16
The next few days were intangible, a sticky morass of emotions tangled amidst interspersed events. I finished a test on auto-pilot, chewed and swallowed without realizing what food was in my mouth, and came and went from my dorm in a sort of seamless haze that did not actually involve entering or leaving the dorm.
I called to add the last bit--presumably the most important--to the band profile in the SA office, foregoing the trip with a cocktail of cowardice and uncertainty. Having relayed the change to one of the male activities staff, I found Linda's apartment number in the student directory, called it, and left asked her to call me back sometime that night, all underscored by a voice taut with immature, fragmented desire.
I disconnected the call, let the receiver dangle from slack fingers. After several minutes I set the phone back in the cradle and geared up.
Across campus, the band competition posters really started to draw some attention. It seemed like the murder was fading further and further into the rearview, and the campus could put both hands on the wheel and steer through the rest of the semester. I hadn't paid much attention to them either, honestly; but seeing a gaggle of undergrads shuffling around the poster piqued my interest some.
'Garish' was probably the best word to use; the sign sagged under the oversized fonts and screeching colors, a text bubble with "ROCK AND ROLL" in it blimping above the rest of the poster and crowding out any breathing room for the poor letters and clip art at the bottom. The date and time--less than two weeks--were staggered across the bottom, all underneath a strip that read: "BATTLE OF THE BAND'S COMPETITION--THERE CAN ONLY BE ONE WITH PRIZES" 'Horrible,' as a descriptor, could probably have worked as well.
I tried not to snicker, letting out something that I managed to cover up with a cough. The students looked at me, then back to the sign. "This is so going to rock," one announced, almost to reassure herself that it was, perhaps, going to rock.
"I hope Wes's band wins," said another. Wes's band was terrible.
"Yeah, 'there can only be one.'" The two girls nodded to their male companion.
I spoke up. "Or is it, 'there can only be one with prizes'?" They looked at me like I'd just urinated on their thrift-store loafers. "Which seems kind of redundant. I mean, usually the prize goes to the winner. Unless there are lots of prizes. Or if prizes go to someone who isn't the winner."
The pack of students scampered away. I hadn't even gotten to my question about how complex the battle between competitions could get. Grabbing a to-go sandwich from the Snack Shack, I went back to my dorm room with hopes of getting some studying in; finals for the semester were the same week as the competition, with the actual concert acting as a send-off for the students until January.
As I unlocked my door, the phone began to ring. I set my sandwich down on the desk and answered.
"Why, hello," was the response. "You wouldn't happen to be busy tonight, would you?" It was Linda.
I called to add the last bit--presumably the most important--to the band profile in the SA office, foregoing the trip with a cocktail of cowardice and uncertainty. Having relayed the change to one of the male activities staff, I found Linda's apartment number in the student directory, called it, and left asked her to call me back sometime that night, all underscored by a voice taut with immature, fragmented desire.
I disconnected the call, let the receiver dangle from slack fingers. After several minutes I set the phone back in the cradle and geared up.
Across campus, the band competition posters really started to draw some attention. It seemed like the murder was fading further and further into the rearview, and the campus could put both hands on the wheel and steer through the rest of the semester. I hadn't paid much attention to them either, honestly; but seeing a gaggle of undergrads shuffling around the poster piqued my interest some.
'Garish' was probably the best word to use; the sign sagged under the oversized fonts and screeching colors, a text bubble with "ROCK AND ROLL" in it blimping above the rest of the poster and crowding out any breathing room for the poor letters and clip art at the bottom. The date and time--less than two weeks--were staggered across the bottom, all underneath a strip that read: "BATTLE OF THE BAND'S COMPETITION--THERE CAN ONLY BE ONE WITH PRIZES" 'Horrible,' as a descriptor, could probably have worked as well.
I tried not to snicker, letting out something that I managed to cover up with a cough. The students looked at me, then back to the sign. "This is so going to rock," one announced, almost to reassure herself that it was, perhaps, going to rock.
"I hope Wes's band wins," said another. Wes's band was terrible.
"Yeah, 'there can only be one.'" The two girls nodded to their male companion.
I spoke up. "Or is it, 'there can only be one with prizes'?" They looked at me like I'd just urinated on their thrift-store loafers. "Which seems kind of redundant. I mean, usually the prize goes to the winner. Unless there are lots of prizes. Or if prizes go to someone who isn't the winner."
The pack of students scampered away. I hadn't even gotten to my question about how complex the battle between competitions could get. Grabbing a to-go sandwich from the Snack Shack, I went back to my dorm room with hopes of getting some studying in; finals for the semester were the same week as the competition, with the actual concert acting as a send-off for the students until January.
As I unlocked my door, the phone began to ring. I set my sandwich down on the desk and answered.
"Why, hello," was the response. "You wouldn't happen to be busy tonight, would you?" It was Linda.
posted by Jason at 10:01 PM
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