Archives:
April 20-April 26, 2008

April 20, 2008

“You would think a Thanksgiving sandwich would be out of season come April,” Chang says, setting his monstrous sandwich down. “But, surprisingly, it still tastes pretty darn good.”

I look at the sandwich a little skeptically. I set to work, cutting up a tomato wedge in my salad. “You would think a sandwich made of turkey, stuffing and yams wouldn’t be quite right any time of year.”

“All good things,” Chang says, picking it up again, a piece of turkey falling out, into the basket he’s eating off of. “Might as well combine them.”

“I guess that makes a certain kind of sense,” I say.

“So good meeting yesterday,” Chang says, wiping off his mouth after another messy bite. “I think you hit the right tone with everyone.”

“Thanks,” I say, stabbing at a cucumber slice and plugging it in my mouth. “I was thinking about it afterwards, though, and it was kind of sad.”

“How do you figure?”

“Well, I was just thinking that that was the first time I’ve hung out with all of my friends in a while. And it’s kind of messed up that that has to happen under the context of a campaign meeting,” I say. “It’s like this election’s taken over my life.”

“There he is.”

I turn around at the announcement, to see two people coming towards us, a girl in a pantsuit, and a guy in a t-shirt, a camcorder over his shoulder.

“Preston Burns, my name is Candice Blanch, and I’m a reporter with Campus TV.”

“Hi Candice,” I say, giving Chang a quick look.

“We were wondering if you could spare a few minutes to talk to us about your campaign to be SA president.”

“I’d be more than happy to,” I say, “but right now, I’m actually in the middle of a business lunch.”

I hear Chang snort.

“If you would like to get some news,” I go on, “I’d suggest you come by the quad tomorrow at noon.”

“Yes, the press has gotten your release about a special announcement—”

“It’s something like that,” I say. “Anyway, I encourage you to come see me there—it’ll be worth your while.”

April 21, 2008

“Preston,” Chang says leaning toward me, “you sure it’s all right to have your car out here on the quad?”

I look back at the blue bomber. It does look out of place here, where the only cars you tend to see are vans setting up for big outdoor events. “We’ll move it once we’re done,” I say. “Besides, no one’s going to be talking about the car when we’re done.”

Chang nods, turning and straightening his tie. It’s a little warm for the two of us to be out here in full suits, but I wanted for this to look professional. The campus media is just starting to arrive and we’re beginning to gather a few onlookers. I start to think I should have gotten a microphone, in case this gets really big.

“You think we’re going to have a lot of people come to this?” Chang asks.

I shrug. “We got the word out—did what we could.”

I spy Gabby and one of the Enquirer photographers join us.

At last Cameron is here. She’s not dressed up the way I had asked her to be, but I can’t help smiling at the sight of her.

“Where did you get that?”

Cameron cracks a smile, depositing a megaphone in my hands. “Someone was using it for a still life at the studio. I asked if I could borrow it for a couple hours,” she says. “I figured this was the sort of thing you wouldn’t think of.”

I hug her with one arm. “You’re the best.” I turn back to Chang. “You want to get the handbills ready?”

“You’ve got it.”

I turn to Emma. “You want to let our guest know that it’s almost time?”

“I’m on it,” she says, heading to the car.

I take a deep breath, lifting the megaphone. “Ladies and gentleman, my name is Preston Burns.” I spy people around the quad turning to look. No one’s really coming over, but I’ve got their attention. “I’m running for president of your Student Association. And today, I have a friend of mine who would to speak on my behalf. I give you the starting shooting guard of the NBA’s Austin Knights, Mike Weaver!”

Mike steps out of the car, and crowds begin to rush in. People who remember him from leading Taylor’s basketball team over the last four years. People who have started following him since his rise to fame in the NBA. The crowd doubles, then triples.

Mike raises a hand, sunglasses, on, wearing a blazer, black t-shirt and jeans, he looks like a star. I hand over the megaphone. “Hello everyone, my name is Mike Weaver, and it is great to be back at Taylor College.”

A couple girls shriek, as the crowd appears to double up again.

“I’m swinging through on my way to New York for a big game tonight. But I couldn’t say no to stopping in, to put in a positive word for my very good friend, Preston.”

Campus TV cameras are rolling, and the Enquirer photographer is taking his shots, as Gabby scribbles notes. More than that, I see cell phones out, taking more pictures. I glance behind me, to see Emma and Cameron right on cue, rolling out a handmade banner with my name on it, behind Mike.

“What I need is for each and every one of you to log onto Eskimonet this Wednesday, Thursday or Friday and let your voices be heard, in the vote for SA president,” he says. “And I need for you to support the voice of the students, Preston Burns.”

April 22, 2008

“Look pretty good, huh?” Emma says, peering around the side of me as I look through the latest batch of handbills I’ve had printed at the Student Center copy center.

I nod. “Yeah, they’re good.”

The guy across the counter hands me my change. I don’t think I’ve spent nearly as much money as Nick on my election campaign—relying a lot on Cameron’s hand drawn posters, getting handbills like this printed in bulk on regular computer paper, as opposed to his full color, glossy flyers and spots on campus radio and TV. I wonder if he’s dipped into SA money to fund the campaign.

Regardless, I’ve put more money into this thing than I had planned. I know Emma has shown up with new supplies of flyers and handbills too, that I know I didn’t order, and Chang was giving out buttons the other day that I didn’t pay for.

Beyond the money, I think about the time and effort I’ve invested in this thing, and more importantly, what my friends have put in.

“What’s wrong?” Emma asks as we head away from the counter, out of the Student Center.

“I’ve just been thinking about how much everyone’s been doing for me—what people are giving up.”

“Yeah,” Emma says, “we’ve all been working hard.”

“It just makes me worry about—you know, what’s if it’s not worth it. What if I lose, and none of this means everything. Then it’s not just my time I wasted. It’s everyone’s.”

“Well, at least we’ll know we did our best then,” Emma goes on. “We put up a good fight.”

“But what for?” I run a hand through my hair, then push open the door, leading outside. I hold it open for Emma as she passes through. “I mean, none of you guys even cared about SA before this election. You’re all just doing this for me.”

“That’s not true,” Emma cuts me off. “Maybe that’s how we all started. But we were all watching the debate. And we’ve all been reading your website.” She looks off, at what I’m not sure. “Maybe I didn’t care about SA before. But now I get it. Student government’s important.” She turns back to me, as I try to decide if she’s being serious. To my surprise, I don’t see any hint of a smile on her face. “This is what college is. It’s the media. It’s the cultural clubs. The performance groups. It all links back to SA. I think we all get that now.” She looks down. “I get that. And win or lose, you are the right choice.”

I look down at Emma’s hand beside me. I want to scoop it up in my own, holding it, swinging it. I could sweep her up in my arms and hug her, kiss her harder than I ever have before.

I let it go.

I hold onto the handbills looking down at the “Vote For Burns,” logo Cameron designed. Emma’s right that this is important. Win or lose, I have to keep fighting.

April 23, 2008

“Don’t forget to vote today,” Emma says behind me.

“You can vote from any computer,” Chang says to my right. “Just log onto Eskimonet and go to voting.”

“Every vote counts,” Cameron says, sounding less than enthusiastic. I turn to look at her. She doesn’t bother to smile, having made no bones about her disinterest in helping out on this gloomy afternoon, when the sky threatens to open up and pour down rain any minute. I can’t help cracking a smile at the sight of her forcing a handbill on a guy heading into The Lighthouse.

I turn around handing off my next handbill.

I’ve been a bit torn on whether handing out information outside The Lighthouse is really in my best interest. Sure, I’m getting my name out there to everyone who passes by. But I can imagine half these people are looking at me as nuisance. These are the people who were already going to vote for Nick, or who weren’t going to vote at all, and I imagine could be swayed against the guy who’s holding up their lunch.

I try to look at it from a more idealistic point of view. I think that at least that latter group of people will have one more reminder that the election is going on. Even if they vote for Nick, or still decide not to vote at all, it’s still raising their level of consciousness. It’s still making them aware that there’s election going on, and maybe they’ll take the initiative learn what it’s all about.

“Save it,” one guy says. Looking at him, I see a “VOTE NICK” t-shirt peeking from under his spring jacket.

I retract my hand, pulling the little sheet of paper back in. “My mistake.”

The guy passes on with a sneer.

“Asshole,” I hear Cameron say, hiding it in a cough. The guy gives her a second look, but walks on. Cameron gives me a sideward glance, flashing a grin before she turns back to work.

April 24, 2008

“What is SA?” a tall black man asks me, looking at the quarter sheet I gave him.

I’ve been standing outside the Student Center all afternoon, giving out the remainder of my handbills, reminding people to vote, trying to get my name out. With the polls open for less than twenty four hours, I figure I’ve got to grab anyone’s ear I can. I usually don’t get more than a sentence out before people rush past. I hope one out of five, or ten, or twenty, may actually listen to me and vote.

Guys like the one I’m talking to now are rare. He’s someone who actually wants to know what I’m talking about.

“It’s the Student Association,” I say, tempted to keep passing out handbills to the flood of people who move past. I decide it’s better to focus my full attention on him. “Every student pays an activity fee, and it goes to SA to fund clubs and events. I’m running for president, so I can help decide where that money goes, and how student groups operate.”

“So when you talk about my money,” the guy says, “any chance I get some of that kicked back to me?”

I crack a grin. “Probably not cash. But I’m sure we can do something to make that money work for you.”

“You talking free stuff?”

I bob my head. “It might mean some giveaways. It might mean free food at an event. Or it might mean events and clubs that represent your interests. I mean, let me ask you, are you in any clubs?”

“Clubs aren’t really my thing.”

“Well, what is your thing then?”

He shrugs. “I like snowboarding.”

“Well, there you go. There’s no reason why SA couldn’t organize a snowboarding trip. Or are if there are enough people into doing it consistently, we could even start a new club about that.”

“So I vote for you, you’ll start a snowboarding club?”

I raise my hands. “I’ll do whatever the students I’m representing want me to do. That’s what this job is supposed to be all about.”

He nods, looking at the quarter sheet again. “All right, I’ll think about it.”

I reach out my hand, shaking his. “That’s all I ask.”

“Not a bad pitch.”

I turn around to find Teri standing behind me. She wears a neon green spaghetti strap top, and a jean skirt. She’s looking real good—good enough to remind me of everything I saw in her when we first got together.

“Thanks,” I say, trying to keep my eye on the ball, and remember who she is, and how that relates to me, and my campaign. “How are you doing, Teri?”

She picks one of the handbills from my stack. “I’m all right,” she says, reading it. “I thought it was interesting that you decided to do this.”

“I suppose it threw all of you SA folks for a loop, huh?”

I watch as more people rush past. I reach out my hand, with a handbill in it. No one takes me up on my half-hearted effort.

“I just remember what a hard time you gave me when I decided to be a part of the SA board,” she says, moving some hair behind her ear. “I never expected you to want to join up yourself.”

“Things can change,” I say. “I decided to stop complaining, and start trying to change things.”

Teri nods. “I can respect that.” She looks away, waving to someone in the distance. They’re gone by the time I turn around. “For what it’s worth,” she goes on, “you’ve got my vote.” I turn back to her, and she gives me a hint of a smile, before turning away. “Good luck,” she finishes, walking away.

April 25, 2008

“Hey guys,” Chang says, coming into the classroom and slinging his book bag down on the first desk he comes to. “How much longer until the polls close?”

“Polls have been closed,” Cameron says, not looking up from a book. “The review board is just checking the results before they announce them at three.”

Professor Benjamin agreed to sign out this classroom for me to use this afternoon. I invited everyone who helped with the campaign to the join me, here, where I have a projector running, showing the Internet Explorer window where the results will show up in just a few minutes.

“Have a slice, Chang,” I say gesturing toward the open box of Luigi’s I have sitting on a table at the front of the room. I pass by it myself, en route the computer terminal up front. I bat the mouse around as the computer shifts to screen saver mode.

“Don’t have to ask me twice,” Chang says, picking out a slice.

I take my seat again, next to Emma toward the front of the room. I thought about circling up the desks, but I didn’t know how many people would actually show up, didn’t want to have to worry about moving them back when we were done. Now Cameron, Chang, Jonah, and Gary sit dispersed around the room at awkward intervals.

Emma gives my hand a little squeeze. “Don’t be nervous. It’s going to be fine.”

I nod, and drink deeply from my bottle of water. I think of all the time me and everyone else here invested in this project, and wonder how she could expect me to be calm. I remember our talk a few days ago, and how she reassured me I was doing the right thing, and that what we were doing, collectively, was important.

“I wonder if Nick’s nervous now,” I think aloud.

“He should be,” Emma says.

I glance at my watch. It’s 2:58. I get up again, heading to the computer at the front of the room. I move the mouse deliberately, straight to the “Refresh” button.

The page goes white. Contrary to past refreshes, something is actually happening—something new is loading.

STUDENT ASSOCIATION PRESIDENT RESULTS:

NICK BERNARD: 67%
PRESTON BURNS: 30%
WRITE-IN: 3%

April 26, 2008

“I really shouldn’t be here,” I mumble, for what must be the twentieth time tonight. “I could lose my job just for—”

“Just for setting foot in here,” Brad finishes my sentence, ushering me in the back door at The Hammerhead. “I heard you. But tonight is not about worrying. Tonight is about forgetting your worries in an alcoholic haze.”

“He’s right,” Chang yells over the din of the bar, following me in, “you need a night like this. Shit, we all need a night like this after that campaign.

“I said I was sorry for dragging you guys through that.” I shake my head. The whole thing seems so stupid now. Nick was the establishment. For all my advertisements, and handing out flyers, I should have known I couldn’t compete with someone who was already known in SA, and who had Lizzie and Tucker to turn to for advice on how to win. I’d heard rumors yesterday that he had every frat and sorority on campus behind him.

“That’s not what I mean,” Chang said. “We gave it our all. Now, it’s time to relax—nothing we can do to change what went wrong.”

The bar’s pretty packed tonight, and at every turn, I’m scared I’m looking at someone who lives on my floor. One of my residents spots me and tells Kermit their RA was out drinking at the Hammerhead, and I’m a goner. Heck, they just take a photo and hold onto it, and they’ve got enough material to blackmail me out of writing them up the rest of the year.

Still, there’s something telling me the guys are right. I haven’t had a drop to drink since New Year’s, and after this campaign, I could use something to relax.

I wish Emma had come along with us.

Cameron’s supposed to meet us later on.

Chang buys me my first two beers. Brad buys me the next one. I buy myself the fourth. By the time I’m finishing my fifth pint, I don’t remember where I got it.

We’re quiet most of the night. The guys try to make small talk with me, but they have to yell to just make themselves heard, and you can’t really have a conversation.

“I’m going to get another beer,” I say, breaking off from them.

“Preston,” Chang calls out. I turn back. “You’re hammering those down pretty fast. Maybe you want to take a break for a few minutes.”

One minute they’re dragging me to the bar. The next minute they’re telling me stop drinking. Sure, I’m getting drunk. Why half ass it? I don’t bother responding to Chang, pulling out my wallet as I walk back to the bar.

“Coors Light draft,” I yell at the bar tender. He nods, filling up another cup. I spy a shot glass on the bar beside me. No one’s tending to it. Whatever it is, I down it before the beer comes my way.

I start coughing immediately, regretting that drink.

“Well, look who we’ve got here.”

I hope I’m imagining things. Even drunk off my ass, I know it’s him.

“Everybody,” Nick says, spilling some beer from his cup as he waves his hand, “let me present to you the star of the hit TV show, “The Biggest Loser,” Mr. Preston Burns!”

I let my money drop to the bar. My eyes lock on Nick, and I feel the bar tender set my beer down by my hand. I pick it up and drink the whole thing all at once, staring Nick down.

Nick and his friends laugh, some clapping as he drinks from his beer. “I’m just kidding, Presto. You gave it a good shot. Tried to mess with the master—it was cute. Let me shake your hand.”

My eyes shift to Nick’s hand as he reaches it out to me.

“Come on,” he goes on, “no sense being a poor sport. The better man won. Show some class and shake my hand.”

I just stare at him. I recall the debate, and him talking about Nick. I remember the way he responded to the vandalism on Chang’s door, and how he went after Jones and Claire. How he voted against The Window’s budget, and then blamed me for the paper disbanding.

Nick steps closer to me, leaning in to whisper. “Really, no hard feelings, man. And now that we can be friends and all, I was hoping maybe you could give me some tips. See, there’s this girl I’m into.”

I close my eyes. “Teri.”

Nick chuckles. “Na. Hot piece of ass and all, but I’ve been thinking of something a little more exotic. That girl from class—had the red hair, now it’s pink going on blond.”

I punch him as hard as I can.

Nick flops against the bar, stumbling down onto his ass, knocking a stool over, into someone. In a second I’m, on top of him, knee in his gut. I land one more solid punch in his face before he covers up. Then I’m just hitting any opening I can get.

Some guys pull me off of him. I almost break free, but then one of the bouncers is there. Chang and Brad try to reason with the guy, as he lifts me from my waist, hauling me out. I look back to where Nick is on the ground, his friends crowding around him.

Another bouncer grabs my legs as they take me toward the exit. “Tell Gina to call the cops,” the first one says. “They’re gonna want to take him in.”