The Line

"The Line"
--by Daniel B. Visel
"There is no chance," wrote Ella Wheeler Wilcox, "no destiny, no fate, that can
circumvent or hinder or control the firm resolve of a determined soul." These words
are from her poem "Will," a favorite of my Aunt May. Though Mrs. Wilcox's words on chance and destiny never really caught my ear when Aunt May read it to me so
many times, those words resonated in my head December 9, 1994, a day that I will never forget. On that day, I stood before Judge Stanley Pivner to testify against my best friend, Wyatt. The workings of fate are strange indeed: Wyatt and I had been friends since kindergarten, when we went to Suzuki violin lessons together. We had been the best of all possible friends in grade school, helped each other through the
troubled junior high years, and have remained close through high school. Our paths,
though, had led us in different directions: I spent all my time studying for classes,
while he invested time and money in soaping up his 1986 Dodge Ram. College didn't seem the necessity to him that it did for me: Wyatt lived for the moment. The future,
for him, would be dealt with when he came to it.
Wyatt's crowd was a wild bunch. I was wary of them – they did dangerous things.
Somehow, I didn't associate Wyatt with any of this, thought: he was Wyatt, my friend, a known quantity. I guess I had been too busy studying to notice how much he had changed. It didn't hit me until a Thursday night my senior year == the night
that Wyatt pulled up in his truck and asked if I was doing anything. I had finished my math homework for the week, and had a good start on a draft of the term paper I
was writing on Dutch painters, so I said that I wasn't. I got in the truck with Wyatt, and we hit the road, heading to Barberton.
"Why are we going to Barberton?" I asked Wyatt.
"I got a plan," he replied, sounding dark. I noticed that there was a funny odor in the
car – it smelled like beer. Had Wyatt been drinking? I wondered. I didn't say
anything, though; I didn't want to lose face in front of someone I respected. There was a pained silence in the car as we sped towards Barberton. As I kept a firm eye
on the road, making sure that Wyatt wasn't swerving or driving too fast, I recollected that Friday was the day of the Barberton football game.
We pulled up in the lot of the Barberton high school. I remained silent. To this day, I wonder why I didn't say something, why I couldn't find words to stop him. We got
out of the truck; Wyatt got a pair of lockcutters out from under his seat, and I
followed him around the back of the high school. You could puncture the silence with
a stiletto.
I realized, too late, what was happening. Barberton was our high school rival; every year, people from our school talked about kidnapping the Barberton mascot, a male
baboon named Heracles that they kept in a shed behind the school. Nobody actually did anything about it, though. Wyatt, though, seemed intent on changing that. I followed dumbly, my heart heavy with angst.
"Wyatt, this is lunacy," I told him. He said nothing, only smiled menacingly. I could
smell the alcohol on his breath. I didn't know what to do; I followed his directions when he told me to stand guard. Quickly and skillfully he cut the lock holding the
door shut, then opened the door. It was pitch-black inside the shed; Heracles was evidently asleep. He called out the beast's name; something stirred inside, there
was a yawn, and Heracles came shambling out. I had never seen the monkey before;
I was surprised at how friendly and well-mannered he was. He scrutinized us, looking for some kind of a handout I guess – how was he to know what Wyatt had in mind? Wyatt was impressed with Heracles's friendliness: he told me that this was
going to be easier than we had thought. The monkey good-naturedly followed us
back to the parking lot. With a little work, we succeeded in getting him into the back of the pickup truck. Wyatt threw a tarp over him, we got in the cab, and we started off, my brain full of anxiety.
Heracles, though, didn't seem to like the back of the truck that much. Somehow, he
managed to get out from under the tarp; with a bound, he had jumped from the
truck to the parking lot. Something tripped in Wyatt right then; to this day, I'm not
sure what it was. I suspect it was the alcohol.
You have to draw the line somewhere. On that day, what started off as a simple high school prank went horribly wrong. It's important to support your friends, but there
are some things that are simply not allowed – and running over a monkey with a
pickup truck is one of them. Wyatt was out of control that night. Rage took hold of him: he was no longer my friend, he had sunk lower than the ape crushed beneath the wheels of his truck. And so, on a chilly day in December, I found myself on the
witness stand, forced to bear witness against my best friend. Ella Wheeler Wilcox's words coursed through my blood that day: fate had taken the paths of our lives
apart, but I was determined to do what was right. To follow the truth is a difficult path: it requires determination, a determination that I did not have the night we
drove to Barberton. I learned something that night. It's a lesson that will stay with me my whole life.
ANALYSIS
Every application, just as every applicant, is unique. Everyone has a different story to tell. This applicant does a good job of telling the story of an experience that changed his life; although his story is a bit longer than is usual for an application, it is generally tight. The language is somewhat flowery: the number of superfluous adjectives and adverbs could be cut down. Some details might be thought of as
extraneous. Nobody needs to know that the name of the mascot was Heracles, for
example. However, such details as these put a human spin on the essay; the reader has an easy time constructing a mental picture of the applicant.
While this application has a strong story, the structure which brings it together is somewhat weak. The quote, while it may have deep personal significance to the
author, seems like it could have been a random motivational quote grabbed off the internet. Though the author tries hard to integrate it into the story, he never really
succeeds; it seems, finally , irrelevant.
This essay shines in that it gives the reader an idea of some qualities that would not be brought out in the rest of the application. Loyalty, determination, and honor are not virtues that can be exhibited in a resume. The author presents a difficult situation: torn between friendship and honesty, he chooses the latter. A few
questions remain unanswered. Where is "Wyatt" now? Why does the author's resolution of principles take so long to come about? Nonetheless, Dan remains a
poster boy for honesty, a virtue colleges are all too happy to rally behind.