Archives:
October 21-October 27, 2007
October 21, 2007
“Hey, Mike?” I say, answering the phone with a smile.
“ Preston , what's happening, my man?”
“Not a whole lot. It's a been a while.” As a matter of fact, I haven't heard a thing from Mike Weaver since he graduated in May. “How are you doing?”
“Good, good. How are things over back at good old Taylor College .”
“Eh, pretty much the same old,” I lie, opening my little refrigerator in search of a snack. “Few little changes here and there. You know how it goes.”
“Right.”
“So what are you up to now?” I ask, settling on a pudding pack. “You land a job and everything.”
Mike chuckles. “That's actually a part of why I'm calling now. Remember how I was talking to you about playing ball in Europe ?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, I decided not to. I figured the chances of getting from there back to playing in the US were pretty slim, and I had might as well get on with my life. You know, settle into a real job and all that.”
“Yeah, that makes sense,” I say, before licking off the lid of my pudding and tossing it in the trash.
“So I've been working in sales for this sports equipment supplier in town.”
“Nice.”
“It sucks.”
“Ah.” I bite my tongue.
“But anyway, this team that was recruiting me out of Italy comes around again, and they nearly double up their offer to get come over, under the condition I get there immediately.”
“So what did you tell them?”
“Only thing I could tell them. I'm shipping off tomorrow.”
I chuckle. “That's crazy, man.”
“Don't I know it. Figured I would come back to Taylor sometime and say hey to everyone, but now I don't have a clue when the next time I'll be in the country is. So anyway, figured I'd call around while I'm getting packed up.”
“Well congratulations, man. That sounds awesome.”
“Yeah, it's pretty decent. But come on, out with it, bro. What's new over at Taylor ? Give me the dirt. How's Teri? And the paper? And what's the new roommate like?”
I scratch at my chest for a second, looking out my window. “Well, there has been some stuff going on.”October 22, 2007
I walk in to find Gabby, Rich, and Seth, the Student Life editor, all crowded around this one computer at the far side of the office. I head on in, setting my bag down at my desk and heading toward them.
Not one of them looks as I head toward them. I wonder if I was a burglar who stopped in, unhooked a computer and took it out, piece by piece, if anyone would raise a finger to stop me. I shake it off, joining the little crowd myself. “What are we looking at?” I ask.
“We're just doing a little research,” Gabby says, typing something in a Google search bar.
“Research on?”
“The Spaniard,” Seth says, not looking from the screen. “I think this might be a good story idea. There are a lot of allusions to him on the web.”
“Let me guess,” I say, backing away, heading toward my own computer. “A ton of snippets that may or may not be about the guy, which, taken together, might suggest that he actually exists?”
“Well this is something.” Gabby says.
I bat my mouse around, bringing my screen back to life.
“Dave gave me the street name where they saw the Spaniard,” Gabby says, as the others move in a little closer. “And according to the Associated Press, a woman was killed in a hit and run, crossing that street, ten years ago last month.”
“Does it give any information about the woman?” I ask.
“Couldn't be identified at the time of the report,” Rich reads from the screen.
“Same old thing,” I say, sitting down. “Fits just well enough to convince people it's connected. Just vague enough not to be conclusive about anything.”
“Be a skeptic if you want,” Gabby says, typing something else in. “I think this is just a matter of connecting the dots.”October 23, 2007
I sit outside Jones's office, leaning back a little on my old wooden chair that looks more like something from a kitchen than a waiting area. I was supposed to meet him at 3 o' clock, and got here ten minutes early. Looking at my watch, I find it's 3:20 , and start to wonder if I'm ever going to go in.
I know Jones is inside. I've heard him laugh once or twice. I got up to knock once, and could hear the low rumble of his voice, and the higher pitch of a girl talking. I decided I probably shouldn't interrupt—that if it was something important enough for him to run over time, I should probably let them go on.
I open up the mini-legal pad on which I've been writing story ideas for The Window. With the move to publishing exclusively online, I've been thinking maybe we should post articles more than once a week, giving us more of the feel of a real news website. At the same time, I don't see how we'd maintain our current editing processes if we did that, and since I'm the only one taking editing seriously lately, I don't like the idea of doing less. Beyond that, if we ever do get back into print, I don't want to switch our processes around completely.
It's not as though I have enough story ideas to justify updating the site constantly anyway. Looking through my list, it's all kind of blah, and it occurs to me that it's been a pretty slow year for news in general thus far. I wonder if there really hasn't been much going on. I worry that we've been missing it. I hate to think that this story about the Spaniard is really the hottest thing that we have going.
The office door swings open at last. I look up to see Claire coming out. “Hey,” I say, a little surprised.
“ Preston ,” she smile is a little unusually wide as she gathers her neck length hair behind her, pulling it together with a hair tie. “What's up?”
“I was just here to see Jones.”
As if on cue, Jones pops his head out of the office. “Mr. Burns, sorry to keep you waiting. Come on in.”
Claire smiles again, this time with the slightest giggle, before waving and leaving us behind.October 24, 2007
“Hey Seth,” I say, coming into the office.
Seth looks over his shoulder, back at me as I walk into the office. “ Preston , just the man I wanted to see.”
“All right.” I set my bag down at my desk. “What can I do for you?”
Seth walks over to the printer, removing a few sheets, then makes his way across the office to flop them down in front of me. “Went out last night and got myself some proof.”
Looking down, I see a vague pattern in black and gray. Squinting, I can see something like trees. “What are these?” I ask, flipping to the next page.
“Photos I took last night,” Seth says, smiling proudly. “They're from my visit with the Spaniard.”
I hold the first sheet a little closer to my eyes, squinting further at the shadows. “So what? You took a picture of some trees?”
“You see that?” he asks, pointing at a blur on the page.
“Yeah.”
“Well that's him. We drove by a bunch of times—caught him twice, and that's the guy.”
I shake my head. “All I'm seeing is a blur.”
“It's probably clearer on the screen,” Gabby says, sitting at the center table.
Indulging them a step further, I follow Seth across the office to his computer, where he brings up the window. The blur does look a bit more like a human form on screen, but I'm not sure if that's a coincidence, or if I'm just looking for the figure of a man, now that I've been told it's there—or if there is in fact somebody there. Even if there is, it's impossible to make out a thing about him.
“It could be a person,” I say, trying not to sound condescending. “But this photo doesn't really prove anything.”
Seth shrugs, looking a little disappointed. “It was the best I could do, shooting from a moving car. We actually thought about stopping to talk to the guy.”
“You were going to talk to the revenge obsessed lunatic?” I ask.
“We thought we'd ask him for directions or something—and someone would subtly take a photo of him with the gun while we were doing it.”
“That doesn't sound so safe,” Gabby says.
“That's the realization we came to as well,” Seth says. “On top of which, one of my buddies was thinking out loud, and he said, ‘what if the guy who hit his wife asked for directions?' That's when we decided to go home.”
“Well, it was a valiant effort,” I say turning away, and setting the printouts down on the center table. “But next time, let's lay off the printer. Remember, we don't have a budget, so once we run out of ink or paper, we're screwed.”October 25, 2007
Teri lies down, her head in my lap, a hand on her forehead, as we sit, watching TV at her place.
“Feeling any better?” I ask.
“My head's still pounding,” she says in a whine. “I think it's one of those headaches that's only going to go away after I get some sleep.”
“You wanna head to bed early?”
“Na, I wanna hang out,” she says, sliding her hand from her forehead to touch my hand. “Tell me about your week.”
“Well remember that story Dave was telling us in the office—about the Spaniard?”
“Uh huh.”
“For some reason, it's all the staff can think about it. They're talking about him everyday. And apparently Seth drove out with some buddies and saw him the other night.”
“It's kind of a romantic story.”
“Romantic?” I ask. “It's the stuff of B-movies. Creepy at best.”
“Well yeah, the whole guy standing at the side of the road with a gun thing is kind of creepy,” Teri says, moving her hand back to the top of her head. “But at the same time, if the story was true, it's this guy so deeply in love that after his wife's gone, all he can do is stand outside, hoping he can get revenge on the killer—on some level, probably hoping he can rediscover her, or recreate that night and save her.”
“You're sure it's not just you who's romantic?”
Teri sighs. “Tell me, Preston , what would you do if I got hit with a car?”
I had a feeling the conversation might turn in this direction, and sigh myself. “It'd never happen.”
“How do you figure?”
I run my fingers through her hair. “If a car ever got close, I'd dive in the way and take the hit myself.”
She smiles. “I think that was the right answer.”
I smile back. “Of course, that would leave you to walk the streets with the gun at night. But as long as you're cool with it, it's good by me.”October 26, 2007
Coming into class, I find Emma and Claire, looking as though they're deep in conversation. Emma perks up when she sees me, while Claire scrunches her forehead, looking a little annoyed.
“ Preston ,” Emma says, “we have a problem you might be able to help us with.”
“What's that?” I ask, setting my bag down and starting to unzip my coat.
“It's your friend Nick,” Claire says. “Some mutual friend of ours gave him my screenname, and now he keeps talking to me.”
“We think he's trying to flirt,” Emma adds in.
“Well, in case you're under multiple misconceptions—A) it wasn't me who gave out your screenname.”
“You have my screenname?” Claire asks.
I can feel myself starting to turn red. “I think I still have it from back in the day,” I fumble, then decide to just go on with it, “and B) don't call Nick my friend. If anything, he's Teri's friend. And really, they're just co-workers.”
“Are you friends with him enough to tell him to back off?” Claire asks.
“Honestly, I still feel a little awkward telling him to back off of my girlfriend.”
Claire rolls her eyes. “Great.”
“You know, there's a reason why you can block a screenname.” Emma says.
Claire runs a hand through her hair, looking past us. I turn to see Nick walking into the room. “And there's a reason why stalkers have back up screennames.”
Nick flashes a grin as he heads toward us.October 27, 2007
Justin Timberlake's “Rock Your Body” begins to pipe through the stereo speakers. “This is my beat,” Alex, one of the party hosts, says before spinning away from us and starting to dance in front of a group of three other guys, seated on a couch.
I drink deeply from my Corona .
“This isn't exactly your scene, huh?” Chang asks, standing beside me in the corner, his elbow propped on a short bookcase.
“It's fine,” I say, rubbing a sleeve over my mouth. “You know, I'm just not used to parties like this.”
Alex is a friend of Brad's, and Chang invited me to join them for this party. I figured I haven't really gotten to know any of Chang's friends who I didn't introduce him to, and it was about time I gave them a chance.
As another guy gets up, dancing up on Alex, I have second thoughts about the whole thing.
“Yeah, it's not really my cup of tea, either.”
“Really?” I ask, taking another sip.
“Just because I like guys doesn't mean I like all this,” he says, waving his hand at the room as a whole. He takes a quick swig from his beer. “I'm still just a guy from Shermantown.”
I smile and pat him on the back, downing what's left of my own bottle. “Well, not to put anyone else down, but I'm glad to hear it.”
Chang nods, scratching his nose against his forearm for a second. “So hey, I was on the Window website today. What's the deal with this Spaniard guy?”