The Lion of Clem

At one time Jesse Brassaville was the prize catch of Clem, the Pearl of the Tri-Pasture Area. That was back when he was on the A-string football team at school, had a full mane of glossy golden hair and could make his pecs dance with a few judicious jerks of his hardened chest muscles. It was the apex of his young lion period, the lovely stretch of high school upperclassman years and the entirety of college, when he could glance in the mirror and rest assured his sidewalk strut would be full of confidence for Clem High’s Big Man on Campus. Life was sweet and he was the king of the jungle; the alpha male in his prime.

Jesse was not exactly a bully in school, but he did enjoy a healthy degree of privileges that young gridiron studs commanded. He knew when to tease and when to back off. He knew how his nod or a single gesture could make or break a classmate's acceptability. His state of mind was reflected in the way he walked. His swagger down the corridors spoke of supreme confidence, his stomp indicated displeasure that a 1,000 word essay was due in three hours and he was still 750 words short; his mosey was a calm borne of an idyllic childhood in a small hometown.

As the years encroached, his young lionhood roared less and less. He gradually lost the length and abundance of his shining blonde locks and his once-firm pecs were outpaced by a sagging belly, evidence of an increasingly sedentary lifestyle. It was hard for Jesse to admit he was no longer the lion of his youth. Whenever he looked in the mirror, it became harder to convince himself to speak up for that promotion at work, or to flirtatiously hit on the pretty Hooters waitress. His belt size still gave him a 36" waist, but the overhang of the belly above reminded him of his uncle, whom he once dismissed as an "old man" at forty years of age.

Then work promotions passed Jesse by in favor of other, younger lions. He had the work experience but he no longer had the pizazz. He had to struggle just to get the weary attention of the plain-looking girls at the Tubs o’ Suds Bar and Grill. He was reluctant to revisit the gym ever since he split his pants up the back seam when he sat at the butterfly press.

In his mind, he was still an alpha male. Sometimes if he brushed his hair at the right angle and sucked in his gut and squinted a little, he could still make out that young lion in the mirror on his closet door. That was the Jesse Brassaville he remembered best. That was the Jesse of his heyday, the Jesse he presented to the women on Match.com and PartnerNow.com and HookUp.net. That Jesse was the one they wanted to meet. If they could have only met him back then in the summer of his life, when caloric intake and fatty deposits were just phrases other people used., before Viagra commercials were mocked and not taken seriously as a possible solution. Before his bed pillow lost its partner and his toothpaste ran out twice as fast as it did now.

Part of it was his stubborn nature, sure; but if Jesse was really truthful with himself, if he was really honest about his current state of being, it was his desire to cling to those glory years just a little longer that brought him to this current state of despair. The image in the mirror only retained a glimmer of recognition, when life on a savannah of indulgence was for the taking by a young lion.

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