Archives:
April 6-April 12, 2008
April 6, 2008
“And what a play by Mike Weaver!” one announcer on the television says. I look up in time to catch the replay. Someone from the opposing team snags a defensive rebound, and attempts an outlet pass to the other end of the court. Mike times his jump just right to pick off the pass just inside the three point line. He doesn't take a step or hesitate, lining up, and taking his shot, to hit nothing but net, as his defender bumps into him for the foul.
“As much as it was hard to see Kevin Hardaway go down mid-season,” the other announcer chimes in, as Mike steps up to the line, “you have to wonder, with the poise and shooting touch Mike Weaver brings to this game, if Hardaway had gone down earlier in the season, would Mike Weaver be in the running for rookie of the year?”
“I don't think it's a question at all,” the first commentator says. “I'd say Weaver is a dark horse for the award right now.”
I try to turn my attention back to my reading after Mike makes his shot. Mike's Knights are up by eleven in the fourth quarter. Right now, it looks like they're all but assured a spot in the playoffs, probably somewhere in the middle of the Eastern conference pack.
“Weaver steals it!”
This time I let the book slip to the floor as Mike takes the ball the length of the court, and lays it in at the other end.
“Mike Weaver, who prior to this game had not scored more fourteen points in a game, now has 26.”
“You know, Barry, Kevin Hardaway is scheduled to be back in action just in time for the playoffs. You have to wonder now, how Coach Ernie Howard is going to use these two star guards together.”
“It's a nice problem to have. A real nice problem.”April 7, 2008
A rain drop slides down the glass of the window. The path isn't quite predictable, as the drop navigates its way between some drops and merges with others. I wonder how long it will be before the wind shifts again, sending more rain onto the window. I wonder if that drop is going to make it all the way down before its journey falls apart with an assault of unwelcome intruders, engulfing it.
Turning back to class Benjamin is much more engaged, if not willingly so. He sits, clutching his hair in his hand elbow against the desk. I was paying attention for the first ten minutes or so of this workshop, centered on a piece about one of the girls' dog. It's a trite and boring piece, though mercifully short at five pages. Much like the dog's life, the piece gets cut short there. Though it's class custom for the author not to speak when his or her piece is under review, the girl's friend is more than happy to speak on her behalf, refuting every criticism, as though she herself could actually mistaken this for a worthwhile piece of writing.
Benjamin's eyes move up to the clock at the front of the room. "All right, well that about does it for today's class. Everyone, please pass your comments in, and remember that we've got Sean and Meghan's pieces to read for next time."
Chang hands his comments my way, en route to Benjamin. "Now that was brutal."
"Wasn't our best class," I nod. The classroom begins to clear out as I pick up my things, stuffing them into my messenger bag.
"Preston ," Benjamin calls, sitting up straight now, "I spotted a flyer—is it true you're running for president?"
We've barely hung up any flyers yet—just a smattering to start getting my name out there. Hearing Benjamin comment on it sort of makes it real, though—like people are actually noticing.
"Yeah—actually it is."
"That's interesting." Benjamin nods, a hint of a smile on his lips. "Good luck to you."April 8, 2008
I knock on Cameron's door. It's still kind of strange to have to knock here, after calling the room home for a semester, and even sharing the space with Cameron.
“Come in,” she calls.
The smell of turpentine, or something like it hits me when step inside. Cameron's got her back to me, hair tied up in a bandana, as she reaches upward to make little dark brown brush strokes on a canvas. It doesn't take me any time at all to recognize the subject of her painting.
“Cameron, that's incredible,” I say, letting door close behind me, heavy with the wind of the open window. My eyes lock on Dave's face, bigger than life, taking up the better part of the canvas. Clouds shift outside, letting a sunbeam work its way through the window, shining over Dave for a second.
“Thanks,” she says, making one more stroke, then taking a step back. “I was working on this for weeks in the studio, but I just couldn't get it right. I think I needed to be alone for it. You know, because it's kind of personal.”
“Yeah,” I nod, “I get that.” I think about the empty pack of cigarettes, sitting on my desk. It's crumpled, all of the corners partially torn from carrying it around with me for over a month, before I decided to leave it be, to let it rest.
Cameron sets her brush down, picking up a towel to wipe off her hands. “So I guess you wanted to finish up those flyers.”
“Yeah,” I say, consciously looking away from the canvas, to give Cameron my attention. “I'd like to get your first run of flyers out by the weekend.”April 9, 2008
“You really think these flyers are going to be worth the effort?” I ask, coloring in the border of a flyer with an orange Crayola marker, as I sit beside Emma on her bed, our backs leaning against the wall.
“Definitely,” Emma says, coloring the lettering on her own sheet of construction paper. “Anyone can make a flyer that says ‘vote for so and so.' These flyers show personal attention, and hands on work—which reflects your whole platform for running.”
“That actually makes some sense,” I say, capping my marker and picking up a blue one. “You know, I really appreciate all of your help,” I say. “I don't know how I'd do all of this on my own.”
“You think Nick is doing things on his own?” Emma asks. “This is politics. Everyone has their own little camp—everyone who has a chance of winning, anyway.” She pauses, leaning back, looking at her flyer. “But besides all that, I think it's good that you're doing this. I mean, you've seen something wrong, and now you're trying to do something about it. That's admirable.”
I shrug. “I like to think so.” I cap my marker again, and play with the top, twisting it in my fingers. “I'm trying to keep that in mind, though—not just make it about beating Nick, but about doing something good for people.”
I feel Emma's hand touch mine. I look down at it, to see her fingers rubbing over the back of my hand. I look back up to see her looking right back at me.
It's funny how these moments can present themselves. I didn't come here with intentions of laying a finger on Emma. But then I opted to sit next to her on the bed, instead of the papasan, or at her desk, and she didn't object. Our arms have touched every so often.
I kiss her. I'm not sure what the two of us are. I'm her RA and she's my resident, but that's not how she'd look at me, anymore than how I'd look at her. We're not dating, but not just friends. I don't know what kissing Emma means now. All I know is it's all I've wanted to do for a while.
She kisses me back gripping my hand.
Then it's over.
Emma pulls a way, and runs her hand over her lips. “We probably shouldn't.”
“Yeah.” I don't know that I agree, but it's the first word to come out.
Emma smoothes out her flyer, a little crumpled under her body, from when we came together. “It's just—we should wait until after the election, you know?”
I nod. “Yeah. Yeah, you're right.”April 10, 2008
“I just don't get this,” I say, turning the page of this week's Eskimo Enquirer.
Emma sighs, sitting on her bed, looking down at me on her papasan. “I thought you said you weren't going to read that paper—because it was only going to make you mad.”
“And then you leave it lying out here, open to the article about Jones and Claire.” I'm kind of disgusted with the paper. The English department has launched a study on faculty-student relationships. I have little doubt it has something to do with Jones's affair, but in case anyone missed it, this article is still centered on that. There are about two paragraphs about what's going on with the English department, to lead off a 500 word article recapping what Jones did, and collecting quotes from students about the affair. “I mean, why do they have to keep beating a dead horse with this thing. I can only imagine how Claire's responding to this stuff.”
“Claire's ignoring it,” Emma says, turning over her notebook. “She's just focusing on class and The Off Beats, and trying to put Jones behind her.”
“Harder to put it behind her when the frigging school newspaper is running articles about your ex every week,” I say. “And you know what else—there's not so much as a mention of Chang's door getting vandalized.”
“So you want Chang to be in the paper?”
I turn a page, getting into the Arts section of the paper “Police were called, I was there when they arrived. It's legitimate news—a hate crime in a dorm.”
“I don't know if I'd call it a hate crime.”
“Would you say it wasn't news? Or that it's less of news than Jones and Claire is at this point?”
“Jones and Claire isn't news at all anymore.”
“Exactly.” I close the paper and toss it to the ground.
Emma sighs. “Well if you're so upset about it, why don't you do something?”
“Like what? I don't run the paper anymore.” I look down at the masthead, face up on the floor. “I never ran this paper.”
“But you know people who do,” Emma says. “Why don't you talk to Gabby?”April 11, 2008
It's a bizarre feeling to stand in the doorway of the Eskimo Enquirer office, formerly home to The Window. It's still the same windowless room. The center table still sits prominent, cluttered with papers. The desks have been rearranged, though. The walls no longer have clippings from old issues of The Window, or old staff pictures, but rather framed posters of famous front pages—one reporting on the Kennedy assassination, another from 9/11. Over the Sports desk, there's an issue of the Chicago Tribune, showing Michael Jordan and Phil Jackson celebrate the Bulls' sixth championship.
I have to admit that the office is looking good—sleek and professional. I suppose that nothing embodies those pieces more than the new, cherry oak desk where I spy Gabby working at her computer.
“Can I help you?” I don't recognize the guy who greets me at the door—a slim Asian guy with a lot of gel in his hair.
I turn my head to Gabby. “I was actually looking to have a word with the chief.”
Gabby turns her head and smiles when she sees me. “ Preston , what are you doing here?” she asks, getting up. She gives me a hug. It's a little awkward. We were never really on a hugging basis. It has been a long time since I've seen her, though, so I guess it makes sense.
“Just thought I'd stop by—see how the old office looked,” I say, as I let her go.
“Well this is it,” she says, straightening her glasses with one hand, as she gestures out at the room with the other. “Not that different right?”
“Na,” I lie, trying to picture everything this placed used to be, “not that different at all.”
“I don't suppose you've been reading the paper?”
I put my hands in my pockets, and decide I'd might as well cut to the chase. “Here and there,” I say, “and that's actually why I stopped in.”
Gabby looks down for a second, twisting an end of her hair. “What's up?”
I exhale, looking away. “It's just, I saw that in the last issue there—”
“There wasn't anything about your friend's door getting vandalized.”
I look at Gabby, as she keeps her eyes planted on her Chuck Taylors.
“Things are a little different now, Preston . SA calls more of our shots.”
“So you're saying SA didn't want coverage about Chang's door?”
“Nick said we shouldn't run an article,” she says. “As an SA organization without a political affiliation, he says we have to stay neutral.”
I squint at her. “What's political about it?”
“It's because Chang's gay. And Nick said any article we run about this would be passing a value statement, that the people who vandalized his door were wrong.”
“And there's an argument that they weren't?”
Gabby looks back up at me. “He just says it's easier to stick with clear cut cases. His personal favorite is Professor Jones.”
“Right, because Jones is such a villain.”
“He's faculty who broke the rules.” Gabby says, raising a hand at her side. “That, and Nick's convinced he was a sexual predator.”
I can tell from Gabby's even tone, from the way she keeps looking away, that she doesn't like this anymore than I do. I realize that to argue with her is to argue with a reluctant soldier about an administration's war. I shake my head. “Things have changed, huh?”April 12, 2008
“Well, if it isn't my arch-nemesis, Preston Burns,” Nick says, standing behind me.
I look over my shoulder, punching the final staple through a flyer advertising my presidency, posting it on a bulletin board in the basement of the Student Center . “Nick, how are you doing?”
“Doing all right,” he says, cracking a smile. “You like that whole arch-nemesis thing? I'm just playing with ya.”
“Yeah, it was cute.”
“It's just—it's not like you're really a nemesis, you know? It's not like you really pose a threat in this election.”
“Is that what you think?”
Nick's smile grows wider, showing off his perfectly white teeth. I wonder if he uses some sort of product on them. Teeth aren't that white naturally. “Tell me something, Preston . Is this about Teri?”
“Excuse me?”
He looks down, chuckling for a second. “I know it probably messed with your head when Teri dumped you. I mean, who wouldn't be messed up after that? Chick's hot.”
“I don't think you know what you're talking about.”
“Look, Presto, all I'm saying is that if this is about attention, or proving you're a man or something, this isn't the best way to go about it. Teri and I are pretty tight. I'll put in a word—”
“This isn't about Teri,” I cut him off.
The smile fades a little. “Well, what is it about then?”
I cross my arms, holding the rest of the flyers in one hand, the stapler in my other one. “I have a question for you. Why are you keeping the newspaper from covering homophobic vandalism in the dorms? And what's your beef against Jones?”
“Jones is a predator, and people have their right to an opinion on homos,” he says. “That's not politics, that's leadership. It's something I've instilled in The Enquirer. It's something that I always found lacking in The Window.”
It's my turn to smile.
“What?”
I shake my head. “It's just funny.”
“What's funny?”
I drop the smile. “I was going to say the same thing about SA.”