The Rule of Being Cool: A Newly Cool Guy's Perspective

 

As told to Kiera Durfee

 

Dear Editor:

I'm quite delighted to be able to pen this article. Some time ago, you see, I was sight-seeing from my squalid home-box (the rats have chewed delightfully perfect-sized eye-holes). After resting from my usual 10 o'clock jaunt, I looked around and saw a fashionable teenager and her group of similarly-aged friends walking from the mall parking lot to their car. The obvious leader of the group was chatting incessantly to her cohort, and she pulled out a pair of what looked like expensive blue jeans from the hip store Hollisthim. Although the jeans were no bigger than a Popsicle stick, imagine my surprise when I saw that her new jeans had big gaping and fraying holes in each knee, the upper thighs, the lower calf area on each side, just below the buttocks, towards the feet, under the pockets, behind the knees, and in the belt area. I then had the most mind-altering epiphany any professional street-dweller could ever have. There was a similarity between those girls and I, for I, like those girls, had holes in my jeans. I had thought my holes a slight hindrance during the winter when bitterly cold air would come in while I was sleeping and give me pneumonia and meningitis staphylococcus. But now, seeing those girls parade those jeans around made my heart swell with pride (and pain from my broken rib). Those holes were beautiful, and I could hardly believe my fate. I had become cool.

 

All of a sudden, I envisioned myself packing my home-box, walking down my alley, possessions thrown over my shoulder. I was moving on to bigger and better things now that I had become cool. As Billy Joel sang in his hit song, "What Happens When Homeless Men Become Cool," "I'm moving out."

 

As my teenage savior stashed her holey Heavens away, I ran out to her to claim my place in her cool circle. Unfortunately, at that moment, I tripped over my lame foot and fell at my savior's feet. I was enveloped in screams of acclamation. They moved away from my grace and shouted things like, "Look at his clothes!" and "Call the police!" which I attributed to the fashion police because I looked quite dashing in my hip holeys. As I struggled to my foot that worked, the girls hurriedly leapt into their BMW drop-top, probably in an effort to give me the royal room I needed. They must not have heard me because I kept yelling, "Stop! Can I try on your jeans? I want your pants!" They drove off in screams and cheering. I was perplexed—I would have given them an autograph if they simply had asked.

 

At that moment, a police car pulled up, and the officers offered, "Why don't you come with us?" I kept trying to tell them, "No, don't worry about me, don't you know who I am? I'm quite cool. Look at my pants!" But the police officers insisted. They booked me a padded room for several days in which the décor did not go well with my jeans. The officers at the station tried to remove my jeans and put an orange jumpsuit on me, but I begged them not to. "They don't have holes in them!" I cried. Finally, after an accident when one of the officers fell onto my head with a hard bat, I was escorted into solitary confinement for a little while until the officers calmed down. I was released from their care shortly after and was determined to find more holey jeans.

 

I walked to the mall, dragging my limp foot behind me. I tried to walk into Hollisthim, but the smell of the store was so atrocious that all around me people were covering their noses as they fled out of the store. I did not want to be caught around whatever was giving off the stench, so I departed immediately. I then found The Knuckle. There was no immediate stench this time, and as I walked in, I had a brilliant idea. Now that I am cool, I should apply for employment! I was quite confident that the managers would see my jeans as being an explicit example of coolness. My holey jeans inspired me to climb the corporate ladder. It was unfortunate that The Knuckle's head employee was out of applications. When I inquired as to whether or not they could print off any more, he said they were out of paper and would never get any more in. Just illustrates the effect of global warming. I then tried to apply at The Chasm, Damp Sea Lion, and Aeroplane. Unfortunately, for one reason or another, I think the employees must have needed glasses (or Lasik—it was that bad) because instead of looking at me or my jeans, they could never find my eyes in order to make eye contact with me. It was quite a shame; I would have been an immense asset to their company. As I was meandering through the water reflecting pool picking up my paycheck, I was struck again by an entrepreneurial idea: I should market my jeans! My mind exploded with taglines as I hurried out of the fountain. I rushed home to my box sweet box and penned this letter to the marketing agency of Calvin and Hobbes Jeans.

 

"To Whom It May Concern:

I am a newly cool individual who would like to be your marketing director. I have some great ideas for these new jeans-with-holes clothing line. Think about these taglines: 'If they're good enough for you, they're good enough for someone without a home!' 'Spend all of your money on clothes that look like mine!' 'Instead of saving for college, buy these jeans!' or even, 'Homeless Holeys!'"

 

I included my box address. I was really quite pleased with the result of the letter and addressed it right away. I went to the post office to deliver my letter, but unfortunately, their sign said "No Shirt, No Shoes, No Service," so I left my letter with a stranger and told her to disregard the white powder on the outside (I had spilled baking powder all over it) and asked them to lick it shut for me. I paid them 29 cents I had found in the fountain and when she dumped my letter in the trash instead of the mailbox, I hammered on the door as loudly and persistently as I could until security came and took me away. I am sure she heard me, though. It will not be long before I receive a job offer to work for the marketing department of a famous jeans company. I walked down the street with a small swagger and winked at every girl I saw (with holey jeans only). My life has turned around, and I am incredibly grateful to those holey-jeaned girls. So, ladies, if you're reading this, thank you for changing my perspective on life. I may not have a golden voice, but I sure have the golden pants. Thank you for helping me to realize how to be cool.

 

Homeless Harold

In front of the library, NEW YORK

 

©2011 Kiera Durfee

 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

 

Kiera Durfee is a wife to a handsome Army guy, mom to two darling and spunktastic little girls, and a student of geniuses at Dixie State College in Saint George, Utah. She is studying to become a high school English teacher so she can teach kids some learnin’. She loves to write about human foibles that she herself exemplifies. In her spare time, she enjoys gardening, being funny, eating desserts, grammar, spending time with her family (unless they’re grumpy), and watching Pawn Stars.