Final Magazine Piece

Wednesday, December 1, 2010 – 11:00 AM

Every Wednesday and Friday, I enter into the small dirty blue painted office located in a small corner of the Media Center.  The blue rolley chair stationed in front of the Dell computer and filing shelves remains my home as “dispatcher” during my shift. I am the only girl in the office but I like it that way, it gives me some authority and some character. As I looked back toward the door, I saw that the sign that usually read A.M.E.S (Academic Media Equipment Services) now read Merry-Ames-Mas.  I peeped my head into the half door on my right connected to the main hallway of the office. A few weeks back my boss decided to cut the door in half so to keep us student staff members from entering their private office.  It didn’t stop us.

“Good morning,” I said as my two bosses turned around from hiding behind their black cushion chairs that they bought to look official.

“Good morning Chelsea,” Kirk Anderson, my boss’s boss replied from his office. Kirk was a man in his late forties who usually had a smile on his face and a witty joke on the tip of his tongue. He never dressed up but his usual attire consisted of jeans and a polo that stretched with his round belly. He was an early riser getting to work at 7 am, a gym go-er, and a man who pleased teachers, students and faculty all around campus.

“Good morning,” Jamie DeStefano, my boss, echoed. Jamie graduated from Fairfield in May and was now in charge of students who were once his fellow peers and friends. His athletic body was always hidden behind a baggy t-shirt and jeans and his dark brown hair changed lengths drastically almost every time I saw him. His glasses fell to the tip of his nose and he pushed them up with his pointer finger moving them closer to his eyes. He used to be shy but recently, a newfound confidence emerged.

“Did you see the new poster we got, Chelsea?” Kirk asked.

My eyes gravitated to the poster in the left hand corner of the room. My jaw dropped open when I saw three girl’s “bottoms” in bathing suits that didn’t cover anything. Lettering on the bottom read “Beach Bums.” I laughed nervously.

“But do you know the story?”

I shook my head right and left signaling I hadn’t heard it.

“Well every year Father Jim gives us a big garbage bag of junk for our birthdays. This year, this poster was in mine.” A big grin glowed on his face. “How could I not put it up when I knew I couldn’t get in any trouble?”

The phone rang in the other room interrupting our conversation. I ran to the jingle jangle of the telephone ring, gladly moving away from the poster topic.

“Media Center,” I said in a gentle but assertive tone.

“This is an emergency situation,” the lady on the other end of the phone yelled panicked and upset. “The projector was set up here a few minutes ago but the screen is black now. Can you send someone right away?”

“Stay calm.” I giggled as quietly as I could. “Can you try waking up the computer by moving the mouse?” merely offering what I thought was the simple solution to her emergency.

“Okay. Okay. Okay. Hold on please,” I could hear the phone drop to the ground, papers shuffling, and a few groans come from the other end. The women’s voice returned. “Okay. It’s working. Thanks so much. Bye.” The other line was dead.

Wednesday, December 1, 2010 – 1:00 PM

Erik Fong, a freshman, a first semester worker at AMES and a fellow Television major has the pleasure of working with me on the Wednesday shift. As he entered the office at exactly 1:00 PM (on time per usual), I noticed his curly locks of hair being squished to stay under his fedora and a smile that could light up a room. He sat down in the chair next to me looked at me and said, “Good afternoon. How are you today?” The genuine tone in his voice resonated with me.

Later, he commented on his experience in the workplace thus far. “It’s really easy to get caught up in your self ego. You walk in the room with a laptop and you save the day. It’s a great feeling.”

Leslie Brazier, the secretary of the media center, walked into the room while Erik and I discussed the job.  Her blonde hair flung back and forth in her ponytail as her walk transformed into more of a bounce.  Leslie didn’t do much. Actually, I have never seen her do anything besides take appointments and play Farmville. Father Jim Mayzik, the director of the Media Center, has “stolen” Leslie to become his person assistant.

“Oh no. You guys don’t have any decorations in here. I know Jim would want you to have decorations up! You should get on that as soon as possible.” Eric looked at me. I stared back at him. Silence filled the room. “Well I’ll go talk to Jim,” she said with a smile that seemed inerasable.

Wednesday, December 1, 2010 – 1:05 PM

The phone rang again. I sat up straight in my seat, fumbled looking for a pen on the desk, and flipped to a clean page on the white legal pad.

“Media Center.”

“Hello. My projector is projecting backwards. It’s like in Hebrew or something,” the man on the other line, bellowed.

“Okay.” I hesitated. Was he making a joke or his competence of the Hebrew language was slim to none?  “No problem. Where are you located? I can send someone right away.”

Friday, December 3, 2010 – 2:00 PM

A new day and a new shift ready to begin. Friday’s were usually slow but before even walking through the big blue door to the office, I could hear the telephone ringing from down the hall. I picked up the pace and made it inside, just to answer the phone with my usual greeting.

“Hi. Someone just came to set up a projector but I can’t get it to work at all. Can you send someone back here right away because I am losing precious time?” The woman seemed angry and upset with me.

“Can you identify the problem?” I asked calmly.

“No,” she replied. “But your job is to make sure someone gets here as soon as possible.”

“We are a little short staffed today but I will do my best to make sure a technician gets there right away.”

“Now. Okay? Thanks.” She hung up.

I called up John Canavan, a three-year veteran staff member who was out in the field. John was able to troubleshoot problems quickly, and tolerate teachers until he made it back to the office to vent about them. He accepted the lack of technological knowledge professors around Fairfield University had, but enjoyed a roast afterwards. “Yeah,” he responded. “She’s a dumbass. I’ll head back to her classroom now.”

Friday, December 3, 2010 – 2:21 PM

Kirk walked back into the office of clutter and equipment that was closest to my desk station. I was staring at my computer, entering a new work order into the system. He looked over to me as he was opening a box.

“I just got a new TV for my wife,” he said to me. “It’s an early Christmas present. Now I can spend more time in the bedroom.” He laughed. I didn’t.

Friday, December 3, 2010 – 2:33 PM

John returned from his deliveries.

“I despise that woman,” John expressed frustrated by his earlier encounter.

“Uh oh. What’d she do?” Jamie asked, concerned but curious for the dirty details.

“She talks to me like I don’t know what the problem is.”

Kirk laughed in his chair and turned around to join in the conversation. “Remember Doug? He used to work here.” Kirk asked the room. “She kept pressing buttons in the room once and Doug went over to go help. He actually called me to come assist him because he said if I didn’t come intervene he was going to kill her! If you don’t know Doug, he’s a tall, built, ex-marine. He could have killed her.”

Friday, December 3, 2010 – 2:47 PM

New projectors were recently ordered to be put up in most of the classrooms. Jamie was discussing with Kirk how they could put a new welcome sign instead of just a blue screen when they start up.

Jamie said, “I think the screen should read, ‘Please shut the fucking projector before leaving the room.’”

Friday, December 3, 2010 – 3:14 PM

The phone rings.

“Media center.”

“Hello. I don’t think I’m connected to the Internet. The screen says Google. I specifically asked for a projector with internet!”

This phone call especially concerned me. This woman is a professor at a prestigious University and she has never heard of Google? Something seems wrong.

Wednesday, December 8, 2010 – 11:00 AM

Dan Dunn, a junior and fellow Wednesday shift worker, walked into the office. I was sitting at my desk cross-legged, rocking forward and backwards in my chair per usual. Dan was tall, had brown hair, and enjoyed a good laugh. He was light hearted, a good worker and was always up for a good conversation. We talked about previous jobs (like his at the cemetery), finals week, and the new old school still camera that recorded to floppy disks found in the back room.

“I hate busy work,” he blurted.

Kirk looked over the half door, into our section of the office. “Okay Dan, Go clean the back room.” He chuckled. Dan looked at him with a serious face, confirming he was kidding, then laughed as well.

Wednesday, December 8, 2010 – 11:20 AM

The phone on my desk rang. I always let it ring twice; hoping the person on the other line may hang up before I answer. A woman’s voice immediately responded to mine by asking to speak with Kirk.

“Hold on while I transfer you.” I had just learned how to transfer people two weeks ago after working the job for almost three years, so I jumped at every transfer opportunity.

“Hello, this is Kirk…Huh? Oh yeah…Sure. No problem!…We can make sure that happens for you…Okay…Bye now.”

“She just told me she was giving me a big hug over the phone, then called me God!” Kirk announced to the room.

Wednesday, December 8, 2010 – 12:45 PM

Besides my chair, two others filled the small office area. They would get pushed around as people try to walk in and out of the room, or get back to the equipment room. They caused the office to become a maze, somewhat of a challenge. “What happened to that chair?” I asked Dan, John and Jamie as I noticed a large stain on the edge of the seat.

“It looks like puke,” Dan said.

“Or jizz,” said John.

“It looks like someone peed themselves,” I chimed in. “No really. It’s in the perfect spot. But oh wait, there are kind of chunks in the seat.”

“I won’t tolerate that talk in this office,” Jamie said, trying to put on his face of authority. He walked over to take a closer look. “Alright, maybe it is spit up.”

Wednesday, December 8, 2010 – 1:30 pm

“I love when teachers ask for VGA cables for their computer. I ask what kind of computer they have. When they tell me a Mac Book, I love being the one to say, ‘I’m sorry but we don’t have enough of those to give out,’” Dan said.

“Jamie is famous with all the girls because he gives them all the mac adapters,” Kirk said, in front of Jamie, letting out a loud laugh.

Dan laughed, “Yeah. Jamie says, ‘We can find one for you. Anything for you. Not a problem at all.”

***

After a long day’s work, I am more than excited to leave the empty blue walls, cluttered counter tops and witty jokes. I’ll regret not completing homework assignments during my work hours but will continue to spend my time talking to the boys, and chatting on Facebook. I know there will be more fun waiting for me on my next shift: more teachers to save, more laptops to deliver, and more phone calls to laugh at to make it through the day.

Humor Column

The alumni were coming Friday night and the parents were arriving Saturday morning. It was the weekend of October 23, or what Fairfield called ‘Family Weekend,’ and simultaneously welcomed their alumni. Awesome was an understatement of my expectations for Saturday. It would be my parent’s first official parents weekend visit, and I was especially anticipating my father’s alumni personality to outshine the glistening waters of the Long Island Sound. This was his weekend and I was ready.

I’m not sure whether my mother put words in his mouth or not, but I received an email Wednesday requesting a schedule of on-campus events for Saturday’s visit as my Father “doesn’t want to just be hanging at your lovely home all Saturday…(hope this is ok w. you)” Well of course it was okay because I found the schedule and was overly delighted to see the STAGTOBERFEST event at the Levee, the only on-campus bar and the proper noun my father includes in every inquisition of my updated life at school. “How’s the Levee Anne?”

The plans were set and I work up half drunk after Friday’s night of debauchery to quickly clean the entire house before the parents arrived. Considering that my exercise for the day, a quick shower followed by speedy hair drying make-up fixing routine brought me back downstairs to greet my Father who was Stagged out in bookstore apparel. He somehow managed to put together a Stag spirited outfit that would later be appropriate for dinner that evening.

Driving up to campus brought déjà vu of my 2007 orientation visit after my high school graduation. After three and a half years of attending class, this campus is never grinning ear-to-ear, psyched to be a stag, unless accepted high school students or parents are turning off the North Benson Road and heading straight to the campus center.  A prayer to Saint Anthony and we somehow found a parking spot in the BCC lot, made our way through the basketball team exhibition and up to Bellarmine for a quick spin through the new museum.

“When are we going to the Levee?” my Father wouldn’t stop asking.

“What’s the Levee Charley?”

“You know what the Levee is Fran! C’mon it’s the only place around here to get a beer and watch the game!”

“Well I’ve never been there.”

“Yes you have! If you’ve ever seen someone eat pizza with a fork and knife, you’ve been at the Levee. Maybe we’ll order a grinder for lunch today.” His face had that innocent blue-eyed smirk that revealed he was up to no good. And sure enough, he was.

The sun shone very brightly on my glazed over red eyeballs and as my stomach turned there was only one thing I needed. “I thought you said you weren’t going to be hung-over today Anne!” my father yelled as he turned to place an order with the bartender at the Levee. The music was loud and the band was a lot better last night when I saw them at the Grape. My mother is friends with the lead singer’s mother so she was content sitting in her bar stool listening to the Hootie and the Blowfish renditions.

While the copies of the Mirror I brought (upon my parents request) were first used as coasters and paper plates, my roommate’s father got his hands on a greasy copy and made a loud effort by mocking my executive editor title. I was soon being quizzed in a similar fashion as my 8^th grade literature teacher as Mr. Bonjorno began fact checking my article and my memory. I passed and the paper was back on the table, or probably on the floor by this point. “Go Stags!”

As we headed back to the Stumble Inn, my parent-paid beach house, I somehow convinced the two money makers on making a trip down to the binge-drinking arena, Lantern Point.

“I’m not going Annie, it’s freezing,” my mother said arms-crossed stern statement.

“C’mon Fran we’re going! I brought my trunks and I’m going for a dunk in the Long Island Sound! It’s only October, the water should be nice!”

What my Father thought would be a quaint shore-crashing coastline surpassed his innocent expectations. The rugby team and alumni crowded the decks with red solo cups and flannels. Parents were chugging beer and I watched my father stand there observing some drunk players (including the Managing editor of the Mirror) joyfully participating in the dizzy bat beer drinking games. I’ve never seen boys so happy to be hazed and I’ve never seen a parent watch this go down. “Go Stags!” my Father said to anyone who would Stag fist-pump him back.  My mother, probably wanted to yell and call the cops. She was still freezing.

It was chilly so we headed back and away from the Long Island Sound. I decided to cheer my mother up with a little caught off-guard surprise by reuniting her with her orientation best friend. It was because of this lady that I just “HAD” to befriend her daughter, a random girl my mother was certain would be my ideal college friend.

“Annie, her name is Brigid and her mother is just so entertaining! You have to facebook her when we get home and be her best friend!” What annoyed me wasn’t the fact that my mother misunderstood proper Facebook etiquite, it was the fact that she drove off Fairfield’s campus that Summer in 2007 with more friends that me and proceeded to assume match-maker role. So, I did what I thought was just and embarrassed her on that lovely parent-filled Saturday. Her face grew Stag red .

The never-ending happy hour segment of our late afternoon was fun… for my roommates and their parents. I poured the wine, opened the beer and served the cheese and crackers while my father told story after story of all the reckless behaviors that resulted in me spending half of my high school career in my bedroom, grounded. They laughed and I cried with my head in the fridge, searching for the cheese that I had to replenish the dish on the kitchen table with.

Dinner was better. We had a table of 12 and my buzz was back. I sipped plush Spanish wine, enjoyed butternut squash ravioli and laughed with the table as my father finally found a new topic of discussion: Bruce Jenner. We had seen him give a “motivational speech,” two years ago and my father has been ever-since moved by his Olympian success. Jokes we made, the check was paid and a last final toast to Bruce Jenner ended our filling and expensive parent-paid dinner, and of course “Go Stags!”

The night was over. My parents dropped me off and my father came inside for one last pit stop at the Stumble Inn’s restroom. “Go stags!” he yelled one last time as he kissed me goodbye.

“Annie, was that your dad?” It was the first time I had been out publicly with my Father, equally tipsy, and not the slightest bit embarrassed.

“Yeah, haha that was my Dad. He’s great isn’t he?”

“I’m not sure exactly why I don’t like those three out there.”

“Probably because we’ve never seen them before and they’ve spread out like they own the place, and are giving everybody dirty looks when they come inside.”

I laugh. “Well said.”

Danielle has a way of articulating my thoughts better than I can. “We may be at a disadvantage here” I write in my brand new reporter notebook (bought specifically for this class). This coffee shop is our territory and I wonder how comfortable our two subjects will feel here. I have no doubt we will behave naturally. My concern is whether or not we will we be able to capture some non-forced dialogue.  I test my new voice recorder (bought specifically for this class) against the ambient noise of the café.  Upon playback the only thing audible is supposed “background music.”

“We might end up interviewing each other.”

My worry is ignored, as Danielle navigates on her damaged iPhone testing to find the better of two recording applications, she looks up holding the phone.

“Ok now talk.”

“…”

“Ok now talk.”

“I don’t think they’re gonna show.”

“They’re only ten minutes late. Fashionable.” She stops the recording and plays it back. The music is still too loud.

“See here they are.” The two girls arrive almost on cue.

The four of us exchange hellos and decide to pull another table over to allow the girls to use their laptops. I opt to scribble notes in my little notebook, always excited to use new things.  Caleigh Tansey sits down next to me and puts an ice pack on her left knee. I ask about what happened. Her answer is unintelligible to me. Across from her Jennifer Labbadia boots up her computer and smiles incessantly. Caleigh looks around the emptying coffee shop, tentatively fingering the white ribbon tied in her hair.

“I shouldn’t have kept my bow in.”

“Why is that?” Women’s motives and reasoning I’m quite certain will continue to elude and fascinate me.

“Cause everyone is so…” she gestures to a few of the patrons outside, “cool here.”

“They’re a bunch of assholes.”

Danielle rolls her eyes almost embarrassed by my lack of restraint, but Caleigh and Jenny both laugh at my directness, and I become quite sure I will make a further jackass of myself by the end of the night. The two new arrivals go to the counter to get something to drink. Danielle and I discuss the kinds of things we could ask and then tell to both give and get interesting dialogue worth writing about. They return to their open computers and continue with small talk. I show off my new recorder and tell them it’s on. Danielle had done the same moments before.

“What are you drinking?” Jenny asks the first question of what would be a forty five minute conversation.

“Peppermint tea.” Danielle replies quietly.

“We’re both drinking peppermint tea,” I continue very dryly, in case Caleigh would also be interested in the detail.

“I hate how my voice sounds on recorders.”

“Oh me too, everyone does, yeah.” I empathize with Jenny, while she and Caleigh elaborate the reasons for it in a kind of staggered unison.

“I already have a manly voice.”

“It makes me sound like a man.”

“And I think it makes me sound like a woman.”

Their forced laughter and my mild embarrassment at such a terrible joke are maybe only obvious to Danielle who generally says very little but just observes. A moment of silence passes before Jenny explains her selected beverage to us.

“Um… I’m drinking, just so you know, green iced tea with honey… but you can’t really taste the honey.”

“I’m drinking ‘winter’s tale,’ or something, she said everybody ordered it today probably because it’s fall.”  Caleigh said this all with a very slight giggle.

A few seconds pass.

“Alright so… what sort of things should we talk about?” Danielle’s hair was pulled back sitting across from me and periodically flashing a smile that would accurately articulate the first few minutes of the conversation, and many other moments when the four of us would remember the voice recorder and the whole nature of our meeting.

“How our days went?” Jenny offers as a suggestion.

“That’s a good place to start,” I agree.

“…”

“Or weekends…” says Caleigh.

“Oh yeah…”

“Look at these assholes.” I knew who he was talking about without looking. “Sitting out there looking all self important. I don’t know why I don’t like them.”

“Probably because we’ve never seen them here before and they’re spread out all over. And because they’re giving everyone dirty looks like they’ve staked their claim here.”

“Well said.”

“Maybe this isn’t a good idea. All I’m gonna end up recording is this awful music.”

“I know. It’s fine. I’ll have Alex turn down the music.” Nick and I know all the employees because I work there and because we’re both here every day.  “I’m more worried that they’re getting us in our element, but we’re not going to Caleigh’s cheerleading practice or to hang out with Jenny’s twin sister.”

He was writing and didn’t say anything, so I spoke again.

“What kind of car do you think Caleigh drives?”

“Jetta –“

“Yeah, or a Beetle. Volkswagen.

“Or a Civic.”
“Mm. Definitely green or silver.”

Talking to each other, we often laugh not so much for the humor, but because what was said aloud was exactly what the other was thinking. It seemed like it would be interesting for us to conduct this interview together. Unfortunately, poor planning and an unclear assignment might make it a little more difficult than expected. I couldn’t help but think that we weren’t going to get an accurate portrayal of them or whether the group interview was going to be acceptable.

We relocated to the other side of the store as soon as the seat cleared for hipster cigarette time. As we settled in, he looked at his phone.

“I don’t think they’re gonna show.”

“Ten minutes late. Fashionable.”

“We’ll have to interview eachother.”

I ignored the comment. A moment later, Caleigh and Jenny passed the window carrying laptops. The door opened and slammed shut. They pulled a table over and set up. Laptops, cell phones, and notebooks. After a moment of uncomfortable greetings, both got up to order drinks. Once they walked away, I spoke up.

“How do you think this is gonna go?”
“Strangely.”
“Strangely. I don’t think they get your jokes.”
“No one ever does.”

We both looked around, surveying the people of the coffee shop. Nick pointed outside the window, commenting on a girl’s poor choice of mixed prints. I shrugged, thinking it was tastefully done and then noticed the two boys standing with her.

“That kid just handed Matt a half eaten sandwich out of a giant bag. He’s eating it.”

Matt came inside and Nick yelled, “What’s up Dirty Latin. Is that a half eaten sandwich you’re eating?”

Matt’s a regular at the shop and coworker of mine. They went on to talk about other things but I lost interest and tried to assess how the assignment might turn out. I was hoping we’d run into more of the regulars throughout the night to authenticate the experience. Caleigh and Jenny both sat back down.

“What are you guys drinking?” Jenny asked and we all answered, but it was a failed attempt to start somewhere.

We all looked at eachother, I eyed Nick, expecting him to say something as is usually the case, but I sensed he meant the same with his expression.

“Ok. So – “

“I shouldn’t have worn my bow,” Caleigh said. “I look like such a cheerleader here, everyone else looks so cool.”

I laughed, knowing how hard much of the clientele works to achieve that coolness.

Jenny opened her laptop. “Oh, here. Here’s a picture of me and my twin. In case you wanted to know what she looked like.”

We all looked and essentially replied in the same way. “Which one is you?”

I thought it ironic that she would phrase it that way after she had previously explained that they are identical twins.

“So what should we talk about?” Nick asked.

“Our days today?”

“Or our weekends…”

I silently observed, but Nick shared our weekend.

“We went up to Ludlow, Vermont.”

“Cool, where in Vermont?”

It was clear that the conversation wasn’t holding Caleigh’s attention.

Nick shared a thought on skiing, explaining that it would be more fulfilling to hike the mountain as opposed to the customary chair lift to the top. I rolled my eyes as it was the second time I had heard this and hoped the girls would just laugh it off, but they unfortunately took him seriously. A lengthy discussion was had on skiing, sledding, and snowboarding and followed by an off the record analysis of our fellow classmates and student body.

“I’ve never seen so many Uggs in my life.” Jenny jumped into the conversation and blurted this out.

“I wear Uggs…”

“No, um,” Jenny struggled to find the right words to Caleigh’s response. “Some people just have like five pairs.”

Soon the lights of the coffee shop dimmed and the barista came around cleaning tables and clearing coffees. We packed up, still unsure of the direction to take but confident we had enough to complete the assignment.

We pushed open the torn screen door and began to part ways.

“Where are you guys parked?” Nick asked.

“Up there, behind that car.”

“What do you drive?”

“A civic,” Caleigh said, clearly wondering why he asked.

I looked at Nick, “You win.”

David Foster Wallace

in April’s The  Atlantic Magazine.

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