Archives:
September 23-September 29, 2007
September 23, 2007
Teri and I walk down a path on campus. I'm holding an umbrella overhead, but she won't walk closely enough to stand under it, instead just keeping her head buried beneath the hood of her windbreaker, and her arms hugged tightly to her.
It's just a drizzle out. It's cooled off a lot over the last few days, and I'm starting toforesee a long winter ahead. I suppose that's the only kind of winter there is in upstate New York .
“Look, I'm sorry for blowing up at you,” I say, breaking the quiet. “You know how much the paper means to me, and that's why I was upset. But that's not how I should have talked to you.”
We walk on a few steps. I take a step to my side, circumnavigating a deep groove in the pavement, where a puddle formed. “You're right. You shouldn't have snapped at me,” Teri says, looking straight ahead. “But I also should have given you some sort of heads up about what was going on—or made sure Lizzie told you sooner.”
The wind picks up, and for a second, it blows my umbrella up and inside it. I move it so the top is pressing against the wind, and play with the handle until it straightens itself out.
“We knew this wasn't going to be easy. You working with SA, me with the paper.”
“Yeah.”
“But I think we can make it work.”
We walk on in quiet again, in this aimless walk through campus. I wonder where we'll stop—if it'll be at my place, or hers, or the Student Center . I wonder of what any destination might mean.
“You know that there are going to be things I can't tell you,” Teri says. “You know there are things I'm going to have to do with SA that you aren't going to like, or agree with. And some of them might have to do with the paper.”
I nod. “Yeah. Yeah, I get that.” As we step off a curb, my foot plunges right down into a deep puddle. “Shit!”
I hear Teri giggle. I turn to give her a dirty look, but can't help smiling. She comes closer, wrapping an arm around my waist, standing under the cover of my umbrella.September 24, 2007
Nick hurries out of the classroom, explaining to no one in particular that he's got a meeting to get to. Emma stands to meet me where I stand, slinging her messenger bag over her head, down across her shoulder.
“You guys can head on without me,” Claire says, still packing up her bag. “I have something to talk to Jones about.”
“Got it,” Emma says. “See you at rehearsal tonight.”
I follow Emma out into the hallway, joining the stream of people all getting out of class at the same time. “So how are things going with The Off Beats?” I ask, sidestepping this guy who's especially intent on charging his way down the hall.
“Things are good,” Emma says. “I'm developing a new appreciation for all of the stuff Veronica did.”
“Is that so?” It's been a while since Veronica has popped into my mind. It kind strikes me that she's not here anymore—that she graduated last spring. I wonder where she is now, and what she's doing. I opt not to ask about her.
Emma nods. “I took over as director this year. It's kind of ridiculous how many shows people invite us to do.”
“Well you always put on a great show.”
She ignores the compliment. “It's just, who would think to invite us to a China Night Dinner, for example? I mean, we only have one Asian member, and even she's Korean.”
“Maybe the Off Beats transcend those cultural boundaries.”
“Maybe,” Emma says, as we split for a moment, letting a woman in a hurry maneuver between us. “So hey, I know this is kind of early, but we're going to be doing a big show in early November. We're trying to bring in some guest groups from other schools. Do you think we could get some press for that?”
“Yeah, definitely,” I answer, before it occurs to me that there's a very a real chance the paper won't exist by the time November rolls around. I clear my throat. “You know, I mean, I'll pass it along to the Student Life editor.”September 25, 2007
“ Preston , I have to tell you that I've been really impressed with The Window this year,” Dr. Carlisle says, seated on the opposite side of his desk from me. “It usually takes an issue or two for the paper to really hit its stride, but it seems like you hit the ground running this year.”
“Yeah, we're off to a good start,” I say crossing one leg over the other. Carlisle is the faculty advisor for The Window. He's a hands off guy, a communications professor who I had never met until today. I figured if someone was going to help keep the paper afloat, he would be as good of a person to start with as anyone.
“And have you heard from Sam? Do you know how he's doing?” he asks.
“Actually I can't say that I have. We kind of fell out of touch over the summer.”
“Ah, well people are always going on to bigger and better things when they graduate,” Carlisle says, picking up his travel coffee mug. “I never got to meet Sam, but by all reports, he was a real firecracker.”
“Yeah,” I nod, “he knew how to stir things up.”
“So I assume you wanted to meet with me for a reason. Is there something I can help you with?”
“Yeah,” I say, sitting up straight. “SA looks like it's going to come down on The Window.”
“I don't think I understand. You have to write an essay about The Window?”
“No—SA, the Student Association—they're talking about shutting down the paper.”
“Well that's preposterous. What's this association going to do? Come to the office and break all of your equipment?”
I'm kind of baffled with this guy. I scratch the back of my head. “The Student Association governs the student organizations—they control our budget and stuff like that. And we had some budget problems last year, and on account of that, the board is considering freezing our budget, which means we wouldn't be able to go to print anymore.”
“Huh,” Carlisle leans back in his desk chair, rubbing his chin.
“So,” I go on, increasingly certain this conversation isn't going anywhere, “I wondered if you would have any advice—you know, about how to protect the paper?”
“You said it's a budget problem?” he asks. “Now tell me, does the paper already charge for advertising?”September 26, 2007
“All in favor,” Lizzie says, looking down at her copy of a budget proposal from the Ski Club. The board of seven sits on a small platform in a Student Center conference room, a few inches up above the rest of us in attendance.
“Ay,” the board says in unison.
“All opposed.” No one says a thing. “And all abstentions.”
“Abstained,” Nick says. He made it clear throughout the deliberations that he has been a member of the ski club, and would remove himself from voting.
“Then a by a vote of 5-0-1, the proposal passes. Congratulations, Adrian .”
“Thank you,” Adrian, the president of the Ski Club says, bobbing her head.
“And that concludes this meeting's business,” Lizzie says. “Thank you everyone. Have a good week.”
As the room clears out, I make my way toward the front. I give Teri's hand a quick squeeze in passing, and exchange nods with Nick before I come to Lizzie.
“Glad to see you here, Preston ,” she says. “I hope you didn't think we were reviewing your budget tonight.”
“No, no. I just wanted to stop in personally to show The Window's support for SA. I know we don't have someone here for all of the meetings, and, sort of as a show of good faith, I wanted to show you we're looking to change that.”
“Well that's a nice gesture, Preston . It would be great to see your staff have a presence at our meetings. You know a lot of news breaks right here.”
I nod, careful not to say too much, lest I reveal that all I'm doing is kissing ass. “It's definitely something we'll consider,” I agree.
Looking to my side, I see Nick trying to write something on Teri's notebook. She pushes his hand away, giggling, and he laughs as he tries again. There's something a little off about seeing them joke around. I shake my head then head over to see what's up.September 27, 2007
The Window meeting is coming to a close, and I clear my throat before going on. I've been trying to figure out how to break the news of the danger the paper is in. With the bulk of the staff sitting around the office at this moment, I figure this is as good of a time as any.
“There is one more piece of news that I have to share with you all. I'm afraid it isn't good.” I look down, feeling all of the eyes on the room on me, feeling the silence of the room. “Based on some financial issues with the paper last year, SA is considering freezing our budget.”
A little bit of talk kicks in, as folks look to one another.
I go on, “If people want more details, I'd be happy to talk about it. But what people need to know is that at next Wednesday's SA meeting, the board is going to vote about this.”
“So we might not even have a paper next week?” Rich asks.
I nod. “It's possible.”
“Then what's the point of even putting one together? Why don't we save ourselves half of a week and take the issue off.”
“Because we're a weekly paper,” I say. “And we're not going to quit—we're not going to concede this until we know we're out.” As I'm speaking the words, I feel a new sense of resolve—a new commitment to the paper. I feel my own doubts start to slip away, as I look out at all of these people, and realize that, now more than ever, they're counting on me to lead them. “We're going to do the best we can, and we'll see what happens.”September 28, 2007
The Window gets dozens of flyers a week, mostly from groups and businesses on or near campus looking to get some press for themselves and their events. We cover a handful of them, but there's only so much space in the paper, not to mention the fact that bar specials and ads for stores a half hour away aren't our top priority, unless they're paying us for an advertisement.
For the last few weeks, on Fridays, I've gathered up all of these flyers, dumping them into our recycling bin as quickly as I can, as I move along, tidying the office. Today, I sit at the center table, the stack of them in front of me. One by one I crumple them into balls, and lob them toward the trash can across the way.
I think about how this stream of flyers could stop not with the end of the year, but the end of the newspaper. With that in mind, it's kind of sad to think about tossing the stack into trash all at once.
I fold one neon yellow flyer into a paper airplane, then send it soaring, then spiraling toward the trash.
“Hey Preston ,” Gabby says, coming into the office.
“Hey, Gabby. What are you doing here?” I ask, making another crease into another flyer, to send another plane on a crash course.
“Well, I figured I could find you here.”
“Did you need something?”
Gabby looks down. “I just wanted to talk to you about what you said the other day.”
“Yeah,” I say, folding the last crease. I prop the plane up on my fingers, and send it flying. This one falls a little short of the can. “Bummer, huh?”
“Yeah, but that's not what I wanted to talk about.” She looks up, her eyes meeting mine through her glasses. “I'm the managing editor of this paper, Preston . And I should have heard about all of this before the rest of the staff.”
“I had a lot of trouble deciding how to tell anyone,” I say. “It was just one of those things, you know.”
“I know, but I'm supposed to be the number two on this paper. And if you're keeping something like this from me, how am I supposed to be a leader?”
It's all I can do to hold back a smile. I'm worried it would look like I was laughing at her if I did. In reality, I'm kind of proud at her. “You're right,” I say with a nod, looking away. “I apologize,” I look her in the eye again, “and it won't happen again.”September 29, 2007
Cameron sits backwards in her chair, facing me, as she looks around the room. She's making me a little nervous sitting like that, which isn't helping me focus at all as I work on a response paper for Jones's class. When I'm not turning back to her, I sit at my desk, staring at my computer screen.
“I was thinking of ways we could rearrange this place,” Cameron says.
“Is that right?”
“Yeah,” she goes on, “I just feel like there's a lot of dead space right now. And if we didn't have everything so divided up in half, we could do some more creative things here.”
“Hmm,” I say, still looking at the screen. I think of the paper I wrote for Jones freshman year—the last paper I wrote that year here in Smith Hall. I remember writing about Alan Chilling and Larry Schmidt, and how their decisions determined the path of their lives. I think of how that story was my big break at The Window—and made for a decent paper for class.
“For example, we could both of our desks over to that corner,” Cameron says, “And I could rotate my bed so it's jutting out into the room a little, but so it was right against my closet. That would open up a ton of space in the middle of the room.”
“Yeah, you're probably right.” I think of the open space in the Window office when Sam was packing it up at the end of my freshman year, because SA was having the floor redone over the summer. I think of how long the tension between SA and The Window has been going on, and how Tucker talked about reconciling those differences—before he told us he was trimming our budget for the following year, which led us to producing The Shade, which is the biggest reason we're in trouble now.
“Of course, that would make it kind of awkward when you're coming in, because I think the bed might stick out into the doorway.”
“Yeah.” I run my hands through my hair. I'm a little overdue for a haircut. I think maybe I'll go in for one tomorrow, maybe before work. I've been busy between the paper and class, and keeping up with Teri. For a second I think of how not having to work on the paper could be a relief, giving me the time to do my homework during the week, and do things like get a haircut, or pick up groceries.
I think of where I'd be without the paper. Probably wouldn't have met Teri. Wouldn't have gotten to know Sam the way I did. I wonder if I ever would have established myself at this school—where I'd be, or what I'd be doing.
I see I'm not going to get any work done sitting around here. I wonder if I might fare better at the library. “I'm heading out,” I say, getting up all at once. “I'll see you when I see you.”