This is a true story about yours truly. I hope you like it. More fiction coming tomorrow night. 
It was a sweltering autumn day, the kind of
day that makes a hairless cat pant in frustration. I entered the University Transfer building at
my school, and made my way up three flights of stairs to my Sociology class. As I passed through the door, I realised that
I was early, but I’m usually early to most of my classes, so I sat at a desk up
front. Slowly, a few older people around
my age entered, and then the younger bunch came in.
“This is going to be a good class”, I cogitated
to myself, as I surveyed the faces.
There were young, middle-aged, and old
people alike of all shapes and colours. Some were thin, and others were obese. I had looked forward to this class, because sociologists intrigue me, in
that they believe that how we act is dependent on our location, social status,
and the like.
When I go to school, I’m usually wearing
blue jeans and a T-shirt. I know how to
dress, but I see no point in it at school. I’m there to learn, not to make a fashion statement. That bunk went away with high school or
secondary school.
Seated at my desk, I awaited the teacher,
whilst talking to the older gentleman beside me. He told me that he spent ten years in the
military, had an associate degree in some field, but had to come back to
school, because his job had been sent overseas. We were good friends from that day forward.
“He’s cute, but I bet he’s poor”, one young
woman whispered, as the redhead beside her muttered, “Yeah, I bet he still
lives at home with mommy”.
I overheard them whispering and snickering
in the corner, but ignored such behaviour. A few minutes later, the professor, a redhead a bit older than me came
bursting through the door. Her being a
redhead and a good-looking one to boot, I never missed a word that came out of
her mouth. She was a smart and voguish
professor, but everyone picked at her because she always wore black.
I explained to the class of young naive
people that the Irish were treated as subhuman not even a hundred years
ago. She, being of Irish decent herself,
was interested in this topic. I brought
her a plaque one day that had a sign, which said, “No Irish Need Apply”. Since then we were close, but anyway getting
on with the story.
I overheard those young women talking trash
about me several times, so I decided to show them up, like the child in me
wanted to. On the last day of class, I
floated through the door, wearing Oakley Sunglasses, a Ben Sherman Nobleman
white dress shirt, with grey stripes and diamonds running along the stripes, Diesel
Viker Jeans, and Sperry Top-Sider Nautical Shoes.
As soon as I got through the door, and my
tantalising scent drifted across the noses of those beautiful faces, I heard a
great gasp from every woman in the room. Even the teacher perked up, when I came in. A whole group of girls came running up to me
asking, “Did you win the lottery or something?”
“No, I figured I would I would show off”, I
said, “I actually own my own home, unlike what I overheard you whispering on
the first day of class. Also, I may not
be rich, but my family is swimming in money.”
I never received so many gazes, winks, and
numbers in all of my life. You see, when
they thought I had nothing, they didn’t have anything to do with me, except for
one or two, but when they found out that my family was loaded, and then they
were all over me. I shocked the
professor, and she used me as an example of why we shouldn’t judge people by
the way the look or dress.
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Jeffy, I must say you have courage.
But people talking trash about you?
That makes me sad…
I normally don’t show off like that, but those young women deserved it.
By the way, I wasn’t trying to insinuate that all women are after money. Oh quite the contrary, men, myself included, are after the money as well.
People generally try to demean anything that they don’t understand…