Some thirty minutes later Stanley tossed his fork into the emptied potato salad bowl, and dragged one pudgy forefinger through the last bits of the beans and wieners sauce that remained in its pot. Smiling, stomach stretched almost to its considerable limit, Stanley stacked the dirty dishes in his tiny kitchen sink and washed his hands. He glanced at the bottle of soap that stood at attention next to the faucet, and told it, "You'll have to wait- I got things to do."

Stanley turned and stepped out of the tiny kitchen-section of his studio apartment and sat down in front of his computer. Zenith processor, IBM keyboard, Panavision monitor, Microsoft software. He retrieved a Maxell diskette from its treasure chest of a box; treasure because the disk (named "Groceries", so anyone bent on stealing Stanley's ideas would be fooled into thinking this disk was for something else) had on it Stanley's life work, everything he'd ever written. Its 1.4 megabytes of memory was almost full. He pushed it into the disk drive, called up a story he was in the middle of, and wrote for two hours.

The next day Stanley M Chapeau attended his classes, although he didn't want to- he rarely did on Mondays, when the previous weekend was a few seconds of blurred memory and the next weekend was too far away to depend upon. After calculus he went to psychology, and after music theory he went to English. Four classes in one day, his advisor must have been crazy. At least his creative writing class was the last one, at 3:00. Save the best for last, he would have said, like eating steak only after all the baked potato is gone. Stanley sat in his usual seat, doffing his Rex Harrison hat and placing it neatly on the floor beneath his desk, next to the classroom door. He put his army trench coat over the back of the seat and sat down, stretching his stocky, parachute-pant-clad legs under the seat of the desk in front of his. Nobody sat in it. Nobody ever sat in the front row.

Finally Mr. Nathaniel walked in, and oddly, glanced at Stanley before he assumed his position at the front of the room. "Well I've looked at all your stories and I'll be passing them back next week." He pulled his lecture notes out of his overflowing valise. "On the most part they were good, some of them very good." Stanley beamed inwardly- he'd worked on his for two weeks, longer than he'd ever worked on any assignment. "Some of them, however, were not so good, and I'll be talking to those people individually." Stanley cast a sideways glance at Harold Visage, the class kook, who was always frowning, and always wore the same thing- brown pants, brown shoes, and a brown coat.

At last, Mr. Nathaniel seemed ready, so Stanley opened his own notebook and double-clicked his mechanical pencil. "All right, today we'll be talking about collaborations in modern fiction."

".so it's up to both author's to establish themselves within the work, so that the audience sees a sort of new author, which is stylistically neither one nor the other. Are there any other-" then the bell rang, signaling another fifty minutes had somehow gone by. The class made shuffling, bag-stuffing noises. "Okay everyone, see you on Wednesday. Don't forget I'll need those plot summaries on Friday, so if you haven't started them yet, you might want to think about that." Mr. Nathaniel began restuffing his valise, and Stanley donned his hat, grabbed his coat.

Just before he stepped out the door, "Stanley! Wait a minute." He turned- Mr. Nathaniel was holding a blue envelope.

Stanley's heart skipped a beat- some of the stories had been very good, Mr. Nathaniel had said. "What's this?" he reached for it tenderly

Mr. Nathaniel's smile was weak. "Just something you need to do, Stanley" he looked about three inches below Stanley right shoulder when he said it, then grabbed his valise in a hug and walked out of the room.

Stanley was beside himself with excitement. What was this, an invitation to have his story published, maybe? He ripped open the envelope, which read simply "Stanley M Chapeau" on one side, and wasn't even sealed. The content was but a single sheet of paper, which read, "Please see Dean Herman in his office, 1851 Longfellow Hall at 4:00 on Wednesday." It was signed by the dean himself.

Stanley wanted to swoon, but instead he walked numbly out of the class and out of Longfellow hall, not noticing the wind that whipped the paper in his meaty fist as he read it over and over. This was great! This was incredible! This was what he'd dreamed about since high-school, when his teachers had told him how "creative" he was. Hell, if he got published now, he wouldn't even have to finish school, which he otherwise hated. This was stupendous! Only two years of college, and he was already finished! Amazing!

This called for a celebration!

".wait a minute, wait a minute Stanley, are you telling me," Thomas said amongst the clatter and clang of Stephen's Pizza, "that Weird Science and Drop Dead Fred were the exact same movie as Pete's Dragon?"

Stanley M Chapeau swallowed his hundredth chew of combination and reached for a pepperoni and mushroom. "Yea! That's exactly what I'm telling you, Tom, they're the same damn film!"

Michael was there too, nodding his head evenly, "Yea, that makes sense, Stan- a boy, or boys, has trouble coming to age and some kind of fantasy, imaginary being helps him through it."

"Wait a sec, Mike- Drop Dead Fred had a girl in it, not a boy." John, the stickler for details, the one who'd insisted on anchovies, and got a whole pizza to himself for it, made up the fourth part of the party.

Stanley shrugged. "So it's a girl, who cares? She's still- whadja call it, Mike?"

Mike gulped at a slice of sausage and tomato. "Coming of age."

"Yea," Stanley said, "same thing, John."

"Hey," Thomas added, "wasn't that weirdo in Drop Dead Fred always dressed in green and yellow?"

John nodded, "Yea."

"Yea!" Mike's cheeks were bulged with pepperoni and mushroom, "And Pete's Dragon was green and yellow too!"

Stan smiled behind his pizza. "Ya see? They're always pullin' that kinda thing in Hollywood."

John snickered, "Yea, it's like them test files"

He received a collective, "Huh?"

John flicked an anchovie off his slice, then picked it up and chewed it. "You know how all those fraternities and sororities have test files so they can pass their freshman and sophomore classes."

Mike was still clueless. "So?"

"So," Stanley had it figured out, "All the guys in Hollywood do is use each others old films to make new ones."

Tom nodded his head, "Like frat boys use each other's old English papers to pass 101."

Mike was shocked. "Really? They really do that?"

Stanley gave a snort, "Sure they do, Mike." he grabbed the last slice on the table. "Frat boys are scum, everyone knows that."

Wednesday finally arrived, and Stanley M Chapeau could hardly wait for 4:00. In calculus the integral signs seemed to take forever for Professor Isaac to draw, and in psychology Professor Carl must have hypnotized the clocks into stopping. Music Theory was no better- Professor Felix lectured on the virtues of legato and andante. At last it was three, and Stanley entered Longfellow hall to finish off Creative Writing before his meeting. Would Mr. Nathaniel say something to the class? Would he be worried about embarrassing Stanley?

When Mr. Nathaniel walked in, he strode straight to the front and pulled out of his valise a worn manuscript. "Before we get started I'd like to read something that one of you wrote." Wow! This was almost too much! Stanley fidgeted with enthusiasm. "I normally don't do this kind of thing, but I just couldn't let this one go- it really is an excellent piece of literature. If the author wants to identify himself, he can do so when I'm finished." Stanley was tempted to raise his hand now!

But the story Mr. Nathaniel read to the class wasn't Stanley's. It was a subdued piece, subtle, almost childlike in its prose. But the simplicity, the reserve, somehow said volumes- all in nine pages. When he was done, Mr. Nathaniel closed his eyes and said, "Okay, do you want to tell the class who you are?"

Stanley looked around the room and to his horror saw Harold Visage- Harold Visage! slowly raise his arm. The class murmured it's approval while Stanley's stomach gurgled with disgust. Bah! The charlatan! He certainly had Mr. Nathaniel fooled! "So you all might want to think about this when your attempting your final piece, which will be due," Mr. Nathaniel said, wagging his finger at the class, "in two weeks."

The class ended, eventually, and only the anticipation of his tˆte-…-tˆte with Dean Herman buoyed Stanley M Chapeau above Harold's minor triumph. He left the classroom and took the elevator up to the eighteenth floor. During the ride, he forgot about Harold and focused on his expectations. Never one to use trite clich‚s whenever he could avoid them, Stanley nonetheless had to admit there were butterflies in his stomach.

Dean Herman's office was within the English department's offices themselves, and so Stanley addressed a secretary, "Umm, excuse me, but I'm here to see Dean Herman?"

The secretary looked Stanley over. "Mr. Chapeau?"

Wow! Even the secretary knew his name! "Uhh, yes, that's me." The man behind the desk fingered an intercom switch. "Mel, Mr. Chapeau is here to see you."

"Thanks, Peter, send him in."

Peter nodded at the door, which Stanley opened, to see Dean Herman fishing something out of a filing cabinet. The office was easily bigger than rest of the English departments rooms- almost as big as a classroom. Two walls were covered by citations and awards, while the one behind Dean Herman's desk was dedicated to trophies and displays- all of them fraternity oriented. Pictures at least thirty years old, of beer busts and football parties, memorabilia from frat days gone by, and at least ten different honorary paddles. Stanley gulped, but tried to ignore them anyway, as he reached out his hand. "It's great to meet you, De-"

"Sit down Stanley," Dean Herman interrupted. He sat down himself and dropped the object of his search on his desk. It was a copy of Stanley's story.

Stanley sat down. Dean Herman glared at him for a few moments. Suddenly, he said, "Stanley, do you know what the penalty for plagiarism is here at the university?"

What? "Umm, no, not really- I never worried about it." he offered a sheepish, very confused, grin.

"Expulsion, Stanley, is the penalty, and possible litigation if the original author wants to pursue such action. We take these things very seriously here."

Stanley's eyes were wide. "But you don't think I-"

"Yes, that's exactly what I think, Stanley." Dean Herman's voice had an angry edge that could've melted ice and frozen it back again.

"This is crazy!" he pointed at his manuscript, "are you saying I stole that story?"

"No, Stanley, what I'm saying is you stole several stories, and mixed them all up, here." He pointed one finger down into Stanley's story hard enough to tear it with his fingernail. "Mr. Nathaniel pointed it out to me, and even my secretary can see it."

"But that's not the same as plagiarism! That's just taking an old idea, putting a new twist on it." Stanley wanted to cry. This couldn't be happening!

"Yes it is stealing, Stanley, especially when you lift sentences verbatim from the texts you copy." Dean Herman was almost beside himself with anger.

"But I'm a writer! I did things differently! I-"

"You're not a writer, Stanley, you're a thief."

Stanley let out a whimpered sigh, and shook his head, looking left and right for some remaining sanity. "But I didn't mean to! I mean, It wasn't inte-"

Dean Herman was talking through clenched teeth now. "Thievery is thievery no matter what reason you use to justify it." He crumpled the story up, and threw it with violence into the trash can next to his desk. "You'll be hearing from the administrator's office, Stanley."

"Why? I didn't do anything wrong!" Stanley wanted to die. Right here, right now.

"I took the liberty of checking your old English 102 papers, Stanley. Those creative writing pieces were all rehashed Urban Legends, weren't they?"

"Urban what?"

"Urban legends! Everybody's heard them a thousand times, Stanley. You didn't create a single one of them. Not one."

Stanley felt numb. "Am I going to be kicked out of school?"

Dean Herman glared at him again, with obvious disgust in his eyes. "Did you really think you wouldn't be caught? Did you think we were that stupid?"

Back at home, Stanley M Chapeau sat on his bed, amongst the rag-tag bedclothes, staring at his bookcase, staring at his computer. This couldn't be happening. He was a writer, dammit! He'd known it since high-school. Maybe this was some weird kind of coincidence. Didn't they say great minds think alike? Didn't they? After all, he'd written some brilliant stories before, brilliant stories. Sure, he'd used a few things he'd read before- but they were just catalysts, just launching pads for ideas. It was still good work! His teachers in high-school had said so!

Stanley turned on his computer, and slipped his precious documents disk into the drive. He stabbed at the keys, loading up one of his past stories. He read the first few lines. There! See? This was good stuff! This had potential, just like his teachers had told him. Stanley scrolled to the middle, and read a line at random:

".where the dog had chewed on the shoe, and Fanny wondered if."

Stanley looked at the line and paused. Devoid of thought he floated over to his bookcase and picked out his copy of Dog Days, Dog Nights. He opened it at random and read,

".where the old hound had chewed on the heel, and Winnie wondered if."

No no no! Stanley threw the book across the room. It was a coincidence- he must have read the book just before he'd written the story! Besides, that was back in junior high, for godsakes, when he was first writing. Stanley ran back to the computer and loaded a different story. Here was one from when he was seventeen. This one was better- he'd worked on it for a week. He scrolled to the middle again, and read,

". anymore rain, we would have to start bailing out the first floor the next."

See? See? Stanley pointed at the screen, jabbing his knuckles until the glass was smudged. Then he stopped, and grabbed another book off his shelf. He opened it near it's beginning,

".buckets each, and bailed out the basement. The first floor would be next if."

Stanley ripped the book in two and stomped on it. He tore open his backpack, his notebook, where he always kept a copy of his favorite story, the one he'd written the summer after graduation. He'd called it "The Heat at Midnight".

-And then Stanley hung his head. he'd borrowed a similar title from his favorite author, the one who'd written Midnight Sun. Stanley paged languidly backward to the story's beginning, where the hero was pushed out of an airplane.

".whipped me around like a leaf in a violent thunderstorm, only this leaf was."

Lugubriously he reached for his copy of Midnight Sun, and turned to the first page. There, at the bottom,

".been skydiving before, so the wind tossed me around like a leaf in a."

Stanley dropped the book and sighed. All that work, his every dream, his whole life. nothing. A huge rotten cavalcade of nothing. An empty cornucopia. Stanley stood and went to his oven, and turned on a burner, then went to his tiny refrigerator, where he fetched out a cold bowl of stew. He chewed a forkful thoughtlessly, then put a pot on the stove and dumped in the bowl's contents to warm it up. After a few minutes deliberation, he ejected his disk from the computer and tossed that into the pot too.