As Good As It Gets

A special one-shot for Dewey

Hope you enjoy this, Dewey! I chose to make this a mod, Spot-narrated romantic comedy about his mind constantly dwelling on this girl named Dewey and how he wishes he could stop thinking about her, but can't. Enjoy, dear!

To the rest of the lovelies who decided to read. blows kisses Thank you! Please don't forget to leave me lots of reviews!

Well, Conlon, you should have known.

See, I thought I could enjoy my college years at NYU. It's a big school, right? I mean, all the freedom is right THERE. No parents, which means no one to rag on you when you come back from partying hard all night long. Beautiful.

But no. SHE had to show up.

Geez, I say that like that's a bad thing. Is it a bad thing? I mean, I've never had myself dwell on a girl like this before. I wouldn't mind it so much, really, if it was any other girl.

Dewey. What kind of a name is that? But then again, you probably want to know how I even got to know her name. Well, it wasn't a pretty story.

I was headed out of Jack Kelly's room late one night, and—okay, I'm not gonna mince words—we both were trashed. It was bad, like making loud, obnoxious noises in the hallway trashed. Of course, at the time, it didn't bother me.

But then there was a girl whose nose in her book was in our path of staggering. Even in my completely plastered state I could still tell that she was disgusted with our behavior. And, of course, that wasn't the only thing that was easy to see. Sure she gave me a prissy look, but this chick was... well, hot.

"'Scuse you," she muttered, obviously showing me no mercy for my drunkenness. "Can you please go be wasted where I'm NOT trying to study?"

Sure, I walked off and scowled as I passed out away from the princess's premises, but not before I heard her roommate laugh. "Way to go, Dewey. That was just Spot Conlon you told off."

Dewey. That was her name.

"I really don't care," she said with an almost weary sigh, rubbing her temples, perhaps trying to alleviate the friction caused from being immersed in a philosophy book like the one she was holding. "I wish people would realize that college isn't always about getting drunk off your rocker."

Even in my incapacitated state, those words hit me. Just a little, anyway. Her words seem like a mantra you'd hear all the time, but see, I didn't ever hear things like that. Throughout high school, and now most of college, this whole partying and drinking and carrying on business wasn't just recreation, it was a way of life. Never had I heard anyone actually question it—or if they had, I'd never listened.

Maybe I shouldn't have listened. After all, what did this pretty face know about anything?

I soon learned that the next morning when the same Dewey found my disheveled form in the TV Lounge—right where it was last night after I passed out.

"Still feeling so glorious?" I heard her chirp in a cheerful sort of taunting.

Yeah, hangover. I'm really not feeling up to par, and her sardonic tone wasn't helping, to say the very least. But then I opened my eyes, and I just wanted to forgive it all. This girl wasn't hot anymore. No, she was a step above hotness. Dewey looked like an angel. God in Heaven, she could have been.

But somehow my mouth didn't follow my head. "Can you lay the hell off? For one second?"

This statement caused Dewey's gaze to harden. "Don't swear," she commanded. "It only makes you sound weak that you can't come up with a better vocabulary."

She didn't pause for my reply (in retrospect, she probably wouldn't have gotten a verbal reply from me anyway). Instead, she rose to her feet and walked off.

After that encounter, I didn't see much of this angel. Sometimes, on the way back from class, I'd see her curled up in the common room, nestled in a huge sweater that draped off her shoulder on one side, her curly brown locks pulled out of her face as she studiously leaned over a book. Of course I wanted to talk to her—I just couldn't.

I couldn't even avoid Jack laughing at me. "You're goin' all soft," he taunted me mercilessly, laughing wildly whenever I'd crane my neck into the girls' hall—just in case Dewey was there.

I didn't see her for the longest time afterward. Maybe once or twice I'd get the blessing in disguise of her coming my way in our hectic run to classes (well, she was headed to class. I was just loafing around usually—hell, who needed to learn about Napoleon when I had more important things to worry about?). We'd brush elbows, at any rate. Then, sometimes I could have sworn that she'd smile at me. No, Conlon. That's not a smile, that's a grimace, I'd tell myself.

Never in my whole life had a girl (that had only spoken to me once, and even that one time was unpleasant to recall) had so much stinking impact on my life. From that point on, I'd go to parties with Jack, and every time someone handed me a beer, I'd freeze. All I could remember was Dewey's look of disgust at my drinking habits. Why on God's green earth did I even care what she thought? She was just a chick. A chick that didn't have such an affinity for guys that drank. One lousy chick... that was as pretty as a picture with the wisdom of an angel. Why?! Why am I thinking this?! Why?

"You feelin' okay?" Jack asked me, looking puzzled as the beer he held out to me started to drip with condensation. "Ya thirsty or what?"

Now I was on the spot. "Uh..." I stammered, "I think I'm gonna go."

This caused Jack to burst into hysterics. "Are you kiddin' me? This is the first party you've been to in a month. Ya gotta need it."

"No, I'm serious, man." So much for trying to maintain a cool-as-a-cucumber demeanor. "I'm just—I dunno. I ain't up to it tonight."

"Whatever," was Jack's reply as he popped the top off the can. "More beer for me."

What could I have done at this point? I just shuffled out of the party, trying to keep as low a profile as humanly possible. I headed to my dorm again, feeling a funny feeling tug at the pit of my stomach. Why did I do that? Turn down a completely good beer. No, I know exactly why I did that: Dewey.

It never mattered to me what anyone thought before she intervened in my blissfully ignorant existence. It wasn't like she even meant to, I think. She just expressed her disapproval vocally—Wow. Why can't I get a girl like that? Maybe I could. Someday.

As I pressed open the door to the TV lounge, I expected an empty room. Uh, hello? Saturday night at NYU? Who wouldn't be out getting drunk?

Dewey wouldn't, that's who.

I almost tripped over her reclined position on my way to the hall door. "What the f..." I stopped, knowing how much she hated swearing. "Uh, hello." Hello? Hello?! God, Conlon. You should have just kept your mouth shut.

"Hi." Dewey didn't even look up from the book she was reading. "You're not out getting plastered?" she queried with a sort of omniscient smirk.

"Well, uh... well, no. I'm not." I dismissed everything that told me to just keep walking and sat in a chair near to her.

"That's odd," she observed, still focused on the book, as though she was still trying to drown me out of her life by means of the plot she'd immersed herself into.

"Why is it so odd?"

At last, Dewey placed her bookmark in her thick novel and closed it, looking up at me. "Well, it's just your nature, you know? You seem like the partying type."

"What's that supposed to mean?" I asked, getting a little defensive. "I'll have you know that I can be just as sober as the next guy."

She held the book in her lap, peering up at me. "I think I'll believe that when I see it."

I groaned. What could I say in defense? I really kind of had it coming to me. Dewey was absolutely right. She could see right into my soul with those warm eyes of hers. I wanted to hate her for it. I really, really wanted to.

But, of course, I couldn't. "Dewey?"

"Yes?" She blinked at me, a puzzled smile toying at the corner of her lip. She must have been surprised that I'd learned her name from her roommate.

"You like movies?"

Her smile broadened a little bit. "Yes...?" She didn't see where this was going.

Neither did I, for that matter. Of course, my words here lately felt like they were being controlled by something other than myself. Then it hit me.

"You—you ever seen that Jack Nicholson movie, As Good As It Gets?"

Dewey smiled a bit more comprehensively. "With Helen Hunt? Yeah, I saw it a while back... What about it?"

The words just kept flowing. "Well, y'know how Jack Nicholson plays this total basket case? He didn't care about anyone's feelings or anything like that. And then he met Helen Hunt. Remember what he told her when he said he cared about her?"

Maybe Dewey already knew the answer. Part of me thinks she just wanted me to say it to her. "I don't really remember. What did he say again?"

"Well," I said, "she thought he was a total idiot for saying something like that. Then he said his reasoning. He said, 'You make me want to be a better man.'" I paused, letting that sink in. For both of us, really. That wasn't too bad, Conlon.

It was like Dewey could read my mind. She grinned again, tucking some of her curls out of her face. "Do I make you want to be a better man, Spot?"

Wow. She made this so much easier. And she knew my name on top of that! "Yeah, I think so," I said in reply. I felt a lopsided grin cross my face.

Instead of laughing at me for the cheesy statement I'd just made, Dewey instead moved closer to me, patting my knee encouragingly. "Well, I'm glad my seemingly bitter commentary about people making lousy decisions at college has made an impact with someone." She laughed.

I sighed happily. Not only did she not think me stupid, she actually was proud of me. "Thanks, Dewey," I returned, placing a hand on top of hers.

"No problem, Spot." She grinned.

"How did you know my name?"

"Well, your roommate yells at you enough when you're drunk. I think everyone knows your name by now." She chuckled good-naturedly.

All I could do was chuckle with a little embarrassment. For a few more hours, we just talked about anything and everything. We actually became friends—something I never would have imagined.

Our conversation was interrupted by a more-than-tipsy Jack staggering into the dorm, making his usual loud, boisterous noises as he often did when he got drunk. I smirked, feeling a sense of disapproval for the first time.

"C'mon, Jack," I said, shaking my head. "Get to bed. You'll feel better in the morning."

I flashed a smile to Dewey before I ushered my roommate up the stairs. Perhaps someday Jack would have his own guardian angel of sorts to keep him clear of drinking himself into oblivion all the time. I already had mine, and it made me the luckiest guy in the world.

THE END