The voices of excited high school freshmen filled a brightly lit classroom, though their voices dulled as they left the room to head for another class. I was straggling behind like I do sometimes, making sure everything in my book bag was in its proper place. (I am grateful though, it would have been more embarrassing if there were others.)
I took the lone strap of my messenger bag and wrapped it around my shoulder. It slid down until its body rested against my hip. I smiled; I always had fun being a TA for my favorite teacher—Mrs. Olivares. There would be stories about the oddest things in her class, many of them revolving around giving birth, since my English teacher was pregnant. I felt sorry for her; she was miserable all the time. She felt like she was a “hundred months pregnant”—I don’t blame her, pregnancy is not easy on the body. That is why it is on my list of three reasons why I’m glad not to be a girl. The other two are periods and shaving legs. I would be way too lazy to shave my legs; they would be as hairy as the back of Chewbacca. Yep, only three reasons. I’m not sexist, please don’t get me wrong, for I have nothing against women. I believe they are one of God’s most amazing creations, and they deal with issues that would make a grown man cry.
Mrs. Olivares was still a fun teacher though. The other stories in her class would range from the Holland’s St. Nicholas (who had six to eight black men that helped him punish naughty children by kicking them and taking them back to his workshop in Spain, or now-a-days, pretending to kick them and take them back to Spain,) to discussing the lesson that literal crap taught us in David Sadris’ essay “Big Boy”—the only David Sadris essay the we’re allowed to read.
What was about to happen, was going to join that collection of tales.
I was about to leave when I saw a scrap of trash snaking between two desks. I thought I would help out Mrs. Olivares by throwing it away. I noticed when I got closer that it was a pink and white fabric—a shirt maybe? Whatever it was, somebody had dropped it. I blindly took it to my teacher’s desk. “Mrs. Olivares, somebody left this. What do I . . .” My eyes were wide. The fabric was hanging in front of my face—it was a thong! A thong! I had a thong in my hand! I’m the kind of guy that looked at the floor the one time I was forced to go into Victoria’s Secrets, so that my eyes would not stare at the pictures of women in their panties. The guy that would never dream of touching ladies’ underwear until marriage. What was I to do with it?!
Mrs. Olivares’ eyes grew big when she lifted her head from looking at papers. She said something.
I thought she had grabbed it and put it behind her desk, but apparently, I had dropped it onto her desk as I rushed out of her room with burning, red cheeks. Why would someone leave a thong in the floor?!
Mrs. Olivares quickly disposed of the thong in the trash and rushed to the bathroom to drench her hands in hot water.
Lesson learned, doing the right thing is not always easy. Or was it to leave strange objects be? Clean up your mess so others won’t have to? Don’t litter? There has to be a moral in this somewhere. Hmmmmmm, whatever. Keep your personal items from falling out of your backpack (especially if it has your name on it). Better yet, leave them at home. You don’t need them at school anyways.