smiling, we’re known; frowning, we’re alone
Darrel’s red hair made a spectacle of itself. Sideburns mated to his orange moustache. The handlebars gave his long nose gravity. A man as a person, a clown’s personality.
This worked in his favour at the dealership, a sales rep known more friendly than slick. Quality products, he’d say by introduction, sell themselves without hype or persuasion.
They sold on pace to make downpayment; a home of their own, no renting a basement. Thoughts then turned to starting a family, but snug for them meant tight with a baby.
So Darrel resolved to improve his chances. He took out a loan and started night classes. He’d long desired to become a teacher, a role he admired and it suited his nature.
He engaged, praised, modelled, encouraged. Guide at their side, his pupils all flourished. His second year brought a cohort from hell. From fires to fights and threats if you tell.
End of the year, on overnight excursion, Darrel’s assigned dorm room supervision. A couple girls exit and laugh in the hall, inside they’re chugging a bottle of swill.
The bottle’s from home, one of them saying, but don’t go in—it’s a strip-drink game. In clear, firm voice announce your concern. Instead he burst in, worried about harm.
His exit, immediate, not soon enough. A couple of girls stood up, both in the buff. Parents focused fury to distract the fact of their unlocked liquor cabinets.
Investigation ensued and Darrel transferred. Now back selling cars, or so I have heard, Darrel’s red hair and his career, both gone. The clown now frown—smile painted on.
