Day 29: 51,789 Words and Fin!

 A few excerpts from today's wrap-up. First... Piquette, Taylor Kitsch, and David Boreanaz save the day!

“Mr. Bauer,” the one named Toots was saying, with the barely controlled rage of thwarted neighbourhood historians everywhere. “Every other storefront has adopted this delightful item at its entrance. Surely, you are not above the suggestions of the Neighbourhood Historical Society,” she said with hauteur. The communitas had bravely been attempting to hold off the Society for some time now, but they were relentless, and many of the celebrities were simply at a loss. Their usual skill set just wasn’t appropriate for this sort of fight. The Rock had nothing to tear apart with his bare hands, although he was eyeing the clown lamppost up as though he would like to. Sylvester Stallone couldn’t box or shoot his way out of this one, he couldn’t even become a loving mentor to a younger boxer so that he could overcome his personal demons and battle the Neighbourhood Historical Society on their behalf. There just wasn’t time. Richard Gere, who had once been called “Prince Fucking Charming” by his rival, Sylvester Stallone, had stopped being charming long ago, once people realized how sexist and offensive he was in Pretty Woman, and in any case, these women weren’t looking for a Prince Fucking Charming. They were looking for blood.

The former cast of Donnie’s River, James, Josh, and Lizzy, had little in the form of useful skills. They mainly moped and engaged in witty, unrealistic dialogue, none of which seemed of use here, although Lizzy, bless her heart, was giving it the old College try. Luckily, it wasn’t the College Years try.

“Do you believe in magic?” she asked Toots, smiling that lopsided smile that had broken so many hearts and charmed many a grandmother. “I never used to. I mean, how could I? 13, your mom dies, you hope against hope for magic, something to make it all better. It never comes, and, you know, you look to your father who's unable to overcome all of his tragic flaws. Well, no abracadabra there…” Toots brushed her aside as though she were a particularly irksome fly, perhaps one trying to fly into her mouth.

A sweat had broken out on Jackie’s forehead and his face had an unhealthy pallor. Josh could see that this was taking a toll, and that Jackie couldn’t hold out forever. Someone had to do something. And just then, Taylor Kitsch and David Boreanaz appeared, filthy rags over their shoulders and trays filled with “Daddy’s Sippy Cup” stainless steel wine tumblers on trays.

“This might pique your interest!” Taylor Kitsch said, waggling his eyebrows at the Neighbourhood Historical Society flirtily.

“On behalf of the proprietor of this establishment, we would like to offer you some free samples of the latest craze in drinkable products, Piquette!” David Boreanaz said with a flourish. 

“It tastes a bit like olive seltzer, if there were such a thing, with a whack of colour and little suggestion of actual fruit!” Kitsch added.

Toots McRuff gnashed her teeth with chagrin. It was a well known rule of Jackie’s Place that one had to imbibe whatever was offered. And Toots was a stickler for the rules. She also knew that if she broke this cardinal rule, it would give that ruffian Jackie an excuse to kick her out, and that wouldn’t do. It wouldn’t do at all.

“Thank you,” she said with a snarl, as she accepted one of the sippy cups. She took a sip and winced, then smiled, the red of the piquette turning her teeth blood red. “This has hints of depression and desperation,” she said, continuing to smile in a decidedly disconcerting manner.

“Of course, David Boreanaz replied. “It was developed by old timey French peasants, who couldn’t afford to drink anything else!” The other women from the Neighbourhood Historical Society accepted their samples, and similarly seemed to enjoy the wine adjacent concoction. If anyone needed any further proof that they were monsters, there you had it. Boreanaz and Kitsch hustled back to the bar to grab more bottles of Piquette, but not before Jackie clasped each one of them by the hand and uttered a tearful “Proud of you, boys!” Unfortunately, given the low alcohol content, it was unlikely they would be able to get the Society drunk, but as long as their supply of Piquette didn’t run out, they could keep these women distracted indefinitely. It had been a genius move by the two former celebrity hockey circuit players, and had likely saved them from an eternity of torment. Jackie would never forget it.

And then... Labby Chapin brings everyone together with the much-loved classic, Dog Years Go By:

As the song played, everyone in the bar sang along. The lyrics to the chorus were simple and repeated many times, and the celebrities picked them up quickly, and sang along with everyone else. Josh felt a tug on his sleeve and saw Maeve’s tear stained face. He put his arm around her and together, they sang along… and so you and I, we watch dog years go by… 

Something magical was happening in the bar. The celebrities, who had formed an ad hoc communitas, could feel their membership swelling. Everyone in the bar, economist, futbolista, and Jane Austen enthusiast alike, was joining their ranks. They could feel in their hearts the gift the lab offers us all, the lesson of living life with joy, allowing every day to be the best day ever. The economists, their hearts swelling with heretofore unexperienced emotion, suddenly understood their complicity with capitalism and disavowed their professions. One was overheard shouting “Working economists of the world unite! You have nothing to lose but your chains and spreadsheets!” They ripped the blue t-shirts from their bodies with disgust, and gladly accepted the red t-shirts that the two recently hired and broodingly handsome servers were circulating around the bar. The economists didn’t know what the Department of Social and Political Thought was, but they knew they were for it. 

The Neighbourhood Historical Society watched, helpless, as the bar united as one. They had stood a chance of defeating the irksome proprietor on his own, but they were powerless against a force such as this. They sipped their piquette with gusto, and, relented. Toots began to sing along, and soon, all of the women joined in. The Rock, seizing the opportunity, grabbed the clown lamppost and crushed it to dust with his bare hands, singing all the while. Maybe someday, I don’t know when… but we’ll play fetch again…

And the conclusion, where Danae makes her choice:

Was I born to do this? And Danae knew that she didn’t need to explain, that the woman knew her heart (your heart is my heart). Danae thought of the work she had fled- the show, Donnie’s River: Legacy- could this be her life’s purpose? Was she truly doing what she was born to do? 

Only you can answer that question, dear one. But know this, your life matters. And Danae could see the truth of these words. In her mind, she could see an individual leaf on a tree in an expanse of forest. It was part of the beautiful symphony of movement in the breeze, and in connection to every other living thing. It mattered. Your words matter. What song will you sing?

Danae understood something in that moment, it was like looking into the inner working of the universe. Every life matters. What mattered was standing courageously and singing the song that was in your heart. If one person heard the call, and sang the song of their own heart, then worlds would shift, and the universe was one voice closer to harmony. It could be that simple. Did she have the strength of heart to stand true, to enter the timeless circle of stories and let her song be heard?

Your heart is my heart, dear one. Use it well. The woman said, and she walked quietly back into the woods, which held its arms open to embrace her. She was of the trees, of the wind, of the water, and she drifted out of sight. Danae knew what she had to do.

Life, like writing, bore infinite possibilities. Conventions and rules needn’t have any meaning, if we choose to ignore them and write what is in our hearts, live what is in our souls. She could see the path laid out before her, laden with her own words, her own choices. She would write every day of her life. She would sing the song that was in her heart.