Archives:September 3-September 9, 2006
September 3, 2006
I'm back in Smith Hall for the first time this year today, working at my same old spot behind the Front Desk. It's a little strange this year, watching the new freshman just trying to find their way around, or confused about what the Front Desk does. One comes to me looking for a parking pass. Others come looking for directions to any number of places around campus. It's a little annoying, just based on how much time I spend answering the questions. On the other hand, though, it's kind of nice to be the one with the answers now.
“Well there's my favorite Front Desker.”
I turn as Barry makes his way inside. “Hey, how are you doing man?” I get up to shake his hand.
“Real good. Was worried I haven't seen you around yet this year.”
I shrug. “Still just working the Sunday afternoon shift, and they didn't need me for opening.”
“Good deal. So how was summer? How's the woman? Give me the scoop.”
“Summer was good—went by fast. And the woman's out of the picture.”
Barry shakes his head, “Use ‘em and lose ‘em, eh?”
I don't bother explaining, and just smile. “You know how I roll. So how're things with you?”
“Busy. Interning this semester, plus the RA thing, 15 credits, and grad school apps. It's gonna be tight.”
“Ah, I'm sure you'll make it through.”
“Long as there's no knuckleheads like you and your suitemates around, it'll be smooth sailing.”
“Right, because we were a problem.”
Barry pats my shoulders. “Wish I could have ten of you on my floor, Preston . I gotta run. Take it easy, buddy.”September 4, 2006
It's kind of shocking walking into Tucker's office. Tucked deep within the Student Association office, you would think he couldn't have more than a closet-sized room to himself. On the contrary, the president's desk is half of the size of a dorm room, and his personal office is as large as the entire space The Window staff has to work with.
The door's open, but I knock anyway. Tucker looks away from his computer for a second. “Come on in, Preston ,” he says, before going back to typing.
I make my way over and reach my hand across the desk. He looks at me and raises his eyebrows before shaking. “Thanks for taking the time to meet with me,” I say.
“You're welcome.” He makes a couple clicks of the mouse, before turning to face me again. “Go ahead and have a seat.”
I do sit down in one of the new looking black padded folding chairs. In an instant, I notice that I'm set lower to the ground than Tucker, in his leather office chair behind the oak desk. “So, I had a few questions set up here, if you don't mind me just running through them.”
“Shoot.”
“All right, so as we start up this year with you leading the Student Association, what is your vision for what you would like to accomplish?”
Tucker flicks something I can't see from the collar of his neon green polo. “Just want to pick up where we left off last year. Giving the students what they want, supporting the groups and organizations that serve the students best.”
“Okay—and what are some ways in which you see yourself and the rest of the SA administration doing that?”
“For one, strict enforcement of our policies. For example, students groups will no longer be able to fundraise by deducting funds from other student groups.”
I do my best not to acknowledge the direct jab at The Window, but looking up from my legal pad, Tucker's looking right at me for the first time since I came in. I have a sense of where this interview is going.September 5, 2006
“I had you read two passages for today,” Dr. Hancock says, perching at the edge of the table at the front of the room, her legs crossed. “What was similar about them?”
After a few moments of silence, a girl speaks up. “They were both set in houses.”
“In houses?” Dr. Hancock asks.
“In people's homes,” another girl says. “In the homes of families.”
“Good,” Dr. Hancock nods. “What else is there?”
“The main characters are both fathers.”
“Say a little more about that.”
The guy looks from side to side, as if he's looking for help. “The main characters are both fathers. In the first one, the mom keeps saying the kids are asleep. And in the second one, the whole family's there.”
“All right, so with that in mind, what kind of message are both texts sending?” There's no response. I find my attention wandering. Emma's wearing these really short shorts today—I don't remember her seeing her in them before. I look at her just out of the corner of my eye, subtle as I can be.
“Let's take another approach,” Dr. Hancock goes on. “What's different about the two passages? What do you think Preston ?”
She catches me off guard, as my mind turns back to what I read the night before. “Well the time is very different. I mean, the first one was set in the late 1800s, and the second one happened recently—I'd say 1990s.”
“And what kind of differences does that lead to?”
“Well—the way the fathers treat the mothers is different.”
“How so?”
I'm waiting for her to turn to someone else, but she keeps her eyes on me. “Well in the first one he blows her off the whole time.”
“He blows her off?”
“Yeah, she calls to him from the other room—”
“From the other room. What's significant about that?”
Now it's me looking around. “Well, he won't even go out to see what she wants.”
“That's what I thought you might say,” Dr. Hancock says with the hint of a smile. “Did it occur to you she might come into the room?”
“Well yeah, that's the other side of it.”
“The other side of it?” she raises her eyebrows over the frames of her glasses. I look back, blankly. “What I'm point out here is that while, as Kara pointed out, both passages are domestic scenes, in the first, older piece, the woman doesn't even physically appear. In the second, the father and the mother each play a role working with the kids. What the stories both do, is present a commentary on gender relations at the time. In both, the woman is suppressed by her husband.”
“But,” I begin, and look down at the page. “Do we really think that J. Sommer was trying to talk about women's issues when he wrote this way back?”
“The J stands for Judith, and it's well documented that she was an early feminist writer. Of course, she could only get away with publishing if she just used the first initial to hide her identity.” I swallow. “We don't need to get into authorial intent right now, though. What I want you to do, though, is to start thinking outside of your own, limited perspectives.” For the first time, she turns back away from me. “All right everyone, let's take a look at page 105.”September 6, 2006
“How's the section looking?” Teri asks, sitting on my desk beside the News computer in the Window office.
“Gotta say, I didn't miss these Wednesday nights,” I say with a sigh. “And I didn't remember the writing being quite this bad.”
Teri laughs. “First issue, all those freshman reporters writing their first articles—it's always rough.”
“I like to think I wasn't this bad.”
“You were also recruited to join the staff,” Sam calls from over at his own desk.
“You just have to mold the writers a little bit,” Teri says. “By the time you took over last year, Sam had already handled most of that dirty work. Now it's your turn.”
“Well how am I going to mold them? I mean, do I sit them down and teach them how to use a comma?”
“You could take that route. Or you could just make sure they're reading their stuff after it's printed, and seeing what gets changed.”
“And they'll actually do that?”
“The good ones will. That's how Carl got as far as he did.”
“Carl?” I ask. “The guy who almost scored my job last year?”
Sam leans back in his chair. “It's kind of sad when someone has aspirations to do one specific job—and he just doesn't have any recognizable talent.”
“Carl's come a long way,” Teri chimes in. “Give him another year and he could be news editor.”
“You saying I won't be news editor in a year?” I ask.
Teri shrugs. “You might have my job. Or Sam's.”
“Don't give him too big a head,” Sam says, looking up at the clock on the wall. “It's ten o'clock now. I want to do final edits by 11:30 .”September 7, 2006
“How are you doing, bro?” Matt asks over the phone.
“Not bad. Tired,” I say, sitting on down on the couch in the suite, tipping my head back. “We're back to the grind at The Window.”
“Good times. How late were you there last night?”
“Got out a little before three. Which apparently isn't that bad for the first issue of the year.”
“Don't know how you do it, man. Or why you do it, for that matter.”
“Somebody's gotta. So, what's new with you?”
“Well, I'll have you know that I didn't get home to till 2 a.m. myself last night.”
“Is that right?”
“Had a date.”
I laugh. “Weren't you just saying you thought you were in love with Julie?”
“Julie's a long term project. Not like there's any strings attached in the meantime.”
“So you had a date?”
“Went out with some friends—turned out to be a double date with this French girl.”
“French?”
“Foreign exchange French. In the states for all of one month, and my buddy's girl is friends with the girl she's sharing an apartment with for the year.”
“Well, this is different.”
“Got different-er. We go back to my buddy's girl's place, and they go into her room, leaving me and Colette out on the couch.”
“You make a move?”
“Well we're sitting there, trying to make small talk for a good ten minutes. It's awkward as hell because she can't really understand me, and she doesn't know how to say much. It's kind of cute how she tries to say stuff, though, and makes those little mistakes, you know? Then I take her hand and she smiles, and one thing leads to another.”
“You don't waste time.”
“It gets better. She's not comfortable there, says ‘You, me, go back my place.'”
“Hmm.”
“So we leave, but the problem is, she doesn't know her way back.”
“You're kidding.”
“She's got the numbers all messed up—between the intersection and the building number, and the apartment number. We walk across half the city trying to find the place, before I say she's gotta just call her roommate. That's when we realize she lost her phone.”
“Man.”
“So we scour all the places we were, before finally my buddy calls me to find out where we are, and lets me know that his girl is still holding on to Colette's phone.”
“So you end up back where you started?”
“I don't think so. I walk her back to the door, then bid her good night—let them deal with her.”
“So all that and you didn't wait it out until the end.”
“Didn't want anything at the end—besides some sleep. Gotta know when to cut your losses.”
I chuckle. “Window office doesn't sound so bad now.”September 8, 2006
When Chang and I get back from shooting pool at the Student Center , we find the door to the suite wide open. Guitar chords drift out, then the sound of Dave's voice, singing the opening of "Free Bird."
The music stops as I appear in the doorway. " Preston ! Chang! Come on in, guys," Dave says beckoning us forward-inviting us into our own room. There are four girls sitting on around him, while Mike perches one arm of the couch. "You know our neighbors, right guys?"
"Not sure that I do," I say, heading in.
"Well these are the girls from the suite across the hall-Chelsea, Mary, Erin and Meghan."
"Nice to meet you," one of the girls-I have no idea which one is which-says.
Another bounces impatiently on the couch, her eyes on the guitar. “You should keep playing.
Dave grins. “Any more requests?”
The girl's brown crinkles beneath her blond mane. “Do you know anything by Justin Timberlake?”
“Justin Timberlake doesn't play guitar,” Chang says. “It's all synthesized shit.”
Just as the girl's face starts to drop, Dave swoops in to catch her smile. “You guys like Rob Thomas? Matchbox 20?” The girls nod, smiles coming back as Dave tunes down the guitar for his next cover. Chang and Mike exchange a look as we lean back and listen.September 9, 2006
“Not a bad crowd here,” Dave says, sipping from his beer, as I fill up my solo cup from the keg.
“Yeah—almost as bumping as our suite last night.”
He chuckles. “I told you. Play the six-string, keep the door open—watch them flock on in.”
I hand the tap off to Chang. We're at Mike's friends' place—Perry and TJ's. Just like the last time I was here, there are tons of people. I wonder if it's being on the basketball team that does that, or if it's just who these guys are—that they throw the parties everyone comes to.
Across the way, I see Emma. She's in a group of people, girls and guys. It stabs at me a little to see her sitting on this one guy's lap. I look away, just as I hear Claire's voice. “Chang, Preston , come over here!”
And when I look up again, the three of us are there. Emma and I make eye contact for a second, before she turns away, looking off somewhere as she tips her head back, drinking from her cup. I do the same, swallowing half my beer in a second.
Meanwhile, Claire's making introductions. “And this is Freddie. He's with The Sidewinders.”
I hate The Sidewinders. My memories of them revolve around them sabotaging The Off Beats in the first round of competition last year, then beating them in the second round. That and I remember what Veronica told me about her ex from the group, and what an asshole he was. It doesn't help that this Freddie's the one with Emma on his lap, and his hand on her thigh.
I look away again. On the other side of the apartment, Mike and Perry are playing beer pong with their off-hands—the only way to get a competitive game with them. Still, they knock down most of their shots, high fiving and yelling after each one.
“I have an seven piece vocal drum kit,” Freddie says. “Snare, congo , bass, toms, crash cymbal, ride cymbal and hi-hat. And that's not to mention the maracas.” He proceeds to shake his head, making a fast clicking sound that I suppose sounds sort of like a maraca. All I can really recognize, though, is what a douchebag this guy is.
So, I down the rest of my beer, if for no other reason than the excuse to walk away to refill it. There's a short line.
As I get closer to the keg, I feel a hand on my back. I'm surprised to turn and see it's Emma.
“Hey.”
“Hey,” she says, brushing hair from her face with the back of her hand. “I just wanted to say I'm sorry for that.”
“For what?”
“That Claire called you over—or that you had to see us like that?”
I shrug. “What do I care. It's been a long time since you and me were together.”
“I guess I just never got really comfortable seeing you with Veronica. And maybe that's just me. But I didn't mean to subject you to something like that.”
I wave my hand. “Forget about it. That's all in the past.” I look down at my cup. “And Freddie seems—nice.”
“Why the hesitation?”
I smile, just as a guy hands me the tap. I put it in her cup first, pressing down the lever and starting the flow. “I don't like him. I think you can do better.”
“Is that so?” Emma cracks a smile.
As the head reaches the top of her cup, I switch over to fill my own. “Maybe I am still—maybe I'm a little protective of you.” I meet her eyes. A feel the beer overflowing the cup, pouring on to my hand, and I look down, and stop pouring. “I don't even know what that means. But—yeah. For whatever it means, I guess I didn't like seeing you with Freddie.”
Emma drinks from her cup, her eyes peering over the brim. “Well, for whatever this is worth—thank you.”