(Note: Read this in the context of Juno or Superbad).
I stroll into the crowded college office and set my lanyard down on the edge of the assistant’s desk. He looks slightly overwhelmed and overworked. I shoot him a sympathetic glance; I know the pain of a campus position all too well.
"Do you have an appointment?" He practically growls through his teeth.
"Uh... yeah," I reply with a slight attitude.
I’m pissed. I just wasted two seconds of my sympathy on this student employee in distress, and here he is treating me as if the letters "S" "T" "D" are scribbled across my forehead in Sharpie ink. He blinks and clears his throat. I pick a particularly painful wedgie with a quick flick of my right hand.
"Name?"
"Gertrude Long."
"Academic advisor?"
"Dan."
"Excuse me? Dan who?"
"Dan Elliot. God! Do you have any fucking manners? You’re literally barking at me; you look like you’re foaming at the mouth. I mean, I know you’re having a rough day and all, but quit getting all drill-sergeant on my ass; it’s not polite. Do you need a fucking percocet or something?"
The assistant opens his mouth to protest and quickly reconsiders. His jaw snaps shut and he cautiously glances to the left and right.
"Maybe... do you have one?"
I survey my scenario. Here I am, about to hand my last percocet to a rude stranger in a stressful situation; I’m not typically one to fill the roll of Good Samaritan.
The phone rings. Someone farts loudly near the back of the room. I itch my head.
"Listen, Gertrude. My boyfriend broke up with me Saturday; he’s seeing another guy. I have to study for an African Dance final tonight, and I’m probably going to fail. Not to mention that my roommate’s new puppy keeps pooping in my favorite pair of shoes."
"Sick. How far did you insert your foot before you actually noticed the poop?"
"Far enough to feel a slight squish in between my toes."
This guy needs help. I slip a small pill into his outstretched hand and get back to business.
"Anyway, I’m seeing Dan. And yes, we’re on a first-name basis."
Then I plop down on an oversized loveseat and begin to thumb through the selection of reading material.
"Jaime Lynn Spears pregnant with twins."
"Donald Trump checks into rehab."
"David Beckham to pose for Playgirl magazine."
Old news. I contemplate the conversation that will soon follow my short wait. I’ve been seeing a lot of Dan lately - not by choice - and each visit has grown shadier than the last. When I first met Dan during freshmen year he approached me with a friendly demeanor; fresh faced smile, aggressive handshake, awkward wink.
He’d proudly exclaimed, "If you’ve got an academic issue, I’m your man."
Fast-forward five and a half years later, and I’m-your-man-Dan is suddenly acting like my Dad two days prior to passing a large kidney stone. It’s not pleasant.
The assistant rings a bell.
"Gertrude, Dan’s available."
I stand up.
"So, do you know anyone who’s selling good greens?"
"My dealer has some quality shit. I’ll get back with you on my way out."
Each time I enter Dan’s office I silently write it off as a failed attempt at being cool. He plastered classic rock posters across all four walls, including the cliche Pink Floyd poster; you know, the one that plays four butt cracks off as brilliant works of art. He even went as far as to place a Stewie Griffin bobble head on top of his cluttered bookshelf.
"Nice tie."
"Thanks. It’s new."
Dan frequently wears so-called "funny" ties, and they always seem to clash with his outfit. Today’s tie is no exception. It’s a Pee Wee Herman attribute with miniature bow ties scattered across the fabric. A tie full of ties. Clever.
"So, Gertrude. Have you been thinking about what I said during our last meeting?"
"Yeah."
"And were you able to secure an appointment with a career counselor?"
"Well.... no. But I was watching the Tyra Banks show Saturday night, and an idea just kind-of hit me. It came out of nowhere. I mean, I really think I’m on to something Dan. I know I said the same thing about Urban Planning, Photojournalism and Plant Biology, but this idea just seems to feel right."
Dan sighs. I give him a half-ass smile and shift in my seat.
"All right. I’m glad we’re getting somewhere Gertie,"
- "I prefer Trude."
"I, um, I’m glad we’re getting somewhere Gertrude. What did you come up with?"
I bite down on my lip. I know my idea sounds a bit far-fetched, but it is definitely a feasible possibility. I already mapped out a detailed plan, which includes potential practices in Amsterdam or New York.
"Well, I kind-of want to look into the create your own major stuff."
"Ah, so you’re interested in getting a B.S.S."
I shoot him a blank look.
"A Bachelor of Specialized Studies."
"Oh, wow. I always thought that stood for Bull Shit Studies. Anyway, I’ve got it all worked out Dan."
I hand him a single sheet of notebook paper with a deep crease running directly down the center. Dan unfolds it carefully, as if it were the last piece to a never-ending puzzle of possible careers. He coughs and wipes a drop of sweat from his right brow.
"I see that you’ve compiled a list of various courses Gertrude, but I can’t seem to form a common relationship."
"Oh – I forgot to put a title. It’s supposed to say ’Sex Therapist’ at the top."
Dan turns a warm shade of red and loosens his tie full of ties. I seriously doubt that he’s ever been laid, and he’s fast-approaching thirty. I think he’s blushing because I said the word sex.
"O-okay. So we’re looking at something similar to marriage counseling – "
I quickly interrupt. Dan is always misinterpreting my career plans, and with five and a half years under my belt, I need to settle on a smart choice – quick.
"Oh no. This has nothing to do with marriage. This is about sex. You know, just for people who hook up and want to do it better. I’ll help them out. Then they won’t ever have to bother with the boring stuff, like marriage counseling. Besides, there are a lot of people having sex these days, and almost none of them get married. Sex Therapy will increase my potential cliental."
The door bursts open and a disgruntled sophomore gestures towards the lobby with a deep sigh.
"Do you have any air freshener Mr. Elliot? Your desk assistant just threw-up in the plant."
