Archives:
September 30-October 6, 2007

September 30, 2007

“You're really worried about the vote, huh?” Teri says, leaning forward beside me. We're outside the Student Center , seated atop a wall that oversees half the campus. Facing west, we've got one of the best views you can find of a sunset around here, as the sky fades from pink to purple over the dark buildings below, the streetlights just beginning to come on.

“Pretty much all I can think about lately,” I say, running a hand through my hair. “It's just—I don't even know what I'll do if the paper goes under.”

“Yeah, I think I can understand that?” Teri says, elbowing me softly. I look to her and she's smiling. For a second, I smile back.

“Well, at least I know I've got some support on the board this Wednesday,” I say, exhaling.

“You bet. I'm going to be talking the paper up to everyone, talking about how important it is for this campus.” Teri nods. “I'll get you some votes.”

“And I know I can count on yours,” I say, grinning.

Teri looks away.

“What's wrong?”

She shakes her head. “It's just—we've talked about this. I'm trying to establish that I'm not biased toward The Window—because of my experience, or because of you. It sets a bad precedent.”

“But Teri, this is it for the paper. It's do or die on Wednesday.”

“And so you're going to have my support.”

I look out at the campus again. “So you're going to vote against us? After everything the paper did you for you, you're going to—”

“I'll have you know that I did a hell of a lot for that paper,” Teri cuts me off. “And I'm not going to vote against it. It's a conflict of interest, though, so I am abstaining.”

I shake my head, looking down. “Well that's one vote down.”

October 1, 2007

Looking to my side, I see Emma's starting to doodle in the margin of her notebook, drawing a little house with clouds over it, disproportionately large flowers beside it. It's as sure a sign of any that she's getting bored with class.

“So if Horace's shop does represent mom and pop businesses at the turn of the century,” Jones says, seated in our class circle, “And Cliff's represents a national chain, what do we think this book is saying about the relationship between the two?”

“Well, Horace is a good person,” Nick says from the other side of me. The opposite of Emma, he's engaged in every second of this discussion. “He has a positive relationship around the neighborhood and everything. But he can't keep up with a global economy. That's why even the chain store is struggling by the end, when people start shopping online.”

“Let's not get a head of ourselves,” Jones says, raising a hand. “Do people agree with Nick's assessment of Horace's store?”

“I don't know,” Claire says, twisting the ends of her hair around her finger. “I thought that it wasn't so much that Horace couldn't keep up with people's needs, as that people weren't giving him the chance. He couldn't produce results as quickly as the Whooperstore, but in the end he could do the same—”

“But sometimes people needed their groceries faster,” Nick cuts her off. “I mean, you're not going to wait an extra few days to make your kid's birthday cake if the corner store is out of eggs. You've got to roll with the times.”

“The big store wasn't playing fair, though,” I say. “They couldn't compete in supply or in prices sometimes, but they still had a loyal customer base until the Whooperstore started sabotaging them—sending people to break into the store, or buy out their stock of stuff. And they kept it up until they suckered Horace into retaliating—and they could afford the security cameras to catch him in the act.”

“But you can't defend Horace busting a window at the Whooperstore,” Nick says. “It's vandalism. And they never proved that the Whooperstore was responsible for the damage at Horace's—or that the damage done was intentional.”

“And that's just because they wanted to paint themselves as the good guys while they were pushing around the little businesses, and so they could act like they really cared.”

“There are a lot of different ways to see the same issue,” Jones says, breaking in as Nick is about to say something back. “And there's not necessarily a right or wrong to that. Unfortunately, that concludes our time to talk about it today.” Glancing at my watch, I see we're a couple minutes over time on the class. As the room begins to shuffle books and pack up, Jones finishes, “I'll see you all on Wednesday.”

October 2, 2007

“Thank you all for coming in,” I say, closing the office door, and making my way to the center table. I have a seat on one of the stools, next to Gabby. I called the editorial board together this evening. “I'm sorry to add an extra meeting to everyone's schedules, but given that tomorrow we might lose our budget, I thought it was important we come together one last time.

“First and foremost, I wanted to thank everyone for all of their hard work this year. For our new editors, I know you learned a lot over a short period of time, and I'm really proud of what we've been able to accomplish. And for the returners, thank you for bringing your experience to the table here.”

I turn to Gabby. “Gabby, did you have anything you wanted to add to that?”

Gabby scrunches up her nose for a second, looking down and playing with her hair. She pushes her glasses up so they're on straight. “I think it's important for everyone to remember what Preston said at our meeting last week.” She looks to me. “You said that we should still finish the paper this week like we would any other week. That we've got to assume we still are going to be alive.”

I nod, swallowing. I open my mouth to thank her, but she goes on.

“I think it's also important for us to take an active role in keeping this paper going. So tomorrow, I know I'm going to be at the SA meeting to show my support for The Window. And I think, at the least, all of you should too.”

“Well,” I start, “if you have another obligation—”

“You should cancel it,” Gabby continues. “By showing our numbers at that meeting, we're demonstrating how much this paper matters—and to how many people.” She plants her hands on the desk, sitting up very straight. “Hell, you should call of your assistants, all of your writers. Let's show that board how many people care about this paper, and are willing to stand up for it.”

I'm not sure what kind of reaction Gabby's going to get. I look around, scanning our board's faces. I'm surprised when I don't see disinterest or boredom, but rather nodding heads, even a few smiles.

Rich flips open his cell phone. “Let's do this.”

October 3, 2007

Between editors, assistants and writers, The Window staff takes up two and a half rows of chairs at tonight's Student Association meeting. We probably increase the usual meeting size by about a half.

It's kind of disappointing that there isn't any sort of opportunity for us to speak. Lizzie explains the situation to everyone there. The SA board already knows what's going on, and they're the only ones voting, so the whole thing is kind of pointless.

I look at Teri. She looks somehow older today than she usually does. She always dresses up a little for SA meetings, but tonight, she's not only dressed up, but looks tired.

Gabby sits next to me, her hands clenched over her knees, her knuckles sticking out, turning whiter than her fair complexion. On the other side of her Rich scratches at his chin, his eyes fixed ahead of him.

Lizzie's eyes come to fall on me for a second, before she looks back down at the paper from which she read the summary of the motion to freeze our budget. “All in favor of disabling all budgetary actions of The Window, and hereby returning the organization's funding to the Student Assocation's discretionary fund.”

“Ay,” three of the board members say. Nick is among them, pursing his lips after he says it, and looking to the side.

In this second, there's hope. If all of the remaining votes go our way, Lizzie will have to vote as a tie breaker. She had the decency to the give me a heads up about this vote. There's a possibility she would side with us.

“All opposed.”

“Nay,” two of the board members speak up.

“All abstentions.”

“Abstained,” Teri says, her voice, clear and alone, sealing our fate. She looks down, and runs a finger under her nose for a second.

“By a vote of 3-2-1 ,” Lizzie says, “the motion passes. The Window's budget is hereby inoperative.”

October 4, 2007

My hand rests on the mouse at my computer in the Window office. I keep my finger over the left click button, for whatever reason, hesitating to press it. It's not as though that click's going to change anything. I stare at the screen, though, reading over my own words, announcing that tonight's staff meeting is canceled—that all of the staff meetings are canceled until further notice.

I finally let it go, clicking the button and getting up in a single motion. As I stand, I close the browser window. I put on my jacket and shut the computer down and head out of the office, closing the door behind me.

I look toward the end of the hallway, where the SA office lies. I think of stopping down there, to see if Teri is around. I don't like the way we left things. I'm not happy that Teri abstained, but it's not like I can really blame her. She was just doing what she said she was going to do.

I think of going to the SA office, but don't like the idea of running into Lizzie, or Nick, or anyone else from the board. It would be all I could do to keep from telling off anyone who voted against us, and I don't know how I'd take anyone's sympathies today.

I turn and walk the other way, headed out of the Student Center . It's only as I'm leaving that I spot a bright pink flyer hanging on the wall. The bold print reads, “THE AXIS ROCKS THE HAMMERHEAD, FRIDAY, OCTOBER 5.” A photo in the middle has Dave, mouth open wide, an almost pained expression on his face.

A night out might do me some good.

October 5, 2007

No one even bothered IDing us as Chang, Brad and I came into The Hammerhead tonight. And so, I stand by the bar, Miller Lite draft in my hand, watching Dave sing through an angry new melody.

And she said
Sometimes nothing's going right
Sometimes I can't see past the night
Sometimes there's nothing to do
And I blame you

Bud launches into a guitar solo as the crowd cheers. The band sounds good, and as much as I don't like hanging out with them as people, I'm enjoying the show.

“Are all of their songs this angry?” Brad asks over the din of the bar.

“Na, not at all,” Chang says. “A lot of its more upbeat, and they do a lot of covers.”

Brad nods, taking a sip of his amaretto sour.

It's a pretty big crowd here tonight, and scanning it, I see a few familiar faces. In kind of a stupid way, I had hoped Teri might show up, surmising that I would be here, and try to make amends. We haven't talked since Wednesday afternoon, and I'm starting to miss her a little. Of course, I'm also not sure I wouldn't be angry if I did see her, and couldn't guarantee another argument wouldn't start after a couple minutes.

I drink deeply from glass, finishing off my first beer. I turn to the bar tender, a pretty girl with long, straight red hair, and order another one.

A few songs down the line, the band launches into a cover of Pearl Jam's “Better Man.” I remember Dave telling me that the song was a little out of his range, but that they kept playing it because it was a traditional song for the band since before he joined up.

Scanning the crowd again, I'm surprised to see Emma standing by the stage. She's wearing a black tank top and tighter jeans than I can ever recall seeing her in. She stares up at the stage, a smile on her face.

The crowd is pretty thick around Emma. I think about working my way through after another song or two, maybe dance with her up front, or at least chat a little—maybe buy her a drink. I wonder if Chang or Brad would think anything of it.

“Thank you,” Dave calls out over the crowd's cheers, as the sound of Bud's guitar dies out at the close of the song. “We're gonna take a 15 minute break. Don't go anyplace.”

The crowd by stage begins to thin out and disperse a bit, a lot of them migrating toward us at the bar. I work my way against the stream, heading toward the stage. It's only as I get closer that I see Emma climb up on stage, Bud lending her a hand. Bud wraps his arms around her waist and crouches, and I look on as the two of them kiss sloppily. All I can do is watch for a second.

I tip my glass back, finishing another beer, then turn to follow the masses back to the bar.

October 6, 2007

I get up, my head pounding. I clutch at my head, and for a second, I wonder if the rattling sound I hear is really there or just a function of this monster of a hang over. I glance at the clock to see its already 1 in the afternoon.

I sit up a little in bed, my sheets all tangled around my legs, untucked from the bed on all sides. I rub my eyes and see where the sound is really coming from as Cameron turns off her blender.

“Good morning, sunshine,” she says. She's already showered and dressed, and I wonder how long she's been up.

“Mmm,” I half mumble, half groan. “Morning.”

“I figured you'd want to be up by now,” Cameron says, nodding to the clock. “And judging by how you came in, I figured you might need this.” She begins to pour a light orange, almost yellow concoction into a big plastic cup, and carries it over to me. “It's a family recipe.”

I sniff at it. There's definitely orange juice or oranges in it, and if I'm not mistaken, I smell something alcoholic. “What's in this?”

“Orange juice, half a banana, a Tylenol chew tab, and half a shot of rum.”

“Your family drinks rum for breakfast?”

“You get a hangover when you go from drunk to having no alcohol in you. Best way to beat the headache is to wean yourself off the alcohol—drink just a little bit.”

I take a small sip. It's not quite as bad as you might think, but it's interesting to say the least. “A lot of hangovers in your family?” I ask.

“We had our fair share. My folks were always looking for a way to improve a bad situation.” Cameron puts on a windbreaker and picks up her book bag. “Anyway, I've gotta run. Hope you feel better.”

“Thanks,” I say, taking another longer sip. I wait until she's gone to make a dash for the bathroom, pissing out what's left from the night before.