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March 11-March 17, 2007
March 11, 2007
“All right, there you go,” I say, setting out a pair of ping pong paddles and balls.
“Thanks,” one of the guys says, squinting before he walks away. The sun's shining in from the window behind me. It's an unseasonably nice day out there—one of those false starts to spring that you always get in upstate New York . It makes it kind of annoying that I'm stuck here behind the Front Desk for the day.
“My main man, Preston , what's happening?” Barry asks, coming behind the desk in a long sleeved t-shirt and jeans. “Beautiful day out there.”
“Yeah, I'm aware.”
“You get to do anything fun this weekend?” he asks, having a seat on a corner of the desk.
“Went to an a cappella competition at Duggan—that was kind of fun.”
“I thought you were done with the a cappella chicks.”
“Done dating them. They still put on a good show, though.”
“They win the contest again?”
I shake my head. “Kind of got screwed this year.”
Barry nods, picking up a random brochure from the desk and flipping through it. “Ain't that the way of the world.”
There's a pause in the conversation as a girl returns her spare key to me. When I'm done with the paperwork, Barry goes on, “So how's the RA application looking?”
I lean back in my chair. “It's looking all right. I actually just got my interviews scheduled. I was kind of surprised to see I've got three of them.”
“Yeah, they don't mess around. They want to be sure they're hiring the best.”
“Any pointers you can give me?”
He shrugs. “I'd just say you should be honest. I mean, as much as they're going to want to hear you use all of the buzz words like diversity and community, the most important thing as that when you leave the interview they feel like they can trust you to run a floor in a college dorm.”
I rub my cheek, feeling the Sunday afternoon stubble. “I guess that makes sense.”
Barry pats my shoulder. “I wouldn't sweat it. You're gonna do fine.”March 12, 2007
“So, what did you end up doing Saturday night?” I ask, peering across the center table of the office as Teri sits there, flipping through the pages of today's New York Times. I haven't actually seen her since Friday, and I'm getting kind of a weird vibe from her. It's that feeling you can get from a girl, not because of what she's doing or saying, but for what isn't going on.
She shrugs. “Watched TV with the girls. Then I went to bed early.”
“Sounds exciting.”
She doesn't say anything.
I turn from her, batting the mouse around so my screen brightens. I open my bag and take out the legal pad full of notes from the show. “So the show was pretty good,” I say tilting my head back to her. “Even had a little controversy for me to write about. During the Off Beats set, guys from this other group—”
“ Preston , I'd actually prefer if you didn't talk about the competition.”
I spin in the chair. “Well, why's that?”
“Because it's just going to end up making me upset.”
“Why do you say that?”
She raises her eyebrows. “Do I really need to answer?”
I lift my hands. “So I used to date girls who are involved in the group. It's not like that's why I went to the show.”
“So why did—” She stops, brushing the hair from out of her face, and taking a deep breath. “And this is why I didn't want to talk about this.”
Slowly, I turn back to my computer, and set to work.
March 13, 2007
“All right, good answer,” Jared Lichens says, scribbling down some notes, leaning back in his office chair, legs crossed, leather bound portfolio on his lap. Jared is a residence director, probably in his early twenties. The RDs are all professional staff, but I'd buy him as a senior, with his spiked, gelled hair, and neon green dress shirt. He's giving me my first interview for the RA position. “So tell me, Preston , if you were to become an RA, how would you go about promoting diversity on your floor?”
I shift in my chair. “Well, I think when people hear the word diversity, a lot of times they get uncomfortable. Because when you hear about that in a dorm, or residence hall, rather, you start thinking about diversity in—in kind of an enforced way. Like it's people making you talk about race, and religion, and sexuality and all of that, when most students feel like they're already well-informed,” I say. “But, if you can approach the topic more earnestly—talking to people one on one, and getting them to talk about their own backgrounds and beliefs, I think there's more of an opportunity to get to the heart of stuff. You know, to show people that just because you're not going to Klan rallies or spray painting swastikas—it still doesn't mean that you're not ignorant, or don't have your own prejudices. And what could be really helpful is getting people to understand themselves and their beliefs better.”
Jared nods, scribbling more notes. I've been thinking about answers to these sorts of questions for the last few days, trying to think of the best combination of what the reslife department is going to want to hear, and what I honestly believe would be the ideal way to run a floor. Most of what I've come up with has to do with really getting to know people—talking to them like human beings, and being there to help them. I don't think stuff like running silly little programs and breaking up parties is as important. What I say about those topics is less specific. My only interest there is to give the ‘right' answers.
It's hard to tell if Jared likes my answers or if he's just being polite. Jared turns a page in his portfolio and clears his throat. “So switching gears a little here, let's talk about how you function in high pressure situations. Can you tell me about a situation when you've had to take action, and how you reacted to that?”
“Well, there was this situation I ran into on Halloween,” I begin.March 14, 2007
“Presto, where you been?” Sam asks, playing with the layout for the op-ed page on his computer.
“Just got out of RA interview two of three,” I say slinging my book bag down by my desk and heading to my mailbox to find the second set of proofreads for my section.
“So you're going through with the interviews.”
“I figure there's no reason not to.” I pause, looking at the edits. “I thought we agreed we were going to spell out September 11th when we're referring to the day of the terrorist attacks.”
“We did.”
“Well I've got it crossed out, and Sept. 11, 2001 written here.”
“Ignore it.”
I make my way back toward my desk. “Anyway, I figure if I apply and they offer me the RA job, then it's leaving the option open. And if they don't offer it to me, then no harm.”
“So you're still thinking about what we talked about?” he asks, taking a glance toward Rich, as he types away at the sports desk. I'm not sure if he wants to be secretive about saying I should run for editor in chief. I suppose he doesn't want people making assumptions about my plans, or Teri's.
“I've been thinking about it,” I say. “And like I said, if I get the RA job, I'll still have a choice on whether I want to take it or not. Or I could try to stick with the paper and do that.”
“I hear the RA gig's pretty nuts,” Rich says, not looking from his computer. “I got a buddy who's an RA this year. Never see the guy any more.”
I turn to Sam, who's nodding.
I turn back to my computer. “We'll see.”March 15, 2007
“I guess we really don't do much assessment at the paper,” Teri says. “It's probably something we should think about.”
“We sort of have some built in mechanisms for assessment, though,” I say, sipping from my wine glass. “I mean, we've got letters to the editor coming in every week to blast us on how bad a job we're doing—or every once in a while to thank us for a story.”
Phoebe adjusts herself, sitting half on her boyfriend Geoff's lap, half in his crotch. “Yeah, but for someone to write a letter, they have to care enough to be involved anyway. That's the idea behind the campus TV survey. We're reaching out to everyone, and if they aren't watching us, we ask them why.” She pauses, turning her glass upside down, swallowing what's left. “And I'm getting another glass. Any other takers?”
Teri raises her glass, and Phoebe downs what's left of Geoff's glass so she can take his as well. I'm kind of enjoying hanging out at Teri's tonight. We're drinking, but it's not a party—just a quiet night in. We pour glass after glass of boxed Cabernet something or other. I'm not used to wine, and find that it's going to my head pretty fast.
“So I hear you guys are LA bound for spring break?” Amelia asks.
Geoff nods. “Yeah, I think Phoebs wants to see what that scene's all about. She's thinking about moving out there after school—breaking into TV that way.”
Phoebe's back, wine glasses balanced between her hands. “And besides that we're going to do some star stalking. I'm thinking we can find a map of celebrity homes on the net somewhere, and see how many of them we can find.”
“Maybe we should do that in New York ,” Teri says, messing up my hair. She can tell I'm tired—half from the wine, half from my 8 a.m. class this morning.
“Yeah, maybe Matt can tell us where to get started.” I sort of slur out.
Phoebe smiles. “Well, it is getting late. And it being a school night and all, maybe this should be our last glass, she says, as she reclines back into Geoff.
Amelia downs what's left of her wine. “I second that, I'm headed to bed. Have a good night kids.”
As she heads to her room, I let my head fall back, into the couch, and sort of lean against Teri. I feel her hand on mine, taking the glass from my fingers as I close my eyes.March 16, 2007
Teri flings a pair of sweatpants onto the bed beside me. I laugh as I pick them up, beginning to fold them. “Do you really think you're going to need these.”
“Well, I don't know,” she says, taking a momentary pause from rifling through her dresser drawers. “I'm just not sure to expect when we get there.”
“Yeah, but this makes two pairs of sweat pants, three pairs of jeans, two pairs of gym shorts, a skirt,” I continue to look through her suitcase, “And a pair of khakis. You do realize we're only going for a week.”
“I know,” she says, turning back to her drawer. “But I don't know what we're going to do. I mean say we go out for a nice dinner—I would want the skirt. And then if we went to a show or something—I'd probably want nice pants. Or if we don't, I don't want to end up wearing the same pair of jeans every day we're there. And I don't know how warm it'll be at Matt's place, so maybe I'll want shorts or maybe I'll want sweatpants.”
“No chance you're over thinking this?”
“None.”
I smile, turning back to today's Butterton Chronicle. It's hard to believe at this point tomorrow night, I'll be hundreds of miles from here, down in New York City , where I'll be hard pressed to find anyone who has heard of Butterton or Taylor College .
“So you're bringing less stuff?” Teri asks.
“Got a duffel bag and my book bag packed. Should cover it.”
“But don't you worry about forgetting something? I mean it is a full week we're going to be there.”
“Yeah, but it's a little different for me,” I say, turning the page. “I mean Matt's more than just my friend—it's like we're brothers. If I had to borrow a pair jeans, or some gym shorts, or a razor—none of it would be a big deal.”
I look up, and Teri's smiling.
“What?”
She shrugs. “It's just kind of cool that you guys are that close. I mean, I remember when he came with you to see me at New Year's—I can just tell that he's a really good friend.”
I nod. “He's the best.”March 17, 2007
Teri bounces in the seat next to me, singing along to “Black Horse and the Cherry Tree” on the radio as I cruise my Oldsmobile south, down the highway. We've been on the road for nearly four hours now, and she's beginning to alternate between bouncy and singing, and still and silent.
“So do you think Matt's going to take us to one of the dining halls when we get there?” Teri asks as the song ends, and she flips the dial to find another station. “Or would he order out, or take us to a restaurant or something? Come to think of it, do they have dining halls there? Or since they're so embedded in the City, do people just have to fend for themselves?”
“Well I know that they have at least one dining hall, because Matt griped a lot about how he hated it last year.” I switch to the left lane to get past an old red Chevy pick up truck. “And because of that, I'm guessing he's not going to subject us to that same place for dinner.”
“ New York , 40.” Teri says, reading a green sign along the side of the road. “So forty miles before we get to the City. How long do you think it's going to take us to get to Matt's from there?”
“I don't know. I'm a little fuzzy on that,” I say. I flick the windshield wipers into motion. It's not really visibly raining at this point, but there's sort of a mist around us. Really, I'm just grateful it's not snowing. “But Matt said it was about seven hours when he took the bus from Taylor , going by car, it can't be much more than six, unless we hit some crazy traffic.”
“Well that would put us in New York around 6. Do you think rush hour will be over by then?”
I shrug.
“Do you know anything about this trip?” I turn to see Teri smile at me as she twists the cap from her bottle of Mountain Dew.
I turn back to the road. “What fun would that be? This is an adventure.”