Gossip Girl: It Had To Be You

D's already found it

"Just have a read through that pile there and tell me if you think any of it is worth saving," Dan's father had instructed earlier that morning as he indicated the heap of yellowing manuscripts and newspapers beneath and surrounding the desk in the small, cluttered office just off his bedroom. Dan almost wished he'd gone to sleepaway camp like his sister instead of offering to work for his dad. He'd had the very stupid and unrealistic idea that sometime this summer Serena would bump into him accidentally, find out that he was the author of all those wonderful love poems written by Anonymous, and fall madly in love with him.

But of course, like most Upper East Siders with any sense, Serena had fled the unbearable city heat for the country. The proof of her whereabouts was in the Styles section of today's New York Times, which happened to be lying right in front of Dan on his father's scratched metal desk. Serena van der Woodsen, 15, daughter of Lillian and William van der Woodsen, at the 64th annual Ridgefield Polo Club Classic, the caption read beneath a photograph of her wearing a white eyelet sundress and yellow lace-up espadrilles, her pale blond hair spilling carelessly over her perfect, tan shoulders.

Dan slid open his dad's desk drawer and removed a pair of scissors. Careful not to fray the edges, he began to cut out Serena's picture and the caption beneath. Then he stopped himself. What kind of self-respecting person collects images of a girl he's never even spoken to? Next thing he knew he'd be getting a tattoo that said "Serena Forever" on his chest and eating cat food straight out the can.

At least he'd be getting a balanced meal.

He shut his eyes, ripped the entire page of the newspaper out, crumpled it up in his fist, and tossed it into his dad's metal wastepaper basket, where it landed with a hollow pong. Then he grabbed a stack of papers from off the floor and began sorting through them. Rufus was possibly the most disorganized person on the planet. His papers were like his hairstyles and outfits—totally insane. There were doctors' bills, crossword puzzles, a random word written in pencil on a scrap of paper, essays in Russian printed on colored paper, and weird typewritten paragraphs of quasi-inspirational profound thoughts that could only have been written by Rufus himself.

Brautigan's In Watermelon Sugar was not the acid-inspired ramblings of a madman. The man was more poet than Whitman, barring Song of Myself. Aspire to Brautigan and produce Whitman. Originality is key.

Rufus appeared in the doorway while Dan was still reading. "Find anything?" he asked hopefully.

Dan looked up from the creased, coffee-stained piece of paper. His father was wearing a dapper-looking pair of brown tweed britches circa 1917, paired with a stained orange Lacoste turtleneck with the sleeves cut off, and a pair of white perforated leather Dansko clogs. The little green alligator perched over his left nipple had come partially unsewn, so it looked like it was swimming for its life. Rufus's wild and wiry gray hair was braided and tied with the red-and-white string from the box of cookies he'd bought at the Italian bakery that morning. He looked like Paul Revere on mushrooms.

As featured in the July issue of Men's Vogue. Not.

"What exactly am I supposed to be looking for?" Dan thought he was supposed to just throw his dad's old shit out so he could find his way around his office again and maybe write something worth saving for once.

"It!" Rufus bellowed at him, his nostrils flaring so widely that Dan could see his forest of gray-black nose hair. "You're supposed to find the nugget, the thing."

Dan had no idea what his father was talking about. "Nugget?" he repeated. The word sounded vaguely pornographic, like "the family jewels," a euphemism for balls.

Like any guy needs help finding those?

Rufus yanked on his earlobes and ran his hands over his distended belly. "Lookit, kid, I want to write the novel, but I don't have time to get all inspired again. I'm too old for that." He waved his bare, flabby arms around in the air. "This office is full of inspiration. I've been getting inspired for years! I hired you to find the source, that kernel of inspiration that's going to set off the whole fireworks show. Got it?" His bloodshot, muddy brown eyes bulged with excitement.

Dan lit a Camel and finished off his mug of cold instant coffee, feeling suddenly depressed. His father's office had one tiny window that faced West End Avenue but was completely blocked by the noisy air conditioner. Most days Rufus stayed in his office with the door closed, smoking and typing on an old typewriter, emerging only to cook or shop for one of his heinous concoctions. He wore mismatched clothes bought at the Salvation Army or found on the street. Some of his anarchist friends slept on benches in Riverside Park simply because they refused to conform. He supported Dan and Jenny with the royalties from his own father's book, the biography of some obscure Russian painter, which Rufus had managed to translate into English.

"You shouldn't smoke," Rufus told him, fishing one of Dan's cigarettes out of the pack and lighting it for himself. "It fries your brain."

Never mind the lungs.

Still, smoking with his dad while having a literary discussion was pretty mature. Dan felt sort of cool, like he was already in college. "How do you know when you've found it, though?" he asked, blowing a thin stream of smoke up at the cracked white ceiling. He stuck his thumb into the bottom of his empty coffee mug and dabbed at the grounds.

"It speaks to you," Rufus explained, throwing back his head and blowing a series of huge, obnoxious smoke rings. "You just see it and think there must be more. It's not done. So it's your job to flip the burger and finish it."

Dan licked his thumb and frowned. Only his dad would compare the creative process to flipping burgers.

Rufus stubbed his cigarette out on the wooden sole of one of his clogs and flicked the butt into the trash can. "I gotta get out there and find some cardamom." He held out his hand for Dan to slap. "Just shout when you find it. I'm counting on you, kid."

As soon as his father had gone, Dan fished the wadded-up page from the Styles section out of the wastepaper basket. He unfolded it and laid it out on the desk, smoothing the wrinkles out with the flat of his hand and flicking away any remnants of his father's cigarette ash. There she was again in her white eyelet sundress, smiling up at the camera with those sad, seductive navy blue eyes. Dan didn't need to sort through piles of useless crap to find his nugget. He'd already found it.

Yes, but it's what we do with our nuggets and our family jewels that makes all the difference.