Dave's Story

From Omnictionary

I just added to a book that is partially written by an actual author! *dies*

Who?

Here's what used to be on the Community Portal Page, for anyone who wants to keep writing on it... not a bad start. ETA: we're at 4,408 words

Once upon a time, in a world full of suck, there lived a girl named Nikki. Nikki was a lonely nerd. She wore horn-rimmed glasses and cut the crusts off her peanut butter and boysenberry jam sandwiches (on wheat). One day, she went on YouTube and searched "Nerd". She began to watch Brotherhood 2.0 videos, and slowly but surely started to grasp her own levels of awesome. Through the Brotherhood 2.0 channel she found out that there was a whole community of people called "Nerdfighters". These Nerdfighters were working together to decrease world suck.

There were many of them, thousands registered to fight the forces of apathy, ignorance, and other things deemed "uncool" by this community. Nikki read about them meeting up and for the first time in a long time felt a little hopeful that maybe she wasn't so alone in this world after all. As she learned more about these Nerdfighters and their plan to decrease the amount of suck in the world, she became intoxicated by the idea and could think of nothing else. How wonderful, she thought as she pushed back her hair into her best efforts of a pony tail. She went to bed that night wondering if she had ever seen a Nerdfighter...

                                                        * * * 

Dave put his head down on the desk. His 8 AM Introduction to American Literature class should have been the highlight of his day. He loved books, all books, especially old ones. There was just something about they way they smelled. It was like what old people might smell like if you could edit out the medicine and the grungy clothes and make it so that they were made up only of the knowledge accumulated over the years. That was it: it smelled like ancient knowledge. Like the ancient lost pyramids of scholars, like the great destroyed libraries, like the first written word.

"Oh, jeez," he thought, realizing that Dr. Kamberland was calling his name and the only thing on his mind was what books smelled like.

In this American Literature class there were 27 girls, er, women. The first day of class, Dave had been excited about it, one of them would probably talk to him eventually. Having been the geeky kid in highschool, he knew that he needed all the odds to be in his favor if he was going to make contact with the other gender. Unfortunately, he learned the hard way that one of them did talk to him all the time, it was Dr. Kamberland, who was constantly eager to "hear a male perspective," and being the only y-chromosome in the class, that meant Dave. This was the reason that he had his head on the desk, and this was the reason that he dreaded this class. Dave spent most of his time trying to pretend that he didn't exist. So he stammered through the best response he could come up with, and waited for the class to be over.

"Is there something interesting down there?" The voice scurried over the tops of his books, into Dave's ears.

For a second Dave actually thought she might not be calling on him again. That maybe just maybe she would see fit to leave him alone just this once. But when he jerked his head up, Dr. Kamberland's was looking straight at him. "Um.. um... well... you see..." he stammered just long enough to send a trill of uncomfortable laughter through the entire classroom. Darn.

Dr. Kamberland let him off the hook with a twitch from the corner of her mouth. "What do you think about what Missy just said."

His eyes flicked over to Missy, who didn't even have the courtesy of looking back on him. Beautiful and terrible Missy Trumbull, with hair the color of American chocolate and skin the shade of melted cheese. He resisted staring at her, but at least he remembered what she said, "I don't agree."

"And why not?"

"Well, why would Fitzgerald spend half a page talking about that billboard, if it didn't mean anything?" He shot out. "I mean he spent so long setting up this division between the old money and the nouveau riche. Isn't this just another distinction?"

Missy still didn't bother looking back at him. Dave bit back the nasty thought running through his head, while Dr. Kimberland tossed out, "Then what do you think it means?"

He wanted to say something clever, but it was eight o'clock in the morning and the gears in his brain hadn't quite started clicking yet. Instead, the words just dribbled out of his mouth. He had no control over them, and he didn't even really remember them. All he knew was that Dr. Kimberland was satisfied with the unknown word choice, he still had an hour left to go in the class before he was free, and that he did not want to be called on again, so he continued to pretend as if he was not present.

It was like this every class. "Enter. Get books out of bag. Lay head on desk. Stay still. Get called on. Cringe. Answer and humiliate self. Rinse, Repeat," he thought dully.

                                                    * * *

The next morning Nikki woke late with a start. Her alarm clock had failed to go off at all. During the 2.5 minutes it took her to take the fastest shower of her life and get dressed in clothes from the unfolded basket of laundry on the floor, Nikki pondered if her alarm clock's stubborn lack of functioning was some kind of divine punishment for being an evil baby grownup in some past distant life.

With an apple in her hand and a book bag over her shoulder, she set out running towards school, late again, drawn forward with the hope that if she could get to class on time she would avoid the horrible feeling of 32 dizzying student faces (and one stern-looking history teacher) turning toward her accusingly as she tries to sneak quietly into the classroom after the lecture has started.

Stealth, for once, actually worked for Nikki. She slipped into the classroom, totally unnoticed and she smiled at the good luck. However, people did notice, later on in the lesson, when she tripped and fell over her clunky boots when she went to sharpen her pencil, and they also noticed, when she repeated the action, on her way back to her seat

She stared, red faced and embarrassed, at her desk, whilst waiting for her classmates to finish chuckling at her expense. Nikki hated this class. She hated the it was the first class in the morning, and she hated that she had it four times a week. She hated that it smelled like a can of AXE exploded everyday and that it was cold and sometimes sticky. She hasted that she was an A student except for this class, and that it was dragging down her GPA. But what she hated most of all about her American history class was that she actually didn’t have to take it and that her suffering was in vain. The only reason that she was here was because of her father, who just happened to be a historian, and who , also, just happened to have full authority over the classes in which she enrolled.

The Chemistry major was sure that she'd need some of that American history knowledge someday. She wasn't sure when, and she couldn't actually come up with a scenario in which it was useful. But after 20 years of being assured that it was she stopped trying to argue with her father. She had two hours before her next class so she headed back to the dorm. Finding her roommate, Tess, still asleep and snoring loudly, she dropped her bookbag and headed back down to the cafeteria for lunch.

                                               *  *  *

Somehow Dave managed to drift through the rest of the class without getting called on. When Dr. Kimberland finally announced, "All right, chapters three through five for Friday." He let a small sigh slip past his lips. He lounged in his seat for a few extra seconds, letting the rest of the class file past him.

He didn't manage to catch Missy Trumbull's eye. In fact, she breezed past him like he wasn't even there. It wasn't surprising. It went like that everyday. She'd show up first, be the first to raise her hand, always have a quick comment, she was intelligence in a cellophane wrapper.

Some days he wanted to kill her.

Some days he wanted to kiss her.

"Pah" he thought, lurching to his feet just as she was stepping past him. The words were poised on the edge of his lips. He'd explain all about Fitzgerald and Zelda, about how he'd written This Side of Paradise so he could make enough money to be accepted into her life. "Missy." He spoke.

She kept walking past him.

"Missy," he raised his voice, taking a step toward the aisle. His heart in his throat.

She was at the door now. She hadn't even bothered to slow down.

He scurried into the hallway after her, but by the time he'd gotten there, she'd disappeared into the crowd.

But he wasn't going to give up yet. Scanning the hall for her, he didn't even bother to check out the sorority chicks, with their bottle blonde hair. Or the occasional hipster, crouched against the wall with a cabbie hat cocked to the side. He saw them all, but no Missy Trumbull.

He sauntered outside, brain still fogged up, he slumped against the wall.

"Penny for your thoughts?"

"You'd be getting ripped off," Dave replied, without thinking. He turned to see a man in his late 40's, balding wearing a tweed jacket with patched elbows slumped in the doorway of the neighboring classroom. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean anything by that, Professor..."

"Miller. I teach American History here, and I didn't exactly have a lot of luck with the ladies when I was in school, either."

"How'd you know it was a girl thing?"

"Well," the professor said sighing. "I've taught here for almost 20 years, and it seems that anytime a man is making a face like the one you've got on, it's future, family, or females. I had a 33.3% chance."

Dave chuckled, despite the gnawing in his stomach. "Well..." He really didn't want to tell his life story to a random prof.

But calling RTU a small college was unfair, it was more like a large high school. Teachers would randomly come up and talk to the students about their lives. Dave hadn't gotten used to it yet. Anonmynity was always the best defense.

However, the lopsided grin the teacher gave him made him chuckle again. "Well... what do you think about Gatsby?"

"The Great Gatsby, huh? It depends what you think about Thomas Jefferson."

"Thomas Jefferson?"

"You do know who Thomas Jefferson is, right?"

"Of course I know who Jefferson is."

"And do you know what John Adam's last words were?"

Dave wasn't going to get shown up twice in one day, so he muttered, "Sure"

"They were, 'Jefferson lives,'" He kept on grinning. "And you aren't going to get very far bluffing."

"What does that have to do with Gatsby?"

Miller clapped the boy on the shoulder as he passed by, "Well when you figure that out, I think you'll get your girl problem solved."

Shaking his head, David started off to his next class. All he wanted right now was to curl back up with Gatsby, but he had Introduction to Psychology with Brewst next. He could skip, but... What else did he have to do right now? And Brewst spent most of the class facing the chalkboard, so maybe he could get some sleep.

He trotted across the courtyard past the few last stragglers, and stopped paying attention to where he was going, as he was thinking about the professors last words. and then somebody tripped on him. He fell as if he had died, a plank caught in the breeze, thump.

Clutching his stomach, Dave hunched over and dazedly looked at the attacker's shoe. He'd been undone by a green Converse that was laced up with a white ribbon - the type people use on Christmas presents. He must have stared at it for a few seconds too long because he heard a voice coming from over head.

"They aren't that interesting are they?"

Shaking his head, he looked up at the girl who'd tripped him up. She had that "I bought my clothes at a thrift store. No a real thrift store" look. A cashmere cardigan with three holes in the elbow wrapped around a faded green T-shirt, topped off with a skirt that danced around her even when she stood still. "Why do you have Christmas ribbon in your shoe?"

"I don't think that's what your supposed to say when you trip over someone." She huffed for a moment, taking a look around the now deserted courtyard.

Dave got to his feet, dusting his hands off on his khakis. "You tripped me though."

"Um... I'm a girl."

"Yeah, and?"

"You don't get many dates do you?"

That struck him in the stomach. "Okay, fine. I'm sorry."

She grinned. "Nope that isn't good enough." Snatching his wrist, she started dragging him off.

"Umm,' he started, astounded, "I'm sorry but i don't know who you are... but I'm supposed to be in class in about 14 seconds... so if you could let go of me, that really would be fantastic..."

Dhe simply stared at him. as if they had known each other their whole lives, and he had forgotten all of the amazing times they had together growing up. She looked at him as if he had committed a crime that was so inhuman that it was both disgusting and fascinating at once.

"Uhh, I'm Charis, you sat behind me in American Literature just a few minutes ago... you lent me your pencil..." ohh so very obvious, how could i have forgotten you, those few seconds you were in my life, man, those were some of the best, he thought sarcastically.

"oh, sorry, i didn't recognize you...Charis...but i really have to go as I'm now 21 seconds late for my introduction to psychology, and i really can't miss it, or even be late, which I already am."

"Fine." She let go of him, and his hand dropped like stone. "Dining room B -- the nook in the back." And then she walked away. He walked slowly in the opposite direction of his class, the opposite direction of her, pensively. But then he realized that he was now 1 minute and 53 seconds late. So he ran, trying to figure out what had happened, whilst trying not to think, as he passd her by in a flash.

                                                              * * *

Nikki entered the cafeteria, signing her name on the ever-so-high-tech pad of paper at the enterance. Yes she realized that it would be easy not to get charged for this meal, or to charge someone else, but she had an unlimited plan and didn't like to make waves. She sighed and picked up her tray, realizing that 10:30 would put her right in the middle of the awkward food gap between a proper breakfast of powdered and rehydrated eggs, and a lunch of deep fried everything. She grabbed a salad from the to-go line, and some cereal and then started to scout the area for someone to sit with. Then she spotted one of the girls from her floor. If Nikki had the forward thought to bring a book or a paper or anything to read or work on, she might have considered eating alone, because she hated small talk. The prop would allow her to seem like she was eating alone because she was busy, but as it was there were few things that she hated more than eating alone and propless. She approached the girl with the holes in her sweater, thinking about how her mother would react if she dressed with such unkemptness.

"Hi, is anyone sitting there?" She inquired quietly.

"Depends on who's asking," the girl said glaring up.

"Oh, sorry, I'm Nikki, I live on your floor." There was a long pause with no look of recognition, so she tried another approach, more information. "In 442?" Still nothing. "I'm Tess' roommate"

"Oh, right. Tess. Yea, you're roommate is wicked cool. We went to the show that was over on Riley Street the day before school started. I have never seen someone rock so hard!" and on and on the girl with the hole in her shirt went. All about Tess, whom Nikki had rarely seen awake, let alone rocking. "I'm Charis" she said suddenly, breaking her own rant. "Yea, you can sit down, but I'm hoping this guy from my lit class comes, and if he does you'll have to make yourself scarce. You got a boyfriend Vicky?"

"Actually, it's Nikki."

"Your boyfriend?"

"No, my name. My name is Nikki, and no, I've never had a boyfriend." She could feel her face turn from white, to pink, to red, to what she only imagined might be purple as the girl stared at her incredulously.

                                                              * * *

"Dude..."

Dave slipped into his seat and glanced around nervously. Brewst was late, as usual, which allowed Dave to feel a little more relaxed.

"Dude, you look like you are going to puke."

Dave turned his attention to the scruffy, dark haired guy leaning toward him. Noah "Garbo" Garbowsky was quite possibly Dave's closest friend--which kind of made Dave uncomfortable.

"Garbo...I think...I think I was just asked on a date."

"A date," Garbo laughed. "You. No wonder you look like you are going to puke."

"Yeah, but...it's this weird girl from one of my classes," Dave replied, wiggling in an attempt to get more comfortable in the hard, wooden seats. "What should I do? Should I go," he asked, staring wide-eyed at Garbo.

"Schroedinger's cat, man," Garbo replied.

Dave stared at Garbo, his brow furrowed.

"It's a paradox," Garbo began, leaning closer to Dave from across the aisle. "A cat and a flask containing a poison are placed in a sealed box shielded against environmentally induced quantum decoherence. The flask is shattered, and releases the poison if a Geiger counter detects radiation. Quantum mechanics suggests that after a while the cat is simultaneously alive and dead, in a quantum superposition of coexisting alive and dead states. But when you look in the box, you expect to see a cat that is either dead or alive. Not one in a simultaneous state of life or death."

Dave stared slack-jawed at Garbo. "So you want me to kill a cat?"

"No," Garbo rolled his eyes. "Dude, if you don't open the box, you'll never know if the cat is dead or alive."

"Did you learn that in a class?"

"T.V.," Garbo replied.

The door opened, and Professor Brewst entered the classroom. Brewst was a strange fellow; he always carried his notes in a purple backpack as if he was in fifth grade. His thin, rakish look in addition to unruly hair and a beaked nose gave him a laughable appearance at first introduction. But he posted his notes on the internet and didn't attempt to make the class participate in discussion, so Dave knew he could get away with taking a nap. Garbo, on the other hand, took meticulous notes and was the only person in class who would actually give feedback to Brewst. So while Dave settled in for a fifty minute nap, Garbo pulled out his notebook and carefully labeled a blank piece of paper.

                                          * * *

"Never?!" Charis exclaimed, loud enough to turn heads at a few neighboring tables. "You've NEVER had a boyfriend?!" Thee were audible snickers. More and more Nikki was regretting her choice not to just eat alone.

"No." she hissed back. "and I-I'd really appreciate it if you'd keep it down a little bit." Charis never even heard her, she was too busy laughing with the crowd.

"So what you're telling me, is that you managed to make it to your freshmen year of college, having never been kissed? Having never been on a date? I mean I guess I should have figured as much, you are far too well-behaved for your own good. I guess it's just lucky."

"What is?"

"Well a lot of your life seems to be pretty lucky if you'd asked me. You've got Tess as a roommate, and you chose to sit at this table with me and tell me your life story. And Micky, I think you've just become my next project." She had a glint in her eye that would make most anyone nervous.

"It's Nikki, and what kind of 'project'?"

"Well Noob, the way I see it, you've got a lot of living to do."

                                          * * *

In Dave's dream, Sigmund Freud was arguing with Thomas Jefferson about the exact color of Missy Trumbull's hair. Except that Jefferson was sticking half out of a nickel laid out on a table and Frued was two-dimensional and in black-and-white and had a purple backpack at his feet.

"I hold it self-evident that her hair is color of burnt chocolate. But in the end, we must put this matter before the States. No one man can determine the actual color of her hair."

Dave had a feeling that Freud was going to say something meaningful. The 2-D figure drew out a cigar that was a foot across and three feet long. He brought it up to his nose and took a deep sniff. And just when he was going to say something, Dave snapped awake.

His eyes were gummed together and his mouth tasted like he'd been chewing on his shirt, "Dining room B..." He muttered. The words clinging to his lips. Then he relized he was still in class. Swishing his eyes back and forth, he caught Garbo glance up from his notes.

The clock above Brewst clicked over to ten and in unison the entire class got to it's feet except for Dave and Garbo. Brewst was still in mid-sentence and didn't even stop to check whether or not anyone was listening. Nudging him, Dave whispered, "Aren't you going to get up."

Holding up a finger, Garbo kept his eyes on the professor. "Wait for it."

Though most of the students in the room had already left, the professor stood patiently at the front of the room and finished his lecture.

"Alright. Everyone take out a blank piece of paper."

Dave, Garbo, and the three students that were left complied.

"Define psychodynamics. I'll give you a hint," Brewst said in a bored voice. "It's on the board." He moved closer to the chalk board. "I'll give you another hint," he said and pointed to the definition on the board.

Dave realized that this wasn't so much a quiz as a reward for not leaving before the lecture was over. He had Garbo to thank for that, and he gave him an appreciative nod and took both their quiz papers down to Brewst's podium.

"So," Garbo began. "I don't have class until 2 p.m. Want to go play Uno in the library?"

Dave shrugged. "That girl wants to meet up with me."

"At 10 am in the dining hall?"

Dave shrugged again. "Come with me and sit close by."

Garbo sighed. "But I hate the dining hall's breakfast. Their eggs taste like sugar-free pixie sticks."

Dave stared at Garbo in confusion. "Do they make those?"

"No. But if they did, they'd probably taste like the dining hall's eggs."

Garbo shifted his messenger bag into a more comfortable position and shoved his hands in his pockets.

"I've got a grapple to eat anyway."

"A what?"

"Grapple. It's an apple, but they soak it in concentrated grape juice or something. It smells like a grape. They say it tastes like a grape, but I don't think it does. Or maybe grapes taste like grapples. Did you know that the flavor of blue raspberry is really pear flavoring?"

"Dude, why do I hang out with you?"

"My sexy face and immeasurably high IQ."

"Oh yeah..."

The two entered Dining Hall B and Dave scanned the crowd for Charis.

"There she is," Dave said, nodding his head in her direction.

"Which one," Garbo asked.

"That one."

"The one that looks like she lives at a Goodwill?"

"That's the one."

"Sweet. If she were a crayon, she'd be razzmatazz."

"I think you are lying about that IQ thing..."

Garbo grinned widely and waved at Charis. She waved back hesitantly.

"So...I'll be over there with those cool cats while you get your freak on," Garbo said, pointing to a large group of people wearing various band t-shirts, multi-colored hair, and varied piercings; in other words, Garbo's people. And Dave's people, though Dave wasn't always so quick to claim them.

Dave groaned and Garbo set off toward his friends.

                                          * * *

"So, Noob, what do you like?" Charis inquired, leaning forward like she was interrogating Nikki. Nikki found herself wondering if she was always this intense, this focused, or this loud.

"Well, I don't know. How do you mean, or in what way?"

"Just tell me some things that you like" Charis retorted, clearly losing paitence.

"Um, ok. I like jazz, I've played sax for 7 years. I knit. I was in quiz bowl in High School, and I'm pretty much awesome at scrabble" Nikki rattled off, then realized that Charis had her head in her hands.

"Oh, Lordy, Lordy... you do need help, those are some of the worst interests I've ever heard. No wonder you're a loner. Look, it's not too late. Next time someone asks you what you like, or what you're interested in. Just reply, 'that depends on who's asking' and Tess and I will help you find some acceptable inter-hey! There's that guy I was waiting for. Ok, get out of here. I'll stop by you room later." And with that she shoo-ed Nikki away from the table.

Nikki dropped her tray off to the dishroom, and yelled a "Thanks!" back to Ed, the head cook, who nodded appreciatively. As she walked back to her room, she couldn't tell whether she was excited or dreading Charis' visit.

                                           * * *  

As Dave walked toward the isolated table, his expectations of a social life were slowly fading. He'd spend the rest of life sleeping through lectures, and counting time. And occasionally trip over a girl, and get rudely intorregated by them. As if proving his point, the always-moist cafeteria floor caused a betraying friction to occur.