Archives:
March 25-March 31, 2007

March 25, 2007

“Hey, hey, long time no see,” I say as Chang comes into the room in a hoodie and shorts, a little disheveled, sweating. I'm at my desk, make my usual rounds, between my e-mail, Facebook, and so on.

“ Preston , how you doing?” he asks, and we clasp hands.

“Not bad, not bad,” I say. “I noticed you were in and out of here pretty quick this morning. Don't think I woke up until you were closing the door to leave.”

“Yeah.” Chang laughs. “On the ride back, Brad kept saying how he could beat me in a game of racquetball because he used to play all the time.”

“And you thought otherwise?”

“Let's just say that Brad's not a great athlete,” Chang says, pulling off the sweatshirt, then raising his arms. “And, let's just say that I stomped him—won three out of four games before he admitted defeat.”

“Well, you showed him.”

“Damn right,” he says, smelling the hoodie, then tossing it into the floor of his closet. “And now I'm in need of a shower.”

“I won't argue with that,” I say. “But hey, you got plans for dinner later on? I was thinking maybe we'd grab a bite, catch up on things.”

“You know, I actually made plans with Brad and some of his buddies,” he says, slinging a towel over his shoulder.

“Oh. Well, that's all right.”

“I'm sorry, bro,” he goes on. “But we really should catch up, you know, about break and everything. What do you say we do lunch tomorrow?”

“Sounds like a plan.”

March 26, 2007

“So you want us to make up special rules for you?” I hear from the hallway, as I'm walking toward The Window office.

“No,” Sam says, his voice familiar, loud and clear. “What I want is for you to acknowledge that, as the most profitable student organization for SA, we deserve some respect.”

“I have every respect for you, Sam—” Tucker, the SA president, starts, as I make my way inside.

“If you respect my organization, you won't hang this over our heads, and make threats about shutting the paper down.”

“I didn't say we'd shut the paper down,” he says. “I said that it if you didn't meet your budget quota, there's the possibility of freezing your budget.”

Sam remains perched on a stool at the center table of the office, staring Tucker down, as he stands with his back to me. “And without a budget we can't pay our printing costs. You shut the paper down.”

“There's still the web version.”

“Our hits don't touch our hard copy circulation.”

“It's enough to keep the paper alive if we come to a point where you can't spend the money—and I'm not saying it's going to come to that.”

“But you're saying it might.”

Tucker sighs. “I came here to see how the ad sales are doing and to remind you of the targets we set up.”

Sam shakes his head. “You set up the targets, Tucker. You raised the bar on a technicality after we had agreed upon a budget. The numbers you're looking for just aren't realistic.”

“You say we raised the bar, I say we corrected a technicality that should have been corrected years ago. Now I have another meeting to get to.” Tucker says, looking around the office, probably noticing me for the first time, and probably conscious of the others for the first time in several minutes. Sam knows more about The Window's conflicts with the Student Association than the rest of us. Most people know—and care—a fair bit less than me. I imagine Tucker's conscious that, if nothing else, Sam's painted him as the bad guy in the eyes of everyone here.

He gives me a friendly nod on his way out the door. I look to Sam, and make my way into the office.

March 27, 2007

I plop down on the opposite end of the common room couch from Dave, The Complete Works of William Shakespeare in hand. I let out a long yawn before I even crack the book.

“Looking a little tired there, Preston ,” Dave says, looking up from the notebook he has propped on his knee.

I rub my eyes. “ 8 a.m. Shakespeare is kicking my ass.”

“Why on earth would you take Shakespeare at 8 a.m. Especially when you're at the office until midnight every night.”

“Not every night,” I say, leafing through pages. Tonight's my night to catch up on Twelfth Night. I'm intending to read the last four out of five acts in one sitting. “But anyway, that's the only time I could take the class, and I wanted to get it out of the way this year.”

“Maybe you should cut class more.”

“I've cut my share this semester. But then Bryant called me on it. Said I was missing too much class, and I should speak up more when I am there.”

“That blows,” Dave says, looking back down at his notebook and tapping the spine with his pen. “Especially for you—Dean's List kid that you are.”

I start to calculate just how many pages I'll have to read, and get frustrated just thinking about it. “How do you do it Dave?”

“Hmm?”

“I never see you crack a book. But last year, I remember how you'd tear up Jones's class.”

“That's because you told me what I hadn't read.”

“True.” We share a chuckle. “But this is one year later. We're not in classes together any more. All I ever see you doing is practicing with the band,” I tap his notebook, “and writing new lyrics. How the hell are you getting through classes.”

He shrugs. “I hardly even go anymore.”

“Are you kidding me?” I ask, as I stop smiling.

“I'm still writing my papers, passing my tests,” he says, starting to write something. “But now I've got something more important in my life. I think this band could really go somewhere.” Dave's cell phone goes off, to the tune of “Walk This Way.” He raises a finger to me, and answers it, “Talk to me, Nick.”

March 28, 2007

I feel a little guilty even setting foot in the Student Association office this afternoon. I should be down the hall, starting in on a long day's work for the newspaper. When I went to the Window office, though, I found a note from Tucker in my mailbox, asking me to come see him.

“ Preston , thanks for coming,” Tucker says, taking something from the fax machine, then tilting his head toward his personal office. “Let's talk.”

Like the last time we met up, Tucker doesn't sit in his leather chair behind the desk, but rather beside me in the visitors' chairs. I notice his desk is more cluttered than I've seen it before. Taking a peek, I see several memos, the minutes from the last SA meeting, a contract with “Spring Concert” in its header. Tucker slides another sheet of paper on top of that one before sitting back down.

“So what's going on, Tucker?” I ask, leaning back.

“Well, I was interested in continuing our last conversation.”

“You mean the one from yesterday?”

Tucker smiles, shaking his head. “That was a conversation between me and Sam. I wanted to talk to you about your future.”

“You're talking about smoothing things over between SA and The Window—working together and all that.”

“It goes past that now. I'm sure you're aware that the SA elections are coming up soon.”

“About a month away if memory serves.”

“That's right,” Tucker says. “And I'd like to see you run.”

I can't help laughing. “Right, I'll be the next SA president.”

Tucker isn't laughing. “I'd like to see you start smaller. I was thinking business director, then you go for the presidency the year after.”

I think he's actually serious. “Tucker, why are you pitching this to me?”

“First off because I trust you. People trust you. A year ago, when you found out that Chilling and Schmidt were mixed up in, you took them down because it was the right thing to do. And you did the same thing to Schmidt and Rod Estrada this year.”

“Those guys were out to get—”

“And you did the same thing at Halloween this year—helping that girl who was going to kill herself. The funny thing is that, without even trying, you've built up more positive PR for yourself than anyone at this school who is trying. And add on to that that you've been a leader with the newspaper there. With a little experience in student government, you'll have the credibility to take my job.”

I grip at my armrests, feeling increasingly uncomfortable, if for no other reason than that Tucker is starting to make some sense, and I start to think about what it would be like to head up SA. “You said that was your first point.”

Tucker nods. “The other point is that if you go to SA, you can help foster a better relationship with the paper. Think about it—you, a leader from The Window, on the SA board. With Sam, and all of his baggage gone, there's a lot of room to make some progress.”

I think about Sam telling me I should run the paper next year. I think about what it would mean if I left the paper.

March 29, 2007

Teri presses an ear to the suite door. “I don't hear guitars—guess there's no practice today.”

“I told you Dave was just doing that over spring break, when no one was here.” I turn my key and let her go in ahead of me.

Mike's duffel bag is on the ground, alongside his old basketball. The shower's running in the bathroom. Teri stoops, picking up the ball and moving it from hand to hand. “What do you say we play a little one on one?”

“You think you could take me?”

She shrugs, continuing to move the ball from side to side, before she looks down at her hands. “And this ball is gross.” She holds a hand up, her fingertips a dark brown. “I thought your roommate was on the team—doesn't he play in a gym or something?”

“Well that right there is his outdoor ball.”

“His outdoor ball?”

“He's got an indoor ball and an outdoor ball. The indoor one is the nice leather one, and that right there is the one he's had since high school, and that he'll use in the mud or the rain.”

“Which is what I'm touching now?”

“Exactly.”

Teri lets the ball drop. It bounces and rolls before she stops it with her foot, and kicks it back to where it started, against Mike's bag, just as the shower stops. “You think he can sense that I touched his ball?”

I raise my eyebrows. “What did you touch?”

Teri slaps at me, as I laugh, fending her off, and pick up the little foam ball. “Here, see if you can guard me.” Before she can really get any sort of position, I wheel around her toss it in the plastic hoop. “Not a great showing.”

“You didn't even dribble.”

I pick up the ball again, squeezing it. “This doesn't bounce so well.”

Mike comes out, wearing nothing but a towel around his waist, and pair of flip flops. “You guys shooting?”

“Just messing around,” I say. I turn to Teri's who's looking at Mike just a little too intently for my tastes. I give her a nudge, then give Mike's basketball a tap with my foot. “So what's the matter, not playing enough in practices and games—gotta take your game outside too?”

Mike shrugs. “You know me, no better way to clear my mind than to shoot around some.”

“So congratulations,” Teri says, her eyes at his chest level again, before she looks up. “I was editing an article yesterday about how your team is going to the Division III final four.”

“Yeah,” Mike nods. “Should be pretty intense.” He turns to me, “Not to mention that I just got word that Alicia's going to come out for it.”

“Really? Is Pepper coming too?”

Mike rolls his eyes a little. “Pepper's a little too busy. But it's going to be really good to have Alicia there—it'll feel like when we played for the championship in high school.”

“Yeah, she was really nice,” Teri chimes in. “She coming back here after?”

“Yep. She's gonna fly back with us and hang out for a day before she goes back to her school.”

“Well, sorry we can't make the game,” I say. “But you know we'll be watching you on TV.”

Mike nods, before snatching the foam ball from Teri. “And you can watch me do this all night long.” He leaps in the air, unnecessarily, to take his shot, hitting nothing but net.

March 30, 2007

The winter snow is all but gone, aside from a few patches of snow, mixed with dirt on a street corner. It's really starting to warm up, and with that in mind, I have decided to join Teri on her run this morning.

Teri's New Year's resolution was to go running at least twice a week and, sure enough, since we got back to Taylor , she has typically gone running every couple mornings. If she's going to be that committed, I figured I might as well give it a shot.

It was freezing when I first set foot outside, meeting Teri halfway between my dorm and her apartment. I complained about the cold, holding my bare arms close to me, tucking my bare knees tightly against one another. Teri looked calmer in her wind pants and long-sleeved t-shirt and said we should get moving—that that would take my mind off the cold.

She's right, in that I'm not thinking so much about the cold now—although my hands and ears are tingling. My body's calling out for me to slow down with every step, though, demanding my attention. My heart pounds, my lungs burn, and my knees creek as we run up hill.

Hearing how hard I'm breathing, Teri slows down a little after we've reached level ground again. I catch her giving me a smile as we truck along.

She starts to talk to me. I'm too out of breath to really respond to what she says She understands, though, and goes on talking about the latest at the paper, and in her classes.

We wind up back near McSavage Hall, where Teri slows to a walk. “You did good today,” she says, just a little out of breath while I heave in and out.

“I'm pretty out of shape.”

“Yeah, but I was worse in my first run. You've just got to stick to it.”

“So you would let me run with you again?” I ask, as I realize I'm sort of stooping forward, as though I'm zeroing in on the door handle to get me in my dorm.

“Why not?”

“I thought I might have slowed you down.”

She smiles. “Well, you did. But it's still nice to have company.” We stop outside the door, and she leans in to kiss my cheek. “Now go shower—and get some wind pants or something before we do this again.”

I nod, and swipe my card, sweating, aching, and still cold as I open the door.

March 31, 2007

After winning their game last night, The Taylor College Eskimos have arrived at the NCAA Division III championship game.

We elected to watch the game in our common room, on a channel we only get on campus. For ten minutes, The Eskimos dominated the game, starting off 25-12. Dave and the guys from the band cheered with every basket scored. Chang cheered as well, while his friend Brad seemed less interested in the game, but had a good enough time talking to Teri's roommate, Amelia. Meanwhile, Teri and I sit together in a bean bag chair that belongs to Mike as we watch him hit shot after shot. At half time, the lead is 46-24.

The Eskimos don't fare as well to start the second half. The Thompson College Chiefs launch a full court press that Perry, our point guard, just can't seem to figure out. Taylor struggles to get the ball into the frontcourt, and on those occasions when they do, they just look tired. Before long, the lead has shrunk down to 55-44, and our common room is a lot quieter.

“What the fuck?” Tony, the groupie for The Axis says. “It's like they aren't even trying anymore. They're gonna blow it.”

Dave shakes his head. “They're trying. But this other team's there for a reason. They're sticking around.”

The Chiefs do more than stick around. With 12 seconds to go in the game, they're on an 12-0 run, including three three pointers by their small forward, Darryl Simmons, and have made it a one point game.

Mike drives and gets clobbered on his way to the basket. He misses the shot and goes down hard.

“Call the flagrant,” Chang calls out, but he doesn't get his wish.

Mike steps up to the line, still looking a little groggy as his teammates check on him. He waves them off. In a moment he takes his first shot.

The ball bounces off the front of the rim, off the back of the rim, and out.

The common room grows louder as he gets the ball for his second shot. Teri and I are quiet. I can feel her holding my hand a little harder than before.

Mike wipes the sweat off his face, and shoots again. This time, it rattles in.

The Chiefs don't call their last time out, and don't waste any time advancing the ball, beating Taylor 's clumsy attempt at a press. They pass the ball around the perimeter, then inside to their center who hurls it back out. Somehow, Darryl Sims is open, and with the clock running out, he fires another three pointer.

The ball swishes through the hoop, giving Thompson College its first ever basketball championship. On screen, the players exchange high fives, only pausing to shake hands with the Eskimo players as they leave the court.

The common room is silent.