Beatitude 6

What Fresh Hell Is This?

YUCK! Travel Magazine

Oct 04, 2024

Previous Chapter

CHAPTER SIX

Northmont University. June, 1984.

It’s official! Northmont, so far, pretty much sucks.

I actually believe the people here, the teachers, the other students, maybe even the maintenance crew, everybody, they all just want to see me fail. They won’t be satisfied until I have a nervous breakdown outside the Psychology Department. When I’m bawling like a toddler calling for mommy, then they’ll let up. Or maybe I have to be naked, raving hysterically while campus cops wrestle me to the ground.

My first instinct is to exit this nightmare. But I don’t need Thomas Wolfe to tell me I can’t go home again.

Sure, I can physically go back. I just can’t go home a failure. Can’t face my father’s disappointed, hangdog, where-did-I-go-wrong face. Or his diabolical, I’ve-got-you-right-where-I-want-you face.

Dad never liked the idea of me being a wordsmith. He thinks writers are wimps. He’s the kind of guy that would call Ernest Hemingway a pussy. To him, a real man sells hammers for a living. Dad wants me back behind the counter of one of his hardware stores wearing an apron, worrying about inventory, talking sports and weather to his customers. Zawinul & Son, that’s what he wants.

I adjust my sagging backpack and look down at the book in my hand.

Being introduced to new writers like Algren, okay, well, that’s a good thing. And the library here IS amazing. I haven’t fully explored it yet, so I definitely need to get around to doing that.

Charlene’s nice. I like her. I think we could be friends, good friends, platonic friends. I’m not an animal. I can do that.

The food on campus is . . . edible.

Early days.

Things could get better. Maybe even a lot better.

Or they could get worse.

Maybe they should get worse. Maybe that’s why I’m here in the first place. Maybe this horror show is what I need. It’s all part of the writer’s journey.

Dr. Whitman was pretty harsh today, but he’s right about me. I don’t have enough experiences under my belt to be a decent writer.

For once in my life I should follow my dad’s most overused parental advice — “take it like ya got a pair!” I wouldn’t tell him this, but he could be on to something. I think maybe that’s what ya gotta do to get the job done. And I’m gonna get the job done! I’m gonna embrace my conflicts and turn them into art.

I already have an arch nemesis, a toxic mentor, an unrequited love and whatever Megan and the twins represent. If I find a woman who can rip my heart to shreds, stomp on it a few times, then kick it into space, I just might be on my way to a National Book Award, a Booker Prize or something.

This reminds me, I need to take control of this dorm room situation. My family’s string of hardware stores paid for exactly one half of that tiny dump. I’ve got rights.

The journey begins now!

“Mr. Zawinul!”

Oh. Crap. Whitman. I didn’t see him coming. Another plot twist? Already?

“Are you familiar with Dorothy Parker, Mr. Zawinul?”

I’ve heard of her. “Yes, sir.”

“The most vicious member of the Algonquin Round Table’s circle.” Whitman looks me directly in the eyes and adds, “The lady cracked wise like nobody’s business.”

“Yes, sir.”

“She believed aspirational writers should be presented with copies of The Elements of Style.” Whitman snaps open his briefcase, reaches inside, pulls out a copy. “Take it. It’s yours.”

“Thank you,” I say, accepting the book. “ I appreciate—”

“She also believed aspiring writers should be shot while they’re still happy.” He snaps his briefcase shut. “Unfortunately, I forgot my gun.”

I attempt a smile. Is he’s joking or what?

“I see you were curious,” he says, pointing at the Algren novel. “Good man.”

Whitman shot me down in class this morning. He pretty much told me I didn’t have what it takes to be a writer. But now he’s giving me encouragement and a writing tool and . . . I’m confused.

“Curiosity cultivates the cat,” he tells me.

That’s not the quote. Definitely not the quote. “Yes, sir.”

Whitman pulls something from his jacket pocket. “Have you seen these?”

He shows me one of those literary puzzle posts. It reads:

–E– Be ever bricky in the face of the dizzy age (0)

“They’re everywhere,” I say. “Is that from Alice in Wonderland?”

“It’s Victorian slang,” he explains. “To be bricky is to be brave. And the dizzy age refers to the elderly, or perhaps, in this case, considering the setting, maturity.” He pauses to ponder. “Yes! Traversing the tightrope between childhood and adulthood requires courage. Don’t you think?”

“Absolutely.” I quickly respond, like I’ve got a pair.

“You take it.” He hands me the post. “And if you’re truly curious, I saw another one of these at the kiosk near Noyes Hall.”

“Curiouser and curiouser,” I mutter. And immediately regret it.

“Enjoy your adventure.” Whitman walks on. “And all its rabbit holes.”