by G E Barr

Created on: June 09, 2010

So it happened that a certain Michael Smythe of a certain small town in Kansas took it upon himself in the Quixote way, to find beauty.  The beauty he sought, was of mind and manners.  As well, he yearned for a beautiful companion.

Never mind that Michael Smythe did not know that tedious work by Miguel de Cervantes.  He had the symptoms.

He graduated from highschool, in no fantastic terms, and entered the job force via the employment agency.  Working as a taxi cab driver in Wichita, he listened to many stories over the years. 

At age twenty-five, after having spent seven years as a cabbie, took the advice of a certain comely young prostitute and he became a bar tender.  He watched the patrons of the bar and listened to their conversations and learned to distinguish, in that American way, consumer class.  That is, he learned what was cool and acceptable among the consumers, who, depending on their income and credit troubles had a sliding scale perspective on what was "classy".

At age twenty-six Michael Smythe had acquired an apartment in a vast complex.  It held one bedroom, a bathroom, a kitchen and a livingroom.  His sofa was zebra striped and his carpet was gold.  A brown modern coffee table sat before the sofa and upon that table was a copy of Playboy magazine.  In his bedroom was a fine water bed with fur trimmed boxing.

At age twenty-seven, Michael Smythe added a roomy.  She was the beauty he'd searched for.  He found her in a bar beside a pool table.  Her name was Deborah, and she swore that via her fourth cousins, she was distantly related to Paul McCartney, although it could not be proven.  Deborah was a short girl, with long brown hair, an overbite and forty two D breasts, which quite nearly hid her small legs.

Deborah also had a problem of which Michael was not aware.  Nor did he ever know, that Deborah had slept with all of his friends and acquaintances.  The girl just couldn't help herself. 

At age twenty-nine, Michael Smythe sat in a courtroom awaiting divorce proceedings and blaming himself for the death of his relationship to Deborah, who also slept with his attorney.

At age thirty, Michael Smythe still loved "classy things", but only indulged in very temporary relationships with women.  He bought a Corvette and joined the country club in Wichita.  He listened to the jaded old men and watched the interactions of "classy" people. 

 At forty, Michael Smythe finally realized that beauty was a fleeting thing, and alas, he had no class.  But he had a purple Corvette and his buddies.

All of whom slept with his ex-wife.

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