Clash of the Pretty Boys

by Aaron Crary

As appears its marketing goal, the law school is made up of a diverse student body. With different ethnic backgrounds, lifestyles and eating habits the diversity here is quite evident. And I don’t think anyone would question that our creators plan, in his infinite wisdom, has failed by constructing such diversity not only in our school, but among the general population as well. But as consequence of doing so there are certain members of the society, and specifically here in our law school, who find themselves much more physically appealing and subject to more than the normal amount of attention given to the general public.
Although the majority of my time is spent looking at our female makeup here at the school, it would be childish for me to deny that I have not noticed our male population as well. My inquiry for today is a study into the makeup of some of the more appealing male members of our school.
As would be expected, I use myself as the general template for comparison. But unfortunately, as much as I would like to confirm that I am in fact the model of physical prowess amongst the three classes, I just don’t think my credibility could take that kind of backlash with such a claim.
My good friend and fellow 3L Will Fletcher does not hold the same self restraint. The self-proclaimed heartthrob does not doubt for a minute that he is amongst the top. I know Will lifts a lot of weights, giving him man pecks that would make any 13 year old girl jealous. But the fact is that one, Will is not tall enough; and two, although this should not matter in a vote such as this one, no one likes him and therefore he cannot be a favorite in any such vote.
No, my tale today focuses on a certain specimen, a one Trent Belnap, who found himself struggling with these such ideals. As it goes, Trent came onto the scene in 2005. The first year was easy for Trent. There were few who had the gall to question the brilliance this young man embodied. A modest stature of 6’3’’ topped off with a blond-haired, hazel-eyed face that seemed to be chiseled by the breath of angels on their way up to heaven, Trent was truly without equal.
And Trent relished his role. He knew his place. He was born a creature of beauty, and as such did relatively little to reinforce what his maker had so gratuitously bestowed upon him. Trent was happy to sit back and offer his welcome contentment from his modest perch, always off in the corner, never threatening or condescending, a soft reminder of what could be.
But a life at the top it was not to be. Unfortunately for Trent, when his second year came he ran into something he never expected.
Trent had never been so confused, a spectacle before his eyes he had never before witnessed. A passing of the torch it appeared, an event that Trent had never partaken in and as such was not and could never be prepared for.
The individual before him was truly one that seemed unspeakable. Whereas Trent had found comfort in the fact that his face could perform wonders among the masses, he was now faced with a prospect who was equal not only in complexion, but in physical stature as well. No, it was no secret this man, a Craig Weaver they called him, spent time at the gym.
This bothered Trent. A certain depression came over him. Not for any jealousy he felt towards this new man. Trent just had never been able to prepare himself for a world that apparently could be yanked out from under him so quickly.
But Trent, a casual intellectual of sorts, maintained to find out what this new creature meant in his life. Was it fate, or destiny if you will, that propelled Trent to accept his place as a thing of beauty, though now not one superior? Or was he now given a choice, two paths departing with Trent free to decide which of those his life would take; a) sit back and accept his role, or b) take initiative to regain what once was bestowed upon him.
Trent reserved himself to a strict regimen. He ran in the morning. If it was too cold outside then an hour and a half on the treadmill at the gym. Lunch was restricted to a somber meal, low in carbohydrates, and high in seduction. After dinner it was a full workout, alternating upper or lower body every other day. It was a full time job.
Trent had made up his mind. Whether he had a choice or not, he no longer cared. What was important was that he now felt the choice was his and he was determined to see it through. Trent devoted his life to this one goal. A goal that was his to be had, and his alone. And that is how it has been ever since.
If you go to the gym these days, there is a likely chance you will see Trent amidst his routine. A once depressed figure, he has found recent purpose in this new life. But I do warn you, do not question the man. For what he does is personal, his actions an everyday reminder of what he is and now must become. But if you are so lucky to get close to him as you pass by him at the gym, keep your ears peeled. He does speak; it is rumored, though in soft whispers. And every time it is the same, so they say, a persistent mantra reminding himself always, “Craig Weaver, you think you have me now, but just you wait.”