Disclaimer: I don't own the characters in this fic...If I DID own the characters, I'd have Charlie all to myself! And Neil would still be alive...and Charlie would be mine...and Mr. Keating would still have his job...and Charlie would be mine...and Chet Danbury would have his butt kicked by Knox...and Charlie would be mine...and it would have been Cameron that would have been expelled...and Charlie would be mine...and Todd would have a back bone...and did I mention Charlie would be mine? I did? Oh...Okay! Well then. It's settled. Charlie would be mine if I owned the characters. Italics are quotes taken right from the movie. Thanks to the brilliant writers for wonderful quotes and scenes to write fabulous stories around!
The poem is, bolded and italicized, "OH CAPTAIN MY CAPTAIN" By Walt Whitman.
This will be a 7 or 8 chapter story. After Mr. Keating leaves Welton, he sits at a coffee shop and thinks of each boy and what difference he made or could have made in each young man. Last, but certainly not least…Neil Perry. His will more than likely be an extra long chapter, as it was apparent he was Mr. Keating's fave student and there's more one on one with Perry and Keating.
Remembrances of Neil:
O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won,
I stood looking at the new faces. Hard to believe I was back at Hell-ton as a teacher. Oh, I had been warned. I had been warned plenty. "You'll never be able to change Welton, John. It is far too steeped in tradition." I remember hearing my mother's voice when I rang her to tell her.
My father, on the other hand, laughed. "Yes, but he'll try. He broke the rules once and I assure you, Stella, he'll break them again. Go get 'em tiger." (1)
I knew I wouldn't have intentionally let my parents down. As I sipped my coffee, I began to wish I had listened to my mother. I smiled as I heard her words growing up, every time I did opposite of what she said. "John," she'd state. "One day you'll grow up and wish you listened to me."I knew that she was right because at this moment I wish I had listened to her.
One of my first classes, I wanted the boys to learn that poetry was life and life was poetry. Sure they looked at me like I was nuts, but when they huddled around, I explained to them. "We don't read and write poetry because it's cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. Medicine, law, business, engineering, these are all noble pursuits, and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for. To quote from Whitman: 'O me, O life of the questions of these recurring, of the endless trains of the faithless, of cities filled with the foolish. What good amid these, O me, O life? Answer: that you are here. That life exists, and identity. That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse. That the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse'". I see Neil's face light up. "What will your verse be?"
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
It was shortly there after, I do believe, that the boys, having placed their grubby little fingers on my old annual, decided to form the newest chapter of The Dead Poets Society.
I started walking down towards the lake, whistling Tchaikovsky's 1812 Overture. I heard Neil yelling, but wanted to have some fun. "Mr. Keating? Mr. Keating? Sir? Oh Captain, My Captain?"
I immediately turn around, grinning, causing the boys to laugh. "Gentlemen."
"We were just looking in your old annual." I see my old annual in Neil's hands and he hands it to me.
I see my picture and I start nervously laughing. "Oh my God. No, that's not me. Stanley "The Tool" Wilson -" I crouch down and continue to look through the book. "God!"
Neil crouched down next to me and asks "What was the Dead Poets Society?"
I was taken aback by Neil's boldness. "I doubt the present administration would look too favorably upon that."
"Why? What was it?" Give him kudos for being bold and wanting to know.
I face them. "Gentlemen, can you keep a secret?"
They all nod and reply "Sure." and crouch down around me.
Now, I had to explain what the Dead Poets Society was, after nearly fifteen years of telling no one. "The Dead Poets were dedicated to sucking the marrow out of life. That's a phrase from Thoreau that we'd invoke at the beginning of each meeting. You see we'd gather at the old Indian cave and take turns reading from Thoreau, Whitman, Shelley; the biggies. Even some of our own verse. And in the enchantment of the moment we'd let poetry work its magic."
Knox Overstreet knocked me over with his question. "You mean it was a bunch of guys sitting around reading poetry?"
I smile. "No Mr. Overstreet, it wasn't just 'guys', we weren't a Greek organization, we were romantics. We didn't just read poetry, we let it drip from our tongues like honey. Spirits soared, women swooned, and gods were created, gentlemen. Not a bad way to spend an evening eh? Thank you Mr. Perry for this trip down amnesia lane. Burn that, especially my picture." I hand the annual back and walk away, whistling once again.
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
I looked around the room. Hard to believe two hormone infested teenage boys lived in it. There was so little clutter, due to Welton standards of cleanliness. A place for everything and everything in it's place. Beds perfectly made, almost to military standads. Nothing allowed on the walls. Nothing had changed since my days at Hell-ton. It wasn't hard to tell which side of the room was Neil's. I saw a picture of him with his mother and father on his desk and I smiled briefly before setting FIVE CENTURIES OF VERSE on his desk. The very same one I had when I was a member of the Dead Poets.
Now, I sit here, in this coffee shop, thinking about that moment. What if I hadn't lied and said Neil left a book in my class and I wanted to ensure he got it?(o) What if I hadn't told them about the Dead Poets Society? What if I warmed up my now cold coffee? But life is full of "What ifs". And there's nothing you can do to change that. I could "What If" my life away.
The fact remained that I tried to make a difference and Neil was dead because of it. Was I to blame as the school and Mr. Perry said I was? Part of me wondered that.
I was seated at my desk, a letter to Anne when there was a small knock on the door. "It's open." I was surprised to see Neil, looking nervous. "Neil, what's up?"
"Can I speak to you a minute?"
"Certainly. Sit down."
Neil tries to sit, but I have little room and so I have books on the chair. He smiled and handed me the books. "I'm sorry. Here."
I take the books and smile back, knowing that it should be me who apologies. "Excuse me. Get you some tea?"
"Tea. Sure."
"Like some milk or sugar in that?"
"No, thanks." He looks around my room as I give him his cup. "Gosh, they don't give you much room around here."
"No, it's part of the monastic oath. They don't want worldly things distracting me from my teaching."
Neil looked at the photo on the desk. "She's pretty."
"She's also in London. Makes it a little difficult."
"How can you stand it?" His voice trembled.
"Stand what?"
"You can go anywhere. You can do anything. How can you stand being here?" I knew that when he said here he meant Welton.
"Cause I love teaching. I don't wanna be anywhere else." But I sensed this wasn't the problem "What's up?"
"I just talked to my father. He's making me quit the play at Henley Hall. Acting's everything to me. I-- But he doesn't know. He-- I can see his point. We're not a rich family like Charlie's, and we-- But he's planning the rest of my life for me, and I-- H-He's never asked me what I want" I could tell Neil was troubled by not being able to talk to his father.
"Have you ever told your father what you just told me? About your passion for acting. You ever show him that?"
"I can't." He stammered.
"Why not?"
"I can't talk to him this way."
"Then you're acting for him, too. You're playing the part of the dutiful son. I know this sounds impossible, but you have to talk to him. You have to show him who you are, what your heart is." I wanted to encourage Neil.
"I know what he'll say. He'll tell me that acting's a whim, and I should forget it. That how they're counting on me. He'll just tell me to put it out of my mind, "for my own good.""
"You are not an indentured servant. If it's not a whim for you, you prove it to him by your conviction and your passion. You show him that And if he still doesn't believe you, well, by then you'll be out of school and you can do anything you want." Neil had backbone, but he didn't know how to be strong and I wanted him to be.
A tear fell down Neil's cheek and he wiped it away. "No. What about the play? The show's tomorrow night." He sounded hurried and scared.
"Well, you have to talk to him before tomorrow night."
"Isn't there an easier way?" Neil pleaded.
"No." Harsh reality, but reality nonetheless.
Neil nervously laughed. "I'm trapped."
"No, you're not." I softly replied.
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
At the end of the next day, Neil was the only student remaining in the class. I approached him. "Did you talk to your father?"
Neil stammered a bit. "Uh, he didn't like it one bit, but at least he's letting me stay in the play. He won't be able to make, make it. He's in Chicago. But, uh, I think he's gonna let me stay with acting." Neil sounded happier and chipper than the previous night.
"Really? You told him what you told me?"
Neil smiled. "Yeah. He wasn't happy. But he'll be gone at least four days. I don't think he'll make the show, but I think he'll let me stay with it. "Keep up the school work." Thanks." He picked up his books and left. I only hoped I hadn't stepped over boundaries.
O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up--for you the flag is flung--for you the bugle trills,
Outside of the crowd, I finally manage to catch up to Neil and take a hold of his coat. "Neil. Neil. You have the gift. What a performance You left even me speechless. You have to stay with -" I see a small smile on Neil's lips.
Mr. Perry shoved Neil aside and speaks firmly and harshly. "Get in the car." He then looks at me. "Keating, you stay away from my son." I see Neil's smile disappear.
Charlie didn't like what was going on and voiced his protest. "Neil! Neil! Mr. Perry, come on."
I sensed something was wrong and I look at Charlie. "Don't make it any worse than it is."
As Neil and Mr. Perry get into their car and drive away, I look at my young student and can't help but think I'll be seeing him for the last time.
For you bouquets and ribboned wreaths--for you the shores accrowding,
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
I look around the small shop. No one knew me. I got a couple looks as I wrote, but I blame the tears. I sip my now-getting-colder-by-the-second coffee and recall when I heard the news.
I heard a pounding on my door. A frantic pound. And I sip my tea, not wanting to be disturbed. I had found sleep to not be pleasant company, so I sought company in Whitman, Thoreau and Tennyson. The pounding, however, doesn't stop with my refusal to answer. "Mr. Keating." The voice is soft and barely recognizable.
I sigh and open the door and there stood George McAllister, the Latin teacher. "George, it has to be nearing 3 in the morning…"
"News just reached us that Neil Perry has killed himself." If he had anymore to say, I don't remember. I was shocked. My prized pupil…the one who loved life to it's fullest…dead? Killed himself?
"How?" was all I could say.
George sighed. "Shot himself. Father's pretty distressed over it"
"They say why?" I implored.
George shook his head. "No, but they'll find you to blame."
"Me?"
"Mr. Perry evidently believes you had something to do with putting Neil on that stage, against his wishes."
"Neil told me he told his father and that everything was okay. He just had to keep the grades up." It was that moment we all fear of our world crashing down on us. My not only crashed at that moment, it was destroyed beyond recognition. (2)
I knew that in writing it, with the memory so fresh, the tears would fall, and they did. Unapologetically. They fell. Admittedly, I was a little embarrassed, but I had just lost someone that I had grown to care about and my job. The job I loved so much. I knew I made a difference. I hadn't made a big enough one for Neil.
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head!
It is some dream that on the deck
You've fallen cold and dead.
I sat at Neil's desk the following day, trying to sort things out. I opened the desk and there it was. In gold imblazoned letters was FIVE CENTURIES OF VERSE. I flip through it, settling on the opening page, where I had written Thoreau's words. Grief, guilt and anger swarmed over me and I sobbed. Uncontrollably sobbed.
My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,
The ship is anchored safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
Exult O shores, and ring O bells!
We're not allowed to cry. We're men. We're adults. Tears are not a part of who we are. But I look to the students and my heart breaks and a few tears fall as I see Charlie, looking beaten and lost, no tears visible. But then again, he was never one to show when he was hurt or angry. I see Todd, trying to sing, but the tears aren't helping. Meeks and Pitts can hardly sing with the tears and Mr. Overstreet, next to Todd, is the only one capable of singing, but even tears are waterfalls from his eyes.
They are in pain and the administration blames me.
The only one I don't see is Richard Cameron, the young man who winds up being the push for my dismissal.
Mr. Perry told me that he holds me responsible.
My heart breaks and I can't heal it. I can't fix it. Now what? What am I to do? Where am I to go? If only…I think as the waitress refills my coffee cup and gives me a sympathetic look. I sip the new hot coffee and think of Whitman and Neil.
The young guys looked to Neil. Charlie, as tough as he was, called Neil his best friend and one would dare say he almost worshipped him. Knox and Meeks and Pitts were the guys Neil pushed to be better than they thought they could be. And Todd. Todd hero worshipped Neil. We all knew it. Without Neil, would even I have made a difference in his life? They called Neil "Captain" and for good reason too. If not for him, the Dead Poets Society would have never been resurrected and he may have never acted. He even, in his own way, helped me to become a better teacher...a better person...a better poet. But, now…now…"Captain" is fallen cold and dead and will never know the difference he made.
But I, with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
I wipe a tear away as I remember "Captain" as the boys called Neil. He was a leader. He never let anyone see how weak he sometimes felt. He certainly didn't let anyone know he had no peace. I hope Neil has found his peace at last, for those of us left in the wake of this have yet to. Least of all me.
(o) I got this from JOHN KEATING: THEN AND NOW (a FABULOUS story!) by Wilburetta (a FABULOUS writer!) I couldn't think of another way for Neil to get Keating's book. Check out JOHN KEATING: THEN AND NOW. I PROMISE you won't be disappointed.
(1) I wanted a little insight on Keating's return to Welton. It's short…I know, but I hope it's good.
(2) It was never clear how Keating (or anyone for that fact) found out…so this is my own original idea.
This is the end of the story. I hope you all enjoyed it. Thanks to the reviewers and everyone who read this! If for nothing more than sitting through a bunch of crap! LoL