Archives:
April 29-May 5, 2007

April 29, 2007

It's been about two weeks since I last really talked to Mike. It was strange to see him in that state—weathering the storm from Pepper. He was probably getting what he deserved for cheating on her, but it's still hard to watch your friend in that situation.

Today, I'm coming home from work just as Mike comes home from the court, basketball under his arm, drinking from his water bottle.

“Hey man, how's it going?”

Mike nods. “What's up, Preston ?”

“Nothing much,” I say, getting the door open, and handing it off to him as I step inside. “So are you doing all right, man?”

“Not doing so hot,” he says, following me down the hall.

“So I'm guessing things still aren't right with Pepper?” I turn to find Mike looking at the ground. “I'm sorry, I probably shouldn't have asked—”

“Na, you're not the problem,” he says. “It's all my fault. Only things I've cared about for ten-odd years were basketball and Pepper. Now Pepper won't even speak to me—and it's not as though the NBA's knocking down my door.”

I take a step to the side, so he won't be behind me walking down the hall any longer. “But what if you move back to Florida ? I mean, if you both go back there, there's a better chance of making things work, right?”

“She was choosing between Florida and Washington for med school. Can't imagine I'm going to be a factor in that decision any more.”

I unlock the common room door and head inside. No one's around.

Mike drops his basketball and pushes it with his foot toward the open door to his room. I watch as it rolls past the little foam basketball on the ground.

I pick up the foam ball. “What do you say, Mike? Best of ten from the couch?”

Mike eyes the ball for a second. He rubs a forearm over his face, wiping some of the sweat off. “Thanks, but no thanks, Presto. I'm gonna grab a shower.”

April 30, 2007

“I told you, Sam,” Teri says, “a joke issue is juvenile and unprofessional.”

“And we're a college newspaper,” Sam says. “For any of us looking to go into professional journalism, this is our last chance to be juvenile and unprofessional. I'm telling you, if we do it right, this thing can be fun and cool, and get people talking about us.”

“What about The Onion?” Gabby asks. We all turn to her, and we go on. “People could go on to write professionally for them, and it would all be satire.” She looks away.

“I just don't see the long term benefit,” Teri says. “Even if it does attract a few more readers, they're going to be the kind of people who will only read a joke issue, and stop caring when we go back to real news.”

“Not necessarily true,” Sam says getting up from the center table, and walking toward his desk. “Does anyone remember our biggest week of ad sales this year?”

“I think it was the one we closed the semester with, before winter break,” Teri says.

“Exactly.” Sam flips through the mess on his desk, before pulling a copy of the paper out, and holding it up for all to see. “And it was the issue that followed this—our coverage of my boy Presto getting put into a coma.”

“Ah,” I say, “so that's why I didn't remember which issue it was.”

“The point,” Sam goes on, “is that that was probably the biggest story we had this year. It was a story that caught people's attention—there was human interest, a safety concern, a cliff-hanger while we all wondered what would happen to Preston . Students took notice. Professors took notice. And even the businesses on Main Street noticed, and decided that they should take out an ad in the paper everyone in town was reading.”

“So you think a joke issue will get us more advertising?” Teri asks.

“Just one of the benefits. It will broaden the audience, bringing in more money, bringing in more readers, and for those reasons, it will bring in more staff to help run things next year.”

Teri heads to the filing cabinet in the corner of the office, and pulls out another newspaper. “What you fail to mention is that that big issue for ad sales was our last one before the holidays—traditionally our paper with the most ads, because the Main Street businesses want the college kids to buy their gifts here before they go home.”

Sam shrugs. “That's another perspective.”

May 1, 2007

“Tucker what are you saying?” I hear Teri ask as I head down the hall, nearing the Window office. “You're going to freeze the budget going into next year?”

“No,” Tucker says, as I get to the doorway. He turns his head, glancing at me before he goes on. “According to Student Association protocol, that's what should happen, because you didn't meet your fundraising quota for the year. However, the executive board has decided to be generous on this one, given that the rules for fundraising were not entirely in line with what you originally expected.”

“Not entirely—” Sam trails off. “Tucker, you shoved the new rules down our throat after we had agreed to generate ads revenue by the old rules. It was crap, and you know it.”

Tucker rolls his eyes. “In any event, what I'm telling you is that the paper's budget will not be frozen for next year, so you will be able to continue business as usual. The only catch is that we're reducing your budget allotment.”

“You're reducing the budget?” I ask.

“Yes,” Tucker says, turning so he's facing no one in particular, looking at the space between the center table where the others are seated, and me. “You're going to have to cut a couple issues a semester—”

“Cut a couple issues?” Sam asks. “We publish every week we have classes.”

“You did,” Tucker says. “But unless Preston and company can find another way to cut costs, that's going to change next year.”

“And what happened to building a better relationship between the paper and SA?” I ask. “Or was that only on the table as long as I was going join your board?”

Tucker turns to me. “I do want the relationship to improve. But I can't cut The Window any favors because of it. This organization didn't meet its fundraising quota, plain and simple.” He turns his head to Teri. “And if you meet your quota next year, maybe next year's board will be inclined to give the organization more money, to get back to the original print schedule.”

“And, of course,” Sam says, “with less issues, there will be less opportunity for us to fundraise.”

Tucker puts his hands in the air. “I didn't write the SA Constitution. I just do my best to execute what it says.” He heads toward the door. I don't move and he has to sidle past me on his way out.

May 2, 2007

It's funny how the entire Window office can take on a certain tone some days.

I get to the office in the late morning today, to do some work on my section. Teri, Sam and Rich are already there, and there's still sort of a funk in the air from the day before—a quiet after Tucker's last visit.

“Sam, what exactly did you have in mind for that joke issue?” Teri asks.

Teri asks the question around 1, when a majority of the editors are around for lunch, and to put early corrections into their sections. She seems to ask it sort of casually. Nonetheless, the words take on a certain solidity based on the silence up until that moment.

Sam brings up a file on his computer. It looks a template for the front page of The Window, only there are a few changes.

For one, where our logo, a six-paned window ordinarily appears, there's a graphic of some Venetian blinds. Where the title “The Window” would typically go, appears “The Shade.”

And so we begin.

We decide immediately that our feature story will bash the Student Association board, and specifically Tucker.

“I've got it,” Rich says. “SA President comes out, reveals he spent money from students on gay porn.”

“A little blunt,” Gabby says.

“Not to mention homophobic,” Teri chimes in. “What about, SA censors media—takes newspaper budget to publish glossy propaganda.”

“Not bad,” Sam says. “But it's missing something. If it's going to be satire, we've got to tie it back to something people will have heard of.”

I clear my throat. “How about, SA community outreach program employs young hoodlums, pays community members to jump enemies.”

Sam smiles. “With some obvious allusions to their being inspired by an unprovoked attack on a newspaper editor this fall.”

“Would you be all right with us doing a story like that?” Teri asks.

“Not only would I be all right with it,” I say. “I'm ahead on my section for the real paper. I'll write the damn article.”

“Now, if we're going to go ahead with The Shade, this is going to be a late night,” Sam says. “Everybody sure you're in on this?”

I don't hear any complaints.

“All right,” Sam goes on, “then we'd better get moving.”

May 3, 2007

I'm absolutely exhausted. It's 3:30 in the morning, and we just got done with the paper—The Window, and a short insert known as The Shade.

I'm exhausted, but happy.

Tomorrow's issue may not be our strongest. With everyone throwing together articles for the joke issue, some attention moved away from editing the actual news. What's more, the joke issue was sort of touch and go. Our lead story was funny, but the rest was hit and miss, and it's hard to tell how much is really going to be funny outside of the staff.

But for now, it's all funny, and it's all a triumph. It's our way of raising a big middle finger to SA, and a way for us all to cut loose together, one last time in the office—not stressing about deadlines, but enjoying writing together.

I kind of wish we had had more nights like that.

I get inside, and pass by the lounge en route to the suite. It's only in passing that I spot Chang and Brad.

They're kissing.

I stop.

A second later, I'm back in motion. It's too late to really act as though I didn't see, as Chang and I make eye contact for a fraction of a second. It's not too late to make a get away, though. I don't say a word, heading straight to the suite from there, heading right to our bedroom.

May 4, 2007

Despite not coming back to the room until after I've fallen asleep, Chang got up and went out to his morning class while I slept through mine. He was already in bed when I got home from hanging out with Teri last night, then out again before I got up today.

It's only now, as I stop back at the room between classes that I come face to face with Chang.

“Hey man,” I say, coming into our room.

He sits at his desk, typing on his laptop. “Hey Preston ,” he says, without looking up. “How's it going?”

“Not bad. Tired,” I say.

“Yeah, tell me about it,” he says, stretching his arms behind him. “I'm wiped. Told myself I'd hammer out at least the first two pages of this paper before I crash, though.”

He still hasn't looked at me since I came in. I open up my book bag switching out the books I don't need in favor of the ones I will. For a second, I wonder if Chang really got a good look at me the other night—if he knows that I saw him kissing Brad. All of the tension in the room right now could be something made up in my mind.

But then, I know that's not true. Even if it was just a fraction of a second, we made eye contact last night. I hurried away, part shocked, part not wanting to get in the way. I suppose a part of me just didn't want to expose Chang like that. If he didn't tell me about him and Brad, I have to assume he hadn't wanted to tell me about it.

I wonder if I made it worse by walking away.

“So, are you doing all right, man?” I ask tentatively.

“Yeah.” Chang glances my way, before turning back to his laptop. “Never better.”

“Well, good then.” I put my bag back on. “I guess I'm heading back to the office. I'll catch you later.”

“Later, Preston .” He goes on typing.

May 5, 2007

“Looks like Law and Order,” Teri says. She's reclining in my arms on the common room couch as we flip through channels with the TV on mute. We were drinking with her roommates earlier in the night, then came here to wind down.

“At first I thought it was that scene from Something About Mary—we're they're interrogating Ben Stiller.”

“But the guy sitting at the table isn't Ben Stiller.”

“That's why I said ‘at first I thought,' rather than, ‘I think.'”

“Don't be snippy.”

“I was just saying.”

Teri reaches an arm back and scratches my chest.

The common room door swings open and Dave steps in. Even as he stands in the doorway, I can smell the marijuana, like an aura around him. He swings the door shut with a slam and a laugh.

“Hey Dave,” I say, kind of staring him down.

“Presto, my main man,” he says, lurching toward me. He reaches out a hand, and I give him five. He holds onto my hand and presses it to Teri's chest.

I pull away, as Teri shifts crossing her arms.

“Come on, dude,” he laughs, “that's what you should be doing with your hands.”

“That's really not cool,” I say.

“Yeah, it's not,” Teri agrees, shifting further, so she's sitting up right.

“Ah, you two are too up tight. I suppose that's good, though—that's why you're such high achievers. Makes you a good couple.” He stops, standing over us, and just kind of looking around. “You have any food, Preston ?”

“I don't think I do.”

He turns toward his own room. “I must have something in there. I'll leave you two lovebirds alone.” He laughs again, then stifles it. “You have a good night.” He goes into his room and closes the door. A moment later, there's a crash.