nyu essay
the prompt:
Write a dramatic essay (no more than four 8 1/2" x 11" pages, typed). Dramatize an unforgettable actual event in your life. This event can be dramatic and/or comedic.
It was 11:47 p.m. according to my friend Stephanie’s car clock. We had been at the movies all evening with our eccentric friend Lauralee, and as the hour was growing late there were very few places open other than the 24-hour Walgreens in town. It was the end of July and only a few weeks until school began, and all three of us were anxious to make the best of our remaining free days. We would be seniors this year, and this was our last summer of high school; next year we would all be spreading our own ways. Stephanie, a trend-setting fashionista, would be going to an art institute in Dallas to study fashion design. Lauralee would be on her way to the University of Texas in Austin, and I was uncertain of my destination, as I had been considering schools all over the nation. This was the last summer when everything was certain, at least for the upcoming year. Some common (yet unvoiced) feeling cried out to make the most of it.
We went through our normal routines we carried out when we were bored late at night. Our first stop was the local Starbucks to see who was hanging out with the artsy emo kids that frequented the establishment. In the adjacent parking lot we passed by Wendy’s, the designated location for the football team to go and get drunk on weekends. When both destinations failed to appease our boredom, we drove past the houses of friends, enemies, distant acquaintances, and all the members of the local band The Nightlife.
While parked in front of the house of Jason Schaffer (the dreamy lead singer of The Nightlife), we concluded that we would go to my house, eat some of Lauralee’s famous peanut-butter and jelly sandwiches, and start a DVD. Stephanie put her car into drive, threw a tomato at Jason’s car, and sped off in the direction of my subdivision.
My home is on a cul-de-sac, and a few houses down is a family with a son my age who dropped out of high school last year. Ever since then he’s had at least four cars in front of his house, each parked perpendicular to the curb, parking-lot style. In the past few months there had been several complaints, as his guests take up nearly half the cul-de-sac making it difficult to pull a roundabout in the small area. On this particular balmy evening there seemed to be quite the soiree; the usual four guest vehicles were stationed on the circle, along with at least six others, all parked with their tail ends horizontally blocking the cul-de-sac. The empty driveway led up to the aluminum garage door, which was open about a foot and a half. The calves and feet of several people were seen in silhouette, backlit by the yellowish garage lightbulb. Stephanie slowly pulled a tight turn in the crowded circle and parked in front of my house facing the end of the street.
“We have to mess with them,” declared Lauralee some minutes later as she slathered a slice of bread with chunky grape jelly. “Their damn cars are always in our way whenever we come over.” After three sandwiches were made we packed them up with three cans of pink lemonade and jumped into Stephanie’s car.
We drove through the cul-de-sac immediately. Lauralee released a blood-curdling scream, but nobody in the garage seemed to notice. Stephanie went to the end of my street, pulled a three-point-turn and headed back to the circle.
“We’re calling the cops!” shrieked Lauralee, but again no reaction came from the crowd behind the garage door. Instead of leaving the cul-de-sac, Stephanie turned on her high-beam headlights and began making circle after circle after circle, while me and Lauralee screamed out the open windows. Again, no feedback. Frustrated, Stephanie pulled out of the circle. We were almost ready to give up and go back to see the Wendy’s crown when I had a brilliant idea.
In the backseat of Stephanie’s car was a large, heavily padded brown bag with lots of pockets. I pulled it from where it lay in between Lauralee’s ankles and brought it into my lap. From inside I pulled the large, clunky, old camera I used for photography class. This camera was really old - at least twenty years, it had been given to my Dad when he graduated college. It was wide with a very large, dark lens, a dark maroon strap, and the kind of shutter where you took a picture and then had to pull this little lever to make the film advance to the next frame. It was big, ugly, heavy, and quite obvious. I attached to its top a tall, boxy flash, and turned the contraption to its highest and brightest setting. Commanding Stephanie to go back to the house, I checked to make sure there was film inside the camera.
As she pulled into the cul-de-sac, Stephanie turned off her headlights. I gave her special instructions on when to start driving, and I exited the vehicle with Lauralee; we propped open the door to the back seat before creeping towards the house.
We made an indirect approach, moving to the right of the garage, hiding behind cars. I stepped onto the lawn of the house, my camera strap hanging around my neck. The only sounds audible to me were my breathing, Lauralee’s footsteps, and the high pitched hum of the flash charging. I made it to the fence of the house, just next to the brick garage. Lauralee stood sentinel behind a tree in the middle of the front lawn. Giving me a thumbs up sign, she beckoned me to go in for my shot.
The grass was crispy under my bare feet (I had taken off my flip-flops in order to run faster). As I approached the mouth of the garage I could hear music playing, and immediately recognized it as “The Reason” by Hoobastank, an extremely overplayed song in the summer of 2004. I could hear laughing inside over the song, and some girl drunkenly shouting at somebody else. The smell of spilled beer and cheap pot emanated from the open door, which I was standing extremely close to, possibly less than six inches. Making a final glance at Lauralee, I took a deep breath, stuck my camera under the garage door, and pressed the shutter.
“Run!’ shouted Lauralee the split second after I took the picture.
I remember the flash was incredibly bright - perhaps it was my eyes adjusted to the night, but the explosion of light to me was blinding. I jerked the camera out from the garage, hitting my hand hard on the metal door, creating a loud bang. If the people inside didn’t take note of the magnificent burst of electronic light then they certainly heard my clumsy thump.
My feet slipped on the pebbly driveway as I started running. I could see Lauralee was already halfway to the car before I had even turned around completely, and I could hear the confused and angered grunts of the inebriated teenagers behind me. I caught my footing quickly and bolted to the car, leaping into the open door to the backseat. I could see two large boys squeezing under the garage door.
“Haul ass!” Lauralee cried, and Stephanie was off before I had even shut the door.
As we passed my house I saw the reverse lights of one of the parked cars; they were backing up to come after us. Stephanie took a hard right at the T-intersection at the end of my street and sped down the middle of the neighborhood road. Quickly panicking and fearing for our lives, we drove out the back entrance of the neighborhood somewhere around fifty miles an hour.
The terror passing, we began to laugh about what we just did. We completely freaked out a group of people we didn’t even know, and almost got killed in the process; it was wonderful. Immediately, Stephanie set her course towards the 24-hour Walgreens.
When we arrived I headed straight to the one-hour photo counter. The nightshift guy who always worked after midnight was there, his blue hair looking nearly blonde in the fluorescent store lighting. I ordered double prints, knowing there was only one picture on the roll.
The three of us waited out the full hour in the store. We bought a bag of Starburst fruit candy and chewed on it as we read the magazines and perused the aisles. After an endless hour of waiting we got our two prints (which lost less than a dollar) and opened it up right in the store, eager to see what treasured image we captured on film. Holding my breath, I carefully extracted the photograph by its thin white edges.
In the picture there was a white ceiling; in the middle of the frame was an electric garage door opener, with a metal track running off to the right. In the bottom left there was the very top of a shelf visible with something indiscernible on top, perhaps a leaf blower. And that was it. The small four by six inch print was actually, to my surprise, quite disappointing.
Saddened, I returned to Stephanie’s car. She dropped Lauralee off at her house before taking me home. I sat on my small black bed, staring at my two, identical, boring pictures that I had risked so much to get.
It was not until months later I would realize the value of the picture. Looking at the product alone, one would say that definitely our endeavor was a waste of time and energy. However, the intangible impressions, emotions and memories attached to the photograph greatly outweighed the intrinsic value. If Stephanie and Lauralee were to go to college the next day and we were never to see each other again, I would always hold dear the photograph from that night. That night represented everything good about our lives together; the spontaneity, the audacity, the sheer stupidity of our whimsical actions, and the reckless abandon of high school in general. For that night, nothing mattered but having fun with the people that you love. I will always be reminded of how special the times are that we share with our friends, because even if the picture comes out crappy there will most certainly be a thrilling story behind it.
Write a dramatic essay (no more than four 8 1/2" x 11" pages, typed). Dramatize an unforgettable actual event in your life. This event can be dramatic and/or comedic.
It was 11:47 p.m. according to my friend Stephanie’s car clock. We had been at the movies all evening with our eccentric friend Lauralee, and as the hour was growing late there were very few places open other than the 24-hour Walgreens in town. It was the end of July and only a few weeks until school began, and all three of us were anxious to make the best of our remaining free days. We would be seniors this year, and this was our last summer of high school; next year we would all be spreading our own ways. Stephanie, a trend-setting fashionista, would be going to an art institute in Dallas to study fashion design. Lauralee would be on her way to the University of Texas in Austin, and I was uncertain of my destination, as I had been considering schools all over the nation. This was the last summer when everything was certain, at least for the upcoming year. Some common (yet unvoiced) feeling cried out to make the most of it.
We went through our normal routines we carried out when we were bored late at night. Our first stop was the local Starbucks to see who was hanging out with the artsy emo kids that frequented the establishment. In the adjacent parking lot we passed by Wendy’s, the designated location for the football team to go and get drunk on weekends. When both destinations failed to appease our boredom, we drove past the houses of friends, enemies, distant acquaintances, and all the members of the local band The Nightlife.
While parked in front of the house of Jason Schaffer (the dreamy lead singer of The Nightlife), we concluded that we would go to my house, eat some of Lauralee’s famous peanut-butter and jelly sandwiches, and start a DVD. Stephanie put her car into drive, threw a tomato at Jason’s car, and sped off in the direction of my subdivision.
My home is on a cul-de-sac, and a few houses down is a family with a son my age who dropped out of high school last year. Ever since then he’s had at least four cars in front of his house, each parked perpendicular to the curb, parking-lot style. In the past few months there had been several complaints, as his guests take up nearly half the cul-de-sac making it difficult to pull a roundabout in the small area. On this particular balmy evening there seemed to be quite the soiree; the usual four guest vehicles were stationed on the circle, along with at least six others, all parked with their tail ends horizontally blocking the cul-de-sac. The empty driveway led up to the aluminum garage door, which was open about a foot and a half. The calves and feet of several people were seen in silhouette, backlit by the yellowish garage lightbulb. Stephanie slowly pulled a tight turn in the crowded circle and parked in front of my house facing the end of the street.
“We have to mess with them,” declared Lauralee some minutes later as she slathered a slice of bread with chunky grape jelly. “Their damn cars are always in our way whenever we come over.” After three sandwiches were made we packed them up with three cans of pink lemonade and jumped into Stephanie’s car.
We drove through the cul-de-sac immediately. Lauralee released a blood-curdling scream, but nobody in the garage seemed to notice. Stephanie went to the end of my street, pulled a three-point-turn and headed back to the circle.
“We’re calling the cops!” shrieked Lauralee, but again no reaction came from the crowd behind the garage door. Instead of leaving the cul-de-sac, Stephanie turned on her high-beam headlights and began making circle after circle after circle, while me and Lauralee screamed out the open windows. Again, no feedback. Frustrated, Stephanie pulled out of the circle. We were almost ready to give up and go back to see the Wendy’s crown when I had a brilliant idea.
In the backseat of Stephanie’s car was a large, heavily padded brown bag with lots of pockets. I pulled it from where it lay in between Lauralee’s ankles and brought it into my lap. From inside I pulled the large, clunky, old camera I used for photography class. This camera was really old - at least twenty years, it had been given to my Dad when he graduated college. It was wide with a very large, dark lens, a dark maroon strap, and the kind of shutter where you took a picture and then had to pull this little lever to make the film advance to the next frame. It was big, ugly, heavy, and quite obvious. I attached to its top a tall, boxy flash, and turned the contraption to its highest and brightest setting. Commanding Stephanie to go back to the house, I checked to make sure there was film inside the camera.
As she pulled into the cul-de-sac, Stephanie turned off her headlights. I gave her special instructions on when to start driving, and I exited the vehicle with Lauralee; we propped open the door to the back seat before creeping towards the house.
We made an indirect approach, moving to the right of the garage, hiding behind cars. I stepped onto the lawn of the house, my camera strap hanging around my neck. The only sounds audible to me were my breathing, Lauralee’s footsteps, and the high pitched hum of the flash charging. I made it to the fence of the house, just next to the brick garage. Lauralee stood sentinel behind a tree in the middle of the front lawn. Giving me a thumbs up sign, she beckoned me to go in for my shot.
The grass was crispy under my bare feet (I had taken off my flip-flops in order to run faster). As I approached the mouth of the garage I could hear music playing, and immediately recognized it as “The Reason” by Hoobastank, an extremely overplayed song in the summer of 2004. I could hear laughing inside over the song, and some girl drunkenly shouting at somebody else. The smell of spilled beer and cheap pot emanated from the open door, which I was standing extremely close to, possibly less than six inches. Making a final glance at Lauralee, I took a deep breath, stuck my camera under the garage door, and pressed the shutter.
“Run!’ shouted Lauralee the split second after I took the picture.
I remember the flash was incredibly bright - perhaps it was my eyes adjusted to the night, but the explosion of light to me was blinding. I jerked the camera out from the garage, hitting my hand hard on the metal door, creating a loud bang. If the people inside didn’t take note of the magnificent burst of electronic light then they certainly heard my clumsy thump.
My feet slipped on the pebbly driveway as I started running. I could see Lauralee was already halfway to the car before I had even turned around completely, and I could hear the confused and angered grunts of the inebriated teenagers behind me. I caught my footing quickly and bolted to the car, leaping into the open door to the backseat. I could see two large boys squeezing under the garage door.
“Haul ass!” Lauralee cried, and Stephanie was off before I had even shut the door.
As we passed my house I saw the reverse lights of one of the parked cars; they were backing up to come after us. Stephanie took a hard right at the T-intersection at the end of my street and sped down the middle of the neighborhood road. Quickly panicking and fearing for our lives, we drove out the back entrance of the neighborhood somewhere around fifty miles an hour.
The terror passing, we began to laugh about what we just did. We completely freaked out a group of people we didn’t even know, and almost got killed in the process; it was wonderful. Immediately, Stephanie set her course towards the 24-hour Walgreens.
When we arrived I headed straight to the one-hour photo counter. The nightshift guy who always worked after midnight was there, his blue hair looking nearly blonde in the fluorescent store lighting. I ordered double prints, knowing there was only one picture on the roll.
The three of us waited out the full hour in the store. We bought a bag of Starburst fruit candy and chewed on it as we read the magazines and perused the aisles. After an endless hour of waiting we got our two prints (which lost less than a dollar) and opened it up right in the store, eager to see what treasured image we captured on film. Holding my breath, I carefully extracted the photograph by its thin white edges.
In the picture there was a white ceiling; in the middle of the frame was an electric garage door opener, with a metal track running off to the right. In the bottom left there was the very top of a shelf visible with something indiscernible on top, perhaps a leaf blower. And that was it. The small four by six inch print was actually, to my surprise, quite disappointing.
Saddened, I returned to Stephanie’s car. She dropped Lauralee off at her house before taking me home. I sat on my small black bed, staring at my two, identical, boring pictures that I had risked so much to get.
It was not until months later I would realize the value of the picture. Looking at the product alone, one would say that definitely our endeavor was a waste of time and energy. However, the intangible impressions, emotions and memories attached to the photograph greatly outweighed the intrinsic value. If Stephanie and Lauralee were to go to college the next day and we were never to see each other again, I would always hold dear the photograph from that night. That night represented everything good about our lives together; the spontaneity, the audacity, the sheer stupidity of our whimsical actions, and the reckless abandon of high school in general. For that night, nothing mattered but having fun with the people that you love. I will always be reminded of how special the times are that we share with our friends, because even if the picture comes out crappy there will most certainly be a thrilling story behind it.