Archives:
April 27-May 3, 2008

April 27, 2008

I wake up, my head pounding. I raise my hand to my forehead, and I’m surprised to find it bandaged up.

I start to remember the night before, and close my eyes, wondering if I really punched out Nick, or if there’s anyway that could have been a dream. Maybe I went to bed early last night and dreamt the whole thing—sleepwalked and punched out my dresser.

There is some support for that theory. I don’t remember how I got home.

I look at the clock. It’s 2:30 in the afternoon.

The way my head’s pounding, there’s no question I was out last night. Besides that, I’m still wearing my clothes from the night before—everything but my sneakers, which I spot on the ground next to the bed.

There’s a bottle of water on my nightstand next to me. A Post-It clings to the wrapper, reading “Call me when you wake up. –Em.” I drink deeply from the bottle, and run a hand over the face. I’m not sure I want to call Emma, and have her see me in my current state. Of course, I’m sure she saw me much worse the night before, when she left that note for me.

I reach to the opposite end of the nightstand, finding the remote control for my TV. I press the power button, and nothing happens. I try again. I smack the remote against my palm and press it again. This time, the television stirs to life. I flip over to ESPN.

“Everybody’s talking about tonight’s Game 4 in the NBA finals,” one of the suits sitting behind a desk says. “The New York Knicks squeeze the Austin Knights out in the first two games, then the Knights pull off a come from behind victory in game three, built off 30 point nights from both Kevin Hardaway and Mike Weaver. After that game, does Austin have a shot in this series?”

I can’t believe the finals series is already more than half over. I was so caught up in campaign, I’ve missed everything.

“Game three was all about putting off the inevitable,” another guy says. “All Austin proved that was with their two stars firing on all cylinders, than squeak out one win. This team has no chance of winning another three games against New York.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” another guy breaks in. “To me, the rest of this series is going to hinge on how Hardaway and Weaver can share the ball. You look at games one and two, Hardaway goes for 27 and 43. Weaver never breaks 10. Game three, both guys break 30 and Austin wins. The key to their success is getting both of these guys the rock early and often.”

I down most of what’s left of my water. My desk is littered with books—reading, and papers I need to work on today. I’ll need to have it all done before tonight, because there’s no way I’m missing this game.

April 28, 2008

“I was sorry to hear about the election, Preston,” Kermit says, looking down at a pen as he clicks it in his hand.

“Yeah,” I chuckle, “that sucked. But, you know, you live and learn.” I look down at my hands, pressing my finger tips together. “It’s just a shame that Nick ended up winning.”

“I guess you were pretty mad at Nick.”

I look at the knuckles on my right hand. The bandage is off, and the cuts are scabbed over. “I don’t think he’s the right guy for the job,” I nod, “and I worry about what he’s going to do with the position.”

“So you decided to get in a fight with him at the bar.”

I look up. I suppose I should have figured word would get back to him one way or another, but I’d hoped for the best. “I lost my temper—”

“Is it true you were drinking, Preston?”

I look up to him, and he raises his eyebrows.

I look back down. “Yeah. I drank some beer.”

“Preston, you do know the legal drinking age in New York State.”

I nod.

“Then I suppose you know what I have to do.”

I look back up. “What’s that?”

“I have to let you go.”

A million thoughts rush through my mind. I think of losing the position. Losing the staff. Losing my residents. Losing the resume item. Losing the room. All that comes from my mouth is a regurgitation of the same words. “I have to let you go?”

“Don’t be so shocked, Preston. I mean, what did you think I was going to say? What would you do in my position?”

I run a hand over my chin. “I think I’d recognize that I’m a good RA. There are plenty of RAs out there who are getting away with way more than this—and I was honest about it when you asked me. I’d say if I was in your position, I’d give me a warning, and let it rest at that.”

“Well, unfortunately, that’s not Res Life policy,” Kermit says, pulling his chair right up to his desk and leaning toward me. “The fact is, you haven’t been that good of an RA. You were no where to be found on your floor when you were campaigning for president. By all accounts, you’re dating one of your residents, and ignoring half the rest of them. Then, you get drunk and get into a fight at a bar.”

I swallow.

“And to top it all off, how do I learn about your fight? Is it from you volunteering the information, and explaining your side?” he asks. “No. It’s a reporter from The Eskimo Enquirer coming to my office at nine this morning, to ask me what I’m going to do about my delinquent RA.”

“The Enquirer,” I nod, wondering how long it took Nick to go running to them.

“There’s no two ways about this, Preston. You’re fired.”

April 29, 2008

There comes a point where things are bad enough that you’re certain you can’t do anything right. The lid to my banker’s box won’t fit over the box. Something’s keeping it off balance. At the moment, this is no minor problem. This is further proof that I can’t do anything right.

There’s a knock at the door. I run a hand over my stubble. Kermit made it clear I’m not an RA anymore. I’ve got to be out of my room by 5, and between now and then, I should be doing nothing but packing my shit, and moving it out. The Housing Office assigned me a room with some random guy. I said I’d pass, in favor of crashing at Chang and Brad’s for the next couple weeks.

The knocking comes again. I should ignore it. Against my better judgment, I say, “Come in.”

I flip over the top off the box and yank my desk lamp out of it, tossing it toward my bed. Unfortunately, the cord catches on the box, and the lamp smashes to the floor. It’s probably broken.

“Preston.”

I only give Emma a glance. I haven’t seen her since Saturday night, when I don’t even remember what happened between us. I’ve been embarrassed to see her since.

“Preston, is it true? You got fired?”

I shrug my shoulders, tossing a book from the box, and trying the lid again. Somehow, it still won’t fit.

“Preston, why didn’t you tell me?” she asks. “How could you—”

“Can you stop,” I feel something catch in my throat, and I stop, running a hand through my dirty hair. I haven’t even showered since Kermit gave me the news.

I’m not an RA.

I’m not the SA president.

I’m not anything.

I swallow hard. “Please, just stop.”

She takes a half step toward me, her legs locking as her torso leans forward. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

I set the lid down next to the box. I bend over, lifting another box up onto my desk. I’m not sure what’s more frustrating—the box that’s too full, or the one that’s completely empty, telling me how far I still have to go.

I take a deep breath. “I just need to be alone now.”

I can tell she doesn’t want to go. Fucked if I know if I actually want her to leave. I go on packing, though, and, soon enough, she’s gone.

April 30, 2008

I scroll down the page, sitting on a beanbag chair in Chang and Brad’s room. Behind me, crumpled in an uneven ball, rests the air mattress on which I slept last night. We’ll roll it out again when it’s time to turn in tonight.

I’m reading an ESPN article about the upcoming game five of the NBA Finals. Mike’s team tied the series up at two a piece the other night.

“Hey guys,” Chang says, coming into the room, “look who I ran into.”

“Hey Emma,” Brad chimes in, with this voice that tells me this is staged. I didn’t want to see Emma again so soon, but I shouldn’t be surprised the guys brought her here—or helped her to get to me. They’ve been bending over backwards trying to cheer me up.

“Hey Preston,” Emma says. “Could we go for a walk or something?”

“I don’t really feel like walking.”

The room is dead. I stare at my laptop screen, and figure she’ll leave before long. There’s only so much awkward silence you can take before you’ve got to give in.

“Preston,” she goes on, “please.”

*

I keep my eyes on the ground kicking a little stone ahead of me, as Emma and I walk down a path. It’s kind of hard to believe the sun’s already going down. I didn’t set foot outside the dorm today, skipping class, subsisting on Ramen noodles. I couldn’t imagine any good that could come of interacting with other people—besides giving Chang and Brad some space, I suppose.

“I know you’re hurt,” Emma says.

I look up at her for a second, just as the wind blows. It tosses her hair a little. She’s got it in a messy pony tail. The last shades of pink are finally just about gone, and blond strands stick out. I think how much more vain Emma was when I first met her—how she’d never let her hair look like that. Even if she does look a bit disheveled, she looks more mature.

“I want to be here for you, Preston.”

“You want to be here for me?”

“That’s what I said.”

“I guess the election is over, so we don’t have to wait anymore.”

“What?”

I look at her again, then back at the ground. I kick the stone with side of my foot, sending it out of my path. “We were kissing that time. And you said we should wait until after the election was over.” I look back up, giving her a half smile. “It’s OK if that was just a line. I don’t expect you to give me another chance.”

I think about every time I did Emma wrong. I think about hooking up with Veronica. I think about when we started to get together last year, and I fell asleep on her before we could do anything. For everything I’ve done, I don’t know why I got myself thinking she would give me another shot.

“There was a lot for us to talk about before we—”

“You needed to tell me I was a dog,” I cut her off, “that you knew you couldn’t trust me, and that you weren’t going to put up with my bullshit this time—”

“You don’t know—”

“No, you don’t know,” I interrupt, my voice cracking. “I lost the election. I lost my job.” I throw up my hands. “Before that, I lost Teri. Before that, I lost Dave. Before that, I lost the paper. And before any of that, I lost you. I lost everything—”

“I’m HIV positive.”

We both stop, standing in the path. A bird flies over head, chirping loudly. I look up as it flies, a black silhouette and against the dark pink sky. I run my forearm over my eyes.

“What are you telling me Emma?”

Her eyes are watering. She tries to blink it away, but a tear rolls down her cheek. “You remember that time I came back to the dorm so upset. I was throwing up—and I told you it was because Bud was cheating on me?”

I nod.

Emma stares at my chest. “He was cheating on me. That’s how he caught it. Then he passed it on to me. And the only good thing he did was to tell me to get myself checked out.”

“Emma—”

“That’s why I couldn’t—” she trails off, and looks back up at me, looking me in the eye. “I know that you’re hurt. But I’m hurt too.”

May 1, 2008

Emma starts to snore, the first sign that she’s definitely asleep. I take the opportunity to roll over, lying flat on my back, on the ground, staring up at the ceiling.

My stomach sort of gurgles, empty. We talked all night, and never ended up getting dinner. I wasn’t hungry, couldn’t think about food until now.

I feel selfish. I whined about everything that had gone wrong for me, not having a clue what was really going on with Emma. I think about losing the election. So it means I don’t get to be president next year. Big deal. I think about losing my job. It’s not like it was my real job—just something I did for free room and board while I get my education.

Emma’s going to have her problem for life. She could be dead in a year. Maybe less.

She quit The Off Beats. Dumped Bud. Didn’t go to classes for a week.

Emma talked about getting over that fear—how she’s still healthy now, and needed to take her mind off of what could be. She talked about focusing on school, and helping at my mother’s store over spring break. She talked about the election. She said it call kept her occupied, took her mind off of the stuff she couldn’t control.

I turn my head, and see her bare foot peek out from under her sheets. Emma made it sound like I had done a lot to help her. I wonder how I could have done a thing when I never even knew what was wrong—when all I ever thought about was myself.

I wanted to hug her, the more she talked. To let her know that I recognized all of my problems as the bullshit they were, and how she was the one who had a right to be depressed. I wanted to let her know I was going to be there for her, from that moment on.

And there was that other part of my brain—flashing back to spring break, flashing back to the times we’ve kissed. I wondered if there was any time she could passed the HIV to me.

I hated myself for thinking about it.

I think about crawling in bed with Emma now, holding her close to me. I’ve wanted to hold her for a long time. Finish the kisses we started—the relationship we started two and half years ago, that I was stupid enough to cut short. I think of how I could have prevented this whole thing if I hadn’t screwed around on her then.

I stay where I am, closing my eyes. There’s no need to rush things—not when everything so new, and raw. Emma will still be here when the sun comes up.

And so will I.

May 2, 2008

“You sure it’s cool for me to live with you guys next year?” I ask, turning a page in my notebook. “I don’t want to intrude or anything.”

“You’re not going to be intruding,” Chang says, typing something into an Instant Messenger window. “Right now, you’re living in the middle of my room. You think I’m going to mind having you take up the dining room in my apartment next year—not to mention covering a quarter of the rent?”

“I’m just saying, if you and Brad and that other guy were looking forward to having the space—”

“Preston, shut up,” he looks back at me. “You’re my brother. And you’re my best friend. I mean, who took me in to live in his suite when I didn’t have any friends last year?”

I crack a smile. “You trying to say I don’t have any friends?”

He shrugs, turning back to his computer. “Make of it what you will.”

I’m excited about the prospect of living off campus with the guys next year. I had just assumed I would work as an RA again, and with that option gone, this apartment answers a new set of questions for the year ahead.

I pick up my laptop from the ground beside me, shifting in the bean bag chair. I log in to my e-mail.

“So hey,” I go on, “I know you said you don’t mind me crashing next year. You mind if I tag along with you this summer?”

“What are you talking about?” Chang picks up his bag of pretzels and leans back in his chair.

“I just got this e-mail from the camp you work at—and Dave said he was transferring to this summer.”

“You ended up applying?”

I shrug. “Figured why not. Better than being cooped up on my dad’s office again.”

“And you’ve got a job.”

I flick a finger against the screen. “Got the offer right here. I’ve just got to write back to make it official.”

Chang smiles. “Seems like things are coming together, bro.”

I nod, looking back at the screen. “I guess they are.”

May 3, 2008

“I’m telling you, you’re gonna love working at camp,” Chang says, launching the foam basketball from his desk chair, to the hoop, newly affixed to the back of his door. I hadn’t planned on putting up the basket, until Chang actually asked for it. “Working with kids—it puts a whole new perspective on things.”

“What do you mean?” I ask, picking up the rebound, tossing the ball back to him.

“It’s just—you have all of these petty things going on in your life. You’re fighting with your significant other, you’re trying to get your schedule together for next semester. Then you see one of your kids get hurt, or be down about something,” he says, squeezing the ball between his hands. “And then you can have something to do with taking care of them—talking things out, getting them the help they need. Makes you realize there are more important thing s in life.”

“That makes sense,” I nod, “I’m really looking forward to it.”

Chang shoots again. The ball bounces off the side of the rim, toward Chang’s closet. I chase it down.

“So listen,” I say, “I have something I’ve been wanting to talk to someone about—but it’s the kind of thing that’s gotta stay quiet.”

“What’s going on?”

“It’s Emma—”

“This about you spending the night with her the other night?”

I look at him, squinting my eyes. “How’d you know I was there?”

“Where else were you going to be?” He shoots it one handed, and the shot bounces in.

“Fair enough,” I pick up the ball throwing it back to him. “So yeah, we’ve spent a lot of time together since I broke up with Teri. Even made out a couple times.”

“That all you did?” Chang makes another shot.

“That’s 11 for 19,” I say, throwing the ball back. “Last shot.”

Chang catches it. “Is that all you did?” he asks again.

“It is.” I exhale, as Chang leans back, holding ball. “She’s HIV positive.”

Chang looks down, setting the ball down on his lap. “You serious?”

I stand, my hands on my hips, looking down. “Yeah, I’m serious.”

“Well, fuck.”

Chang looks back up, first at me, then at the hoop. He takes his shot. It hits the front of the rim, and falls to the floor.

“So, what are you thinking?” Chang asks.

“Still trying to figure that out,” I say, picking up the ball. “I mean, I care about her a lot, you know?”

“But this—this is different.”

I walk over to Brad’s desk, and have a seat, as Chang gets up. I look down at the ball. “It’s different, all right.”