Home Introduction Author Chronological
The Education of Jacob Fox By
by Jacob Blue Fox
Jacob Blue Fox -- all rights reserved

Black eyes suck, just a fact of life. I mean what do they do when they have those stupid sex education classes in middle school? Do they teach girls to hit a guy right in the eye? Why do the men have to watch those stupid sex videos made by Baptists who most likely never had sex anyway, when the girls are getting self-defense? My new little flaw came from my lack of knowledge of classification. There was this weasel girl sitting

by the bar, I was just trying to be friendly to a strange face. She was kinda cute and her long body was sitting all alone on the stool. So I come, walk up and said a cheesy line that should have made her laugh. What's a rodent like you, doing in a place like this? WHAM! Now my left eye looks like something from Rocky. My glasses also took a beating that I couldn't afford, lucky for me I know a furry ophthalmologist who might just be willing to help out a poor college student. I didn't know weasels were under a different classification than rodent. I passed Introduction to Biology, barely, but I forgot most of it when I started my Athletic Training studies.

''PopNet for idiots, no. Internet modifications for morons, no. Where the hell is it? Here we go.''

The book, which I was going to spend $35.99 is a forced feeding on SCAB PC. At the counter of the McLeod Bookstore was Sasha Sharma. It was the end of the spring term and she wasn't busy. Her black hair came down to her shoulders and God, next to Mazzy O'Connor she was the hottest bookworm in McLeod. Sasha's dark skin and slight Indian accent made for an even more seductive package. Also her little obsession for black mini-skirts made her look nothing like the computer science geeks that usually hang around the labs.

'' 'Political Correctness for Norms By Roland P. Waterhouse.' What did you do this time, Blue?'' She asked.

''Nothing! I just called someone who was a weasel, a rodent and she took offense . . .'' Clutching at my eye, I continued, ''then she took several minutes of consciousness away from me.''

Sasha gave me that look that my mom would give me all the time when I did something incredibly stupid. I would have given her my classic smirk, but my face hurt too much.

''Couldn't you have talked to her?''

''Nah I ran with my tail in between my legs. Could you do me a favor and keep this on the down low, my reputation is still hurting from the 'incident.' '' I begged.

''Of course, when you become president, I'll just blackmail you.''

''You and a million other people, thanks.''

It was 5:00, if I got home before six I could read the book and maybe apologize to that girl tonight. Political correctness has been kicking me in the ass lately. What happened to that nice little kid who was every girl's best friend because he was the safest guy in school? The 'Incident' has now become the campus joke that plagues me everywhere I go. Mazzy has forgiven me, but the rest of the campus his still in stitches. It all started when I was touring the campus, trying to decide what college to go to when the director forced me into the library. It was June and the weather was sticky. The sports facilities and training rooms were only the places I wanted to check out. I was cranky, and this bald headed guy was jerking me around. My sarcasm couldn't be contained.

''This is the library and over there is Mazzy O'Connor a student.'' The director said as he pointed out the fiery red head.

I was a jerk back then, ''Gee O'Connor, red hair, green eyes, would she happen to Irish?''

Mazzy was dog tired, cranky, and she already had a quick fire temper. She misread my comment and started to charge with a large copy of ''War and Peace'' in her hands. When she was angry, her beautiful face looked liked something from Medusa's mirror.

She screamed, ''You have a problem with the Irish?''

I should have ducked and run, but I felt confident. Maybe I should have taken the hint when the director started to shuffle away from me.

''I don't have a problem with the Irish, just people with bad tempers.'' I said, raising my voice.

She was now shrieking, ''I do not have a bad temper!''

''Why then are you yelling in the library?''

Game over, I lost. Mazzy lifted her copy of ''War and Peace'' and slammed the magnum opus into my left foot. As I grabbed at my now broken left foot she curled up a fist and crushed it into my face. It takes a couple of knocks to the head to knock some sense into my otherwise thick cranium. With one good blow Mazzy taught me when to run away. It was 5:32 and the Victorian was as usual quite. I turned on the light above my head and I began to read.

Chapter One: Classification and why you shouldn't bother with it!

Back in the 1990's life was simple, there were animals and people, male and female. Now SCABS has destroyed those classifications. Now what are you going to do, you're still a barbarian when it comes to knowing who's who and what's what. (No Kidding!) To correct the situation first you must remove your ideas about classifying people into groups. For example, if you see a person who looks like a woman and you are in a place filled with SCABS you must realize that person may not be a female. (Duh, don't tell me that I wasted thirty-six bucks on this pile of crap!) A nice 'how are you?' will help break the ice. (No shit pal.) If a SCAB thinks you are unknowing of their condition they may tell you.

At this point I started to look for the receipt. What utter bull, I just wanted to know about classification and all I get is garbage. Frustration was setting in. Is it mankind's destiny to wander the world and not know how to properly communicate to their fellow man? Seven O'clock and all was not well. There was only one way to cure me of my situation, talk to some experts. Once again the resolutions are always in my face. Forget all the books, forget the scientists, and go right to the horse's mouth. (God what an awful pun!) Phil told me that Dr. Stein himself visited the bar on occasions, the man named the disease may be he could help me out on the old classifications. My almost photographic memory of the wildlife book my father gave me wasn't helping any, there wasn't any scientific names or a classification chart to look up. Even if the doc wasn't there I'm sure there would be someone who would help me.

The way my luck was going I shouldn't have been surprised to not only just miss the doc, Phil didn't show up either. The first face I recognized in the tavern was the girl who should be wearing a title belt around her thin body. With quick paws the weasel girl nearly rammed a clawed finger up my nose.

''Why did you call me a rodent yesterday?'' The six foot weasel questioned.

''I . . . I thought weasels were a type of rodent. I . . .I'm sorry if I offended you.''

''Oh . . .'' She then placed both of her pawish hands to her face, ''Oh! Oh I'm so sorry. It's just that I'm new to this. I am so sorry.''

''That's ok. By the way you have a good right hook, Ms.?''

Shyly she said, ''Debby Parent, Mustelid-morph.''

''Jacob Fox, the only Norm of this lovely little section of the world but I tend to act like an ass.''

''Actually there is another norm here, Over by that fox-morph is a norm she's a reporter for the Sentinel. I think her name was Underwood?''

I didn't notice her at first, she was on the verge of debate with Fox Cutter. The fact that I wasn't alone in this dog eat dog world ate away from my uniqueness. I liked being the Norm who was a regular and who actually was normal. Sure norms come in once in the while but they never usually stay unless they knew someone, or they themselves wanted to become a SCAB, those are the strange, confused ones. I guess she was here to get some story, or she was the SCABS beat reporter. The fact she was a reporter like my grandfather didn't hurt in my book.

''How did you know she was a reporter?'' I asked.

''She asked me a few questions, I think she's doing a series of articles on people who have contracted . . .SCABS, like me.''

I saw the sadness spilling out of her eyes, ''I bet that hurt to say.''

Debby nodded and her chest rose to exhale a sigh. I wrapped my giant arm around her and gave her a hug. Tears fell from her muzzle and they caught on to my collar. My attacker lightly sobbed, this was the type of crying that people have to release that final bit of sadness that was trying to hide in the dark corner of the soul. If I know my emotions, she finally was starting to accept her life, and she was going to wake up to a brand new life. Another thing that makes me strange is the fact that I'm the only twenty-year old who still carries handkerchiefs. Kinda old fashion but I like them. She took the cloth and wiped her eyes. Just as quickly as her sadness entered her, at left and she began to fidget. Her beeper went off and like a goalie, she quickly grabbed at the device.

''Oh I'm sorry but I have to go.''

''That's OK I like it when people release their pain. Just don't punch out anybody unless you have to.''

Debby ran out the door and I was standing there. What an irony I am, politically incorrect but yet sensitive enough to know when to shut up.


I turned around and saw the reporter looking at her next story, me. I could hear the slight whirr of her tape recorder. Gently I sat down on the barstool next to her and I asked Donnie for a glass of something caffeine-free. A glass of soda was Donnie's response. I placed the tips of my fingers to my chin and down so they were parallel to the bar, the only bit of sign I knew. Donnie gladly took my thank you, my money and he walked off.

''That was a nice thing you did for that girl.''

I shrugged my shoulders and non-chalantly said, ''Just helping out another human being.''

''What's your name.'' Asked the reporter.

''Just so you know I'm not a SCAB so don't get any ideas from my name, Jacob Fox.''

She made a face, ''Don't tell me you want to become a SCAB.''

''No. I just found a bar and I'm sticking to what I like.''

''Jacob Fox, Jacob Fox, wasn't he the reporter from New Hampshire who wrote for the Leader and the . . .'' Asked Ms. Underwood.

''Boston Globe. Yeah he was my grandfather. I changed my name to Jacob Fox in honor of him.''

''What happened to him?''

''No one knows. He disappeared the day after I was born.'' Chugging the last of my soda I started my story, ''Let me tell you my little fox tail, it's called 'The Education of Jacob Fox' and it's a short little work so it should fit one column''

The paper sat there on the kitchen table and he looked over it like a man possessed. The title exclaimed, 'The Education of Jacob Fox' it was the first thing that caught his eye. On parts of the page were tears mostly of joy. It was the tale of a norm just trying to survive college, political correctness, and the usual pains of life. Morning's first light poked through a cracked open window. Below the morning rush hour was starting to form. A dark figure allowed himself to walk out of the shadows.

''Do you think that it's him'' Questioned the graying fifty-year old.

''It has to be, who else do you know who is named Jacob Fox, and is from Hillsboro New Hampshire?''

The man smiled and said, ''Oh just a person I know who is crazy like a fox, you.''

Home Introduction Author Chronological

Website Copyright 2004,2005 Michael Bard.  Please send any comments or questions to him at mwbard@transform.com