Archives: March 26-April 1, 2006
March 26, 2006
Contrary to the classic rock Matt played in his car, in my dad's car it's golden oldies—mostly pop tunes from the 1950s. He hums along or taps the steering at times, along the drive to Taylor .
“So they settled up. After their old vice president produced the records, there wasn't any denying it. No need to finish the trial.”
“Funny how people forget details like that.”
“Not altogether different from Alan Chilling.”
I chuckle. “So you've been keeping up on the happenings at little old Taylor College .”
“I catch The Window on the web from time to time. You know, if your Student Association had better structure, this sort of thing wouldn't happen,” Dad says, popping down the visor to shade his eyes from the sun. “I mean, I'm all for letting the students run their own show. That's what they should do—let the students learn from experience. But when it's a money thing, there have to be checks and balances.”
“Yeah. There was at least one professional working with the accounts. But she's—”
“Useless?”
“Pretty near it.”
“Then I'm guessing she won't get out of this whole debacle unscathed.”
“Ah, she has tenure.”
Dad laughs. “Well, at least a slap on the wrist then.” We switch lanes, passing slow traffic. “You know, what you're doing with that newspaper—it matters.” Dad glances at me. “I'm serious. There are a lot of people who don't take my work that seriously, because I work in a small town, helping little people with their little problems. It's not the sort of life and death, or big money deals you'll see in the national news. But it matters to the little people, and to my little town.”
“Yeah, but even a little town is more significant than a little college.”
“Does that make a difference to the people at the college? To you, when you're in it?”
“I guess not.”
“And that's just it. Like take that girl, for example—Amber. You helped her.”
“Last I heard she's gone back to being a recluse. She wouldn't talk to us for the follow up story.”
“Yeah, but she has issues to work out. And now she's got to face them. Just like Alan, and your editor there. You're all young, but these are big issues—and they'll only get bigger. I know you're not a professional now, but from where I'm sitting, you're doing everything a professional does. You're keeping people informed, and you're keeping them in check. And it seems like you're doing it responsibly. Maybe this is something you want to pursue long term.”
I mention the News Editor gig, and how I've been mulling over whether I want to do it. I know what my old man's advice will be long before I ask.
March 27, 2006
I rub my eyes, halfheartedly trying to remain focused on reading a book to catch up for my Jones class tomorrow. As long and uneventful as my break was, I couldn't find much motivation to get homework done. So now, I sit on Emma's bed, back against the wall while she sits by me, shoulder to shoulder.
Emma hasn't finished unpacking since her return from break. She still has an open duffel bag by the foot of her bed and grocery bags with the snacks her mom bought for her. From what Emma tells me, her mother always worries about her eating enough, but Emma doesn't care much all the junk food her folks buy for her. It works out for me, as I munch my way through a package of chocolate chip cookies.
“So there are three rounds?” I ask, referring to Emma's a cappella competition. The Off Beats will be in a show this coming weekend.
“Well there are three rounds in the competition, but we have to win to advance in each round. And the group has only made it to the second round once—and they didn't fare so well there.”
“So in other words, this will be the first time The Off Beats go all the way to the finals.”
Emma runs a hand through her hair. “It will be if Veronica has anything to say about it. We're having extra rehearsals the next two nights, and she wants us to come in an hour early on Thursday.”
“Well, it's game time. She probably just wants to be sure you guys are ready.”
“Yeah, at the expense of everything else in our lives. Rehearsals every night, then a weekend away in Vermont .”
“But it'll be fun, right?”
“I don't think it'll be fun until the competition is over—and it'll only be fun then if we win.”
There will be four other schools competing against them on Saturday, from all around the northeast. From what Emma has told me, none of them are very high profile, so at least Veronica said they had a good chance. Emma is nervous. This will be her first time in competition, and Veronica decided that they would be performing the song that has her solo—The Directionals song she arranged.
I won't hear the girls sing until Saturday. Veronica has barred all visitors from rehearsals this week.
March 28, 2006
I sit in The Window office, typing up the notes for an article based on an event one of the other news writers attended. It's unconventional to write an article this way, but Sam says he has to do this from time to time for this writer, who can gather information well enough but whose writing is shit.
“You're gonna have to get used to this kind of thing,” Sam says. “When you're the editor, the section is yours. Everything in it's a reflection of your work, so if crap goes in, it only makes you look bad.”
“So that's why you co-author so many articles?” I ask.
“Exactly. And you may have noticed that I never had to rewrite one of yours. You're going to have to make calls like that—who you need to cover for and how much.”
“You're making it sound like it's a foregone conclusion that Preston 's going to be the editor,” Carrie chimes in from over at her desk.
“What can I say? I'm confident,” Sam replies. I've noticed a tension growing between the two of them. I haven't heard anything direct from either of them, but the vibe I get is that Carrie had planned to go for Editor in Chief. She's a senior, while Sam's a junior, and she has been with the paper longer, so I think she had a sense that it was her right. But then, once Sam announced his intentions, she didn't think she would win an election, so she kept her mouth shut. She's gone on keeping her mouth shut as Sam takes on more and more of the Editor in Chief responsibilities without having the position—helping other editors, proofreading all of the sections.
By virtue of the same logic, I think Carrie resents me, as Sam's handpicked successor. My opponent, Carl, is a sophomore who has been with the paper longer, and if Carrie had her way, I have little doubt he would be the next News Editor. Sam reassures me that it'll be no contest. I'm still not sure.
“How's the article coming?” Sam asks, turning back to me.
“Pretty straight forward. Doctor of political science visits, condemns the conservatives. College Republicans blast him during the Q&A. The leftists blast them back.”
“Gotta love political speakers,” Sam pats my shoulder. “I'm gonna get some coffee. I'll be back in a few.”
March 29, 2006
“Carl, can you print out with all of the edits in it,” Carrie calls across the Window office.
“Sure thing,” he replies, turning back to the news computer. After my time in the office this week, Carrie decided it would only be fair to allow the other candidate for the News Editor spot the opportunity to learn the ins and outs of the paper, coming in for a Wednesday night before the paper goes to print.
Sam and I sit at the big table at the center of the office, eating sandwiches from the café in the Student Center . For a second, my mind flashes to life away from the newspaper. Emma. Dave. Homework. Sam sucks me back into the office, as he talks about another election. “Sal's going to have the momentum going into it, but in an election like this, people are going to go with the establishment,” Sam says, speaking about the upcoming election for next year's Student Association president. After much debate, the executive board decided not to elect anyone for the rest of this year, making the pending elections all the more heated.
“Sal doesn't know what he's doing anyway,” Carrie chimes in. “He's the emotional pick but he's never been involved SA politics before.”
Sal Rodriguez, the president of the Multicultural Theatre Organization, which suffered the brunt of Chilling's scheming when it was stripped of its funding, has begun his campaign for president, marketing himself as someone who will bring integrity back to student government. He is going against Tucker Williams, the current SA business director.
“Well that's what Tucker's going to play up,” Sam responds. “But Sal's got potential. I mean, who better to run SA than a guy who has been in the trenches, running an organization under the SA banner.”
“But I have to agree with Carrie,” I say. “Running SA is a lot different from running a theater group. I know I'm new here, but I don't understand any of the financial policies and rules—”
“There's a budget manual. And besides that, things change every year—the people in charge just act like everything they do is tradition. I'd say a little more substance and a little less pretension are just what this school needs. Of course, that doesn't mean he'll get the votes.”
“I guess we'll have to agree to disagree on that one, because I say the people are right,” Carrie says, just as Sam is starting to sway my opinion.
“Carrie,” Carl breaks in, “Can you show me how to get to this print again?”
March 30, 2006
Sam runs for Editor in Chief uncontested, and the Window editorial board votes him in unanimously. With that election out of the way, his News Editor spot is officially open, meaning Carl and I are on.
As is custom at the paper, we stand at the front of the office and introduce ourselves to the staff. I've spent plenty of time in the office now, working nights and at meetings. Things look different from up here, though, looking out at the full room, 30-some-odd pairs of eyes looking back at me.
We introduce ourselves, and then it's on to questions. Carrie starts us off, asking us to each say why we want to be News Editor.
“I think it'll be good for me, and good for the paper,” Carl says. “I'm a comm major, so I think this will be a nice credential for me when I'm looking for jobs, and a good way to get some more experience. And I have the know-how from my journalism classes, so I think I could do a good job.”
I put my hands in my pockets. “Well, I'm not a comm. major like Carl. But I can say I've really enjoyed working for the paper here. I think I've done a good job, following through on all the stories I've written and getting the full story.” I look around the room, trying to make eye contact with everyone. I've never been a gifted public speaker, but I've heard some tips. I catch Sam's eye and he nods to me. “So that's what I'd like to keep on doing. I want to keep getting the stories, and getting the whole deal. And I feel like if I'm heading up the section, I can make sure that gets done.”
It's funny how I don't even necessarily know these answers until I'm up there saying them. With one question down, Sam follows with another. “What's your vision for the news section?”
“I want for people to want to read the paper every week,” Carl says. “I want to have big stories—front page headlines that really grab people. I want to pick up right where Sam left off and have a paper that's always got all of the news people want to read.”
“I guess my vision is pretty similar,” I say. “But the one big difference would be that I'm not just interested in what people want to read, but what they need to read. And again, that's where I talk about getting the whole story every time out. I want to have a paper where, if you want to be informed, your best bet is turning to us—because you're going to see things you wanted to know about, but also things you didn't know existed, or didn't understand before. Running a news section, I feel like that would be my duty.”
A series of questions follow regarding how familiar we are with the layout software, what our writing experiences are, and what kind of stories we like to write. And then Carrie stumps me.
“If you were the News Editor last year, when James Kendrick passed away, how would you handle the situation?”
Obviously, I wasn't around last year. I've never heard of this guy or what happened to him, and from the glare Sam darts at Carrie, I assume that at least the two of them know that as well. I'm fortunate that Carl is answering first.
Carl gives a fairly intelligent answer. From what I can gather, James Kendrick was a sophomore who died from falling off the roof of his dorm—Bower Hall. No one was sure if it was an accident or a suicide—and from the sounds of it, some people thought it was a murder. Carl talks about being sensitive to James's family and friends, but still getting all sides of the story and exploring all of the possibilities, to give everyone the story.
As I expected, it's difficult for me to respond, but I do my best to remain cool, and to be vague so I won't show how ignorant I am, without sounding evasive. “I think any article about the death of the student has to be taken seriously. On one hand, I would want to explore the cause of death. But beyond that, I would want to present a respectable picture of who the person who died was. Nothing too invasive—the last thing I'd want to do is make it harder for the family. But still, that's news—and if they have insights, or things they'd like to say—well it's at least a good idea to approach them on it.” I feel like I'm rambling. I say a little more about talking to the college police and the Bower Hall staff for a full report, then cut myself off.
*
Carl and I have stood outside the office for about ten minutes, making a little awkward small talk, then scanning the flyers hung up in the hallway several times over as we wait for the verdict. At last, it's Sam who opens the door.
“I want you guys to know that it was a tough decision for the board. We think you're both very qualified and would do a stellar job with the section. We hope you'll both continue to work with the paper.” Sam says. “All that being said, we can only have one of you as our editor.” Sam's faces twitches slightly, holding back a smile. “Congratulations Preston .”March 31, 2006
“So all in all, I think it came down to Carl being more qualified on paper, with his major and his experience, but me doing a better job for the paper recently. That's where the whole SA scandal didn't hurt,” I say from the backseat of Claire's little black sedan.
I feel a little bad, recounting my election for the second time in front of Emma. I'm riding with Emma, Claire and Veronica, though, en route to Vermont for their a cappella competition, and the other girls asked for the story.
“Well that's great, Preston ,” Veronica smiles, not looking up from a stack of sheet music. “After hearing what your last editor did, it's going to be good to have someone respectable running things now.”
“Yeah,” Claire chimes in. “Maybe the paper won't suck anymore.” The girls giggle and I sort of half-heartedly chuckle. “Nothing personal—it's just that last year the paper sucked. This year the paper hasn't been great—”
“But you have to keep in mind that it's a student paper,” Emma sticks up for me. “Holding up The Window to professional standards is like holding our group up to a professional group. There just isn't the time, or the focus—”
“There may not be the time,” Veronica cuts in marking something carefully with a ballpoint pen, as Claire barrels down the road, “But I'll be damned if we're not professional quality.”
Emma blushes slightly, and I give her hand a squeeze. I like the girls and am glad Veronica was cool with me traveling along with them so I could cheer them on. It's a little awkward there, though—besides being the only guy in the car, being the only one not in the group.
That will change when we arrive at our destination. Two of the other girls are bringing boyfriends, and there are a couple of other girls who are friends with the Off Beats in other cars. We're traveling in caravan, and we'll all band together at the hotel, where I expect Veronica will call it an early night for everyone, to be up and fully ready to compete the next day. They'll do a sound check early Saturday afternoon, rehearse, have dinner and then rehearse some more before show time that night.April 1, 2006
The Off Beats usually draw a decent crowd for their shows. Tonight, though, the girls are performing on a much bigger stage than I've seen them on before, and there's hardly an empty seat for this evening's competition. I sit in the balcony of the auditorium alongside the other boyfriends and friends of The Off Beats, while the girls all sit together beneath us, just a couple rows back from the stage, amidst the five other competing groups. Looking down, I see Veronica whispering something to Emma, and think back to the night before.
It was a little past 3 a.m. Most of us turned in around 2, but I was thirsty, and got up for a glass of water. The tap wasn't running cold enough for my liking, so I stepped out with the ice bucket.
“Can't sleep?” Veronica asked, perched on a window seat right beside the ice dispenser, an open notebook on her lap, stack of sheet music beside her.
“Came out for some ice,” I said, holding up the bucket. I crossed my arms, feeling a little awkward, wearing nothing more than the old pair of gym shorts and beater I wore to bed. Of course, she was barefoot, in just a black spaghetti strap top and pajama pants, so I guess it shouldn't have mattered. “And you?”
“What else?” She lifted a page of the notebook, covered with writing and diagrams with Xs and Os, much like the ones I saw her draw on the chalkboard during their rehearsal.
“You take this pretty seriously, huh?”
“It's my life.”
“Then I guess you can't sleep?”
Veronica shakes her head. She has her hair drawn back in a pony tail. It's the first time I've seen her wear it that way, and it's a nice look for her. “I could never sleep before competition. Not gonna start now that I'm directing the group.”
I wasn't sure what she could hope to accomplish alone, while the rest of the girls were asleep, and asked her about it.
“I've got notes on where we've been slipping up and how. Notes on how I've seen other groups mess up in competition, things we have to watch if we don't want to get penalized,” she said. “There's a lot I can't control for once we're out there, so I have to decide what I'm going to drive home during rehearsal tomorrow.”
I smiled, putting the bucket under the dispenser, as I started to say something. The machine made a groaning sound, before dumping the cubes down in a clatter. Veronica giggled.
“Sorry, didn't think it would make so much noise,” I said, a little sheepish.
“Ah, don't worry about.” She leaned forward a little. “Mind if I steal a piece?” With that, she leaned forward taking a cube from the bucket. I don't really even know how to describe it—but her hair smelled amazing.
*
Ashton College's all-male a cappella group, The Sidewinders, are hosting tonight's competition, which means they aren't competing here (Veronica informed me that they already won their first round contest a few weeks ago, earning a spot in the semi-finals), but they are performing throughout the evening, between acts and, later, while the judges deliberate. I have to say, they put on a hell of a show.
With The Off Beats on deck, The Sidewinders take the stage again. First, they do a fast-paced Motown song. Then one of the guys gets on the mic. “All right, we're going to do one more song before we welcome the next group on up here. This is our first time doing this one for a crowd, so we hope you like it.”
The opening chords are familiar, and long before the soloist starts in, its clear enough what the song is.
I touch your hand
I touch your face
And wonder how
We got to this place
The song is a cover of The Directionals' “Falling Too Deep”—the very same song with which The Off Beats were planning to round out their set. To make matters worse, the guys are good. I hate The Directionals, but there's no denying that the soloist's voice is a dead match for the band's lead singer, and everything else about the song is clicking perfectly.
Beneath us, Emma looks pale as Veronica whispers in her ear. Emma stares straight ahead, then whispers something back. Veronica writes something in her notebook and circles it. Emma whispers something. Veronica whispers back. They go back and forth more quickly, then begin talking to the other girls. On stage, the guys finish up without incident, and get some loud applause from the crowd.
By the time the emcee announces that its time for The Off Beats to perform, the girls have regained their composure. At least on the surface, they're as calm as ever. The girls have twelve minutes, and can't waste any of it. Veronica snags the mic, the other girls get in position, and they move into the same song they opened with at their last show, with Veronica's slow and sexy, then wild and upbeat solo.
Along the ride to Vermont , Veronica explained the order of songs. “Typically, you start with something upbeat to draw the crowd in, and get them having fun. My solo is a little unconventional for that, but it's pretty strong, and it ends happily.”
The second song is the upbeat tune the girls used to finish their last show. “Your second song should be your strongest one. We didn't have a clear pick this year, but since we're starting with my song and we want to wrap up with “Falling,” it has to be something upbeat.”
The second song goes off without a hitch, and then it's Emma's turn. She looks a little nervous again, moving the mic from hand to hand as she takes her place in the spotlight. Then she grips the mic tightly, holding it in both hands at her waist. The girls begin to harmonize behind her.
Emma starts out all right—not the best I've heard her, but doing well enough, despite the folks in the crowd looking from side to side in surprise at hearing that same song again.
Emma grows louder as she reaches the chorus, her voice suddenly dripping emotion.
Now I'm watching clocks
Pacing the floor
Counting down time
Till I'm at your door
Emma doesn't sound like the lead the guy from The Directionals. She sounds better. And then I realize, she's looking at—singing to—me.
Too late to call
So I'm trying to sleep
Trying to hold down these dreams
‘Cause I'm falling too deep
The crowd is silent and still, and by the end, Emma actually has tears streaking her cheeks. For the first time at the competition, the crowd rises for a standing ovation. There's no question that Veronica's plans went awry. The Off Beats finished with their best song—the best song of the night.