Archives:
October 14-October 20, 2007
October 14, 2007
When 5:00 p.m. hits I hand over the Front Desk to the next worker and head to the main lounge. Cameron stopped in an hour ago to sign out our ping pong paddles and balls, and I figure I'll check in on how she's doing.
Coming into the lounge, I'm a bit surprised when I see that her opponent is Teri. “Hey Preston ,” she says, paddling the ball back to Cameron's side.
Cameron hits it back, then glances over at me, just as Teri cuts the ball back at her sending it bouncing off the edge of the table, out of Cameron's range. “Caught me looking,” Cameron says.
“Gotta stay focused,” Teri replies, spinning her paddle in her hand.
“Have the two of you been playing for the last hour?”
“We have,” Teri says catching the ball. “9 serving 7,” she goes on, dropping the ball and serving it over the net. Cameron hits it back, and they're off and running, volleying for a good ten strokes before Cameron spikes a shot just over the net, sending it soaring past Teri's paddle as she scrambles to recover.
“We started out just playing a game to 11,” Cameron says. “But when I only won by one, we thought we might make it best out of three.”
“And after I squeaked out the next two, we figured we would make it best of five.”
“And when we split those two, we figured we would make it best of seven.”
“You ready?” Teri has told me before that she really enjoys ping pong, and the one time we played she beat me pretty soundly. I see the look of determination in her eyes now, and the thin film of sweat building on her forehead, and see that this game is probably more her speed. My stomach is rumbling, and I was hoping to head right off to dinner with Teri. I see the likelihood of that happening soon is getting smaller and smaller.
Cameron nods.
“Nine serving eight.”October 15, 2007
“Hey guys,” Dave says, coming into the Window office, a jean jacket and ski cap on. “Nice to see the door to this place open again—I feel like there hasn't been anyone here in weeks.”
“Well, we did kind of close down for a little while,” I say, saving the article I'm typing up. “We had some budget problems, so now we're moving into a website only direction.” I'm careful with my words, conscious of Teri eating her lunch at the center table to my side.
“Wild. I'm just used to stopping by here when I'm around the Student Center , ‘cause you're always around, so it was weird for a little while there.”
I smile. “You should be able to catch me more often now.”
“Cool,” Dave nods. “And actually, I wasn't just stopping in for social reasons today. I had a little story idea for you.”
“What's that?” I ask.
“Have you ever heard of The Spaniard?”
I shake my head. “What—some Spanish guy?”
“Wait,” Teri starts, “is this that thing about the guy who stands at the side of the road—”
Dave snaps his finger, pointing at her. “Bingo.”
“What's this?” I ask.
“It's a little piece of folklore around here,” Teri says. “About 15 minutes outside Butterton, there's this guy who lives out near the woods, and his wife got hit by a car 10 years ago. Since then, he goes out every night, walking in the woods, watching the road, waiting for the car that got his wife to come back, shotgun at his side.”
“Are you kidding me with this?”
“Better yet, the guys and I drove out there last night, and we saw the guy,” Dave says, eyes wide. “You hear me, we saw the guy!”
“So he's real?” Teri asks.
“That's what I'm saying,” Dave says.
“So where does the story idea come in?” I ask.
“You're where it comes in,” Dave goes on. “A ton of people are like you—they have no idea about this guy.”
“So there's some poor guy who's mourning his wife—in a really weird way,” I say. “I don't think that's really news.”
“It's kind of creepy,” Teri says. “Could make for a neat little Halloween feature. You know, in a similar vein to a haunted dorm story?”
I smile for a second, then scratch my head, looking down. “I don't know about this.”October 16, 2007
“So this guy ducks all in and out of the woods and shit,” Rich says. “And if he sees a car that looks anything like the one of the guy who kidnapped his wife, he'll run out in the road with his shotgun out, ready to kill whoever's inside.”
“That's awful,” Gabby says, biting off the end of a carrot stick at the center table.
“It's also a touch different from the story I heard yesterday,” I say, sitting at my computer. “From what I heard, the Spaniard's wife got hit with a car, so now he just stands at the side of the road, waiting to see if the driver will come back again.”
“Well there's no need to split hairs over it,” Rich goes on. “Bottom line, somebody hurt the guy's wife—maybe killed or kidnapped her—and since then, the guy waits by the side of the road with a gun.”
“My point in splitting hairs is that the story doesn't add up,” I say. “The fact that the details are so sketchy, and uncertain—it just points to them not being true. And besides—a guy loses his wife, and he's going to spend the next ten years standing outside every night on the chance the person responsible comes back?”
Gabby shrugs. “The world is full of crazy people.”
“But he stands there with a gun?” I ask. “You're telling me the police wouldn't have stopped him by now?”
“The police probably figure it's urban legend, the same way you do. Or else they just haven't heard about it,” Rich says.
“Or they could even sympathize,” Gabby puts in, a carrot stick bobbing up and down between her teeth, before she bites down. “I mean, we're in a small town—a lot of people who like their guns. If a man's wife got kidnapped, and he wanted to go hunting for the guy who did, I'm not so sure the authorities would stand in his way.”
I shake my head, turning back to my computer screen. “I would expect better from you, Gabby. You shouldn't encourage this.”October 17, 2007
“Gabby, did you read this sports section before it got to me?” I ask, sitting at the center table of the office.
Gabby gets up and comes to me, looking over my shoulder. I'm only halfway through the first article I'm editing, and I've already marked a dozen errors—typos, misspellings, punctuation problems.
“I told him to fix that one,” Gabby says, pointing to one spot, where a space is missing.
“What about the rest?”
She shrugs. “Hit and miss. I didn't catch everything. You know I don't like reading sports.”
“I know it's part of your job,” I say, looking back down at the page.
“It's not like it's such a big deal,” she says. I look up, eyebrows raised. “I mean readership's down for now anyway, so not a lot of people are going to read it. And besides that, it's a web page, not a print publication. The standard is to be less than perfect.”
“Whose standard?”
She raises her hands. “The Internet's standard. There are typos on every page. It's not like a newspaper. No one's going to expect us to be flawless.”
I pick up my pen, marking another typo. It's discouraging to hear Gabby, of all people, talk like that, after all of her talk about the integrity of The Window, and doing our best to keep it alive. I feel like we should have this out, and talk about the difference of opinions. On the other hand, I have a long sports section ahead of me. I was really hoping this wouldn't be a late Wednesday night in the office.
I glance at the clock. It's only 7 now. There's still hope. I get back to editing.October 18, 2007
I drop off some books at the return counter in the library, and head outside, taking my cell phone from the pocket of my jeans. I flip it open, preparing to return the call I've been dreading.
“Presto, what's going on?” Sam answers after a couple rings.
“Not much,” I say, half leaping to step over a big puddle in the pavement. “How are you doing, man?”
“Going a little crazy,” he says with a chuckle. “Trying to put together this human interest story about this guy from my hometown here, who went on to make it big as a professional wrestler.”
“Is that right?”
“Yeah—goes by Michael Farleaf. Heard of him?”
“I don't think so.”
“Anyway, seems like the guy's whole family is dead, moved away, or ashamed of his career. I just got a tip on who the guy's high school wrestling coach was, though.”
“Sounds like a crazy story.”
Sam chuckles. “Speaking of crazy stories, I heard a wild one out of Taylor College .”
“Did you?”
“I heard there's no longer a newspaper.”
I look up to the sky, knowing the conversation's headed precisely where I didn't want for it to go. “Well, that's not exactly true. We still have the webpage.”
“What happened to the paper?”
I sigh. “SA axed our budget.”
“Motherfuckers!” I have to pull the phone from my ear for a second. “I leave for two months, and they dick the paper over worse than I ever let them.”
“To be fair, we were getting along with SA all right until this happened.”
“Because Lizzie was probably softening you up until she found her opening,” Sam goes on. “So what are you doing to get back into print?”October 19, 2007
I sit, half hanging off the side the Teri's couch. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't a little drunk, but I'm still sober enough to hold my beer steady in my hand, and still sober enough to want to take another sip. It's a strange party tonight, with a mix of people from The Window, SA, the TV station, and other random friends of Teri, Amelia and Phoebe.
“So I talked to Sam the other day.” I say, resting the bottom of my can on my thigh again.
“Really? What's he up to?” Teri asks, turning back to me, after she was talking to some other guy.
“Still working for that paper in his hometown. Tracking down some story.”
“That sounds about right. Does he like it?”
I shrug. “We didn't talk much about him. Didn't take him long to start reaming me out for driving the paper into the ground.”
“He was mad?”
“You know Sam.”
Teri nods, drinking from her Smirnoff. “Well it was more his own fault than anything. I mean, he's the one who came up with The Shade.”
“Third Degree Burns and the Teri-minator,” Nick says, coming to sit by us, on a corner of the coffee table. “What's up kids?”
Teri smiles. “You probably shouldn't sit on the coffee table. I don't know how strong it is.”
“What?” he asks, leaning in, holding his ear out toward her.
“Hey Nick,” some other guy says, coming up behind him and patting him on the back. “I'm out.”
“Ah, all right man. Good seeing you,” he says clasping the guys hand before he leaves. Nick turns back to us, “So this is a cool party Teri. Great space to have people.”
“Thanks,” Teri says. The two of them take drinks from their Smirnoffs at the same time. I want to slap the bottle out of his hand and tell him that a man doesn't drink that shit, but my annoyance with the guy is only equaled by my drunken apathy.
“And you know you look great tonight. Did you get a haircut or something?”
The guy's really walking the line now.
“Na, just the usual,” Teri says, smoothing her hair out where it falls over her shoulder.
I put an arm over Teri, pulling her in a little closer.October 20, 2007
I pull at my collar for a moment. My shirt's a little tight at the neck, and the overheated room doesn't make that any more comfortable. I loosen my tie ever so slightly.
I sit at Teri's side at one of two tables of honor, so to speak, in the Student Center ballroom. We're at a dinner in recognition of Dorothy White, the SA administrative assistant who is retiring at the end of next week after 30 years in her position. Our table and the one next to hers seat current and former SA executive board members, and I sort of feel my skin crawl when I glance across the table, seeing Tucker sit beside Lizzie.
Teri told me I didn't have to come, given the company we would be keeping. I didn't want to come, of course, but am trying to show her I can be supportive. That and is a nice event for Dorothy, a nice lady.
Of course, looking at all of the balloons, the perfect white tablecloths, and the half-eaten steak on my plate, I can't help but balk a little at SA funding this dinner when they can't fund my newspaper.
The seat on the other side of Teri is empty as Nick stands at a podium. He's clad in a full suit, his hair gelled back as he tells anecdotes about Dorothy. I can't help thinking of the night before. I remember watching the guy clutch his crotch, standing outside Teri's bathroom, tanked off Smirnoff. After a few minutes, he got tired of waiting, and went outside to take a leak in the bushes.
Tonight, he's all class. “So regardless of how we met Dorothy, and regardless of how many times we talked to her, or how she helped us—the bottom line remains that she was always there. She always had two helping hands, and that wonderful smile to greet us. My only regret is that I didn't get to know her better. So Dorothy, my very best to you in your retirement. Thank you, and God bless.”
The room fills with polite applause as Dorothy smiles and nods. As much as I don't like most of the people sitting around me, it is kind of nice that they're honoring this nice old woman. Focusing my attention solely on her, I raise my hands and join in the clapping.