“Because I was writing poetry,” he answers matter-of-factly.
“Couldn’t that have waited?”
“Waited for what?”
On the screen the dean frowns, but in the theater Sam laughs.
Daniel is sitting now in the same station wagon from the first projection, but in place of a pretty blonde, there is a beat-up Smith Corona in the passenger seat. As Daniel pulls away from the curb, in the near distance can be seen the rest of his classmates in graduation gowns throwing their caps in the air. Daniel drives over the same bridge into the same city. He enters the same six-story walk-up with his typewriter under one arm and a duffel bag under the other, holding the door open for no one. Once again, Daniel arrives at Century Tower and double-checks the address in his hand. But this time, after looking up at the building’s gleaming surface, he says: “Fuck that.” Tossing the address in a trash can, he continues down the street with his hands tucked in his pockets.
Suddenly, we hear the unmistakable opening chords of Bob Dylan’s “Like a Rolling Stone.” As the music plays, there is a montage showing Daniel’s life in the city: washing dishes in a Chinese restaurant; drinking in a run-down bar with a ragtag group of friends; typing in his one-room apartment late into the night; and sending off a manuscript, which, after landing on an anonymous desk, is stamped with the single word REJECT.
As Dylan’s anthem plays on, the series of images repeats itself: dishes, drinking, typing, rejection. The third time the series begins, the music fades into the background so we can hear Daniel being reprimanded by his boss in the restaurant’s kitchen. “Fuck this,” Daniel says, throwing his apron on the floor. In the run-down joint where he hangs out with his friends, there is now a group of yuppies crowding the bar. When one of them tells Daniel that smoking isn’t allowed, Daniel pops him in the nose. And when, a moment later, Daniel is thrown into the street by the bouncer, Daniel shouts back, “Fuck you.”
Sam couldn’t help but note with a touch of parental concern that since dropping out of college, this Daniel has only said three sentences and fuck has been the verb in each one of them.
Cut to a beleaguered Daniel sitting motionless before his typewriter with a cigarette hanging from his lips, a bottle of bourbon close at hand, and another finished manuscript on the table. After an uncomfortable wait, Daniel types a few words and pulls the page from the typewriter. A close-up shows the title of his new book: Fuck You, America. But this time, on the anonymous desk the manuscript is stamped with the word BUY.
Here the sequence of images accelerates. Presses run. Copies of the book are stacked in a bookstore with signs referring to the “runaway bestseller.” At a Beverly Hills hotel, Daniel shakes hands with a movie star to whom he has just optioned the book. At the premiere, he exits the theater on the arm of the lead actress. In the Hollywood Hills, a broker hands him the keys to a striking Mid-Century Modern home. When Daniel walks inside, the camera pans the landscape to a billboard for Fuck You, America. In the background, the clouds begin speeding by. Night comes and goes several times, and the image on the billboard transforms to announce the sequeclass="underline" Fuck You Too, Europe.
The camera now shifts to Sunset Boulevard, where Daniel is driving in a roadster late at night, weaving in and out of his lane. On a winding canyon road, he crashes into his own mailbox and stumbles up his driveway past an array of luxury cars as blood trickles down his forehead. Inside the house there is a chaotic party that looks like it’s been going on for days. Daniel grabs a bottle of bourbon from the bar, retreats into his room, sits on his bed, and takes a healthy swig.
Morning. A close-up of Daniel’s face, hungover and ill shaven with a little dried blood on his brow. The camera pulls back to reveal that he is lying on the floor. When his bloodshot eyes open, he sees a bulky shape in the shadows under his bed. As he squints, the shape comes into focus. It’s the Smith Corona. A knowing smile begins to form on Daniel’s face.
Cut to black.
This time when the lights came up, it was Sam who was already looking at HT.
“Are you kidding?”
HT was taken aback by Sam’s tone. “Kidding about what?”
Sam pointed at the screen. “Annie saw this?”
“Of course, she saw it. She chose it. It really struck a chord with her.”
“Struck a chord!”
HT turned a little in his chair. “What is it, Sam? What’s on your mind?”
“The clear implication at the end of this projection is that Daniel is miserable.”
“Okay,” said HT, nodding. “But I’d put it a little differently. You’re absolutely right that, given the nature of Daniel’s success, his life seems to have become adorned with empty luxuries and false relationships. But it’s the very hollowness of these adornments that allows him to see his situation for what it is.”
“And I’m supposed to take heart from that.”
“Absolutely!”
HT turned more in his chair to look back at the projection booth. “Hey, Harry! Bring up the closing shot.”
The face of the second Daniel reappeared on the screen, looking generally the worse for wear.
“See that smile, Sam? Isn’t it enviable? I mean, he’s just had a vision of what is important in life. I love the visual subtext of this shot because what is Daniel looking at right now? His typewriter! During all those years when he was toiling away in a kitchen, living in a walk-up, writing books that no one wanted to read, there was scarcity and rejection, but there was freedom and authenticity too.”
HT shook his head in satisfaction.
“I think we can assume that his life is about to veer in a terrific direction.”
Sam stared at the frozen image of Daniel, following his own train of thought. What could it mean that Annie had chosen this projection? At some level, Sam couldn’t help but take it personally. He, too, had gone to a competitive liberal arts college, where, as a freshman, he had studied Shakespeare and dabbled in poetry—just like everybody else. And yes, he had eventually chosen economics as his major and written his thesis on John Maynard Keynes. But did that make him some sort of sellout? Would he be more free and authentic if he were a dishwasher and they lived in a one-room apartment?
“Are you ready for the third projection?” asked HT.
“I’m ready for a second gin and tonic.”
HT, who always seemed so ready to please, hesitated. “Are you sure you want another?”
“Pretty sure.”
“Having said that a drink can be additive to the experience, Sam, we’ve found that a second drink can be a little reductive.”
“I think I can handle it.”
HT, the counselor, adopted an expression of friendly concern.
Sam, the customer, held up his glass and rattled the ice cubes.
So James was summoned in his catering clothes, and a second drink was promptly delivered.
“Are you ready now?” HT asked, a little coolly.
Sam put a finger in the air while he drank a third of the G&T. Then, putting down the glass, he said, “Let her rip.”
From the day that Daniel was born, everything came easy…
As the narrator—who was a woman again—elaborated on Daniel’s “natural finesse,” there was a montage showing the ease with which he made friends, played sports, and pursued academics.