Bartering by Angela Patera
A young idealogue becomes addicted to ghostwriting academic essays in exchange for goods and services.
While most of my peers fretted over their looks and romantic escapades, my adolescence was defined by a different kind of drama: the thrill of the academic black market. While some effortlessly excelled in calculus or displayed incomparable athletic prowess, I mastered the art of trading academic essays for whatever caught my eye.
The epic saga of my free dive into the academic underworld began amidst the chaos of our local, dilapidated skate park where my twin brother, Paul, and I used to hang out. Surrounded by rebellion in full swing - punk tunes blaring, handsome teenagers gliding past me, the harsh grind of skateboards crashing against the concrete, and the tantalizing smell of stale beer and weed wafting through the air - I found myself mesmerized by this decadent allure. I yearned to be part of this enclave but, alas, everyone ignored me. I was a bespectacled, 15-year-old goth, clad in a taffeta dress, torn tights, woollen socks, and hefty Doc Martens amidst a sea of naked torsos glistening under the scorching May sun. My brother, once a skater extraordinaire until a gruesome accident, held some sway over this motley crew. His embarrassment was palpable, especially with me trailing behind him like a shadow, constantly reminding him of his uncool familial ties.
Feeling unmistakably out of place, my gaze settled on George, the epitome of effortless cool, hunched over a weathered copy of "The Grapes of Wrath". He seemed to be struggling. I found myself drawn to him like a moth to a flame. Mustering what little mystique I could, I exhaled a cloud of cigarette smoke in his direction and crooned in my deepest register:
"Struggling, huh? Need a hand with that?"
George's green eyes shot up, his expression a mix of confusion and amusement.
"From you?" he queried, his tone dripping with skepticism.
Undeterred by his dismissive demeanour, I maintained my composure and purred in my most intellectually assertive, yet seductive voice:
"Yeah, of course, I've read 'The Grapes of Wrath' a hundred times. I guess I could help you with that."
George's skepticism lingered as he explained his dire situation.
"I'm doomed," he lamented. "I've got an essay due for my Literature Class in three days. I can't fail this class again. But this book... it's so difficult! I haven't made it past page 13."
I plopped down next to him, legs fidgeting in excitement as I recounted the saga of Tom Joad's odyssey:
"There's this guy, Tom Joad, fresh out of the slammer, heading home to Oklahoma. Early on, he buddies up with Jim Casy, a renegade preacher turned hedonist philosopher. Anyway, the Joads along with Jim Casy hit the road to California, hoping for sunshine and oranges, but find nothing but trouble, bigotry, persecution, and prejudice. As farmers travel massively towards the west and camp alongside the road, new communities begin to spring up, creating their own rules and laws of conduct. When a riot breaks out in one of these camps, Tom and Casy knock out a police deputy and Casy takes the fall to save Tom. Later on, Tom learns about Casy's noble plan to organize the farmers against the fat-cat landlords. But before they can get anywhere, the police spot them, label Casy a communist, and bash his brains out. Tom kills the murderer of Casy and goes into hiding. Eventually, his secret is revealed and he decides to carry Casy's crusade for social justice, becoming a tiny cog in a big wheel of social change. The whole book is like a road trip towards enlightenment, equality, and social justice. Classic stuff, really."
George looked dumbfounded as if I had just recited Joyce's Ulysses by heart.
"Goddamn, are you smart," he marveled.
Not one to shy away from a challenge, I decided to take my chances. I responded with a cocky grin:
"Obviously. I could even whip up that essay for you, for a price of course."
Venturing into the dark arts of bartering and ghostwriting was uncharted territory for me. My only previous relevant experience was limited to watering Mrs. Smith's hydrangeas in exchange for access to her swimming pool, her air-conditioned living room, her Apocalypse-ready fridge, and her drinks cabinet. Not exactly a thriving black market, but hey, everyone starts somewhere.
George's emerald eyes sparkled with excitement:
"It's a deal. Nail this essay and I'll hook you up with tickets to the Pixies next month."
And just like that, the essay empire was born. With George sailing smoothly to an A+ thanks to my essay wizardry, I found myself in high demand across all subjects and grade levels. From Modern Literature to Poetry, and from History to Sociology, I became the go-to guy for everything. By sophomore year, I had become a chameleon of the essay world. Whether I was channeling Virginia Woolf's "The Lighthouse" for a skater dopefiend or dissecting "Das Kapital" for a high school jock, I meticulously tailored each essay to match my respective "client's" writing style, general attitude, and academic level so that no teacher would ever suspect a thing.
In the convoluted maze of my adolescent mind, the notion of peddling essays for cold, hard cash struck me as immoral, akin to mental prostitution. From my rebellious, anarchist viewpoint, bartering essays sounded like a symbolic act of defiance, a subtle rebellion against the rigid constraints and hierarchical norms of the academic establishment. Thus, revelling in the thought that my acts aligned with my vision of a world founded on voluntary cooperation, I gleefully accepted whatever bounty came my way: a skateboard, a stack of books, CDs, vinyl records, band merchandise, a Tiffany table lamp (because why not?), concert tickets, a denim jacket, a jar of gourmet mustard, and yes, even a bottle of Knob Creek or the occasional bag of weed to fuel my creative insurrection. From the sublime to the utterly absurd, my room had transformed into a renegade garage sale.
As my grotesque collection grew, my poor mother struggled to wrap her head around my newfound hustle. Each day, she'd wander into my room, eyes widening at the ever-expanding array of oddities. Despite her pleas for me to loosen up and enjoy my youth like my brother extensively did, I was shackled to my deadlines. Balancing my reputation as the essay kingpin with the escalating demands of my own schoolwork was like juggling flaming torches while riding a unicycle blindfolded. One misstep and it'd all go up in flames.
Like a grittier, post-punk version of Alice in Wonderland, I found myself tumbling down the rabbit hole of endless studying, researching, and writing, wondering all the while what curious force propelled me onward. Was it acceptance I sought? Sure, I had earned tolerance, and perhaps even a smidgen of fondness, from the eclectic mishmash of local misfits - skaters, metalheads, stoners, punks, and goths. However, I remained the odd one out. Even my dalliances with various members of these groups left me feeling unsatisfied, craving something more substantial than fleeting camaraderie. Was it a selfless sense of altruism, a noble desire to offer my intellectual services to those in need? Ha! Not quite. Although my moral compass prohibited charging those poor fellows for my essay wizardry, I certainly wasn't doing charity work for the greater good. Or perhaps it was the allure of material goods that drove me? While I surely appreciated the concert tickets and the rare books generously bestowed upon me, I wasn't exactly holding out for anything extravagant. I was more than content to take whatever came my way, like a literary scavenger in the urban jungle. As for the legality of my endeavors - did I really care? Not in the slightest. I simply ignored the laws and rules of academic institutions. "I wannabe anarchy" was my motto, a lyric I had borrowed from the Sex Pistols, a band whose demise was as tumultuous as their brief existence.
As a university freshman, I plunged headfirst into the lucrative trade of essay crafting for my peers. With each assignment, the word count soared, the complexity deepened, and so did the rewards. Yet, it wasn't the allure of material gain that drove me, but the odd adrenaline rush of tackling even more intricate challenges. It was like playing a high-stakes game of intellectual poker.
Gone were the days of trading high-school essays for mere trinkets. My new clientele offered prizes befitting the challenges I undertook: a bike for a ten-thousand-word opus on the representations of masculinity in Ernest Hemingway's "The Snows of Kilimanjaro"; an intricate tattoo in exchange for an essay on "Hannah Höch's Deconstruction of the New Woman Dichotomy"; a rock festival pass in exchange for a post-colonial analysis of Orwell's "Shooting an Elephant". Yet, despite my bartered treasures, my true lifeline was a full scholarship that made it possible for me to finance my tuition and my tiny attic apartment. In a way, my scholarship was the ultimate barter - exceptionally high grades for a roof over my head and my tuition fees covered.
Sure, to the casual observer, all this would have seemed like a desperate plea for help, but to my paranoid, drug-fuelled, anxiety-ridden, hyperventilating mind, it was the zenith of utopian socialism - a grand experiment in trading enlightenment for sustenance. In my twisted version of academia, my essays weren't just words on paper; they were my form of currency, the golden tickets to keeping me fed and alive.
One dreaded Monday, I was summoned to my English Renaissance professor's office. A profound sense of panic consumed me. Had my essay on William Shakespeare's "The Merchant of Venice" somehow missed the mark? How would it affect my scholarship? As I nervously twiddled my hair in the waiting room, I found myself joined by a much older, impeccably dressed, but visibly stressed woman.
"Do you think he's onto us?" she whispered, her gaze darting sideways.
Us? My mind struggled to connect the dots. The woman looked like a total stranger to me but as I pondered, a chilling realization dawned - I had recently written another essay on the "Merchant of Venice". Had I inadvertently penned the same essay twice, once for me and once for her? What had I traded it for? My poor, overworked brain, battered by sleepless nights, deadline stress, and a cocktail of substances, felt like it had been tossed in the Bard's blender. As the professor ushered us into his office, he explained in a stern voice that he was planning on examining us separately since our suspiciously similar essays had raised some eyebrows. Apparently, my essay had focused on the chain of hatred in The Merchant of Venice while the woman's explored the spectre of prejudice - a hair's breadth apart. As the woman left the office in tears while I emerged unscathed from this ordeal, I couldn't help but feel a profound sense of remorse and a bitter feeling of disappointment with myself. I had let this woman down "for a pound of flesh".
With the determination of a zealous barterer, I pledged to never let mishaps derail my academic quest ever again. Armed with an intricate Excel spreadsheet, I meticulously logged every exchange, deadline, and essay detail, building a fortress of organization to fend off chaos. I ceremoniously bid farewell to my stash of weed, speed, and Quaaludes, watching them swirl and vanish into the abyss of a university toilet bowl. My new system would be foolproof - or so I deluded myself into thinking.
For a while it seemed to be going well; as the exam season loomed closer, my essay enterprise thrived. I decided to amplify my performance by revamping my dietary habits; When a dietetics student came knocking for an essay on "The Historical Origins of Mediterranean Cuisine", I decided to trade my mental labour for a brain-boosting dietary program that would bolster my focus and improve my mental capacities. I grazed on leafy greens and broccoli, cooked up legume feasts, and savoured nightly doses of dark chocolate. Sure, I couldn't afford fancy fare like salmon or nuts, or any other source of protein as a matter of fact, but I remained unfazed by this minor detail, thinking that at least, I was on a crusade towards sober, cruelty-free, vegan enlightenment. The future dietician also tossed around fancy terms like "supplements" and "protein shakes", but my wallet scoffed at the idea. But hey, why bother with supplements when you're committed to a straight-edge lifestyle, right?
What my paranoid mind initially interpreted as my apogee was an invitation by a university senior and aspiring actor, Thomas, to craft a dissertation on the concept of solidarity in John Steinbeck's "The Grapes of Wrath". Given that "The Grapes of Wrath" had served as my initiation into the realm of literary banter, this invitation felt like a cosmic intervention, a wink from the literary deities, and a celestial nudge towards some elusive affirmation of purpose.
However, the time had come to confront some mundane practical realities - looming electricity bills and the dreaded prospect of a root canal. These were expenses not to be settled in the ethereal currency of existential enlightenment but in the universally acknowledged medium of cold, hard cash. Moreover, I found myself facing the logistical nightmare of storage constraints as my one-bedroom apartment was bursting at the seams with a cornucopia of odds and ends: towering stacks of books, a vintage teal Olivetti Lettera 32 typewriter similar to the one favoured by Cormac McCarthy, piles of vinyl records, a Fender P-Bass guitar and its amp, a second-hand detuned piano, and a colossal samovar that probably outweighed both myself and my existential crisis combined.
Occasional visitors marvelled at my bohemian oasis, enchanted by the hodgepodge of items that adorned every nook and cranny. However, whenever my mum paid a visit, she looked mortified by the chaos and clutter, and invariably offered to "help me tidy up", slipping me a psychiatrist's professional card as she departed - her silent plea for me to seek professional help hanging heavy in the air. But me being the grandmaster of evading my inner turmoil and a virtuoso of turning trials into tales, I always dismissed her concerns with a hearty laugh.
Crafting Thomas's dissertation proved to be a Herculean task. Despite persistent attempts to elicit his feedback, Thomas seemed more interested in honing his theatrical and vocal talents than in reviewing draft after draft or communicating with his supervising professor. It felt as though I were a conductor without an orchestra, left to orchestrate the symphony of his dissertation entirely on my own. Simultaneously, I found myself struggling to maintain my GPA and safeguard my scholarly pursuits from neglect. I realized I couldn't jeopardize my pristine academic records - along with my scholarship - over a stranger who seldom responded to my phone calls, preoccupied as he was with rehearsing his role as Billy Flynn in an avant-garde rendition of Chicago.
One evening, my twin brother Paul barged in, disrupting my marathon session of dissecting the plights of "farmer migrants" in the "Grapes of Wrath". Perched atop a precarious stack of books, he casually lit up a blunt, and balancing his beer between his knees, took in my dishevelled appearance with an eyebrow raised.
"You look horrible! What the hell is wrong with you?" he exclaimed.
I had traded an essay on Dario Argento's cinematography for what was supposed to be a pixie haircut but somewhere along the way, things had gone awfully awry, leaving me with a buzz cut. Combined with my newfound svelte physique, I deluded myself into thinking I exuded an Edie Sedgwick allure. However, as I gazed at the mirror for the first time after quite a while, I realized with horror that I looked like a misplaced extra from Trainspotting. My sorry reflection unleashed a torrent of tears that left Paul momentarily speechless.
Here I was, not yet twenty, only seldom venturing outside except for classes or library runs. I lived vicariously through my books, experiencing indeed a thousand lives but barely truly living one. I had experienced countless tumultuous affairs through my books but I had never really been in love. I had traversed more miles high out of my mind on ayahuasca than on an airplane. My social circle had evaporated faster than my dreams of normalcy. Surrounded by towering piles of books in this tiny, claustrophobic home resembling a pawn shop, I longed for the mundane simplicity of a real job, the messy bliss of falling in love like an actual human being, and the tangible rhythms of life beyond the pages. Lost and adrift in oceans of fantasies, I simply yearned to trade the ethereal cosmos of academia for the grounded realities of existence.
Paul, ever the bearer of unfiltered truths, suggested with his characteristic deadpan delivery, that perhaps I had woven this academic cocoon around myself because I was too scared to expose myself to the real world. Oh, how I loathed him for being so painfully accurate.
"And what the fuck should I do about it, Paul?" I retorted, my voice teetering on the edge of hysteria.
"I dunno. Get a job. Find a boyfriend. Or a girlfriend. Put that damn book down. Go to a concert," he replied nonchalantly.
Thus, in a fit of spontaneity, I dashed off to a Bauhaus concert, hoping to infuse some much-needed endorphins into my system and maybe, just maybe, reconnect with my abandoned past. As I left my apartment, I battled the temptation to drown my sorrows in a bottle of Knob Creek or resurrect some ancient, fossilized pot from the depths of my chaotic cabinets. But, in a rare display of self-preservation, I opted for sobriety and locked the door behind me, bidding farewell to the chaos within the confines of my apartment.
As Bauhaus took the stage, their music washed over me like a soothing balm, momentarily drowning out the echoes of my self-imposed exile, my "mind-forg'd manacles" as cleverly noted by William Blake. Yet, beneath this transient respite, panic had started gnawing at the edges of my consciousness, a hot, swirling vortex threatening to suffocate me. Desperate for salvation amidst this maelstrom of thoughts, I squeezed my eyes shut, struggling to connect with the music, silently mouthing the lyrics:
Away from the familial but suppressing embrace of my stacks of books and sense of duty towards my imaginary clients, I felt like I was stepping on a tightrope without a safety net. I struggled to savour the moment so I kept singing with my eyes closed:
When I finally opened my eyes, the world greeted me with an unexpected shroud of darkness. Gasping for air, I plummeted ungracefully to the ground, my descent abrupt and painful. In the midst of this bewildering haze, I continued to drift, a haunting chant of "undead, undead, undead" echoing relentlessly in my mind.
As my eyes fluttered open, hours later, on a cold hospital gurney, I was greeted not by the light at the end of the tunnel, but by the blinding beam of a doctor's torch being flashed into my eyes. "Well, well, look who decided to join the land of the living", he quipped charmingly.
I promptly burst into tears. Attempting to sit up, I was met with the horrifying realization that my beloved jeans and Velvet Underground t-shirt had been replaced by a rather uninspiring hospital gown. Feeling exposed, I scrambled to cover myself.
"Where are my clothes?" I wailed, my voice ricocheting off the sterile walls of the hospital room.
With a sympathetic sigh, the doctor explained the unfortunate circumstances that led to my current state:
"I am sorry. We had to cut you out of your jeans. We got a call about a potential overdose at Fuzz Club. The paramedics gave you Naloxone but you remained unresponsive. When we got you here, we ran some tests; your drug tests came up clean, your ECG was normal and your brain scan was fine so we're still trying to find out what's wrong with you."
Three days later, there I was, still marooned in the dreary confines of the hospital, looking as forlorn as William Blake's poor sick rose. The doctors attributed my sorry state to a perfect storm of malnutrition, severe vitamin deficiencies, anaemia, dehydration, and exhaustion. As if being prodded and poked by medical professionals wasn't enough, I was promptly handed over to a psychiatrist for a full mental evaluation before my grand discharge. Though I politely declined the offer to meet with the psychiatrist, it became painfully clear that my ticket out of this sterile purgatory relied on convincing a suspicious stranger that I wasn't a walking psychiatric case study. In a bizarre twist of fate, it seemed I was back in the business of bartering my mental stability for my freedom.
The psychiatrist swept into my room like a storm cloud as I was watching a game of poker on the tiny hospital TV, her stern, unsmiling demeanour and clipboard in hand signalling that she meant business. As she fired off questions at me, I couldn't help but feel like a contestant in the world's most awkward game show.
"Are you suicidal?" she inquired immediately.
"Uh, nope," I replied politely.
Her eyebrows rose in skepticism, but she pressed on undeterred:
"Have you ever thought about inflicting harm on others?"
I shook my head, suppressing the urge to crack a joke about my pesky twin brother.
"And when did your eating disorder begin?" she inquired, her gaze burning holes through me like a laser beam.
"I don't have an eating disorder!" I protested.
"Then why did you faint? Why are you so skinny?" she demanded, her tone sharp enough to slice through my feeble attempts at evasion.
I hesitated for a moment, contemplating whether to spin a tale worthy of Dickens or stick to the mundane truth. Exhaustion won out, so I opted for brutal honesty.
"Well, I pretty much like to eat healthy," I began, feeling the weight of her scrutiny like a heavy cloak. "Sometimes I can't afford fancy food so I resort to whatever's affordable at the time."
"How can you not afford food? It says here you are on a full scholarship covering everything, from your accommodation to your tuition," she countered.
I squirmed uncomfortably, grappling with the harsh reality of my financial constraints.
"Well, let's say it's not enough," I admitted, the bitterness of truth lingering on my tongue.
The psychiatrist's scrutiny seemed to intensify, her skepticism palpable as she peered at me over the rim of her glasses like a hawk sizing up its prey.
"Any substance abuse?" she queried, her tone sharp and probing.
"No, no, I'm clean. As pure as the driven snow," I affirmed, feeling like a reformed sinner trying to convince the town preacher of my newfound righteousness. It wasn't a lie: my days of alternating between speed, tranquillizers, and pot were in the rearview mirror. As I uttered these words, a strange flashback flooded my mind - a blurry recollection of me watching poker on the TV in the early hours of the morning, waiting for the amphetamines to wear off and the Valium to kick in after a marathon study session of Milton's "Samson Agonistes". That was before I vowed to stay sober, realizing I needed a clear head to tackle life's challenges, like figuring out how to pay my electricity bill without trading it for my left kidney.
"Your toxicology came up clean, but there's something about you I don't like," she mused, her brow furrowing in suspicion.
Unable to resist the urge to inject a bit of self-deprecating humor, I quipped:
"Well, I can't really blame you. I've been told my face has that effect on people."
Her expression remained unchanged, however, as she pressed on with her interrogation.
"Any other addictions? Gambling? Betting? Sex?"
Ah, the trifecta of vices. I resisted the temptation to respond with a cheeky remark. Instead, I simply shook my head and offered a sheepish smile until she stormed out of the room looking positively incensed.
Feeling sad, I reached for my book. I had tasked Paul with scavenging my childhood bedroom for any bookish escape he could find. And what did he unearth? William Burroughs' "Junky". Not exactly the most uplifting choice for a mentally beleaguered twenty-year-old trapped in the bleak confines of a hospital's neurology department, but hey, it could have been worse. He could have unearthed Solzhenitsyn's "Cancer Ward" or Thomas Mann's "The Magic Mountain". So, amidst the opium-laden haze of Burroughs' seedy underbelly of addiction and despair, I sought refuge from my harsh reality.
As I replayed the crosstalk between the psychiatrist and myself in my head, I couldn't help but wonder whether bartering could be akin to an addiction, a peculiar craving for the thrill of exchange. When I swore off all those drugs that either knocked me down or kept up awake for days on end, I immersed myself in addiction literature at the university library, absorbing insights like a sponge. Back then, I could understand getting hooked on heroin or crack or painkillers but I dismissed behavioural addictions such as gambling or sex addiction as quirks reserved for eccentric souls. But as I delved deeper, I stumbled upon a revelation: the allure of those behaviours actually resonated with my own struggle. My brain was a dopamine-fueled ship navigating treacherous seas. With each essay I embarked upon, I felt as though I were venturing into uncharted territory without a compass. It was a rush of exhilaration unlike any other - a validation of my abilities, and a testament to my obsessive compulsion to break rules and question the establishments of academia. No one could really see beyond the surface to understand the depth of my passion for bartering. For me, it wasn't merely a hobby; it had become my way of life.
As a seed of doubt took root in my mind, I entertained a radical notion: what if I stopped? What if I let go of this essay bartering escapade and hit the reset button? Channel my energy into academics, pursue a conventional job, find a partner, and explore the real world? I had turned into a recluse, a hermit of academia, afraid of real life, unable to connect with a single soul in the universe. It was time to break free from the ivory tower, and embrace the messy, rich and unpredictable beauty of life beyond the pages of books.
As I let that revelation marinate, I realized there were a few matters requiring my immediate attention. First, I rang up Mum and asked her to stay with me for the first couple of months following my discharge from the hospital. I then dialled Thomas, the hapless recipient of the scholarly handiwork that landed me in that hospital. I gracefully bowed out of our arrangement, citing a sudden onset of "grave health concerns". As I hung up the phone, a wave of sheer pleasure engulfed me. Recalling William Burroughs' quip, "Perhaps all pleasure is only relief", I couldn't help but smile. What I was experiencing was a profound sense of relief. I was finally free to pen a new narrative.
from FICTION on the WEB short stories https://ift.tt/5FRhaf0
via IFTTT
 |
| Image generated with OpenAI |
The epic saga of my free dive into the academic underworld began amidst the chaos of our local, dilapidated skate park where my twin brother, Paul, and I used to hang out. Surrounded by rebellion in full swing - punk tunes blaring, handsome teenagers gliding past me, the harsh grind of skateboards crashing against the concrete, and the tantalizing smell of stale beer and weed wafting through the air - I found myself mesmerized by this decadent allure. I yearned to be part of this enclave but, alas, everyone ignored me. I was a bespectacled, 15-year-old goth, clad in a taffeta dress, torn tights, woollen socks, and hefty Doc Martens amidst a sea of naked torsos glistening under the scorching May sun. My brother, once a skater extraordinaire until a gruesome accident, held some sway over this motley crew. His embarrassment was palpable, especially with me trailing behind him like a shadow, constantly reminding him of his uncool familial ties.
Feeling unmistakably out of place, my gaze settled on George, the epitome of effortless cool, hunched over a weathered copy of "The Grapes of Wrath". He seemed to be struggling. I found myself drawn to him like a moth to a flame. Mustering what little mystique I could, I exhaled a cloud of cigarette smoke in his direction and crooned in my deepest register:
"Struggling, huh? Need a hand with that?"
George's green eyes shot up, his expression a mix of confusion and amusement.
"From you?" he queried, his tone dripping with skepticism.
Undeterred by his dismissive demeanour, I maintained my composure and purred in my most intellectually assertive, yet seductive voice:
"Yeah, of course, I've read 'The Grapes of Wrath' a hundred times. I guess I could help you with that."
George's skepticism lingered as he explained his dire situation.
"I'm doomed," he lamented. "I've got an essay due for my Literature Class in three days. I can't fail this class again. But this book... it's so difficult! I haven't made it past page 13."
I plopped down next to him, legs fidgeting in excitement as I recounted the saga of Tom Joad's odyssey:
"There's this guy, Tom Joad, fresh out of the slammer, heading home to Oklahoma. Early on, he buddies up with Jim Casy, a renegade preacher turned hedonist philosopher. Anyway, the Joads along with Jim Casy hit the road to California, hoping for sunshine and oranges, but find nothing but trouble, bigotry, persecution, and prejudice. As farmers travel massively towards the west and camp alongside the road, new communities begin to spring up, creating their own rules and laws of conduct. When a riot breaks out in one of these camps, Tom and Casy knock out a police deputy and Casy takes the fall to save Tom. Later on, Tom learns about Casy's noble plan to organize the farmers against the fat-cat landlords. But before they can get anywhere, the police spot them, label Casy a communist, and bash his brains out. Tom kills the murderer of Casy and goes into hiding. Eventually, his secret is revealed and he decides to carry Casy's crusade for social justice, becoming a tiny cog in a big wheel of social change. The whole book is like a road trip towards enlightenment, equality, and social justice. Classic stuff, really."
George looked dumbfounded as if I had just recited Joyce's Ulysses by heart.
"Goddamn, are you smart," he marveled.
Not one to shy away from a challenge, I decided to take my chances. I responded with a cocky grin:
"Obviously. I could even whip up that essay for you, for a price of course."
Venturing into the dark arts of bartering and ghostwriting was uncharted territory for me. My only previous relevant experience was limited to watering Mrs. Smith's hydrangeas in exchange for access to her swimming pool, her air-conditioned living room, her Apocalypse-ready fridge, and her drinks cabinet. Not exactly a thriving black market, but hey, everyone starts somewhere.
George's emerald eyes sparkled with excitement:
"It's a deal. Nail this essay and I'll hook you up with tickets to the Pixies next month."
And just like that, the essay empire was born. With George sailing smoothly to an A+ thanks to my essay wizardry, I found myself in high demand across all subjects and grade levels. From Modern Literature to Poetry, and from History to Sociology, I became the go-to guy for everything. By sophomore year, I had become a chameleon of the essay world. Whether I was channeling Virginia Woolf's "The Lighthouse" for a skater dopefiend or dissecting "Das Kapital" for a high school jock, I meticulously tailored each essay to match my respective "client's" writing style, general attitude, and academic level so that no teacher would ever suspect a thing.
In the convoluted maze of my adolescent mind, the notion of peddling essays for cold, hard cash struck me as immoral, akin to mental prostitution. From my rebellious, anarchist viewpoint, bartering essays sounded like a symbolic act of defiance, a subtle rebellion against the rigid constraints and hierarchical norms of the academic establishment. Thus, revelling in the thought that my acts aligned with my vision of a world founded on voluntary cooperation, I gleefully accepted whatever bounty came my way: a skateboard, a stack of books, CDs, vinyl records, band merchandise, a Tiffany table lamp (because why not?), concert tickets, a denim jacket, a jar of gourmet mustard, and yes, even a bottle of Knob Creek or the occasional bag of weed to fuel my creative insurrection. From the sublime to the utterly absurd, my room had transformed into a renegade garage sale.
As my grotesque collection grew, my poor mother struggled to wrap her head around my newfound hustle. Each day, she'd wander into my room, eyes widening at the ever-expanding array of oddities. Despite her pleas for me to loosen up and enjoy my youth like my brother extensively did, I was shackled to my deadlines. Balancing my reputation as the essay kingpin with the escalating demands of my own schoolwork was like juggling flaming torches while riding a unicycle blindfolded. One misstep and it'd all go up in flames.
Like a grittier, post-punk version of Alice in Wonderland, I found myself tumbling down the rabbit hole of endless studying, researching, and writing, wondering all the while what curious force propelled me onward. Was it acceptance I sought? Sure, I had earned tolerance, and perhaps even a smidgen of fondness, from the eclectic mishmash of local misfits - skaters, metalheads, stoners, punks, and goths. However, I remained the odd one out. Even my dalliances with various members of these groups left me feeling unsatisfied, craving something more substantial than fleeting camaraderie. Was it a selfless sense of altruism, a noble desire to offer my intellectual services to those in need? Ha! Not quite. Although my moral compass prohibited charging those poor fellows for my essay wizardry, I certainly wasn't doing charity work for the greater good. Or perhaps it was the allure of material goods that drove me? While I surely appreciated the concert tickets and the rare books generously bestowed upon me, I wasn't exactly holding out for anything extravagant. I was more than content to take whatever came my way, like a literary scavenger in the urban jungle. As for the legality of my endeavors - did I really care? Not in the slightest. I simply ignored the laws and rules of academic institutions. "I wannabe anarchy" was my motto, a lyric I had borrowed from the Sex Pistols, a band whose demise was as tumultuous as their brief existence.
As a university freshman, I plunged headfirst into the lucrative trade of essay crafting for my peers. With each assignment, the word count soared, the complexity deepened, and so did the rewards. Yet, it wasn't the allure of material gain that drove me, but the odd adrenaline rush of tackling even more intricate challenges. It was like playing a high-stakes game of intellectual poker.
Gone were the days of trading high-school essays for mere trinkets. My new clientele offered prizes befitting the challenges I undertook: a bike for a ten-thousand-word opus on the representations of masculinity in Ernest Hemingway's "The Snows of Kilimanjaro"; an intricate tattoo in exchange for an essay on "Hannah Höch's Deconstruction of the New Woman Dichotomy"; a rock festival pass in exchange for a post-colonial analysis of Orwell's "Shooting an Elephant". Yet, despite my bartered treasures, my true lifeline was a full scholarship that made it possible for me to finance my tuition and my tiny attic apartment. In a way, my scholarship was the ultimate barter - exceptionally high grades for a roof over my head and my tuition fees covered.
Sure, to the casual observer, all this would have seemed like a desperate plea for help, but to my paranoid, drug-fuelled, anxiety-ridden, hyperventilating mind, it was the zenith of utopian socialism - a grand experiment in trading enlightenment for sustenance. In my twisted version of academia, my essays weren't just words on paper; they were my form of currency, the golden tickets to keeping me fed and alive.
One dreaded Monday, I was summoned to my English Renaissance professor's office. A profound sense of panic consumed me. Had my essay on William Shakespeare's "The Merchant of Venice" somehow missed the mark? How would it affect my scholarship? As I nervously twiddled my hair in the waiting room, I found myself joined by a much older, impeccably dressed, but visibly stressed woman.
"Do you think he's onto us?" she whispered, her gaze darting sideways.
Us? My mind struggled to connect the dots. The woman looked like a total stranger to me but as I pondered, a chilling realization dawned - I had recently written another essay on the "Merchant of Venice". Had I inadvertently penned the same essay twice, once for me and once for her? What had I traded it for? My poor, overworked brain, battered by sleepless nights, deadline stress, and a cocktail of substances, felt like it had been tossed in the Bard's blender. As the professor ushered us into his office, he explained in a stern voice that he was planning on examining us separately since our suspiciously similar essays had raised some eyebrows. Apparently, my essay had focused on the chain of hatred in The Merchant of Venice while the woman's explored the spectre of prejudice - a hair's breadth apart. As the woman left the office in tears while I emerged unscathed from this ordeal, I couldn't help but feel a profound sense of remorse and a bitter feeling of disappointment with myself. I had let this woman down "for a pound of flesh".
With the determination of a zealous barterer, I pledged to never let mishaps derail my academic quest ever again. Armed with an intricate Excel spreadsheet, I meticulously logged every exchange, deadline, and essay detail, building a fortress of organization to fend off chaos. I ceremoniously bid farewell to my stash of weed, speed, and Quaaludes, watching them swirl and vanish into the abyss of a university toilet bowl. My new system would be foolproof - or so I deluded myself into thinking.
For a while it seemed to be going well; as the exam season loomed closer, my essay enterprise thrived. I decided to amplify my performance by revamping my dietary habits; When a dietetics student came knocking for an essay on "The Historical Origins of Mediterranean Cuisine", I decided to trade my mental labour for a brain-boosting dietary program that would bolster my focus and improve my mental capacities. I grazed on leafy greens and broccoli, cooked up legume feasts, and savoured nightly doses of dark chocolate. Sure, I couldn't afford fancy fare like salmon or nuts, or any other source of protein as a matter of fact, but I remained unfazed by this minor detail, thinking that at least, I was on a crusade towards sober, cruelty-free, vegan enlightenment. The future dietician also tossed around fancy terms like "supplements" and "protein shakes", but my wallet scoffed at the idea. But hey, why bother with supplements when you're committed to a straight-edge lifestyle, right?
What my paranoid mind initially interpreted as my apogee was an invitation by a university senior and aspiring actor, Thomas, to craft a dissertation on the concept of solidarity in John Steinbeck's "The Grapes of Wrath". Given that "The Grapes of Wrath" had served as my initiation into the realm of literary banter, this invitation felt like a cosmic intervention, a wink from the literary deities, and a celestial nudge towards some elusive affirmation of purpose.
However, the time had come to confront some mundane practical realities - looming electricity bills and the dreaded prospect of a root canal. These were expenses not to be settled in the ethereal currency of existential enlightenment but in the universally acknowledged medium of cold, hard cash. Moreover, I found myself facing the logistical nightmare of storage constraints as my one-bedroom apartment was bursting at the seams with a cornucopia of odds and ends: towering stacks of books, a vintage teal Olivetti Lettera 32 typewriter similar to the one favoured by Cormac McCarthy, piles of vinyl records, a Fender P-Bass guitar and its amp, a second-hand detuned piano, and a colossal samovar that probably outweighed both myself and my existential crisis combined.
Occasional visitors marvelled at my bohemian oasis, enchanted by the hodgepodge of items that adorned every nook and cranny. However, whenever my mum paid a visit, she looked mortified by the chaos and clutter, and invariably offered to "help me tidy up", slipping me a psychiatrist's professional card as she departed - her silent plea for me to seek professional help hanging heavy in the air. But me being the grandmaster of evading my inner turmoil and a virtuoso of turning trials into tales, I always dismissed her concerns with a hearty laugh.
Crafting Thomas's dissertation proved to be a Herculean task. Despite persistent attempts to elicit his feedback, Thomas seemed more interested in honing his theatrical and vocal talents than in reviewing draft after draft or communicating with his supervising professor. It felt as though I were a conductor without an orchestra, left to orchestrate the symphony of his dissertation entirely on my own. Simultaneously, I found myself struggling to maintain my GPA and safeguard my scholarly pursuits from neglect. I realized I couldn't jeopardize my pristine academic records - along with my scholarship - over a stranger who seldom responded to my phone calls, preoccupied as he was with rehearsing his role as Billy Flynn in an avant-garde rendition of Chicago.
One evening, my twin brother Paul barged in, disrupting my marathon session of dissecting the plights of "farmer migrants" in the "Grapes of Wrath". Perched atop a precarious stack of books, he casually lit up a blunt, and balancing his beer between his knees, took in my dishevelled appearance with an eyebrow raised.
"You look horrible! What the hell is wrong with you?" he exclaimed.
I had traded an essay on Dario Argento's cinematography for what was supposed to be a pixie haircut but somewhere along the way, things had gone awfully awry, leaving me with a buzz cut. Combined with my newfound svelte physique, I deluded myself into thinking I exuded an Edie Sedgwick allure. However, as I gazed at the mirror for the first time after quite a while, I realized with horror that I looked like a misplaced extra from Trainspotting. My sorry reflection unleashed a torrent of tears that left Paul momentarily speechless.
Here I was, not yet twenty, only seldom venturing outside except for classes or library runs. I lived vicariously through my books, experiencing indeed a thousand lives but barely truly living one. I had experienced countless tumultuous affairs through my books but I had never really been in love. I had traversed more miles high out of my mind on ayahuasca than on an airplane. My social circle had evaporated faster than my dreams of normalcy. Surrounded by towering piles of books in this tiny, claustrophobic home resembling a pawn shop, I longed for the mundane simplicity of a real job, the messy bliss of falling in love like an actual human being, and the tangible rhythms of life beyond the pages. Lost and adrift in oceans of fantasies, I simply yearned to trade the ethereal cosmos of academia for the grounded realities of existence.
Paul, ever the bearer of unfiltered truths, suggested with his characteristic deadpan delivery, that perhaps I had woven this academic cocoon around myself because I was too scared to expose myself to the real world. Oh, how I loathed him for being so painfully accurate.
"And what the fuck should I do about it, Paul?" I retorted, my voice teetering on the edge of hysteria.
"I dunno. Get a job. Find a boyfriend. Or a girlfriend. Put that damn book down. Go to a concert," he replied nonchalantly.
Thus, in a fit of spontaneity, I dashed off to a Bauhaus concert, hoping to infuse some much-needed endorphins into my system and maybe, just maybe, reconnect with my abandoned past. As I left my apartment, I battled the temptation to drown my sorrows in a bottle of Knob Creek or resurrect some ancient, fossilized pot from the depths of my chaotic cabinets. But, in a rare display of self-preservation, I opted for sobriety and locked the door behind me, bidding farewell to the chaos within the confines of my apartment.
As Bauhaus took the stage, their music washed over me like a soothing balm, momentarily drowning out the echoes of my self-imposed exile, my "mind-forg'd manacles" as cleverly noted by William Blake. Yet, beneath this transient respite, panic had started gnawing at the edges of my consciousness, a hot, swirling vortex threatening to suffocate me. Desperate for salvation amidst this maelstrom of thoughts, I squeezed my eyes shut, struggling to connect with the music, silently mouthing the lyrics:
White on white translucent black capes
Back on the rack
Bela Lugosi's dead
The bats have left the bell tower
The victims have been bled
Red velvet lines the black box
Bela Lugosi's dead
Away from the familial but suppressing embrace of my stacks of books and sense of duty towards my imaginary clients, I felt like I was stepping on a tightrope without a safety net. I struggled to savour the moment so I kept singing with my eyes closed:
Undead undead undead
When I finally opened my eyes, the world greeted me with an unexpected shroud of darkness. Gasping for air, I plummeted ungracefully to the ground, my descent abrupt and painful. In the midst of this bewildering haze, I continued to drift, a haunting chant of "undead, undead, undead" echoing relentlessly in my mind.
As my eyes fluttered open, hours later, on a cold hospital gurney, I was greeted not by the light at the end of the tunnel, but by the blinding beam of a doctor's torch being flashed into my eyes. "Well, well, look who decided to join the land of the living", he quipped charmingly.
I promptly burst into tears. Attempting to sit up, I was met with the horrifying realization that my beloved jeans and Velvet Underground t-shirt had been replaced by a rather uninspiring hospital gown. Feeling exposed, I scrambled to cover myself.
"Where are my clothes?" I wailed, my voice ricocheting off the sterile walls of the hospital room.
With a sympathetic sigh, the doctor explained the unfortunate circumstances that led to my current state:
"I am sorry. We had to cut you out of your jeans. We got a call about a potential overdose at Fuzz Club. The paramedics gave you Naloxone but you remained unresponsive. When we got you here, we ran some tests; your drug tests came up clean, your ECG was normal and your brain scan was fine so we're still trying to find out what's wrong with you."
Three days later, there I was, still marooned in the dreary confines of the hospital, looking as forlorn as William Blake's poor sick rose. The doctors attributed my sorry state to a perfect storm of malnutrition, severe vitamin deficiencies, anaemia, dehydration, and exhaustion. As if being prodded and poked by medical professionals wasn't enough, I was promptly handed over to a psychiatrist for a full mental evaluation before my grand discharge. Though I politely declined the offer to meet with the psychiatrist, it became painfully clear that my ticket out of this sterile purgatory relied on convincing a suspicious stranger that I wasn't a walking psychiatric case study. In a bizarre twist of fate, it seemed I was back in the business of bartering my mental stability for my freedom.
The psychiatrist swept into my room like a storm cloud as I was watching a game of poker on the tiny hospital TV, her stern, unsmiling demeanour and clipboard in hand signalling that she meant business. As she fired off questions at me, I couldn't help but feel like a contestant in the world's most awkward game show.
"Are you suicidal?" she inquired immediately.
"Uh, nope," I replied politely.
Her eyebrows rose in skepticism, but she pressed on undeterred:
"Have you ever thought about inflicting harm on others?"
I shook my head, suppressing the urge to crack a joke about my pesky twin brother.
"And when did your eating disorder begin?" she inquired, her gaze burning holes through me like a laser beam.
"I don't have an eating disorder!" I protested.
"Then why did you faint? Why are you so skinny?" she demanded, her tone sharp enough to slice through my feeble attempts at evasion.
I hesitated for a moment, contemplating whether to spin a tale worthy of Dickens or stick to the mundane truth. Exhaustion won out, so I opted for brutal honesty.
"Well, I pretty much like to eat healthy," I began, feeling the weight of her scrutiny like a heavy cloak. "Sometimes I can't afford fancy food so I resort to whatever's affordable at the time."
"How can you not afford food? It says here you are on a full scholarship covering everything, from your accommodation to your tuition," she countered.
I squirmed uncomfortably, grappling with the harsh reality of my financial constraints.
"Well, let's say it's not enough," I admitted, the bitterness of truth lingering on my tongue.
The psychiatrist's scrutiny seemed to intensify, her skepticism palpable as she peered at me over the rim of her glasses like a hawk sizing up its prey.
"Any substance abuse?" she queried, her tone sharp and probing.
"No, no, I'm clean. As pure as the driven snow," I affirmed, feeling like a reformed sinner trying to convince the town preacher of my newfound righteousness. It wasn't a lie: my days of alternating between speed, tranquillizers, and pot were in the rearview mirror. As I uttered these words, a strange flashback flooded my mind - a blurry recollection of me watching poker on the TV in the early hours of the morning, waiting for the amphetamines to wear off and the Valium to kick in after a marathon study session of Milton's "Samson Agonistes". That was before I vowed to stay sober, realizing I needed a clear head to tackle life's challenges, like figuring out how to pay my electricity bill without trading it for my left kidney.
"Your toxicology came up clean, but there's something about you I don't like," she mused, her brow furrowing in suspicion.
Unable to resist the urge to inject a bit of self-deprecating humor, I quipped:
"Well, I can't really blame you. I've been told my face has that effect on people."
Her expression remained unchanged, however, as she pressed on with her interrogation.
"Any other addictions? Gambling? Betting? Sex?"
Ah, the trifecta of vices. I resisted the temptation to respond with a cheeky remark. Instead, I simply shook my head and offered a sheepish smile until she stormed out of the room looking positively incensed.
Feeling sad, I reached for my book. I had tasked Paul with scavenging my childhood bedroom for any bookish escape he could find. And what did he unearth? William Burroughs' "Junky". Not exactly the most uplifting choice for a mentally beleaguered twenty-year-old trapped in the bleak confines of a hospital's neurology department, but hey, it could have been worse. He could have unearthed Solzhenitsyn's "Cancer Ward" or Thomas Mann's "The Magic Mountain". So, amidst the opium-laden haze of Burroughs' seedy underbelly of addiction and despair, I sought refuge from my harsh reality.
As I replayed the crosstalk between the psychiatrist and myself in my head, I couldn't help but wonder whether bartering could be akin to an addiction, a peculiar craving for the thrill of exchange. When I swore off all those drugs that either knocked me down or kept up awake for days on end, I immersed myself in addiction literature at the university library, absorbing insights like a sponge. Back then, I could understand getting hooked on heroin or crack or painkillers but I dismissed behavioural addictions such as gambling or sex addiction as quirks reserved for eccentric souls. But as I delved deeper, I stumbled upon a revelation: the allure of those behaviours actually resonated with my own struggle. My brain was a dopamine-fueled ship navigating treacherous seas. With each essay I embarked upon, I felt as though I were venturing into uncharted territory without a compass. It was a rush of exhilaration unlike any other - a validation of my abilities, and a testament to my obsessive compulsion to break rules and question the establishments of academia. No one could really see beyond the surface to understand the depth of my passion for bartering. For me, it wasn't merely a hobby; it had become my way of life.
As a seed of doubt took root in my mind, I entertained a radical notion: what if I stopped? What if I let go of this essay bartering escapade and hit the reset button? Channel my energy into academics, pursue a conventional job, find a partner, and explore the real world? I had turned into a recluse, a hermit of academia, afraid of real life, unable to connect with a single soul in the universe. It was time to break free from the ivory tower, and embrace the messy, rich and unpredictable beauty of life beyond the pages of books.
As I let that revelation marinate, I realized there were a few matters requiring my immediate attention. First, I rang up Mum and asked her to stay with me for the first couple of months following my discharge from the hospital. I then dialled Thomas, the hapless recipient of the scholarly handiwork that landed me in that hospital. I gracefully bowed out of our arrangement, citing a sudden onset of "grave health concerns". As I hung up the phone, a wave of sheer pleasure engulfed me. Recalling William Burroughs' quip, "Perhaps all pleasure is only relief", I couldn't help but smile. What I was experiencing was a profound sense of relief. I was finally free to pen a new narrative.
from FICTION on the WEB short stories https://ift.tt/5FRhaf0
via IFTTT
Comments
Post a Comment