Open Your Heart
by Abigail Drew

Chapter One

“Open your heart!” Rang out from a tenor voice that was well off-key but enthusiastic just as lightning flashed nearby. “Open your heart!” it rang again as the peal of thunder roared loud enough as to, almost, drown out the singers voice. “Open your heart! To eternal dimension!” It sang again, and then grunted as, synchronously, the soft metallic thud of a shovel hitting dirt could be heard. “Open your heart! For love and affection,” the distinctive sound of dirt being thrown into a trash can. “Open your heart! Your every emotion,” and a flash of lightning. “Open your heart! For tears and rejection!” Thunder crashed as the “n” could be heard.

Despite the storm, Drew was out working, which was the norm. Sometimes, if the lightning was close enough, or the wind strong enough, his boss would call him back to the shop and office area and make him sit the storm out for a bit. The only other times he ever took off work, were when the day’s high was projected to be over a hundred degrees. Around here, that wasn’t often, instead, it’d tease along the edges in the low to mid nineties.

This time, the storm was a welcome relief, just before it broke the temperature had been almost ninety-five in the shade and discounting the humidity, which was of course a hundred percent. Such was the typical summer day in Northwest Ohio: Insanely muggy one minute, and pouring down rain the next. About ten minutes after the weather broke; it had already dropped a full five degrees. Then, half an hour later, and it was still storming, the temperature had dropped a respectable fifteen degrees. While eighty degrees Fahrenheit wouldn’t ordinarily be all that comfortable, when soaked to your bones with a chill rain it becomes quite a relief compared to the heat that always precedes such storms.

Drew worked as a groundskeeper for a rather large sprawling apartment complex, the sort typical of the area: a large number of two-story buildings interspersed with acres of “open” field. Open being loosely defined as only if you fail to notice that there are trees growing from trees. Occasionally he’d help the indoor maintenance guys with installing an air conditioner, trashing out an evicts apartment, or making an apartment ready for a new move-in. Generally, however, Drew’s job consisted of tearing out dead veg, weeding gardens, trimming bushes, and keeping the pavement, blacktop and fields clear of any trash just strewn about by lazy residents, and the deadfall left by the over bounteous, in his opinion at least, trees and bushes.

Though there may be people who liked such work, Drew just did it because it was stable, his employer was decent enough to work for, and he hadn’t a remotest chance at all for doing what he’d like. He was a washed out computer geek. Started school as a business major with CS minor, changed to Computer Science completely in a misplaced hope that he might possibly be permitted some sleep when he discovered that the business professors believed in keeping insanely early hours and inflicting them on their students, only to discover in a perverse twist of fate that the CS professors were only better by a mere hour. And that was if you didn’t need to talk to them before class. It didn’t take too much longer for the strain of the insane hours without even a weekend’s break to place him into a depressive state which inevitably led to becoming a college drop-out.

Well… That wouldn’t quite be fair, the schedule was only partly to blame, the other, perhaps just as large problem, was his social life. Drew had always been a bit of a social outcast and had spent his life before college pretty well avoiding social situations outside his own family, and even those, to some degree. In college, he tried the same, but his room-mates consistently pushed him into more and more social activity. Their very presence in the same apartment made a certain amount of social interaction inevitable, and then they would latch onto some social thing he wasn’t doing or another and nag at him until he’d do it. He didn’t really make friends with any of his past room-mates, so almost every semester he’d wind up with new ones and he’d go through the same list all over.

His last batch had just gotten to dating at around the same time that Drew was getting particularly crabby from the early morning schedule he’d been on. The previous batch that had gotten around to that point was put off simply by attempting to date a girl once, and when she’d stood him up, they never bugged him about dating a girl again. This batch, on the other hand, had been being persistent. They were constantly trying to hook him up with girls from his classes or theirs that held almost to no interest to him. It wasn’t that he didn’t like girls, but he didn’t particularly feel any sexual drive around them either. He wasn’t gay either — guys likewise did nothing for him.

Anyways, between the pressures to get up well earlier than his peak performance hours and still concentrate on his classes, the pressure from his room-mates to remain civil with them despite his rising impatience, and the pressure they were putting on him to go out with girls, it all got to be too much and blam: instant mashed depression. By the time anyone noticed his downward spiral, it was too late to save his academic career, and he was sent home.

Drew was nothing if not quick to recover, however, and before too long back home, after a time of having absolutely no schedule at all, he was able to establish a comfortable sleeping pattern that had him up past eleven and going to bed about two. He wasted his time reading and playing video games during this time, not even touching anything related to programming. Eventually he started to tinker with small scripts to make his video games easier, and everything had returned to like it was before trying to go to college.

Then the pressure started from the parents. He either had to get a job or get back to school. He knew there was no way he’d be able to cope with the school environment again, so a job it was. Eventually, he landed himself right where he was, an entirely thankless position that took up entirely too much time, didn’t feel like really getting anything accomplished, and left little time for wasting on his games or books.

Drew was so embroiled in his own thoughts that he didn’t even notice the strange looks he was getting from his boss while he was putting things away and preparing to clock out for the day. He was, of course, thoroughly soaked through, the t-shirt with the complex’s name, address, and number plastered to his torso like a layer of skin about to be molted off. Drew had reason to be reclusive, and NEVER went anywhere without a baggy t-shirt and too-tight bandeau bra — man-boobs. They were actually rather well-formed and pert compared to most guys with gynaecomastia that he’d heard of. But he was a guy. He wasn’t supposed to have them, and generally, on a rainy day like this, he’d have taken a rain-jacket or poncho out with him to prevent the wet t-shirt effect. This storm had come unexpectedly, however, and there was nothing for it.

When he first noticed his developing breasts he’d just started working with the previous groundskeeper of the complex as an assistant — the old man had gotten injured in a car accident and was unable to perform certain tasks involving lifting anything over a certain weight limit at all, or lifting over shoulder-height. He also had trouble with crouching or stooping and making it back up. Drew got invited to become his assistant because the guy, named John, was his brother — big family, Drew being second youngest, John, the eldest, out of eleven — and was trying to help him get on his own and help his parents get rid of him.

At the time, Drew had been moderately obese, and as he lost belly fat, man-boobs started to appear from within. At first, he just assumed it was fatty tissue that was taking longer to burn off. However, as he continued to work, he thought he noticed them getting larger. So he started to measure below, at, and above his developing bust, like he’d heard that women were supposed to do to determine their bra size. A few months later he came to an undeniable conclusion: he was growing breasts. Not fat deposits in his breast tissue. Real, honest to life, pert, feminine, boobs. By that time he would have fit into a thirty-eight B cup bra, if barely, had he chosen to wear something like that, instead, he bought several bandeau bras intended for a thirty-six bust and began wearing those under his t-shirts, and he bought baggier t-shirts. The combination of the two allowed for his still developing breasts to be hidden in most situations. Luckily, they stopped when reaching a full B cup, before reaching a C.

Even before reaching the above conclusion, he’d begun to research reasons something like this might happen. He couldn’t have gone to a doctor about it, he had no insurance and there was no way he’d ever be able to afford the doctors fees. So he googled gynaecomastia, found the Wikipedia entry, and read it. He noticed something peculiar, apparently, pure gynaecomastia, what he appeared to be suffering from, occurred most commonly among steroid users as a result of excess testosterone being converted into seriously high amounts of estrogen. Sufferers were also prone to early male-pattern baldness, hirsutism, and prostate cancer. Drew found the similarities to his own situation quite concerning: He also was beginning to suffer male-pattern baldness, and had been extremely hirsute ever since starting puberty. He hadn’t yet had any signs of prostate cancer, but then, he hadn’t been to a GP ever since leaving the care of his pediatric. He hadn’t ever used steroids, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t be an exception.

A polite cough brought him back to the present. “Ah, good, you seem to be back with us now,” said his boss, Jack Thompson, the manager of Stonevale Apartments and Townhomes.

Drew was suddenly acutely aware of where Jacks eyes were glued. “Uhm. I guess you’ve noticed my little secret,” he replied, blushing a rather deep shade of red.

“Uh… yeah…” Jack answered. “Look, it’s not really my business until you’re ready but… Are you… you know…?”

“Am I a transgender taking illegal hormones to transition without involving the medical authorities?” Drew asked him, and then grinned at the uncomfortable squirming of his boss. “No. I’m a gynaecomastia sufferer who simply can’t afford a mastectomy and to be quite honest, I’m not certain I’d want one even if I could… never know what additional problems I’ll have if I let them remove my breasts. This whole problem is because of a hormonal imbalance in the first place, I wouldn’t want to invite further imbalances. I am taking an herbal supplement to try to arrest what I believe to be the underlying cause of that and other problems, and it seems to be effective.”

“Oh. This puts us into a bit of a situation then.”

“Not really. Have you noticed anything before now? I’ve been wearing too-tight bandeaus under extra-baggy t-shirts for a reason. And let me tell you now, it’s definitely not for comfort. You only noticed them now because I got surprised by the storm today, otherwise I’d’ve been wearing a rain coat.”

“Actually, that’s not what I was saying at all. No one else knows this yet, and you aren’t to leak this at all, but we’re about to be acquired by new owners. And they’re a bunch of feminists.”

“And we haven’t got a single female employee outside of the housekeeping and clerical positions, which would be looked at badly. So when you noticed my breasts you thought you’d try to convince me to pretend to be a girl for a little bit so you can keep your job and keep the rest of us here as well right?”

Jack actually blushed. “Uh… Well, yes…” He answered. “Look, I know about your hirsutism and that you use hair removal treatments to control it, but come on, don’t you think you take it a little far? Other than on your head there’s not a single hair left on your body. Er. Well, at least that I can see…” And his flush turned even more crimson. “Then there’re your breasts. Further, your waist is a little narrower than normal, your hips wider, you’ve got thighs that any natural woman would kill for…”

“STOP!” Drew yelled, perhaps a little too loudly. “I know I’m not much of a man, you think I don’t know that? But pretending to be a woman, even just temporarily to try to placate a bunch of feminists… I don’t know that I’d be comfortable doing that.” Luckily no one else was around anymore while this conversation was taking place, as Drew’s voice was quite raised by this time. Drew often started later and stopped later than the other employees. He had special circumstances, and was employed on a salaried position instead of hourly like everyone else at the complex besides the manager. Drew’s hours were required to be kept only for performance review purposes, and the manager, just to have official record of when he was actually in the office or on property.

Originally, Drew had been employed hourly, same as the previous groundskeeper and the maintenance guys, however, when Drew’s brother John recovered from his accident they let Drew go until John finally left completely a year later. The complex had gone through a number of attempts at hiring a new groundskeeper without bringing Drew back on, because they felt Drew was too slow. What they found though, was that every guy they hired was extremely lazy and performed quick, but shoddy work. While Drew may have been somewhat slower than they liked, he did the job right.

So, come a further half year after John moved, they called Drew up, asked him if he wanted to come back to work for them, and offered him a special salaried position with a salary equal to if he were working eight hour shifts 5 days a week at a pay rate of ten dollars an hour — or sixteen-hundred a month. He’d also be able to have a special discount on a 2-bed, 1-bath small apartment on property. He’d be expected to keep the place up to a certain minimum standard and be required to work as many hours as it took to accomplish that without any additional pay or benefits. Having absolutely nothing else at the time — even fast-food wouldn’t hire him, Drew accepted.

His first day back on property since his brother moved out, Drew noticed how horribly everything had been left to rot, and walked into the manager’s office with a list of everything that would be needed to tame the wilds that the complex had become. It was, needless to say, an expensive list, and the manager boggled and tried to convince Drew to find a cheaper way to accomplish what was needed. Drew insisted, however, and informed the then manager that they were welcome to take it up with the owners. A week later and the old manager was gone, replaced by Jack, who after looking at Drew’s list, asked to walk the property with him and for Drew to point out to him all the where’s and why’s of everything on the list. Jack was appalled by what he saw and impressed with Drew’s no-nonsense attitude about what it’d take to do what needed to be done.

Jack put the orders in to the owners for review that same day and was surprised to find them already approved when he came in the following day. A month later and the last of the temporary work crews were packing up having accomplished everything under Drew’s supervision, with Jack observing stupefied by the cool efficiency with which Drew had ordered everything done. The complex grounds were in better shape than they had ever been in before and would prove easy to maintain, the enormous cost of the overhaul being made back in dividends before the end of the year. Drew and Jack became fast friends, or at least, as much so as anyone was ever friends with Drew. He didn’t exactly make it easy.

“Anyways… What do you say?” Jack finished speaking and Drew only then realized that he’d been being spoken to while he was dazed out again.

“What do I say to what?”

“Were you even listening to a word I said?” He asked. Then answered for him, “No… Of course you weren’t. You always seem to space off when someone’s saying something important. Usually right around when you start feeling the least comfortable.” His tone softened. “Look, buddy, I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable, just forget I said anything.”

Drew then thought about what was happening in this situation again, the complex was being sold to new owners, and these owners were known feminists. He was aware of the group that this could only be, they’d been buying up every male-ran rental housing complex in the area at a rapid pace, and then quickly replacing all the most highly positioned male staff with women. As the only groundskeeper at this complex, and a salaried one at that, he was consequently also the head groundskeeper, which made him highly positioned in their books and prime for replacement. He also had no delusions about being a generally desirable employee and therefore at all likely to be left alone after the acquisition was finalized. “Okay, I’ll do it.” He finally said.

“Y-You what?!” Jack exclaimed incredulously. “You sure about this? You might have to keep the show up for quite a while, you know, and my wife…”

“Wait, what does your wife have to do with any of this?” Drew asked sharply.

“You really weren’t listening were you?” Jack replied exasperatedly. “Part of what I was saying when you dazed out earlier was about how my wife has volunteered to help you become convincing. She has a tendency to get a little carried away…”

Drew hadn’t even thought of that, the possibility that someone might need to help him with the masquerade, or even would be willing. Now that the idea was posed for him, it did make sense, and made him ever so slightly more comfortable with the decision to give it a try. “Yeah, Jack. I’m positive. But don’t you go thinking it’s your neck I’m trying to save here. Remember, I’m the ONLY groundskeeper at this property, and I’m salaried, I’ve got as much to lose from this as you do, if not more. You’re a proven manager; someone else’ll pick you up quick enough. Me, I’m just a college drop-out, too smart for fast-food, too dumb for anything meaningful. If I lose this job, it's back to the parents for me.”