Archives:September 24-
September 30, 2006
September 24, 2006
“So how's 19 feel?” I ask, staring up at the ceiling.
“A lot like 18,” Chang replies from his bed. “A little fuzzier, though.”
It's a Sunday night, so we didn't go wild. It was Chang's birthday, though, so we killed a couple six packs between the four of us.
“Yeah, I think you'll find it gets a little fuzzier as you go along.”
“Is that right?” Chang laughs. He put up a spattering of yellow stars on her ceiling—a little piece of home, a little piece of his childhood. They look kind of nice, staring up at them now in the black dark of a dorm room. “So hey, Preston ?”
“Yeah?”
“You ever think about getting older and what it means?”
“For now, it means one year closer to buying beer legally.”
“Yeah, but I mean in the bigger picture. Like, my folks—they were both set in what they wanted to do by the time they were 19. And they got together when they were 20. Can you believe that? Just a year older than me, and my dad had met his wife.”
I can't help thinking about my dad—how nearly 20 years ago, he and Chang's birth mother made a choice that changed everything. I think about how that choice is the reason Chang is here with me. I wonder how my life would be different if it hadn't been for that one instance—if that's at the root of my parents problems.
“Well, your parents were real different people.”
Chang chuckles. “Ain't that the truth.” I can hear him roll over. I keep my eyes pointed upward. “I've been thinking about that, though. And maybe it's all right. I mean, in a sense, they're my mother and father. But they know I'm not the same, and they know I'm not headed in the same direction.”
“Guess it makes a case for nature over nurture.”
“What's that?”
“Nothing, bro.” I pause, suddenly conscious of what I just said, though I'm sure Chang has no idea. “We oughta get some shut eye. Have a good night.”
“You too.”September 25, 2006
“Yeah, I got the message,” Chang says over the phone. He's in our room, while I sit in common room, doing a little reading for Hancock's class.
“Well what did you want me to do?” he asks. “Call just to say thanks?” He pauses. “Na, I know. I'm sorry. Yes, I appreciate you calling, but I was just hanging out with the guys all day, and didn't think it would be such a big deal if I didn't call back.” He pauses again. “Na, that's all right, it's no big deal. Okay. Yep. I love you too.”
The call over, Chang comes out to the common room. “Talking with the folks, huh?”
He rolls his eyes. “Always a good time.” He opens up the little fridge, taking out a pudding cup. “You know, I don't hear you talk to your family much.”
I shrug. “I try to talk to somebody once a week or so—my mom or dad or Ray. Sometimes my grandma. I usually call on a Sunday.”
“And they don't call you?”
“Sometimes. They know I'm busy, though.”
“It's gotta be nice.”
“It takes at least a semester away from home to make them back down on that.”
Chang chuckles as he licks the lid of his pudding. “Something tells me my folks'll still be calling me every couple days when I'm 40.”
“Could be worse.”
Chang finishes rustling through our drawer of mismatched silverware, emerging with one of the few spoons. “It's true. I could have overbearing parents and no pudding.”
September 26, 2006
Chang sits on the couch in our common room, eating a BLT he bought half a day ago. We met up at The Lighthouse for lunch before he remembered he had a meeting with his academic advisor and had to jet off.
Ordinarily, I'd be in the Window office right now, getting some work done for this week's issue of the paper. I'm not leaving the dorm tonight, though—not until Dave gets back from his audition.
“You think he'll be back soon?” Chang asks, a mouth full of his sandwich.
I peek at the clock as it nears 9:30 . “Audition was supposed to start an hour and a half ago ago,” I say. “But I don't know how long an audition's supposed to go.” For all the time Dave's spent preparing and all the time we've spent talking about it, I still can't claim to know anything more than I ever did about playing guitar, singing, or getting into a band.
Before we can ponder it any further, the door opens. Dave walks in.
“Hey buddy,” I say. He's not looking happy, shutting the door behind him, and heading straight for his door. He sets down his guitar case, hard, on the ground, before coming back out.
“Everything all right?” Chang says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Does everything seem all right?” Dave asks, swinging open our little fridge, grabbing a can of Miller Lite left over from Chang's birthday.
“I'm sorry dude,” I say as he empties the can down his throat.
“You are?” he asks, slamming the can down on the ground, then flashing a smile. “‘Cause I'm feeling pretty good right now. After all, I am the new lead singer for The Axis.”September 27, 2006
My alarm goes off for the third or fourth time. It's unusual for me to hit the snooze button here or there, grabbing a couple extra hours of shut-eye to ease into the day. Today, each time I've opened my eyes, I've turned the alarm back a half hour, or an hour, or some indeterminate amount of time that makes sense of my half-conscious haze.
This time, it's 12:37 and I have to get up now if I'm going to make it to my second class of the day. Either way, I'm due in the Window office right after that, so there's no point in staying here.
Chang's still lying in bed. He didn't bother resetting his alarm.
As much as my head pounds, and it hurts to move, I can't say I regret the night before. Dave made into the band and we had a lot of fun. We called Mike and he came back with plenty more beer, then we invited over the girls from across the hall for a little bit. They didn't stay long, heading back with intentions of making it to their morning classes. I'm not sure when I first passed out on the couch, but I woke up alone there around 5 to find everyone else had gone to bed, leaving the common room littered with cans.
The place is cleaner this morning. No doubt, Mike didn't miss a beat, up for his morning class, if not up in time to work out, run, or shoot around before.
The other bedroom door is still shut, though. I can't imagine Dave leaving the suite before dinnertime tonight.
I don't waste any more time, hopping into the shower. I've got a long day, and a longer night ahead of me.September 28, 2006
“OK, but it's clear Hancock's going to want us to talk about feminism,” Emma pushing up on the table, leaning higher the way she does when she's getting frustrated, and wants to take control of a situation. “So we have to make sure it's a big part of the presentation.”
“But, like I said, everyone's going to talk about feminism,” Samantha says. She's a loud, and generally annoying girl, who wound up in our group. “If we focus on race, we'll have something different.”
Emma sighs. “But like I said, there are no racial divides in this book. Everyone's white.” She raises a hand to keep Samantha from continuing. “And I know that the absence of diversity is interesting. But it's not unique to our chapters, and it's not Hancock's pet topic.”
Over the course of the year, I forgot how smart Emma is. I remembered the way she looked, the way she talked. I remembered her being so caring, and hardworking. But it's not until we're sitting around this table in a side room of the library, without the inhibitions that come with a classroom full of eyes and ears, that I can recall how sharp Emma can be when she's talking about and its elements. That and she's good at zoning in on what a professor wants to hear.
“I think Emma's right,” I say, consciously not making eye contact with her. Hancock always wants to talk about gender divides, and we want to do well, we've got to give that to her. And besides—the book is all about empowering women.”
Samantha rolls her eyes. “Fine, so we focus on the gender issue.” She looks at her watch, dramatically. “I've got to get to work. When do we want to meet again?”
September 29, 2006
“If you came back my way,
you know I couldn't turn away,
not this time.
I'd sit you down,
read your hands
tell your future
make you understand.
Show you some things in this life
were meant to be.”
I came into the common room mid-song, but Dave didn't stop playing, as sure a sign as any that he wanted me to hear him. He plays his last chord then drags his fingers over the strings haphazardly. I clap softly.
“Good shit, man. Is that the new song?”
“Yeah,” Dave nods. “I'm not sure the band's gonna like it, but I thought it might be a good little acoustic tune to play sometime while the rest of the band breaks, or something. Or if they do like it, we could add some drums, a little bass. Might not be bad.”
“It sounded good to me,” I say kind of dumbly down on a fold out chair next to him. “So you think you're going to be writing a lot for the band?”
He shrugs. “Mark, the bass player, writes some stuff, but I guess the old lead singer came up with most of their originals. Not too much pressure, or anything, because they say people usually like their covers best anyway. But I know, it'd be nice to put out some more new stuff.”
“Definitely,” I agree. I like where Dave's going with this. It's like the band is giving him direction. I get up soon, heading to my room, leaving him there to work the kinks out of his new song.
September 30, 2006
With Dave and Chang out, I'm the only one Mike finds in the suite in the late afternoon, and so, the only one he talks into joining him for a couple games of one on one basketball before dinner.
Our first game, Mike plays with only his left hand, and it's about as competitive a game as we've ever had, with him winning 21-6. The next game, he doesn't bother with the handicap, and only allows me to score once before he wins—and by allows, I do sincerely mean that I think he let me score, just that once.
“All right, how ‘bout one more game?” he asks.
“I think I'm done, man,” I say, trying to catch my breath.
“Come on, we've only been out here half an hour.” He crosses the ball over, back and forth, between his legs as he speaks. “Tell you what. This game, I'll let you have possession of the ball after every score, whoever gets it in.”
“We played the last game no possession—hardly any difference,” I say. “Shouldn't you be practicing with your teammates by now anyway?”
Mike waves his hand. “Bunch of pussies. None of them even want to shoot around after practice. It's like basketball's a job for them or something.”
“Couldn't be that they're just tired?”
Mike shrugs, picks up the ball and knocks down a fade away jump shot. “Who knows. What do you say, how about a game of horse?”
The game sounds relatively painless. “All right. But I get first shot.”