51 Narrative 1 – “The Cantankerously Cruel and Contemporaneously Crude Cameron Catastrophe”
Michael Clark
The Cantankerously Cruel and Contemporaneously Crude Cameron Catastrophe
I found myself running full sprint down Cameron campus, holding a plastic fork in one hand and a plate of chicken alfredo in the other. There were not one, but four parking lots in the area I was in. I picked a random one and ran as fast as I could towards it. At this time, a group of people were taking graduation photos together. Unfortunately, their moment of triumph was foiled by a strange curly-haired kid dashing behind them. I spent 10 to 15 minutes running full sprint in aimless directions. My terminus was nowhere in sight, and a school bus full of angry teenagers were waiting on me.
Yup. That’s me! Chances are, you are probably wondering how I got into this situation. It’s a funny story, really. It’s the story of the worst day of my life. The worst days of your life tend to be the days you least expect to suck. The days you walk into with poor expectations can’t possibly match the days you face with high hopes. Why? With an expectedly bad day, every punch is expected. However, with an expectedly good day gone bad, it’s just an onslaught of one crushing blow after another. I’ve had plenty of days like these, days where I go into a disastrous experience with my best foot forward, thinking “Today is gonna be a great day!” I end up walking out of those days significantly disappointed at best. This was one of those days. A 12-hour ordeal with each hour posing a new, significantly more ridiculous challenge. As the curtains open on the travesty-tragedy that has befallen me, the story begins as all good stories should: with an alarm clock blasting noise directly into my inner ear.
05:00 MY HOUSE [3 HOURS BEFORE THE INCIDENT]
Thus begins the Critically Crumbling and Centrally Calamitous Cameron Catastrophe
If I have one forte, it’s certainly not waking up at 5 am. As most nights tend to be, they’re always cold, pitch black, and never pleasant. This night was, predictably, no different. After I got dressed and walked out the front door, I found myself sitting on the side of the road waiting for my friend to pick me up. I looked around, taking a deep breath of that uncomfortably cold spring air. All that surrounded me was a cold, starry sky, a thick impenetrable fog, and the foreboding aura that precedes a terrible day.
I felt the unmistakable breeze of a car speeding past my house, my friend’s car. It seems he was unable to see me due to the fog. This was the first of many punches that would dislocate my metaphorical jaw. I, being a freshman, assumed he was just going to give up and leave. I panicked and reached towards my phone to call him. As I stared down at my phone, the only light in the shroud of darkness enveloping me, I was faced with the worst two letter phrase a modern teenager could see: NO SERVICE. (On the other hand, “It’s scurvy” is the worst for a 15th century teenager.) To this day I have no idea how I had no service so close to a cell tower, right next to my house in fact. My family believes it’s secretly a government-issued missile silo disguised as a cell tower. I disagree, so I can only assume the gods were just glaring down at me that day.
Using critical thinking skills, something I normally lack, I quickly turned my phone’s flashlight on and began waving it in the air. Surely, he would turn around and see my light pierce the fog. Sure enough, this is precisely what happened. He came screeching to a halt right next to me. A close call, and an unfortunate omen about this cursed day. The sharp light of my phone’s flashlight was my only saving grace. Because of that, this college narrative essay is sponsored by Apple’s iPhone XR. Using the promo code “CAMERON” will get you 0 percent off any chosen Apple product. Terms and conditions may apply.
“Hey buddy, looks like I almost missed you!” My friend said in the thickest southern accent imaginable
“Oh, yeah, sure, I guess.” I replied, somehow fitting in 3 lackluster responses into the same sentence.
We drove to where the bus picked us up, I vividly remember the disgusting, old man cologne scent of that pickup truck. I remember thinking, “This day can’t possibly be good if it starts off smelling like a funeral home!”
As a wise man once said, this is where the fun begins.
08:00 CAMERON CAMPUS [THE INCIDENT BEGINS]
Cameron’s Cathartic, Clean Campus Cleanses my Callow Character
Looking back, the highlight of this day was probably the smoothies. I have no idea if Cameron still has that amazing smoothie stand, but I’d consider enrolling full time in Cameron for another one. I spent two of the three hours waiting for the impromptu speaking competition to start by drinking those darn smoothies. Yes, you hear that right: two whole hours! Enough time to watch a major motion picture. Afterwards, I finally found the emotional strength to jump up and head to the building I could find my competition in. It didn’t help that I was wearing my late grandfather’s dress shoes, which are NOT meant for exercise like this. My late grandfather isn’t late as in dead! He is quite literally late, as in he never shows up on time. I sat on a weird couch-like object for another hour. After some time had passed, a strange old man, dressed like the mentor of the protagonist of a mediocre 1980’s fantasy novel, approached me. I vividly remember every word of the following conversation:
You doin’ the improv? He asked, unintelligibly.
Y-y-Yes Sir! I said, because being a high school freshman in a college setting was too much for me.
Canceled. He grumbled and walked off.
What?
Teacher quit. This was the last thing he said before he left my life forever.
I knew this strange man for a matter of minutes, and he only choked out seven words. Despite this, I still think about that odd encounter every day of my life. I hope he’s doing okay. I like to imagine he was some kind of apparition or ghost, roaming the halls of Cameron University to alert small high school students that their events are cancelled.
I spent two more hours wandering aimlessly. My next competition, which was allegedly for creative writing, was at 1pm. By the time I reached the room where creative writing would take place, I soon realized I had made a terrible mistake. The quiz in question was for newspapers and broadcasting, not creative writing. I texted the teacher who signed me up for this without skipping a beat.
“Mrs. Miller, I thought you signed me up for Creative Writing. This is Newspaper and Broadcasting. I think you made a mistake”
‘Oh, I knew.” She replied, making my blood go cold.
“What?!”
“April Fools, Michael. Good luck.” 3 years later, this chilling text still haunts me.
My teacher signed me up for a different event I knew nothing about as a cruel prank. It was too late now: I was locked in this room. My eyes darted around the room and my body quivered. I had been duped, tricked, schemed, maybe even tricked. Everyone in this room was my enemy, out for my soul. I felt red all over, unlike the newspapers I was about to take a test on. The supervisor entered the room, forcing me to face the event with minimal knowledge.
I placed so poorly that they didn’t even bother putting me on the results page. I was humiliated, my legs hurt, and I didn’t even get an award. I walked through Cameron’s campus one last time, more downtrodden than ever. So, I returned to the object of my desires, the cruel mistress that haunted my temptations every hour: I returned to get one last smoothie. I needed the endorphins, even if it only lasted a fleeting second. I purchased chicken alfredo from Pizza Hut to “enjoy” with the smoothie. Two minutes into my Pizza Hut Pity Party, I received a most unfortunate phone call.
“Hello?” I said, as one would say at the start of most phone calls. At this point, I really would’ve preferred that phone call to be anything in the world other than what I was about to hear. I would’ve preferred an unfortunate diagnosis, loss of a loved one, or even the police telling me that I’m suspected of a cold case arson from the summer of 1969. What I heard haunted my soul: “Michael, where are you? The bus is about to leave.” I darted out of my seat, threw the smoothie into the trash on my way out, and ran as fast as I could.
We are finally caught up now, and back to my dead sprint across Cameron campus, holding a plastic fork in one hand and a plate of chicken alfredo in the other. There were not one, but four parking lots in the area I was in. I picked a random one and ran as fast as I could towards it. At this time, a group of people were taking graduation photos together. Unfortunately, their moment of triumph was foiled by a strange curly-haired kid dashing behind them. I spent 10 to 15 minutes running full sprint in aimless directions. My terminus was nowhere in sight, and a school bus full of angry teenagers were waiting on me. I turned one last corner and saw my school bus; I nearly fell onto my knees when I was presented with its glory. Wait, no, that’s the wrong school bus. Thus began another 10-minute run to the other side of campus. I ran faster, faster, a bit slower, and then faster again. Before I knew it, I nearly ran face first into the actual school bus. I stumbled onto the bus and finally collapsed. Everyone else was tired, too tired to ask any questions.
Thus concludes the crazy, careless, climactic ceremoniousness of the Cameron catastrophe. Calmly, coyly covert any contiguous commiseration you could cage. Cathartically, we have reached the conclusion.
Works Consulted
Merriam-Webster Dictionary for helping me find so many words that start with a C
