The Wolf of Harvard

In Human’s Clothing

                I’m graduating from a four year university. Is it crazy to go back? I wrote those two sentences down on a crumpled scrap of paper I found lurking in the bottom of my bag. After resisting my attempts to smoothen it, this ripped and yellowing sheet now contained the words to one of the most important questions of my life, so far. I stared at it, imagining myself melting the bits of cellulose with my eyes, envisioning the graphite dripping from the rough edges and landing, steaming and hissing, on the dilapidated backpack resting against my ankle. I glowered at the paper, frustrated that it was in the process of changing my life in a way that no inanimate object should be allowed to do. Giving up, I flipped it to the other, equally worn side and wrote…  No, must be the money.

           That was over two months ago. Now, over half-way through my senior year, I was at the final interview stage for one of the wildest job opportunities of my life. Today, a grey Tuesday in February with no true significance to anyone else, I was skipping class and driving to Cape Cod for the first official meet-up with my (hopefully) future employer. I didn’t even know his name yet. In fact, until a hurried phone call last night with someone I had never talked with before, I hadn’t even been given an exact address.

                As I got closer, and drove further into the money, I noticed the houses getting larger. Brick replaced siding, gates became standard driveway equipment, and lawns, still drowsy from their short winter nap, were being prodded to life with landscapers. I had heard that Cape Cod was nice, but I wasn’t expecting it to be this nice. As I drove by mansion after mansion I felt more and more that I had stumbled into a pretentious postcard. I didn’t belong here, but a small part of me wished I did.  

                I turned off into a neighborhood and found the driveway that the GPS was sending me to. It seemed that I had accidentally found the jackpot; the house of houses. I pulled up to the gate in my rusty, mile-laden Subaru and waited. The gate was huge, spanning nearly two lanes of brick driveway that wound up to the house. It was covered in ivy with two granite pillars standing sentry-like on either side. The granite continued to snake around the property, finally wrapping the mansion in stone as if it were a castle preparing for siege. After a few seconds of waiting in admiration, the gate shuttered and slid noiselessly out of the way.

                I crept the car up the driveway towards the three story behemoth. I had never seen a house this big from anywhere other than a road. As I drove into its shade the very shadow of it seemed to press its wealth into my bones. I parked next to a 90’s Ferrari in the corner of the lot and looked out towards the house hoping that the man I was going to meet today wasn’t nearly as oppressive.

                I turned off the engine and stepped out, feeling a bit foolish. I should have worn something with a bit more pizazz than just a collared shirt and jeans. I looked good though, I thought. Poor, but good. I laughed inwardly at the ridiculousness of the parking situation that my Subaru found itself in, all nestled next to a supercar with three times the everything. Freaking Cape Cod.

                “Kyle Simmons!” I heard, coming from somewhere by the front door. I looked over and a young man about my age was strolling towards me wearing a full tailored suit and the smile of someone who looked like they had everything going their way.

                “Yes.” I said confidently, walking towards this character. “That’s me.”

                 “A pleasure at last.” He said, holding out his right hand and exposing a golden watch that I was sure cost more than my car.

                I took his hand and shook it, noticing his perfect etiquette. Eye contact the whole time, just the right amount of firmness, fingers uncrushed. This kid wrote the book on style, I could already tell.

                “Alright,” He continued, “You’re probably fucking thirsty or hungry after such a long ride. Let’s get inside and get down to it with some lunch.”

                “Sounds good to me.” I said, astonished at this kid’s premature vulgarity. Whatever though. Was this my (hopefully) new boss? I thought. This was going to be interesting.

                We walked through the double doors that led into his house and we were greeted by what I assumed to be a butler, or someone similar. He also greeted me with a handshake and introduced himself as…

                “Geoffrey. At your service, Master.”

                “Yo, G.” Said my new friend. “Could you fix us some sandwiches? Grab us some beer too? We’ll be in the study.”

                “Of course, Master.”

                “Alright, tight. Follow me Kyle.”

                Strolling through his house my nameless friend seemed to cast a wake about him. The way he walked imposed a powerful sense of confidence, but also a happiness that didn’t spew arrogance like I had expected. With his unbuttoned suit his jacket tails sailed behind him, waving him on through his march around the premise like spectators waving at their favorite athlete. And speaking about the premise! Holy crap! This place was nicer than The Villa. Marble seemed to flow under my feet as I kept up with my host, wrapping around corners and into pillars that held the chiseled ceiling above me. We passed armoires with golden handles and glass doors that seemed to be bursting with fine clothes jewelry.

                “Don’t mind all this bullshit.” Said my host. He must have noticed apparent, open mouthed gaping. “My sister and my mom like to show off down here for some stupid ass reason.” He stopped at the entrance to a well lit room that overlooked the southern yard of the house. The sun poured in through ten foot high glass walls and even for a bleak Tuesday in February, the room felt cozier than Christmas. “Take a seat.” He said, not unkindly.

                I sat, melting into a leather armchair that seemed to be trying to eat me; not uncomfortably.

                “So this is it, huh?” He said, “The big one, the fucking big one!”

                “Uh.” I said.

                “Alright, well let’s get the boring things out of the way.” He then handed me a clipboard and told me to sign in a few spots, “The non-disclosure agreement,” and then he pulled out a really fancy envelope that had the words Harvard imprinted on the front. “And you know what this is,” He handed it over. “but you still don’t know who I am?”

                “Well, then this seems a bit unfair then doesn’t it?” I said, smirking.

                “Haha! I knew I picked the right guy.” He smirked back, obviously enjoying a bit of sarcasm. “I’m Jordan Chimefort, and if the rest of today goes fucking fantastic I’m going to be your new boss for the next four years.”

                “I’m pretty sure it will, as long as those sandwiches get here.”

                As if on cue, Geoff entered the room carrying a tray with four sandwiches and four beers. “Enjoy, Masters. And if there is anything else I’ll just be cleaning the property.”

                “Thanks G.” Said Jordan.

                “Sweet service you’ve got here!”

                “Yeah yeah, whatever. It’s kind of annoying though. I can’t even take a shit without him holding a rack of toilet paper for me. God, he’d probably wipe if I asked.” Jordan looked off into the distance with a grimacing look on his face. “Oh yeah, he would, no doubt.”

                “Ha, well if you want me to test him out later just say the word.” I laughed.

                “Shit, no thanks. Anyway! We’re getting really sidetracked here… fill me in. I’ve gone through so many candidates I can’t keep them straight. I think you’re the guy though, and from what my assistants have been saying, you fit the bill real nicely. Lay it down.” And with that he popped two beers, tossed one over and sat back in anticipation.

                “Well, it all started on Craigslist…” I began. I had been searching Craigslist last fall, looking for cheap Subaru parts and good swapping items when I came across a very peculiar ad. The title said it all, $40k a year to attend Harvard University as me. I couldn’t believe it, wouldn’t believe it. How could someone be so bold? What was the catch? I thought that the best way to uncover the mystery was to, well, apply! I emailed the OP and jumped into a cacophony of phone calls, emails, and face to face discussion with numerous different people all working for, what I know understand to be, Jordan Chimefort.

                The requirements were tough, but I was a solid fit. High school had been a walk in the park for me. I had crossed the graduation stage as captain of the debate team and salutatorian. Oh, I was also the youngest kid in my class. Now, I was in the final stretch of finishing up my business degree at my local university with similarly high grades and academic standing. The one thing I had sucked at in life, at least at first, was my social life. I had skipped two grades in middle school which made me three years younger than my nearest classmate (other people born in November can somewhat relate). Fitting in during those first few years at college was difficult. I was a freshman at 16! To combat what I foresaw to be a challenging transition, I lived in the honor’s dorm my first two years at school. Because I was mostly void of friends, instead of going out, I studied, and studied hard. Classes were easy and I had always regretted not going to a better school, but I had been… scared? I think that was it. Fortunately, had I gone to a more top-tier school, the conversation I was now having with Jordan might have been possible.

                Once Junior year rolled around, and people my age started filtering into the freshman classes, I began to make friends and build up the courage to “go out” and “party”, albeit toned back. This was when I started to enjoy college. I got back on the university debate team, joined numerous other clubs and organizations, and still maintained at 3.9 GPA. College was finally fun. But, all too soon, I was a graduating senior who regretted wasting those first two years of school; hiding behind my desk and work. This was why the opportunity in front of me felt so right. The excitement of “re-doing” school, at a real school, buzzed through my entire body like newly discovered energy. It was barely containable. I felt like I was driving that Ferrari parked outside, speeding it down the highway at over 140mph!

                “Whoa whoa, Kyle!” Jordan laughed, “Let’s stay on topic. We can go out for a ride later if you want. So, yes…” Jordan continued. He talked about his reasoning for picking me as the most likely candidate for the job. My age turned out to be a huge factor, with my near perfect grades as icing on the cake. He had been expecting to hire a non-traditional student, someone who would live off campus and only attend necessary classes in order to obtain the degree. By turning Kyle (me) into Jordan, he was fully able to establish the coup of a wealthy smart kid entering the halls of Harvard. It was perfect.

                “So,” I said, “why don’t you just attend the school?” It was something I really wanted to know. He was already accepted, courtesy of the fancy letter he had showed me, so why didn’t he just go? Harvard wasn’t impossible to be accepted at, but it seemed like a waste… in a way.

                “Remember that non-disclosure agreement you just signed?”

                “Yeah.”

                “Good, now…” Jordan was rich, wealthy beyond all measure, and with wealth comes an ability to, as he put it, “…get whatever the fucking hell I want.” So, although his grades were nearly identical to mine, and he was graduating from an elite private school nearby, he deemed his business venture in South Korea to be more important than going to school. “My Dad is already down there, and supports me in this.” He added. Jordan wouldn’t even be in the country for the four years while I was in school, pretending to be him at Harvard. So, he explained, with mountains of money at his disposal he bought his way into Harvard using some of his Dad’s contacts and a little bit of bribery. He wanted the degree for networking purposes, and to bolster his resume in a way that couldn’t be ignored.

                Jordan kept talking about the stupidity of the school system, and the depravity of this or that organization or government official that was keeping his business back. He explained how he wanted to get right to work in South Korea and build upon his fortune without wasting another minute. “But to do so, we need to prepare you to be me.” He said, “This is where things get tricky. Graduating from Harvard? That’s the easiest part. They have a 98% graduation rate. I feel like anyone that can tie their shoes can get a degree from there, the hard part is getting accepted which, as I just explained, is already taken care of.”

                “Yeah,” I interjected, “I’ve started doing research online about what the curriculum is like, and it seems almost like joke. Of course, I bet most people who talk about the curriculum online downplay it to seem a bit more intelligent, but I feel like it won’t be any harder than anything I’ve already done.”

                “Mmm… That’s what I’ve heard as well. So…” Jordan continued, getting to the best part; pay. I was to make $60,000 a year, not including books, housing, transportation and living expenses. Then, once the four years were over and I walk across the stage as Jordan Chimefort with a four year Harvard degree, I’ll get a $100,000 bonus to quietly speed me on my way.

                “So,” I piped up, “what more do I have to do? How can I prove that I’m your guy?”

                “Well, it seems you already have.” Jordan said, tipping his beer in my direction. He explained that most of the people he had interviewed were ready academically, but were socially inept. He had wanted to sit down with me, eat a sandwich, grab a beer and test my ability to hold a conversation. On top of that, my debate skills continued to add to my strange new resume in a way that impressed Jordan into making his final decision. “Grab that last beer and follow me.”

                I obeyed, grabbing an exquisite IPA I had never heard of from the tray, and following Jordan out of the room. We walked back out to the marble hallway and towards the double staircase that spiraled further up into the mansion. I was trying to get used to the splendor, but it was still blowing my mind. Each railing post seemed to be decorated differently than the last with carvings representing different seasons of the year. Leaves were etched into the stone with such lifelikeness that I felt like if I tried hard enough, I could smell them. We ascended the stairs and turned left. The room we walked into was darker with computer monitors lining two of the four walls. There was a large, dormant printing machine sitting in the middle and an older, greying gentleman typing furiously at a keyboard just behind it.

                “This is Markolm, he’ll be doing the nitty-gritty stuff so we won’t get caught, so you won’t get caught.”

                “Grunt.” Markolm grunted. “No beer in here.”

                “Ah yeah, your rules… fine.” Jordan said, grabbing my beer and placing in outside the room next to his. “Anyway, this is how things are going to work; Social Security manipulation.” Said Jordan. He elaborated.

I was going to adopt everything that was Jordan’s. Markolm was able to forge about whatever he wanted too, it seemed, from licenses to documents to birth certificates. An A+ hacker that had spent many years working for the CIA doing these exact things for undercover agents around the globe. Apparently, he was a vital part of whatever business was operating in South Korea as well, but his secondary tasks would assure that I walked into Harvard with Jordan’s information, but my own face. “We’re going to need a new license, a new passport, a new photo for the Harvard database…” Jordan rattled off a long list to Markolm who continued frantically typing on his overly loud keyboard.

                clicklclicklick click click clickclick clickclick click clickclickclickclick clickclick click clickclickclick

                “…and that should do it.” He said, “Kyle could you step over to the wall there, right in front of this camera.”

                I walked over the whitewashed wall and faced the camera. It was a big one, with those shiny, flashy umbrellas ready to light up the shot.

                “Ah, wait hold on!” Jordan said, taking off his suit jacket. He whipped it over to me, followed by his tie and then his white dress shirt. “Put those on, Jordan’s a classy ass fool! Right Markolm?”

                “Grunt.” Said Markolm, swiveling in his chair and walking over to the camera.

                I pulled the sleeves on and was happy to notice that they fit almost perfectly. “Looks like I’ll be shopping through your closet before I head to school, haha, right Jordan?” I chuckled, putting on the rest of the ensemble.

                “Don’t worry man, we’ll be going shopping. You’re going to need a new car too, to keep up appearances.” Said Jordan, looking slightly foolish in the dimly lit room with only his pressed dress pants and shoes on. It seemed that when he lost his designer suit shell, he lost all form of impressive demeanor as well. He was just a kid again, like me, from the waste up. I didn’t have long to ponder this image though as the brilliant flash from Markolm’s camera blinded me. He took about a dozen photos before grunting his way back to his computer.

                “I feel famous already.” I said, tossing Jordan’s clothes to him and blinking back my vision.

                “Don’t worry, that feeling will wear off. Come on, I have one more place to show you.” said Jordan, turning on his heel and leaving the room. We walked down the hallway, Jordan looking a bit more human after abandoning his suit, and into what looked like an average bedroom. This room wasn’t like any of the other parts of the house. It didn’t have ornate furnishings or hand carved bed posts. There were no plasma screens pinned up onto walls or Chinese silk sheets draping over the bed. It kind of looked like, well, my bedroom back home. “This is where you’ll be living on school breaks or vacations or whatever. People need to see that you live here ya know, so they don’t get any ideas.” He walked farther into his room and pushed some clothes out of the way with his foot. “It’s not much, but I like it this way.” He said.

                “Wow Jordan, thank you…” I said, explaining how the ridiculousness of the house was starting to weird me out anyway, especially Geoff. Having a butler would be a bit odd. I didn’t really know what else to say, things had taken such an interesting turn during the day. I left school that morning with no expectations of what was going to happen, and this was all hugely exciting; and overwhelming.

                “What was it like growing up? For you?” asked Jordan.

                “What do you mean?”

                “Not fucking filthy rich like this, what was it like?” He sat down on his bed and looked at me, genuinely curious.

                “Oh,” I said, taking a seat on a computer chair. I told him everything, at least, to the best of my ability. I told him that I grew up in a house the size of his garage with two siblings and two overworked parents. I told him that I remembered helping my parents sew my clothing back together, how when I was at school I skipped lunch on occasion to study, not because I needed extra time with the material, but because I didn’t have food to bring to school. I told him that I watched my two older sisters get bullied and teased because of their cheap clothing and shoes, and how they got jobs at 14 to not only pay for things they wanted, but to buy me things as well. I told him that I got a job at 14 too, delivering papers every morning at 5am, by myself. I told him that I was working my way through school with a little help from the government, and that each weekend I would have to drive back home and work my retail job so I could buy food and help my parents. I told him that my life was hard, it was hard to be poor, but I never hated it. There were, of course, times when I wished I had money. Heck, I always wished I had more money. But, I told him, I never lacked a family that cared for each other. I loved going home, even if the fridge was empty and heat was off. I remember my dad wrapping all of us in a blanket and reading to us by flashlight. I remember my mom who worked hard, out of love, and how much that meant. I believed that it was my parent’s work ethic that pushed me to do so well in school and that even when I had a patched suit, two sizes too large, I still would win debates just to prove to people that hard work is more than appearance, but rather production and results.  

                “…it was hard, man.” I finished, “but it made me who I am ya know?”

                Jordan sat on the bed for another few seconds, just staring off into space. “Yeah.” He said, getting up off the bed and walking over towards me. “I know I’m making the right choice here, Kyle.” He said, “and make it $70,000 a year.” He smiled.

               

                The next four years were a blur for both Kyle and Jordan. That summer, the two spent nearly every day together on the Cape as Kyle learned what it was like to be Jordan. In return, Jordan gained the first true friend he ever had. When school came around that next August, it was Jordan who dropped him off at the door, shaking his hand and wishing him luck. Jordan then flew to South Korea and continued to help build his Dad’s company while Kyle plowed through Harvard, living the college life he had missed as a 16 year old, skittish Freshman at the University of Blah. After graduation, Jordan gave Kyle $100,000 and Kyle gave Jordan a book. He had written everything down, starting from the first day they met in February. A few years later, Jordan published the book as “fiction” and if rumors are true it will soon be a major motion picture, The Wolf of Harvard.