Archives:
October 8-October 14, 2006

October 8, 2006

“Hey guys,” I say, coming out of my room. It's 11 a.m. and I'm up to get ready for work at the Front Desk. Mike's pouring two bowls of Cheerios while Dave lies on a couch, blanket still over him, propped up on one elbow, watching TV.

“What's up?” Mike asks as he finishes pouring the second bowl.

“Nothing much. Good night for you?”

Mike smiles. “It was good. But don't get the wrong idea about that.”

“I didn't hear much,” Dave says. “But I just figured I'd come home too late and missed the show.”

“Na, you saw how she was.”

“Wasted?” I ask.

“Exhausted,” he corrects me. “And so, tipsy sooner than she should have been. She's been going nuts studying for that test, though. Said she slept the whole flight here, then couldn't keep her eyes open we got in the room.”

“Sorry to hear that,” I say.

“Yeah, me too,” Dave says. “If I would have known you weren't getting any, I wouldn't have spent the night on the couch.”

“Well we appreciate the privacy, man,” Mike says. “And you guys shouldn't be feeling sorry for me. Forgot how good it is just to wake up next to Pepper. You guys know what I'm talking about? Just the smell of her, you know? And kissing for just a second when we both wake up in the night. And listening to her breathing.” Mike looks down, shaking the smile off his face. He pushes the bag of cereal back into its yellow box. “I don't know what I'm talking about,” he goes on, grabbing the milk from the little fridge. “I'm just glad to have her here.”

October 9, 2006

“Hey Chang,” I say, coming home. He's sitting on the couch, eyes fixed straight ahead.

“‘Sup buddy?”

“Nothing much. What are we watching here?” I ask, stepping inside, and turning to face the TV myself. “The Weather Channel. Thrilling.”

“Looks like a hell of a storm's coming in,” Chang says. “Rain all week, high chance of thunderstorms.”

Mike makes his way out of his room, a half-eaten red apple in his hand. “As long as it's just rain and not snow, it's all right by me.”

“If you don't like the snow, you oughta go back to Florida ,” I say.

“You know I'm not sticking around here after graduation.” Mike turns to Chang. “So you're telling me it's time to break out the umbrella?”

“I'm telling you about flash flooding,” Chang replies. “This looks pretty serious.”

“Got it. Umbrella and inflatable raft,” Mike says, taking another bite of the apple before he sends it flying across the room, into the trash. He turns back to his room and picks up his book bag. “All right, I got class. I'll catch you guys later.”

I sit down on the other end of couch from Chang and pop open my book for Hancock's class.

“Homework?” Chang asks.

“‘Bout 60 pages to read for tomorrow.”

Chang shakes his head. “Glad I'm not an English major.”

October 10, 2006

Midway through our walk home, Chang and I gave up on trying to make conversation. It's impossible to hear each other under the hoods of our spring jackets, and with less well prepared people rushing by, complaining that they're getting soaked without any jacket to cover them.

Of course, we're wet too before long as the downpour continues, soaking through fabric and pounding any part of us that isn't covered. My sneakers are drowned and heavy by the time we get to the dorm.

“Oh shit,” Dave laughs as we step inside.

“Didn't somebody tell you guys it was raining out today?” Mike asks. The two of them sit perfectly dry, playing X-Box in the common room.

I kick off my shoes. “Thought it didn't matter to you as long as it wasn't snowing?”

“Still, there are limits. Takes more than an everyday class to get me out there in a storm like that.”

“Would have taken more for me, but I had to give that stupid presentation today.” I say.

“The one with Emma?”

“The one and only.”

“How'd it go?” Dave asks.

“As public speaking experiences go, not half bad—given half the class made like you guys and didn't show up,” I say. “Of course Emma and I were to the ones who really knew what we were talking about, and we're graded as a group—so that didn't really help matters.”

“Eh, you win some, you lose some,” Dave says, then glances up at me. “Why don't you change out of those clothes.”

“Gotta go back out to work on The Window soon,” I say, peering toward the window. The shade's drawn but I can still hear the rain pounding against it. “Trying to decide if it's even worth changing.”

October 11, 2006

“Presto, how many times do I have to tell you,” Sam calls out, “you capitalize the ‘C' in college if you're using it as a pronoun for Taylor .”

“Maybe if you saw how many times I had fixed it, you wouldn't mind correcting it that one time,” I call back, playing with my layout, trying to fit squeeze everything into three pages.

“Sam, how many times do I have to tell you it's just one space after period?” Teri asks.

“That's not in the editorial.”

“Letter to the editor.”

“I just copy and paste those from my e-mail. You're the first one editing that.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Don't worry about—”

In an instant, the lights go out. Every computer screen is blank. In our windowless office, the only light comes from the open door, where the auxiliary hum into effect in the hallway. “You've gotta be kidding me,” Rich, the sports editor says.

“This is for real.” I hear Sam get up from his chair. “Everybody all right?” Before anyone can answer, he goes on, “Everybody, turn off of the surge protectors on your computers. It might save them when the power comes back on.”

I follow the direction, but there's no point in hurrying. The power stays off. We sit around, waiting.

I feel a hand touch my arm. “Who's that?” Teri's voice acts.

“It's me, Preston .”

“All right Preston , I'm going toward the door. Feel free to follow.”

“Good call,” Sam says. “No point sitting in the dark. Let's get out of here.”

And so, we head out to the hallway, and sit down in a lounge with lots of window space, out which we can watch the storm. Thunder rolls in the distance and the rain just keeps pouring down. An hour passes. Sam gets on his cell phone with somebody, trying to find out how much longer the power will be out. Not satisfied with the response, he slaps the phone shut. We sit and wait some more.

October 12, 2006

“Hey.” I turn to my side to find Emma nearing me as I walk toward our class with Hancock. It's takes me a second to recognize her in her red plastic-lined rain coat. She looks younger in it—like a kid, all wrapped up to protect her from the rain.

“Hey, how's it going.”

“It's wet,” she says. “But I guess that's not news any more.”

“At least it's letting up a little.” By late last night, the last of the thunder had rolled off, and by this morning, the weather had changed from a downpour to a steady rain.

“So I haven't seen The Window yet today,” she says. “Anything good this week?”

“Nothing until tomorrow. Power outage got us pretty good.”

“I didn't even think about that,” she says. “And here I was, pissed because I had to do my homework by flashlight.”

“Well, it sucked for everyone. We're putting out an issue for tomorrow, though. And the delay kind of caps our lead story about the storm pretty well.”

“I guess so.” Emma steps into me for a second, knocking into my arm, reeling after she steps into an inch deep puddle in the uneven pavement. “Sorry.”

“Na, don't worry about it,” I say as she rights herself. “So, the presentation went all right the other day.”

“We were good. Wish I could say the same for everyone else.”

“Yeah. Maybe Hancock'll take pity on us, though.” I say, holding the door to Bently Hall for her, “I mean, she has to know we tried.”

“Thanks. Yeah, I guess. And maybe it'll count for something that we all had to give the presentation while were soaked?”

“And that we're coming to class the next time, despite having a blackout the night before.”

“Which is more than I can say for Hancock.”

I follow Emma's eyes, to the door where a sign pronounces class canceled for the day.

October 13, 2006

Today, the rain has slowed to just a drizzle. The forecast calls for cloudy skies, with a chance of rain tomorrow, and partly sunny days to kick off next week.

The Window came out today, with some quality photographs of the storm and its effects throughout the news section. There's only so much you can write about a storm like that, but the paper feels important. The front page features what I can only assume is the last picture of the large fir tree just off the quad, struck down by lightning. While some issues of the paper feel like they're just marking time, this issue feels like its documenting history.

I don't even bother putting up the hood of my jacket when I go out today. After days of throwing my soaked jacket in the dryer each night so it would be wearable in the morning, this drizzle feels like nothing.

I think about two nights ago. Some editors left before others, giving up hope of the power returning. In the end, it was just me, Sam and Teri. Sam got on his phone over and over again, barking orders, demanding answers, refusing to accept to defeat. Teri was quieter. We sat together and watched the storm.

I think about yesterday. When we found our class was canceled, Emma and I went to the café in the Student Center the way we would all the time last year. I sipped coffee, while Emma cradled her hot chocolate in her hands. We didn't talk much at first. Then we started talking about class again, then The Off Beats. It was nice, in a way I wasn't expecting at all.

There's a group of people out in the quad today. Two guys roll on the ground wrestling in the mud while their friends cheer. It's sort of sad this is going on in the afternoon—I wonder if they're drunk or just stupid. Or maybe they're just trying to get the women in the group to join in.

They're laughing, though. They're all laughing, and it occurs to me, maybe they really are just having a good time, horsing around like the boys they still are. I keep walking, on my way to class.

October 14, 2006

“We're not rushing into any bookings,” Dave explains, leaning over the coffee table for his captive audience—girls all around, me next to him, and Emma next to me. “It's just that making music is such a delicate balance. And the guys from the band had all developed a chemistry with their last lead singer. And you can't just step into that same sort of chemistry with someone new.”

On one hand, it's almost humorous seeing how serious and heartfelt Dave is when he talks about the band in a setting like this, compared to the way in which he places it under the heading of ‘ways in which to get laid' when he's just talking to us guys. But then I wonder, for a second, if this is the real Dave, and if the way he talks to us is the act.

“I guess some of it's just the perfectionist in me, though,” he goes on. “Because I don't want to put the band out there until we know that we'll live up to people's expectations, and really be able to connect with them.”

Emma's forearm grazes mine. It's the sort of incidental touch where ordinarily you'd just move apart on instinct, maybe trade an awkward smile. None of that happens. We keep our arms there, touching. I don't look at her.

Looking past our little circle, Claire and Chang stand a little ways off, each with their Solo cups in hand. She giggles at everything he says, and keeps touching his arm, or his chest. It's the two of them that brought Emma and I together tonight, and have kept us together as we were both left behind—me sitting with Dave, Emma sitting with me.

It's a pretty packed little party, here at the apartment of one of Claire's friends—I don't even know her name. There are enough people to lose yourself in just watching them all.

One by one, the girls start to drift from our circle. Dave says something to me that I don't quite hear, and leaves with another one of them, while I down a long gulp of beer.

Emma's tired. After spotting Claire and Chang starting to make out, she observes aloud that she won't get to leave with Claire anytime soon.

“I could walk you home.”

We get up and leave. The ground is starting to dry out now, the sidewalks a shade lighter than they have been under the streetlights. Emma's arm touches mine again. For a second, I don't care about anything, and I take a hold of her hand.

She doesn't fight it.