A Nerdy Model: Chapter 1 High School

Hi, my name is Sawyer. Michael Sawyer. What I'm about to tell you, is the story of how a nerdy loser like me, became something awesome. Something I never thought I'd be.

Let's start here. I'm in my junior year in high school.

It's about seven a.m. when I arrive at the P.A. After weaving through the usual throng of panhandlers, lunatics, and police, I go inside and get to the escalator (the school bus is on the third floor). And what happens? I get approached by some random person. I get ready with my "I don't have money for you."

Let's call this guy Smelly. Smelly was... well, why do you think I named him that? He was also really dishevelled - he hadn't shaved, bathed, or changed his clothes in days, it looked like. "Hey man," he said. I tried to ignore him, but there was someone in front of me on the escalator, so I couldn't walk away. "Hey," he said. I glanced over.

Smelly was younger than I expected. Maybe in his thirties. "You make good money?"

"I little," I said.

"How much?"

Now, I certainly don't feel safe doing salary discussions with complete homeless looking strangers, so I just said, "I do okay."

"No, specifically, how much?"

I gave him an income bracket, thinking it would shut him up. "That's pretty good," he said. "Do you meet girls?"

Uh oh. I don't like where this is going. "Sometimes," I said.

"Where do you meet them?"

I'm at the top of the escalator and trying to figure out how the hell to get out of this conversation - my bus seems painfully far away. "I don't know," I said. "Mostly, through friends, um, I don't know. Around."

"That's cool. What do you think the trick is to meeting girls?" You know, I could understand if I were wearing a tux and drinking a martini or something - but why this guy making me his personal Ann Landers? But I looked at him and said, "Someone once told me that you have to be happy in your life first, because a relationship won't fix things in your life, if they're already broken."

Translation: "Try bathing!."

"That's profound, man," he said. "You like to fuck girls, right?"

I blinked. "Uh... what?"

"The reason I ask," Smelly says. "Is that I'm a pimp."

Okay, wait a minute. Now I've never met a 'pimp' before, but I've seen them on TV. They probably smell like cologne and cigarettes, I'd imagine. This guy smelled like a combination of feet and sour milk. He also looked like he'd been using the wrong end of the toothbrush all his life. I don't know my Don Magic Juans from my Wayne Bradys, but this guy did NOT look like a pimp.

"I got all sorts of ladies in New York. You like Spanish girls? I got hot ones!"

Now, imagine this guy in your mind. Try to imagine the woman who would pay him a cut of her sexwork earnings, and maybe even call him Daddy. That's the wares he's selling. A note to potential pimps out there, your appearance is a reflection on your hos.

I realize this conversation has gone on long enough, so I bid him good bye and go up the escalator to my bus.

"You sure, man? I GOT HOT BITCHES!" he yelled after me. A woman in front of me on the escalator looked back down.

"I don't know," I shrugged. "Pimp." I wish I'd said "Pimpin' ain't easy."