to turn nasty before eight. "That's going to scare the tourists away..." he muttered with a sigh. Crowded bridge or not, there were fewer tourists this year, even with gas hovering around two dollars a gallon. There was just so much going on, from the continuing anarchy in Africa to oil prices see-sawing wildly between twenty and sixty dollars.
A twenty year old Chevy Caprice pulled up beside him on the left as he walked. "Sean! Why the hell are you walking to work in this soup after being sick? Get in here!" Mike Dane leaned over and opened the passenger door. Sean realized his white dress shirt was getting more sweat-soaked than he wanted, so decided to accept the offer, though it was only a couple more blocks.
"At least loosen that tie," Mike continued. Dane was about fifteen years Sean's senior, and a semi-regular at Rooney's. Like everyone else this summer he was minimizing his driving just to save money. His love of large cars meant in cooler weather he was more often around town on his electric scooter. The large man regarded Sean with some concern. "I've never understood why Chuck insists on that getup." He gave Sean a rather curious, and a little confused look. "You're looking better. Finally over that funky summer flu?"
"Yeah. I feel great! Got over the dregs last night." White dress shirt, black slacks, a red tie, and black armbands on the upper arms to keep the sleeves from moving around too much while mixing drinks. The owner of the bar, Chuck Polinsky, thought it gave the place a "classy" air. "I think the uniform looks pretty good," Sean said. He turned two of the vents on him and cranked the air conditioning to full blast. "Thanks for the ride, Mike. I see you got the AC working on this jalopy."
"Shuah thing," he said in an affected New England accent. He wasn't a local, just someone who had retired young and settled in his vacation house on the Cape. The man didn't own a car newer than 1991, and all of them were Fords, Chevys, Oldsmobiles, and Pontiacs. He bought older cars and restored them to working condition as a hobby and probably had contacts with every junkyard in the Northeast for parts.
When he was finished getting them running again he'd donate them to some charity, then start anew.
"So, how's that Honda of yours holding up?" he asked, one eyebrow raised.
"Mike, it's four years old. There's nothing wrong with it," Sean insisted for the sixth time. "Really, I can't afford one of your land yachts."
The older man smirked. "Got my hands on an '84 Honda Civic CR-X. You know, the one that got almost seventy miles per gallon on the highway? Fifty five in the city? It just needs seats and a new headliner. Nothin' to sneeze at even if gas drops to a dollah."
Sean felt speechless. "You said you'd never touch a Japanese car!"
"Yeah, I know. But money talks and I could still sell this car for three times what it'd get last year, even with the price drop. Everyone still remembers the shortages and six dollars. Seventy miles per gallon, Sean. And I'm giving you first shot at it. If you can come up with a thousand bucks, it's yours." Dane stopped in front of the bar.
The bartender's hand hovered over the door handle. A grand was still a lot of money, especially since this tourist season was so sparse. He had an emergency fund he'd have to use some of in order to buy it. He could easily use his one credit card, which didn't have a balance right now. "Can you give me a couple of days, Mike? My Civic is already pretty good on the mileage and it's almost paid for."
"I should have the parts to fix 'er up in about four days. Let me know by then, okay bud?" He extended his hand.
Shaking Mike's hand was always a strange experience. Sean thought he felt more hair than there was, and that man had a strong grip. He'd seen the older mechanic lift car parts by himself that Sean wouldn't have done without one or two other people. The cars he drove actually creaked when he sat down. "I will. Thanks again." He pulled on the handle and got out of the Caprice.
As the bartender walked around the front end, Mike rolled down his window. "Say... you didn't feel anything odd getting over that flu, did you?"
"Like what?"
The man shook his head. "Never you mind. I'll be in for the Red Sox game tonight with some friends, bud. See you then." He drove off.
Sean watched him go and shrugged. Mike and his friends were always a little weird anyway.
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The sports bar was divided into four large rooms, each of them with a half dozen 50" HDTVs. They were devoted to various sports, depending on what was in season. Baseball, basketball, football, soccer, horse racing, hockey, the Olympics, NASCAR, Formula One, the Tour de France. Whatever people wanted to see, Chuck Polinsky would oblige. Each room had its own fully stocked bar and held about forty people.
Sean entered through the back door and headed for the break room next to the kitchen to clock in. The chefs and their staff were busy prepping for lunch. Sadie waved at him as he'd walked in.
A few minutes remained before the bar opened. Since daytime was generally quieter than the rest of the day only two of the four rooms opened. Sean could already see his fellow bartender at her bar, taking her usual inventory of spirits and liquor. Before he did the same thing there was an important errand to take care of. He went upstairs to the office and knocked on Chuck's door before opening it.
Chuck Polinsky was in his mid-forties, but you wouldn't know it to look at him. He had a runner's physique and competed in the Boston Marathon every year. "You're looking better, Sean. Over that stomach flu?"
"It pretty much evaporated this morning, Mr. P. I feel great! I just wanted to pick up my paycheck before I started work," Sean said.
Polinsky leaned forward behind his spotless oaken desk, scrutinizing his employee from head to toe. Sean Frost was an American Mutt. One quarter Chinese, with the rest spread among Irish, English, and Italian ancestors. The results were an unlikely mix of slightly Asian facial features and a slight build. "You sure you're feeling like yourself? Everything's where it's supposed to be?"
"Never better, sir."
Polinsky combed his fingertips through his iron gray hair. "Uh... I hate to say this, but there's been a mix-up with the payroll company. We're working on straightening it out, of course."
"Mix-up? What do you mean by that?" Sean replied worriedly.
Sean's employer handed him an envelope. The bartender stared. "Who the hell is Serena Frost?"
"Your sister?" Chuck quipped with nervous laughter.
"I have two brothers. What did ADP say?"
"It'll probably work itself out pretty quick," Polinsky said. He looked very nervous now, nostrils flaring. "I'm sure she'll be along... soon."
"She has my address and employee number. I'm going to rip ADP a new one," Sean snarled.
Tapping his fingertips on his desk, Polinsky pondered what to say next. "I'm glad you're feeling better. You're one of my best employees. But if at any time today you start feeling strange, or you start seeing things--I had that flu a couple years ago--feel free to leave your post and lock yourself in my office. Okay?"
"Um, okay. Thanks boss."
"Remember, Mike and his crew are in the Red Sox Room today. They've rented the whole place this time, so it's just going to be you and Tracy out there this afternoon."
That was clearly a dismissal. Sean nodded and headed back downstairs.
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Most of the bartenders at Rooney's were women--they tended to get better tips. Tracy was a graduate student at Wood's Hole Oceanographic Institute. She had wavy light brown hair that always looked perfect, and smelled a little of sea salt after her excursions out to see. She normally wouldn't give Sean the time of day, but when he entered and told her they'd be working together today, she actually seemed shocked.
"You sure you're feeling okay?" she asked him in a sisterly tone, nostrils flaring like Chuck's had.
"Yes, I'm fine! Except my paycheck got screwed up. Some girl with my last naaa..." There was no pain. And its absence was one of the things that he would remember most. But he started coughing, and when next he spoke, his voice had changed pitch and timbre. "Some girl with... with... What the fuck?" Sean's hand flew to his throat.
He found no Adam's Apple. And his voice no longer resonated. "What... what do I sound like?" he stammered.
Tracy put her hands on his shoulders. "You're going to be okay, Sean. You'll be fine. Just don't panic, and just let it flow through you."
"Let what flow through me!" he shouted. He spoke with a woman's voice. "I'm having some sort of relapse. This is hella strange laryngitis..." He stared at his co-worker. "Are you wearing heels or something?"
She let him go and dashed upstairs. Just in time for the dam to break. He felt a tightness in his groin, a growing pressure in his hips. Everything started happening at once, too fast to think straight. It was all he could do to stay upright by grabbing hold of the brass rail on the side of the bar.
"You left him in the middle of the Change?!" Chuck shouted from above. "Get down there, woman!"
There was a moment, a brief moment, when the two creatures who reappeared distracted Sean from twisting sensations from his body. An anthropomorphic coyote and a female (definitely female) cougar stood there in Chuck and Tracy's clothes, mouths agape. But the image flickered and then they were both standing there again. "Is that it?" Tracy said. "Where's the rest?"
"I don't know, but it fits with what I've read on the boards," Chuck said.
The twisting sensation slowed, then vanished, leaving only a strange buoyancy behind. Sean stared down at the view, and with slender fingers and polished nails, loosened the tie and unbuttoned his shirt halfway. Then all at once his new body slammed his senses with its bulges, curves, breasts, a singular absence, and breasts. Even his slacks had been replaced with a skirt, like what Tracy wore. "Um... I... I'm a woman? How? Why... the..."
"Catch her if she faints, Chuck," Tracy said.
"No, I'm okay. Really. I'm fine!" Sean insisted. In fact, she felt fantastic. She turned around and removed some of the bottles from in front of the mirrored backing behind them, and had a look. Her hair had lengthened down to her shoulders, and the girl looking back looked like the sister Sean had never had. She put her hands on the sides of her breasts and smushed them together. "Ow!"
"Is she going to stay human?" Tracy said.
"I don't know," Chuck said. He flickered again.
Sean suddenly felt a little dizzy. Overwhelmed with dissonance. "Um... You mean I'm not... I wasn't seeing Wyle E Coyote standing where Chuck is a second ago?"
"I'm going to be straight with you, Sean," Chuck said. "That paycheck wasn't a mistake, and we knew this was going to happen to you this morning. Mike was shocked as hell when he saw you walk out of your apartment a male human. I was expecting to have him bring you here, er... different. Sort of like you are now."
"Only sort of?" Sean stammered, staring at the girl in the mirror. Not the girl. Herself. The girl whose name was on the paycheck. "I'm Serena Frost?"
"ROB thinks of everything these days," Tracy said. She'd briefly gone into the break room and retrieved a denim purse. She handed it over, giving Sean another feline flash. "This is yours. Check your driver's license, everything. As far as the paper trail's concerned, you're Serena Frost."
Sean's license did show a slightly younger woman than the one in the mirror with the ubiquitous unready expression on her face. Same birthdate, everything. "That still doesn't answer my question! Why am I a woman!"
"For the same reason I'm a man. Or male, at least," Chuck said gravely. The middle-aged man tilted his head. "What do you see when you look at us? Tracy and myself."
"Like you always are, what..." There was that flicker again, lasting much longer this time. If Sean's back wasn't already against the bar she wouldn't fallen over backwards. Suddenly gaining a pair of breasts and ovaries didn't matter any more. The people standing in front of her were unquestionably still Chuck and Tracy. Aside from the almost cartoonishly human eyes, there were a couple of furries standing there instead. As the glimpses before, a coyote and a cougar on two legs, looking like they'd evolved that way. "Holy shit! You're animals!"
Sean fumbled for one of the bottles she'd removed from the shelf. Some Jose Cuervo tequila. "I need a drink."
Chuck-the-coyote took the hard liquor out of her unresisting hands. "Talk, first. Then drink. You're not done changing yet, and I have a lot to explain.
"And I'm going to start with..." He visibly girded himself. "Two years ago, my name was Cynthia. And I don't expect I'll be her ever again."
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