The Essay That Wrote Itself Part 3 (Finale)
And so it was. The day of destiny had come and somehow Dan
had jammed himself into this awful predicament of:
-biting off more than he could chew
-drowing in a pool of hype
-living in the shadow of his family name
-taking on a daunting essay to sound amazing
-locking himself in a library to write said essay the night
before it was due.
Oh Danny boy - the pipes were, in fact, NOT calling.
The last thing Dan apparently remembered was floating in a
massive vat of Beau's Beer at the Lugtread Lager Brewery in
Vankleek Hill. But in his dreamy state, and while he was
realizing in his conscious mind that he was in a dreamy state, he
tried to drink as much beer as he could but for some reason,
the beer was staining his clothes in a tri-colour rainbow-esque
fashion. The beer was, in essence, turning into a rainbow - a
beam of post-rain light deflecting off of the earth's atmosphere
and while he tried to drink it, he realized that he was falling
through cold air - with colours all around him - unable to
take anything into his mouth. All the while, he kept falling
through the rainbow as a lake appeared below him in rapid
form - a black, deep-bluey lake with a colourful tube that was
getting bigger and bigger. And all of a sudden (in the dream, of
course), Dan was the Kool-Aid man - a giant glass pitcher,
falling through cold air with many colours about to hit a
lake. And SMASH!
Dan awoke to the sound of a clock chime somewhere on the
Carleton campus. Due to his massive night of drinking with
the drummer of Arcade Fire and his state of delirium, he had
slept with his head down post-head bob (to a Bob song,
in actuality) and accumulated quite a sea of drool on his
camo pants. He looked at the clock on his computer after
refreshing the screen - 7:31 AM. He also saw that the empty
word document he had opened yesterday was in fact still
completely blank. Devoid of words. A blinking cursor.
A laughing cursor. HA_YOU_SUCK_LA_COCK_...or so it
seemed to say. The essay was due at 8:00 AM - a mere 29
minutes away - and Dan hadn't composed a lick of the
most meagre sentence structure.
Dan, with his flushed face, pounded the desk. He grabbed
his hair and wished he could have pulled it all out as
anything would have felt better than what he was feeling -
complete failure. The thought of his parents, profs and
friends finding out about this made him feel queasy and
wrong all over. Dan broke out in a cold sweat and stared
into the early morning winter sun - so cold and bleak but
yet, so raw and beautiful at the same time. A hot tear
rolled down Dan's flushed face.
SLAP! A hand whacked Dan square in the back. He turned
to see who it was, thinking it was a mad librarian. It was
not - It was his scarved/toqued writer friend - Matt
McKechnie. Matt had a semi-smile on his face but also a
bit of an annoyed look. His gruff beard and barrel chest,
mixed with his keen fashion sense, made him a swaying
lumberjack of a man who attracted attention due to his
keen wit and verbose conversationalism. Matt, although
a decade older than Dan, had remained friends with Dan
through odd venues and has been a successful music
writer. Along with writing whenever he wants for Rolling
Stone, Spin and The Huffington Post, Matt had quite a
laundry list when it came to writing (especially since he
currently spent a month with Paul McCartney in his
Italian Villa after publishing 'The Truth About Lennon').
Matt was a happy-go-lucky guy person but also a very
busy writer. Dan was a little shocked to see him in the
humble abode of the Carleton Library.
'Come on Dan'
Matt squeaked out. 'I've been up all night, ok? I want to
get some breakfast. Let's do this.' Dan stared blankly
back at Matt - 'Wha?' Dan retorted with eyes half open.
'What the fudge are you talking about, Matt?' Matt peered at
Dan with a sneering annoyance. 'Daniel - I don't have time
for your stoner games. I - WANT - TO -EAT -
BREAKFAST. Let's get out of this dumper.'
Dan looked puzzled, perplexed and now angry. He wiped his
sleepy eyes and stood up to face Matt in a pissed off state. 'Look
Matt - o FAMOUS Matt - OOOHH! Rolling Stone MATT! If you're
finished with your little soliloquy or joke or whatever this little
GAME is, take two steps BACK because you're PISSING ME OFF!'
Matt was in shock and saw the severe frustration in Dan's eyes.
'What the H E double ringette sticks are you talking about, D? It's
all good, dude!' Matt smiled dopily. Dan pounced 'NO! It's NOT
FUDGING ALRIGHT!! I was supposed to write an ESSAY - A
FUDGING WORLD CLASS ESSAY - AND NOW...I have nothing.
I'm out of this school - I'm out of my family - I'm just...out.'
Dan was winded and sat back down in the chair holding his
head.
Matt smiled and put his hand on Dan's shoulder. 'Brendan still
doesn't know how to use his damn iPhone, does he?' Dan moved
his head slightly...and thought back.
The buzz. The cell phone. It buzzed before Dan fell asleep.
Brendan.
Matt grabbed a dusty chair from the lectern beside Dan's and
sat down beside the troubled mess.
'Dude - check your cell phone', Matt jested. Dan looked up and
slowly but willingly reached in his London Fog trenchcoat
pocket and found his cell - one bar of battery left. He had not,
in fact, turned it off and there was a new message indicator.
Dan flipped his ancient cell and hit the left action button
while Matt stretched out in the uncomfortable study
chair. It was a text - from Brendan. It read: 'Dude - I'm sorry
- you're not an ass. Sounds like an ass situation, though. I
am calling Matt. He'll know what to do. Oh - and by the
way - I'm turning the iPhone thing back on so BITE it.
- sent from my iPhone'. Dan, still confused and groggy,
looked over at Matt, still annnoyed.
'Okay - great. How are you gonna help me, Mister Rolling
FUDGING Stone? I mean really - What - did you...did you
write a FUDGING essay for me about Jungian Rhythms in
modern music LAST NIGHT?' Matt looked at his nails. 'Nope -
I did not.' Dan sighed. Matt reached into his plaid satchel
which was littered with Mudhoney and Dinosaur Jr buttons.
'I DID, however, write an essay about Jungian Rhythms
about 7 years ago when I went to Guelph.' Matt handed
Dan a thick, fully bound and pressed essay. Dan's eyes were
saucers. 'Don't worry', Matt whispered - 'It was a 98 percent.'
Dan blinked back at Matt holding the warm papers with
mouth a-gap. Matt whispered again - 'That's an A plus,
Daniel.' Matt stood up and pushed in his chair. 'Dude -
I gotta pinch a serious loaf. Meet ya downstairs. Eby is
meeting us there with some of his weird hippie friends.
Hopefully, his vegetable oil truck will get us to the damn
breakfast place.'
And like that, Matt was gone. Dan wasn't sure whether to
cry or laugh. He stared at the essay - his ticket to the next
step - and wondered if he was still dreaming. He stood
up and began gathering his things and cracked a deep
smile.
As Dan packed up his things, he saw the old librarian,
peering at him from down the hall, shaking her head. Dan
raised up the essay, in her direction, and she seemed
taken aback. Dan, in a state of re-kindled passion, began
singing very loudly (not at all at a library volume level)
the old Dionne Warwick hymn 'That's What Friends Are
For' while giving the librarian the finger.
