So… I guess I'm writing Dead Poet's Society fanfiction now. I suppose that is the result of scrounging YouTube for every little scene in the movie and replaying them over and over. This one is focused on Charlie Dalton, who I have decided is my second favorite character to Todd. He makes me so happy with his silly little smirk in the back of the classroom all the time…
Disclaimer: I do not own Dead Poets Society.
Ever since that fateful day when Charlie Dalton was expelled from Welton Academy, he poured his heart into writing music.
His inspiration came from Mr. Keating, of course. Never before had he been given the option to pursue his passion, but each day his English teacher gave him hope that perhaps he really could. His father wanted him to become a banker and take over the family business. Well sure, he could feign that for a while. But when it came time to choose a career, the bank could go to hell for all he cared. He, Nwanda Charles Dalton, was going to be a musician.
He kept in touch with the boys. Sometimes he'd call, often he'd visit – but what had stayed most consistent for the remainder of his high school career was his communication with Todd Anderson.
That kid – Todd – was an anomaly. The way he came bursting out of his timid, scared little shell was like watching a glorious butterfly finally leave its cocoon and fly. He didn't become another Neil Perry, certainly not. There were no wild and rebellious breaking-of-rules or crazy stunts. But he did lead. He led the entire Dead Poets Society with his quiet wisdom and individual diligence. Mr. Keating could not have been more right about him. There was an unbelievable amount of emotions and ideas generating inside that boy's mind that they never even had imagined. Like Charlie and his music, Todd wrote poetry – really incredible poetry. He carried his notebook everywhere. His poems were not just poems, they were his entire life wrapped up into one small book. To say he wore his heart on his sleeve was no exaggeration.
Charlie wrote him letters. He would give him updates on his life, tell him stories of dumb things that happened at his new school, or sometimes even ask for advice. Every time Todd would send back a short letter and a poem. Each one was different, but always seemed to be able to affect Charlie to the same degree. They all touched something deep inside of him, whether it was sad or joyous or frightening or exciting – and every word had meaning. The poems always seemed to express a profound truth hidden between the words on the page. They made him think and ponder, they brought back memories from the past – but most importantly they inspired him.
And so he wrote music. It became an obsession, an attempt to express his entire life story with the notes resonating from his instrument. Sometimes he even incorporated words and phrases from Todd's poems, or made them up on his own. No matter what he ended up creating, he relied on his saxophone heavily. It was the only outlet he had to release the emotions inside of him.
After he finished prep school he moved to New York. Todd was at NYU for graduate school to study English, so Charlie found a cheap apartment just outside Greenwich Village where he made a living as a street performer. He had joined a small networking group of musicians and poets in the village; the lifestyle had a name now – the Beatniks. It was the first time in his life he had met so many people who understood where he was coming from. Lots of young people from all over the world were in New York, performing in the city, and enjoying having freedom from the corruption and limitations of the establishment. Here, Charlie got to be out in the real world, watching people interact and go about their lives. Here, he could devote himself to simple self-expression, and no one was telling him what he was supposed to do or who he was supposed to be. It was a life he had only ever dreamed of.
It was a humid day in early August of 1966, and Charlie Dalton was set up on the corner of 7th Avenue, just outside the Village Vanguard jazz venue. This had become a pretty normal routine for him to perform around this area; he had claimed the corner a few months prior. It was a good place where a lot of people roamed, and he enjoyed setting the mood for those on their way to a jazz show or elsewhere. He had been there for about an hour with his sax case on the ground in front of him, where he had accumulated mostly small change and a few singles, and every so often someone would stop and listen for a little while. This was not unusual. Charlie had just paused to wipe his mouthpiece when he heard his name being called.
"Yo, Nwanda!"
He looked up to see his buddy Falco with a goofy grin on his face. Falco was an Italian pianist from the heart of Brooklyn, who had met Charlie at a pub one of his first days in the city. Falco had taken a liking to Charlie immediately and introduced him to the street performing business, and for that Charlie was truly grateful.
"Hey Falco, man, what's goin'?" Charlie greeted his friend with a smile.
"Where's that citizen you were parading around the other day?"
Knox Overstreet had recently come to New York for a business trip, and Charlie had brought him to the local bar to meet some of his friends. They warmed up to him quickly. Knox, unlike Charlie, had followed in his father's footsteps and had gone to Harvard Law School. However Knox, more than any of them, had his heart set on leaving the Northeast. Pretty much as soon as the opportunity had presented itself, he took his girl and fled. Now he worked as an attorney for the state of Alaska and lived with Chris in a log cabin out in the wilderness.
"He left just yesterday," Charlie responded. "Says you guys are cool, though."
"He was wild," Falco complimented. "You know that theater chick, Nancy? She was talkin' up a storm about him. I think she has it bad. She kept sayin' she'd move to Alaska and kept askin' if he was a snagged stag. I told her I had no fuckin' clue she'd have to ask you."
Charlie laughed. "Yeah, he's already got his sweetheart out there with him. You can tell Nancy she's outta luck. The guy's like a lovesick puppy when it comes to his babe."
Falco whistled appreciatively. "Well you can tell him that he is welcome back here anytime."
"Thanks, man."
"And the school cat – the genius one – how's he holdin' up in the Ivy Tower?"
"Todd? Last I checked he couldn't be better."
"Tell him to get out and come down here sometime, will ya? Everyone loves him," he told him.
"Will do, Falco."
He slapped his friend on the shoulder. "Look Daddy O, I'm gonna let you get back to work. But take care alright?"
"You too."
"Later."
Falco swaggered his way through the crowd, most likely on his way to his next gig. The pianist spent most of his time in Washington Square Park, and when he wasn't playing there he was playing with any band that needed him. He considered himself a wanderer and could swing with almost anybody. Charlie considered himself lucky to have him around. The guy was truly talented.
Charlie picked up his sax again and played for another hour. A small crowd began to form during his last piece. It was one of the oldest ones he had written, from back before he had left Welton. He let the tune engulf him, bringing him back to the cave in the forest.
He was nearing the end of the song when someone from the crowd came over and threw a bill into his case. Charlie glanced down. What he saw made him pause.
He stopped playing and peered down the busy street, trying to spot the man who had given him the cash. He looked to be a little older, perhaps in his forties or fifties. Quickly, Charlie snatched up the bill and ran through the crowd to catch him.
"Excuse me, sir?" he tapped him politely on the shoulder. "I'm not sure if you were aware, you just gave me a hundred…"
His voice died out once the man had turned around. Instantly, his eyes widened, and he stared dumbstruck. He flashed back to when he was sixteen sitting in the back of an old classroom looking up at the inspirational professor standing on the desk…
"I am well-aware that it is, Mr. Dalton."
Charlie couldn't breathe. There was no way that this was possible, seven years later, on a random street in New York City. The former professor's eyes danced in amusement as Charlie gawked, jaw hanging half open and unable to speak.
"I hope you don't mind accepting," he smiled. "It is not every day that I get to see such a passionate man doing what he loves."
"M-Mr. Keating," Charlie managed to say, his voice coming out in an almost inaudible whisper.
"Yes," he replied warmly. "Mr. Dalton if only you could see yourself from afar, you would be able to see such a talented, vibrant, inspirational young man. You have a deep intensity that can move people. That is something that cannot be taught."
Charlie swallowed the sudden ball in his throat. "Thank you," his voice cracked, "Captain."
Mr. Keating's eyes sparkled again, and he smiled in appreciation. With a nod, he turned to continue on his way.
"Wait, Mr. Keating," Charlie stopped him, and the professor paused. "Let me take you to lunch, or buy you a drink, or something," he asked adamantly.
"Oh, I certainly couldn't-"
"Please," Charlie insisted earnestly. "It – it would mean so much to me."
Mr. Keating watched his former student thoughtfully for a moment, taking in the genuine admiration radiating from his face. He seemed to come to some sort of resolution before finally answering.
"I would be delighted."
Thank you for reading! It turned out a little longer than I anticipated but hopefully you liked it. I am thinking about just leaving it hanging as to why Keating is actually there. I'll let you guys imagine what happens next.
If this meant anything to you, please leave a review!