Shirley was
a freshman who shared an art appreciation class, with Laurence. He
now found himself to be a Junior, and his core curriculum was largely
behind him, but Laurence had neglected a necessary credit in
humanities, and he was now taking the art course, in hopes of an easy
“A.”
That
Thursday, Laurence found himself seated immediately behind the cute
freshman. Shirley was wearing a Meatloaf “Bat Out of Hell” tour,
baby-doll tee, and Laurence's concentration wandered away from
classwork, as he scanned a list of tour dates and cities, on her
petite back.
When she
eventually became aware of the attention, Shirley naturally thought
to ask Laurence what this furor about Bitumen might mean. Firmly
determined to maintain an academic focus, however, Shirley reserved
her comments for after class. She was curious, but did not relish any
romantic attention from a person known to all, to be a grinding nerd.
Nerds had a nasty habit of rooking you into their personal hell.
When the
buzzer signaled the end of class, Shirley surprised Laurence, culling
him out of the crowd like a cutting horse. “You know everyone
thinks you're an idiot, don't you?” she queried.
“How do
you know?” Laurence remonstrated. He was stung, but he genuinely
wanted to know his enemy. “You obviously know something I don't, or
you wouldn't be that definitive about it!” This was far from
certain, in his mind, but it made for a good investigative gambit.
“Laurence,
you might as well get the word, 'idiot' tattooed on your forehead.”
Shirley persisted. “Why go 'n fuck with someone like Bitumen?”
Laurence
regarded Shirley as if she had told him not to drink the water. “Is
she off limits or something?” he returned. “Why shouldn't I talk
to her like anybody else?”
Shirley
returned Laurence's gaze, as if he was a six year old child whom she
had just discovered decorating the walls with crayola. “Certain
people, you just don't mess with,” Shirley chastised him. “It's
like waving a red flag to a bull. Laurence, you may be smart 'n all,
but there's rodeo clowns with more good sense!”
“If you're
so smart, why don't you just teach lessons?” Laurence demanded.
“I know my
limits, you jerk. Ever hear of 'picking your battles?'” Shirley was
a picture of indignation. “What do you think Bitumen's family
thinks of leper colonies? Do you fondly imagine you would be a social
conquest? They give money to people like your dad, to look
charitable. But in the world of Charity, you're the hired help, not
some philanthropic rock star.”
“So you'll
agree with me, that they're hypocrites! Hypocrisy is not a new
phenomenon,” Laurence demurred. He was piqued, but he wasn't sure
why.
“Being
destitute isn't a new phenomenon either, chump. You will be checked.”
It was all the warning Shirley knew how to offer an obstinate
intellectual bulldozer, like Laurence. To underscore her point, she
checked her watch, and folded her arms across her chest. “You can
go now!” she intoned.
Having so
recently faced social castigation, Laurence had no choice.
Wordlessly, he left.
