Archives:September 17-
September 23, 2006

September 17-19, 2006

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September 20, 2006

Coming into the suite today, Dave and Mike's door is open just a crack. From inside, I can hear Dave's guitar as he picks away slowly the way he does when he just learning a song, or when he's fooling around.

“Hey buddy,” I say, peeping inside.

He's sitting on his bean bag chair in a corner of the room. It's a cloudy day, and it's late afternoon, but Dave is sits in the dim, eyes fixed on his left hand, working through the chords. “Hey, Preston . What's up?”

“Nothing much. Just stopping back to pick up some books before I go back to the office for the long haul.”

“Ah right, Wednesday night.”

“You doing okay?”

“Hmm?”

“The dark room, the detached look—you seem kind of out of it, dude.”

Dave shakes his head. “Sorry bro. Just doing a lot of thinking.”

“Thinking about what?”

“Saw this flyer today,” he says, laying his right hand flat across the strings, silencing them. “It was looking for a new lead singer for a band—The Axis.”

“The Axis—we saw them last year, right? They're pretty good.”

“They're very good,” Dave corrects me. “And their lead singer graduated, so they need someone new—must play guitar.”

“So, does that mean you're going to try out for it?”

He shrugs. “I'm thinking about it.” He pulls a little scrap of paper from his pocket—a tab ripped from the bottom of the flyer. “I've got the phone number. Just gotta set up an audition for next week.”

“Well that's awesome. I mean, you kept saying how you wanted to get a band together right? And here you've got a band that's already established—”

“I know,” Dave cuts me off. A string squeaks as he runs his finger over it. “It's just—now that I've actually got it right there for the taking—it's just a little intimidating. I mean, say I try out and I don't make it. Then, if I do get a band together, it's with the knowledge that they're the second rate band that would take me.” He shakes his head. “I don't know. I mean, I think I'm gonna do it. Just getting a little nervous is all.”

“All right.” It's funny. Over the last year, I've never really seen Dave like this, and I don't know what to say. “Well I'll let you get back to practicing and all. I'm heading to the office.”

“Later bro,” Dave replies, not bothering to look up as I leave.

September 21, 2006

“All right people, we're just going to go up and down the rows, count of by fives,” Dr. Hancock says. It's not unusual for the professor to have us do this, but usually waits until the class discussion stalls—letting us talk things out in groups then come back into the larger conversation. It is a bit odd that she's starting the class here, though.

As the last person counts four, chairs begin to squeal and rustle. “Wait, wait, wait,” Hancock cuts us off. “You're not getting together with these groups until the end of class.” She proceeds to count off photocopies, preparing to hand them back along the rows. “The groups you just counted off are for a longer term project. You'll each be doing a close reading of two to three chapters from The Kitchen's Mother, and presenting on them for the class. You can read the hand out at your leisure for more details, and come to me with questions.”

Hancock goes on with her lecture for the day, but there's really no hope of paying attention to her, at least for these opening minutes. Instead, I scan the room with my eyes. I counted off the number two, and now, I silently count around the room, trying to remember which rows counted up from the front, and which ones snaked around from the back, taking note of who each of my group members will be.

And then I get to her.

Emma.

I think it's possible I counted incorrectly and try again. It's the same result three times over. Then I remember the guy in front of her—the way he started to count six, then reverted to one, just before Emma.

I wonder if Emma already knows we're in the group together. She's more observant than I am. I think about what she caught on to last year—what I had tried to keep from her.

Emma turns and half catches me looking at her. I turn away, probably too late, and I do my best to focus on class.

September 22, 2006

"So what's so weird about it?" Chang asks, frantically trying to defend against Mike in an X-Box basketball game-not achieving much more success than he would in a real basketball game. “It's just a group project. You do what you have to do, make your little presentation, and you're done with it. Son of a bitch!” he finishes as Mike's New York Knicks throw down an alley-oop.

“It's weird because I've hardly talked to Emma since we split up. And now, all of a sudden, we're going to have to work together. And besides that, this is exactly how we got together in the first place,” I say, looking on, snacking on a bag of stale tortilla chips Mike bought the day he moved in. “Another group project in another English class last fall.”

“I don't see how you can get together when you're working on a group project,” Mike says. “Those things are so stupid. No one wants to work together, and there's no common goal besides getting a decent grade. Then everybody just gets mad at each other because they think the other people are slacking off.

“Well Emma and I were the workhorses of the group,” I say. “We were the ones doing all the work, and showing up for all of the meetings—so I guess we bonded against everyone else.”

“Nerds.” Mike shakes his head.

“Is that so?” I step in front of the TV, blocking Mike's view for just long enough so Chang can score.

“Yeah,” Mike says, jiggling the cord of his controller to usher me to the side. “Why don't you run along, Presto? Go read a book or something.”

“Whatever. I got next game.”

September 23, 2006

“Hey, how you doing, man?” I ask, peeking my head into his room.

Dave's in a corner, cradling his guitar, his legs and chest supporting it as he sits, curled on his bed. There's a spiral notebook bent open at his side. “Not bad,” he says, scribbling something down.

“Taking notes before the big audition?”

Dave smiles. “Nah. I'm trying out with an old Bruce Springsteen song—know it inside and out, nothing new I could write about it.” He raises the notebook. “This here is a new song.”

“Can I hear it?”

“Not the best time,” he says, trying a chord. “I'm just writing it. Right now it's just a few chords and bad poetry.”

“And it's going to end up more than that?”

“Probably not.” He smiles again. “But I'll play it like a champ.”

“Of course.” I lean, my hand high against the door frame. “So Dave?”

“Yeah?”

“You're not putting too much weight on this band thing, right?”

“What do you mean?”

“I'm just saying, The Axis is a pretty established band—and they're only looking for one person. And I'm hoping for the best and all—”

“But I shouldn't get my hopes up.”

“I'm just saying you shouldn't be discouraged if it doesn't work out. You're getting really good, man. And you're writing again. Whether you play with this particular band or not, you're still damn good.”

Dave chuckles, running a finger up one string to make it squeal. “Thanks, Preston ,” he says. “But, if it's all the same to you, I'm just gonna kick ass in this audition, and have myself a band.”