Archives:
March 23-March 29, 2008
March 23, 2008
“Hey,” I say, a bit surprised when Chang opens the door to my dorm room.
“Hey man, glad to see you back. Hope I'm not interrupting anything.”
“Na, not at all. Just getting unpacked here.” I say, lifting a stack of clean t-shirts I washed at home, and piling them into my dresser. “So what's going on?”
Chang scratches the back of his head. “Well, it's just—I heard something funny over the break.”
“What's that?”
“That you're my brother.”
I let the next stack of t-shirts drop back down in my open bag. Chang's looking down, eying the tiles on the floor.
“You heard that, huh?”
“Your Dad—he sat me down for a long talk the other night,” Chang says, shifting his eyes up to the wall. “Told me about him and my mom, and how you he finally spilled everything to you a couple years ago.”
“Look, Chang, I'm sorry.”
“Don't be sorry,” he says. “I was kind of shocked to hear about the whole thing, and then to hear that you knew about it. But I think I understand. I mean, I'm still not sure how I feel about your dad—our father.” He stops and shakes his head. “I think I understand everything. It's just kind of hard to digest, you know?”
“Yeah, I know.” I pick up the t-shirts again, casting aside the ones that have fallen too far out of form, so I can fold them again. I push the stack I have into the drawer, forcing it in, where it's really shouldn't fit. I know I'll regret it when they're all creased and wrinkled later, but they've got to go somewhere. “I wanted to tell you—”
“I know,” Chang says. He's looking at me now. “I know.”March 24, 2008
“Should they really still have the mint coffee?” I ask, sipping from my regular coffee, while Emma waits for hers, at the Student Center Café.
“What's wrong with mint coffee?”
I shrug. “There's nothing wrong with it. It's just, St. Patrick's Day is over. Seems like it's time to move past the green specials.”
“They're probably just waiting to get rid of the green stuff they still have left. Thank you,” Emma says, accepting her cup, and taking a step away from the counter, as I follow after. “And they were closed all last week for the break, so they probably still have a stock to go through.”
“I suppose that's true. That, or it could be a new environmental statement—you know, getting people to think green.”
“I doubt they'd still serve it in Styrofoam cups if that was such a concern.”
“Good point.”
I stop in my tracks as my eyes focus on a neon flyer, taped to the wall. I take it down, looking at it. “I don't believe this.”
“What?”
“Nick is running for president.”
“Nick from class?”
I nod, looking at his smiling face on the flyer.
“I suppose it make sense. He was already on the SA board, right?”
“He is on the board,” I say. “I think that's the problem. It's just another guy who's going to hold up everything the organization does wrong.”
“Still bitter about the newspaper, huh?”
“It's not just about The Window. The board is just really fucked up.” I crumple the flyer in my hands. “And nothing's ever going to change if it's just the same people cycling through the board, preparing the next in line to act the same way.”
“Well if you're so concerned, why don't you just run against him?”
“Don't tempt me,” I say, tossing the flyer in the first garbage can we pass.March 25, 2008
“Corner pocket,” Gary says, leaning over the felt of the pool table as he lines up his shot. The cue ball collides with the eight a bit too hard, sending it bouncing back toward the center of the table.
“Nice try,” I say, lining up my next play, now a clear shot at the three ball. I drain that one, and circle the table.
“So for this program, what are we going to use to simulate the drugs?” Jonah asks, sitting on a folding chair by the table here in the lounge, notebook spread open across his lap.
“No need to simulate,” Gary says, “the guys in 801 are definitely smoking something. We should just borrow some.”
I line up my shot for the six ball.
“What about Skittles?” Jonah asks.
I drain the ball, sending the cue rolling backward. “That could work.”
“I'm more of an M&Ms guy myself.”
I miss my next shot, but don't leave Gary with a lot of options. He squats, eying the table.
“So let me ask you guys something,” I say, beginning to chalk my cue, “you ever hear of someone running for office while they're doing the RA gig?”
“What kind of office?” Jonah asks, peering up from the notebook.
“Say something on SA.”
Jonah shrugs. “I feel like res life people sort of stay on a certain track. SA's more about career politicians, or people from SA clubs.”
“And they're more about being assholes,” Gary says. He successfully skips the cue ball over the two, and makes contact from the eight, but is far from making his shot.
“I've been thinking about running for president,” I say, setting the chalk down. I can feel both of the guys' eyes on me as I take my next shot, draining the two. I round a corner, and bend over the felt again.
“You not feeling busy enough as an RA?” Gary asks.
“It's not about staying busy,” I say, making the shot. We're both down to the eight ball now. “You know how you were just saying SA's all assholes?”
“I recall.”
“I've just been thinking—it doesn't have to be like that,” I say. “SA is supposed to be about representing the students. So shouldn't the people running it be people who students can actually look up to—and who are going to look out for them?”
“Go on,” Jonah says.
“I don't know,” I say, pointing my stick toward a side pocket, before bending back down to line up my shot. “It's just something I've been thinking about.”March 26, 2008
“Presto, what's happening?” Matt says over the phone.
“Nothing much. Walking to class here, thought I'd give you a buzz,” I say, cutting across the quad. It's a nice day, and if it weren't for the wind, I probably could have left my jacket back in the room. “What are you up to?”
“Walking to work, myself. I've got a lot of hours to put in this semester.”
“Guess that ring set you back a little, huh?”
“Eh, a little credit card debt is healthy. It keeps you young.”
“We'll see if you're still saying that when you're paying off at that debt at the age of 40.”
Across the quad, I spot Emma, sitting on her own on a stone ledge. I never really see her with her girlfriends anymore, besides Claire on the odd occasion. It's kind of awkward to ask her about it, straddling the balance between RA, friend, ex-boyfriend, and whatever we are now. Whatever the case may be, I'm tempted to walk over and sit down next to her.
I think better of it. Don't want to be late to class. Besides, I still have Matt on the phone.
“So how's the engaged life treating you?” I ask.
“I think I made the right call—I'll tell you that much. Haven't had a second thought.”
“Really?”
“Thanks for the confidence. But yeah, no doubts. I think this thing was right.” He pauses, saying excuse me to someone else before he returns to me. “Don't get me wrong—we're not diving head first into marriage or anything. We're going to wait until we're out of school and put some money together and all. It's just nice to know we're headed in the same direction.”
“I hear that.” I cast one look back in Emma's direction, and catch myself smiling. I turn away, hurrying on to class.
March 27, 2008
“Why is that a foul?” Emma asks, eyes fixed on the TV screen, book still open on her lap.
I wash down my mouthful of pretzels with a swig of Mountain Dew, as Mike heads to the free throw line. His Austin Knights are down 71-65 mid-way through the fourth quarter of this game.
“It's a blocking foul,” Chang says.
“Yeah, but Mike just ran right into him.”
“But the defender hadn't established his position. He has to be standing still when Mike gets to him—then it's a charge. If he just gets in Mike's way when he's going up, it's blocking.”
Emma nibbles on the open end of a pretzel she's slowly eaten half of. “So say I'm on the defensive team, and I'm not paying attention to the guy with the ball. Then I just happen to run into the path of some guy as he's shooting. That's a foul?”
Chang nods. “That's a foul.”
“Well that's stupid. There's no intent.”
“But I think it's like committing a crime,” Brad says. “Say you want to relate fouls to murders.”
“What are you talking about?” I break in.
“Hear me out,” Brad goes on. “You unintentionally run in a guy's path—it wouldn't be like first degree murder. It would be like criminally negligent homicide. You were careless and it led to a bad situation.”
“I guess that makes sense.”
The Knights call a time out, and the TV station heads to commercials.
“I was hearing The Knights could make a good run in the playoffs,” Brad says.
“Where did you hear this?” Chang asks.
“It was on CNN or something.”
“Team lost its best player,” Chang says, shaking his head. “Not exactly promising.”
“But what I heard was that Mike, coming in with the second string, is as effective as Kevin Hardaway was as a starter,” Brad says.
“He's been kicking ass,” I agree. “I don't know why they're not just starting him now.”
“What are you guys talking about?” Emma asks. “He started playing last month, didn't he?”
I run a hand through my hair. “I'll take this one.”March 28, 2008
I hold the door for Cameron as we head out of Luigi's. I realize a second later that it wasn't the smartest thing as I end up holding the door for a stream of six staggering drunks, wandering in for a slice of pizza along the walk home from the bars.
“Is it just me, or this place a lot more fun when you're among the drunk—and not so much standing near them?” Cameron asks.
“Yeah, I suppose you're right,” I say, tucking my hands in my pockets. I was glad that Cameron took me up on my invitation to grab a late slice tonight. I was kind of disappointed when she didn't come over to my place last night for the game—too busy studying for an exam.
“At least the pizza's still good,” Cameron comments. My attention's split before she finishes the sentence.
Stumbling down the street, I see Nick coming toward us, some guys and girls to either side of him. The guy's actually got a paper bag in his hand and he drinks deeply from it, before letting out a high pitched laugh. I'm not sure if I want to slug him or just duck into the shadows someplace to avoid any chance of having to talk to him.
“Full court press-ton Burns, what is going on?” Nick calls out, hurrying toward me, a hand raised for a high five.
“How are you doing, Nick?” I say quietly, keeping my hands in my pockets.
“This your new girl, Burns?” Nick asks, looking at Cameron. “She's pretty. Little step down from Teri—”
“Excuse me?” Cameron asks.
I raise a hand between them. “We're just heading home.”
“Right on,” he pauses, drinking from the bottle, “you head along. And make sure you spread the word about me to the kids in your dorm—I'm running for president, and every vote counts.”
“Maybe I won't be voting for you.”
“Ooh,” a couple of his dumb ass friends say.
“What's that, Presto?”
I look him in the eye. “I've been thinking maybe I'll run for president too.”
Nick raises a finger in the air then breaks into laughter. “You'd better be careful there, buddy. April Fool's Day is still a few days away.”
I nod. “Have a good night, Nick.”
Cameron takes the first step, and I follow after her, walking away.
March 29, 2008
I lean back in my desk chair, tapping my pen against the top of my head. I should be plotting out this paper I'm going to write, but I wasn't in a focused enough mood to justify ignoring Matt's call. “So what are you doing?” I ask.
“Waiting for the water to boil so I can cook some spaghetti.”
“You really do lead a thrilling life.”
“Don't I know it,” Matt says. I hear some clatter in the background, something like pots and pans or dishes. “So what's new with you?”
I chuckle. “Well, I've been thinking about a new project.”
“This oughta be good.”
“Hear me out.” I set my chair back straight for a second, before leaning again. “I'm thinking about running for SA president.”
It's quiet over the phone for a second. Then Matt starts to laugh.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“What's so funny?”
“It's just—it's SA, man. All you've talked about the last two and half years is how much you hate them, and how they're all assholes, and they were going to ruin Teri.”
“Was I so wrong on that?”
“I don't know. Were you?”
I reach out and doodle a bit in the margin of my notebook. “Anyway, my thought is that SA is important—it's supposed to represent all of the students, and we all pay for it. So instead of just bitching about how it sucks, maybe it's time I get off my ass and do something about.”
“Well I'll be damned.”
“What?”
There's a shift on the phone. In my mind's eye, I see Matt pinning the phone against his shoulder as he puts the spaghetti in the pot. “That actually makes some sense.”