Rejection

Too Smelly

  If the numbers don't matter, why do people care about it?

  No one liked Jerry. He was strange, they said. He always came to school in those ripped up jeans with the soil stains and that holey white t-shirt he never washed. His hair was grimy, there was dirt trapped under his fingernails, and his teeth were yellow. He smelled, and no one wanted to know him. He was probably up to no good, they said. Teachers avoided him too, for they knew that he stank.

  Jerry never minded. He had known right from the start that no one wanted to have anything to do with him, and he accepted that fact. He ate his lunches alone, he did his projects alone, and he walked home alone. Jerry knew that he was different from the rest, and that meant logical rejection from their society. There was always someone that was nice enough to drop him an uneasy smile, but that was as far as it went.

  Everyone avoided him.

  He stank.

  “Don’t you feel lonely?” His counselor asked.

  “Yeah.” He said.

  “Then why don’t you do anything?” She asked.

  Jerry shrugged, an apparent sign of defeat.

  “I will never fit in.”

  Jerry liked routines. He liked the familiarity of doing the same things over and over again, and their avoidance became a routine too. He would go to school, listen in class, keep his eyes low, and never ever talk to anyone. Two more years, and he would finally be a senior. He could finally go to college and get away from those pointed stares of the other sophomores. Of course, Jerry, like all other lonely people, yearned to have a friend, but he knew that it was impossible. So, he would sit by the corner of the cafeteria everyday, taking pleasure in observing people. It would make him feel as if he was part of their lives. As if. He would listen to their conversations and imagined himself the person listening. How nice it would be to have someone to listen to him. He listened to a boy stuttering, blushing as he asked a girl to the spring dance. Jerry wondered if he would ever get to do that.

  “Then why are you still doing this?” The counselor asked.

  Jerry considered for a moment.

  “I’m not sure.”

  Of course, Jerry never got a partner. He still went for the spring dance anyway. He sat by the corner, and no one bothered about him. He was a weed amongst the roses, the thorn that would never belong. The other students avoided him. Jerry may have changed into a cleaner shirt, they whispered, but don’t go near him. Avoid.

  “Why put yourself through so much misery?” She asked.

  She was always asking.

  “I want to. It makes me feel better.” Jerry said.

  “How?” She pressed on.

  After the spring dance ended, Jerry got up quietly and left. Some students thought it would be fun to follow him. Let’s see what Jerry does, they snickered. Maybe we can find out why he smells, they thought. They grew tired soon enough and gave up as Jerry walked a mile down the streets without stopping. Jerry liked this time of the day. It was his routine. He loved the familiarity of it. He stopped by the yard, treading carefully through the piles of trash.

  “John!” Jerry yelled.

  “Alright mate!” John stuck his head out from the shed. “I thought yer’ ain’t comin’,” He grunted.

  “I need this job.” Jerry said.

  John shook his head with disgust as he spat into the soil, yanking his once white gloves off and throwing them at Jerry.

  “I don’t know what yer thinkin’. Schoolin’ at yer age? Yer gotta be mad. Mad, I’d say.” He muttered.

  Jerry shrugged, ignoring John. He was old. He was lonely. For them, speaking to someone who would listen was a gift, a blessing from heaven.

  “You are old, Jerry. Too old to study. You are being mocked.” She pressed on.

  “Age is just a number.”

  “But high school? Why? Why walk down that path again, when you had abandoned it so long ago?”

  “I never finished walking that path. I’m not a quitter.” Jerry told her.

Jerry pulled on his gloves and started sorting out the trash, placing the ones to be recycled on his left, and the ones that stayed trash on his right. He picked up an old glass bottle, with a rough scratch that read, “1981.” Probably wine. Jerry took it gently and placed it on his left.

  “Never too old to be useful.” He told the bottle. “You don’t need to care what others think.”