So a guy walks into a half empty bar, and he snickers at me. Looking all smug, ruining the only chill I had tonight in this space. Not too busy, but not a complete ghost town. Respectable people in corners talking at a normal voice level about politics and art sitting on wobbly wooden chairs at scratched, wooden tables, and he just rolls up in here with a few “buddies,” I presume, as if this were a sports bar! I hate guys like that.
The guys that brought me to my knees crawling and reaching around a dirty tiled floor for strayed, wide-open books and poetry journals as he smirked and chuckled at me. My horn-rimmed glasses weren’t a symbol of intelligence in high school; they were a symbol of my poor choices in shields against these kind of people that roamed throughout high school.
I twiddle with my mechanical pencil as if I’m twirling a baton for a small, yet focused, marching band. With each pat it makes on my thumb, almost to the beat of a moody type of song playing, and then my notebook paper, I’m trying to beat away any past thoughts of teenage angst in my writing. I’ll be twenty-two soon, it has to. I wish it were the cider giving me the headaches instead of the writer’s block.
“Freakin’ nerd,” he said, walking down the hall in satanic triumph.
The frat-faced guy today releases a monstrous belch as I take another sip of my drink. Dribbles plop on my face and shirt imminently.
Was it because of my shirt? Was it because of my glasses? The guidance counselor said it was probably because of jealousy. What did his stupid pretty face have to be jealous about? Why did God decide to bless him with the charm of angels for the faculty and sporty kids and charm of demons for the science and art kids? She also mentioned possible personal problems at home. Like what? Boo hoo, it’s so hard to be pretty and get away with stupid stuff?
“You all right over there?” the guy asks, trying to swallow his last few snickers.
I take the counselor’s advice to breathe, and shout “Yeah. I’m fine. Thanks.”