Assuming Responsibility

This morning, during that half-way point between conscious and un-, I had a dream in which I was still in college, but taking a creative writing course (something I have never done, BTW). It was a standard anxiety dream, in which I’d been given an assignment, and—as usual—had not done my homework. Typical, right?

At least, this time, I hadn’t forgotten to wear pants.

The assignment was simple: write a short account of someone who made a difference in my life. It could be a short story, an essay, even a poem (anything but a song, thank heavens)—my choice.

And yet, I was unprepared.

Until I woke up.

Since I was still unprepared, I went downstairs, poured a cup of coffee, and did my homework.

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Talking Out of Class

I was on my way to school, thinking about excuses I might successfully employ, when my car broke down. I got out and opened the hood, even ‘though I have no idea what makes a car go. I suspect I’d seen this behavior in a movie or something, but staring—sans comprehension—at a bunch of unrecognizable metal things, plus a veritable Medusa of wires and tubes, did little to solve my new problem.

It wasn’t doing anything to help with my assignment problem either.

I was still standing at the side of the road, trying to look as helpless as possible, when a car pulled up behind mine. Relief turned to dread when I saw that the driver of that car was my writing instructor.

“If you leave a note on the windshield, we can leave your car here—for now—and I can give you a lift to class,” he said. I was grateful, but apprehensive about our inevitable conversation.

After climbing into his Prius, and buckling up our seatbelts, he opened the conversation I feared. “Did you find yesterday’s assignment interesting? Not too difficult, I hope?”

“About that…” I paused. “I haven’t had a chance to write it yet—but I have the whole thing in my head.”

“That’s better than nothing. Why don’t you just tell it to me—I’ll treat it as an oral exam instead of a paper.”

“‘Thanks—just let me catch my breath.’ Long pause.

“The working title is ‘Plain Jane.’

“I was on my way to school, one day when my car broke down. I got out and opened the hood, even ‘though I have no idea what makes a car go. I suspect I’d seen it in a movie or something, but staring—without comprehension—at a bunch of unrecognizable metal things, plus a veritable Medusa of wires and tubes, did not solve the problem.

“I was still standing at the side of the road, trying to look as helpless as possible, when a car pulled up alongside of mine. The driver was a girl who might have been a student at the college, but I’d never seen her before. She rolled down her window and asked, “You’re not a murderer, are you?”

“‘Not so far.’ It was stupid thing to say, considering that I could really use her help.

“Fortunately, she just laughed and said, ‘Get in.’

“Seated in the front seat of her vintage Ford Tempo, I turned to thank her for rescuing me. ‘You know, the damsel is supposed to be the one in distress…’

“She smiled, without taking her eyes off the road. ‘It was not really that heroic, was it?’

“‘Depends on which part in the rescue you’re playing, I suppose. I’m pretty happy playing the rescuee.’ Why is it that some people can do a good deed and think nothing of it… when others expect a freaking medal?”

My teacher laughed. “I like the digression—or rather, aside—it makes the story feel more conversational, as if you’ve invited the reader, listener, into the story. Please continue…”

“For the first time, I took a good look at the driver. She had a pleasant face… not a great beauty… certainly not glamorous… but good enough. ‘You’re very pretty,’ I stuttered awkwardly.

“‘Thanking me for the ride is more than enough, you know. You’re not required to lie to me. Unless you really are a murderer… in which case I suppose I should be grateful for any last-minute kindnesses before my demise.’

“Why is that some people can’t accept compliments? Why do they have to deflect them, like a goalie in a soccer match?

My teacher interrupted, “Don’t overdo the asides. Too many of them slow down the narrative. And the sports simile seems out-of-place. But go on…”

“‘That’s about as far as I got.”

“The assignment,” he explained, “was about someone who made a difference in your life. Do you think your story has fulfilled that expectation?”

“Meeting this ordinary person, who was willing to do a favor for a stranger-in-need, and yet was oblivious to the goodness of her own nature, made me appreciate the small stuff. I now know that I can be charmed by tiny gifts from the cosmos. I don’t need a spectacular display— like the Orchid show at the Botanical Gardens. A single violet breaking through the sidewalk can be more than enough.”

“Good. Put that in, perhaps a bit simpler, and you will have completed your assignment.”

He pulled into his assigned spot in the parking lot, and we walked together to class.

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