Archives: February 12-18, 2006

February 12, 2006

I open the door to my dorm room, then stop. It's funny how one moment you can be wrapped up in your own thoughts, not conscious of what you're doing. The next, you realize you've flung open the door and stomped in the room, only to find your roommate still in bed, under the covers with the girl he took to a party last night.

I creep into the room, grabbing my robe, towel and shower basket as quickly and quietly as possible, before leaving for the bathroom. Ordinarily, I'd leave for half an hour—go back to Emma's or turn on the TV in the floor lounge. But today, I only have half an hour before work at the Front Desk, so I don't really have many options.

As I shave in the community bathroom, I think of how it's funny that I feel so compelled to leave right away when I walk in on Dave in that sort of situation. In contrast, Emma has grown to be a familiar enough part of life in the room that she'll spend the night with or without Dave there, and hang out in her pajamas. Sometimes the three of us will hang out in the morning, eating dry cereal by the handful.

I suppose longevity is the biggest difference, as I only met Josephine last night. There are other factors too. For example, from their bare shoulders and her bare calf, hanging from the side of the bed, I take them to be naked beneath the sheet. For better or worse, Emma and I are both virgins. Dave enjoys casual partners.

I didn't see much of Dave or Josephine after our first hour at the party. I was caught up in Emma, and at some point, I recall Dave saying he was going to smoke upstairs. I hadn't seen either of them since, and just what they were smoking, I can't be sure.

I take a quick shower—long enough that, presuming they heard me entering and exiting the room, Dave and Josephine will have time to get dressed, but quick enough so I won't be late getting on with my day.

Returning to the room, I'm surprised to find only Dave there, awake, bare-chested wearing only a pair of gym shorts as he taps at his laptop on his desk. “Good morning,” I say, a little surprised.

Dave turns to me, hair askew and sleep in his eyes. “Good morning, champ. How was your night?”

I set down my shower basket and dump the clothes from the night before in a pile in my closet. “Good. Maybe not as good as yours.”

He smirks. “It was a fucking good night.”

February 13, 2006

Sal Rodriguez alternates between two postures. For parts of our interview, the tall, well-built Puerto Rican slumps in his chair, hand on his head, disinterested in his own story, which he has already recounted a thousand times. At other times, he flies into passion, gesticulating wildly as speaks of his anger toward the Student Association for stripping his organization of its funding.

“The motherfucker has no idea what it costs to put on a show!” Sal says at one high point .

Like it is at many colleges, the Student Association (SA) here is an overarching, governing body that determines policy and budgets for student groups. The money comes from the larger student body—every year, every full-time undergrad pays $150 to be put toward these groups. Sal is the president of the Multicultural Theater Organization (MTO), a student group under SA that both puts on its own productions and brings in outside performers for shows at Taylor College .

Last April, they brought in an African percussion group called Beats Alive. SA officers have said that Sal agreed to a faulty contract, which permitted Beats Alive to not only collect on their $2,500 performance fee, but also to request an additional $2,500 in last minutes insurance expenditures. SA wasn't about to cancel the show at the last minute, so they went along with it and MTO went well over budget. At the start of this academic year, SA President Alan Chilling announced that MTO was being stripped of its budget for the year, as a repercussion for the loss.

The Window has had articles about the situation before. The article I've been assigned is an epilogue at best. Members of the MTO are beginning to push for their funding to be reinstated for next year—a request that will almost certainly be granted, and that no one really cares about. It's page three news—filler between ads and the weather report. A few impassioned quotes from Sal aren't going to change that.

*

This was more or less a one interview story. Larry Schmidt, the Editor in Chief of the paper, had been on this beat the year before. SA President Alan Chilling would only give the briefest of comments—it wasn't an issue he wanted to talk about. Representatives from Beats Alive refused to make any comment on the story. If these sources had already been used to the fullest extent that Larry could use them, there wasn't much reason to think that I would make any greater headway.

Nonetheless, I placed a phone call with a Beats Alive rep when Sam assigned me this story, and to my surprise, he said he could give me a half hour on the phone Monday. I call at 3:30 on the dot and we start our conversation.

“Hold up a minute,” the rep says, in his thick Kenyan accent. “What do you mean extra insurance costs?”

“Well that was why the MTO went over budget—because the contract—it was flexible, and your group capitalized on it to charge an extra five thousand in insurance.”

“I think you oughta check your facts, man. There weren't any extra costs. Hell, I dealt with your president, Alan myself. He pleaded with me about you guys not having the money to do the show. So we were nice enough to waive the costs of the show altogether. All we had them pay for was travel and lodging—we took a loss on the show.”

My hand is flying across a page of my legal pad. SA says Beats Alive dramatically overcharged them, which is why MTO lost its money. Beats Alive says they dramatically undercharged them.

Maybe this story isn't so basic after all.

I have three full pages of notes in 15 minutes, and I've had the rep repeat his side of the story twice more to get down some quotes. The second the conversation is over, I dial Sam's number.

February 14, 2006

Sam granted me an extension on my article so I could talk to Alan Chilling and get his side of the story. Alan has yet to return my calls, making this a lost day as far as the newspaper goes.

Of course, the extra time was useful. I had talked with Dave and he agreed to be out of the room by six o'clock and to stay out for the night. He had plans with Josephine for the night anyway. I have set up my Valentine's Day plans for the dorm room.

I didn't tell Emma what we were doing. I only told her to wear something nice and to meet me at my place. I moved my desk to the center of the room and put a tablecloth over it. I bought a vase and rose and put them in the center. I turned off the overhead fluorescent light and swung both my desk lamp and Dave's to perfect angles for mood lighting. Then I showered, shaved and put on my suit, just moments before the Chinese food I ordered to show up. Once it's here, I shovel onto the plastic plates and bowls my folks bought me when I left for college, and wait for Emma.

She knocks on my door twice, the way she always does—light but clearly audible. I open the door just a crack to see her there in her long, navy blue pea coat. Little droplets cling to her blond hair, from the snow falling outside, and her glasses wear a thin fog. I open the door in grand fashion, and Emma's eyes open wide at the dorm, converted into a private restaurant.

I take her coat, to find her wearing a long, lime green dress and off-white shawl. I hang her coat over my bed post and double click the mouse of my computer, now set on the floor, to cue the playlist I set up for this evening.

“This is amazing, Preston ,” Emma says, taking a seat on one side of the desk.

I stand behind Emma and kiss her neck. “Well, I have to confess—I had some help from the Chinese place on Main Street .”

“Huh—just when I thought you might have learned how to cook.”

“You're beautiful,” I whisper in her ear. She runs her fingers from my hair, down my face.

We take things one step at a time, though, and eat first. I ordered too much food, of course—an order of General Tso's chicken, beef and broccoli, lo mein, white rice, fried rice, pepper steak—anything I think Emma might want. We eat until we're stuffed. She really is beautiful, glowing despite the dim light. I tell her about the story I've been chasing for The Window . She tells me about The Off Beats and how they're preparing for an a cappella competition in March.

“I didn't know a cappella groups competed—I thought they just did concerts,” I say.

“This will be my first one. Veronica takes them pretty seriously, though. I think for her the usual shows are just like practices.”

“So you go against other groups?”

“Six groups at each competition, winners go to the next round, then the winners from that go to the finals.”

When we're finished eating, I take her in my arms, and kiss her forehead and nose gently. Then I lift her from her waist and kiss her harder, before we settle on my bed. Soon most of our clothes are cast off, and I move my hand all along her skin. “I was thinking that maybe tonight—tonight, we could take the next step,” I say, before running my nose from her wrist, all the way up her arm.

Emma hesitates. “I—I'm not sure if I want to right now.” She speeds up, “It's just everything is so perfect, and I'm not sure how it'll go—not that I don't think it would be good—”

“It's okay,” I cut her off. And it really is okay. I want for us to take that next step, but it's not as though there's any rush. “It's okay,” I say again, kissing her wetly.

She hugs me and, for the first time, says, “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

 

February 15, 2006

“Did you tell him what the Beats Alive guy said?” I shout into my cell phone—a combination of trying to beat the noise of the wind, and my mounting frustration. I'm leaving one of the academic buildings, heading back to the dorm.

“Oh, I told him,” Sam, the News Editor from The Window replies, sounding more than a little annoyed himself. Sam has just broken the news to me that Larry Schmidt, our Editor in Chief, has essentially called the nix on my article just as it was getting interesting. “And he said that the story was already covered, and that the Beats Alive guy must be mistaking us with some other school they played at.”

“Well maybe that is true, but he's gotta let me at least talk to Chilling about this stuff.” Chilling, the Student Association president, still hasn't gotten back to me despite several phone and e-mail messages. “I'll go to the SA office right now.”

“Schmidty seems dead set against it. Said that since he's been with the paper, when he started out as photographer, he's never heard of a story with so many holes. To be honest with you, I don't even know how he knows about the status of the story. All I told him was your article was going to be coming in late,” Sam says. “I wonder if he's been talking with Chilling. Those guys used to be tight—maybe they still are chummier than they look.”

“But what I don't get is why either one of them would want to hold me back on this. I mean it's a great story—and if Beats Alive did do the show for free, that's a big monetary issue for Chilling. The guy should care.”

“Maybe he's embezzling and it's a big cover up,” Sam says, then pauses to audibly sip something. “In any case, Schmidt isn't budging. He wants the article—the one you were originally assigned—in for this week's paper, by five o' clock, and he said he doesn't want anything you heard from Beats Alive.”

“That is the story. I'm writing it up. You guys can edit it out if you have to.”

“Eh, it's your time and effort. Just get it done for me.”

February 16, 2006

“Give me two slices of pepperoni, a large coke, and whatever he wants,” Sam nudges me with his elbow. “It's on me buddy.”

I shrug. “Thanks Sam,” I say, and turn to the kid working behind the counter “I'll take two slices of cheese and a cup of water, please.”

“That'll be eight dollars, even,” the kid says and Sam plucks a ten from his wallet.

Sam and I just got out of the weekly staff meeting for The Window . Each Thursday we look over the new issue, vote on a few of the next issue's features and hear reports from the editors. Afterwards, the individual departments meet—news, sports, arts, student life—and the editors assign out stories. This week, rather than giving me something to write about, Sam invited me out for pizza.

“All right, I told you Schmidt wants the MTO story to be a done deal,” Sam says as we sit down in a corner both of Luigi's—the greasiest pizzeria on Main Street, less than a ten minute walk from campus. “How do you feel about that?”

I shrug, taking a sip of water from my little paper cup. “It's bull. Anyone can see something's going on, and it sounds like Schmidt's just scared of ruffling too many feathers.”

Sam chews on his pizza, looking out the window, at the street. “There is something going on. And I don't know if Schmidt's scared or what's going on in his head.” He pauses biting off a huge bite. He wipes the grease from his mouth with a napkin, and goes on as he chews, “What do you want to do?”

I finish chewing. “Well, if I was the Editor in Chief, I'd want to blow this thing wide open. I mean, I don't know about Schmidt, but this is what makes me want to cover the news—the chance to really uncover something.”

“Then let's do it.”

“Huh?”

“Let's blow it wide open. You started this story—if you think you can blow it open, I'm leaving it in your hands.”

“Yeah, but what's the use if Larry isn't going to let anything significant go to print. I mean look at the piece of garbage in today's paper—page three article where the only ‘ news' is that the MTO guy is pissed off about losing his funding and wants it back.”

“So you call the Beats Alive guy again. Confirm that he's talking about Taylor College . Get some specifics—who he talked to and when. Then follow up Dorothy in the SA finance office. She's dumb as a brick but she's the gatekeeper for all the records. And as Taylor students, the SA constitution says we have the right to see those records during regular business hours. You want to find the Beats Alive contract and see what they have down in writing.”

“See what the mysterious insurance clause really says.”

“ And there should be some sort of attachment to the contract if Beats Alive really did waive the costs of the show.” Sam pauses, taking a gulp of coke. “You up for all this, Preston ?”

“You kidding me?” I smirk. “Beats writing about another volunteer fair.”

“That's what I wanted to hear.”

February 17, 2006

“I'm sorry—it should be here,” Dorothy says, peering over round spectacles into the filing cabinet in the records room of the Student Association office.

The woman seems as out of it as Sam described, but she has allowed me to join in the search, and I can't think of any better place to look than the spots she's led me to.

“Could the MTO have the contract? Maybe they were trying to straighten things out with the performers themselves?”

“Once the contracts are signed, they never leave this room,” Dorothy says. “And Alan and I are the only ones who really go back here. I can leave a note for Alan to see if he can help you out when he comes—”

“That won't be necessary,” I cut her off. Alan Chilling, the SA president, has already proven himself a dead end.

Dorothy maneuvers around filing cabinets on her way out of the office, gray hair waving behind her. I follow after, all the way to her desk, where I spy the contract for The Directionals, who will be performing at Taylor in April. Chilling didn't hesitate to give a comment for an article about them in last week's issue of The Window , saying how proud he was to have just signed the contract for that show.

“Pretty exciting, huh?” Dorothy says, seeing me eye the contract, and misreading my disgust for this pitiful excuse for a band being brought to our college. “My daughter can't wait to go to the concert.”

I give a polite chuckle before something catches my eye in the sheet of paper in front of me. “Is this a final version of the contract?” I ask.

“Why yes it is, I just had it out to fax an extra copy over to the band's agent.”

“Is there any way—would you mind making me a copy of this? I mean, that is within my rights as a full-time student, right?” I ask, playing a card I'm taking it on faith Sam has right.

“Well, I don't see what harm it could do to make a copy,” Dorothy says, unsure of herself, but not about to start an argument.

*

“I've got some interesting news, Sam,” I say into my cell phone, leaving the Student Center , where the SA Office is housed.

“What is it?”

“First of all, the Beats Alive contract is gone—no where to be found in that office.”

“Interesting.”

“But it gets better.” I say, trying to talk over the wind, and yet to keep my voice soft enough so I passersby won't hear. “I came upon the contract for The Directionals concert.”

“What, they have a flexible insurance clause too?”

“Well, that would explain the discrepancy I'm looking at.”

“Whatcha mean, Preston ?”

“I mean I checked the number on this contract against the number we printed in last week's issue of the paper. The contract is for $5,000 less than Chilling said we were paying.”

 

February 18, 2006

Emma tells me her and the girls are going to an open mic at the Student Center . Ordinarily, I'm not wild about hanging out with Emma and her friends. I figure it's best to let the girls have their fun—keep some healthy boundaries, and avoid the awkward status of being the one guy amongst a bunch of girls. But lately Emma's been saying we should get to know each other more, and learn about different parts of each other. And besides, after a day of putting together the facts of my story for The Window , and debating the merits of Sam's plans to proceed (more on that tomorrow), I'm eager for something to do tonight.

It turns out the girls we're hanging out with tonight are all from The Off Beats, Emma's a cappella group. On one hand, this is cool because they're really talented girls, so I can look forward to hearing them sing. On the downside, they can pick apart any and every act that goes up to the mic, based on pitch and tempo and all that. I don't have much to contribute.

So I sit, a spectator a little removed from the others. There's free coffee, of which I down paper cup after paper cup, while the girls chatter amongst themselves. There's a decent crowd—about thirty, forty people or so, milling around, sitting at tables or in the booths around us. I like the look of the café—they keep it well-lit most of the time, but for this event, they've dimmed the lights, so only the space behind the counter and the stage are bright.

I'm watching a guy try to cover some alt-rock ballad on his acoustic guitar when one of the girls leans over to me. “You look downright enthralled.”

I smirk. “Just trying to remember the name of this song.”

“I think it's Madison Avenue.”

“That's right!” I'm legitimately surprised. This just isn't the sort of song Emma wouldn't know, and I suppose I assumed all the girls were the same way.

This girl—Veronica—is two years older than us, and the director of The Off Beats. I don't know what year the other girls are, but Veronica seems a good bit older than all of them. She's a little detached from their gab, and seems perfectly at ease reaching out to me. “So are you a singer?”

I chuckle. “Na, Emma's got musical talent enough for the both of us.” Emma catches the line and tosses a grin my way before turning back to the other girls.

“Gotcha,” Veronica replies. I turn and something strikes me about the way she's looking right at me—ignoring the girls and the boy on stage. “But you've got your own talents. I've read your stuff in The Window . It's better than most of the crap they print.”

I smile over the brim of my coffee cup. “I'll take that as a compliment.”

“You should.” Veronica smirks. “I've been around a couple years, and the newspaper's never been the pride of the school. You do all right, though. You can tell you do interviews, instead of just copying the b.s. from press releases.”

“Well thanks.” I'm not sure what else to say, and after a second, decide to take things a step further. “I'm actually working on my first really big story now—”

I don't have time to get out any details about the story as the emcee—a little guy with big glasses, in a black t-shirt and green corduroys—announces over the mic it's Veronica's turn to perform. She giggles and walks away.

Up on stage, Veronica takes off her fleece and sits down on a stool wearing just a tank top and jeans. Her long brown hair shines in the spotlight, and I have to admit that she's a knockout. She's not nervous at all, completely at home on the stage as she removes the mic from its stand and asks, “How are you all doing tonight?”

With all due respect to the duet Emma and another one of the girls did before, Veronica is, hands down, the star of the evening. She starts with a soulful ballad—sort of on the cusp of R&B and soul, her voice caressing that microphone. The crowd is silent until she finishes, at which point it explodes into applause. She doesn't move a muscle until the last clap has sounded, at which point she hums the same note she ended with, before she begins to scat, and sing something more upbeat and jazzy. Not many people could pull off a song with this old feeling in front of a college crowd, but she's got the audience captivated with every note and every swing of her shoulder. At an open mic night where there are no auditions or prerequisites to perform, she comes off as a calm, cool professional among wannabes.