Collateral Damage

The One With The Playbill & Horrible Roommates

The computer lab was engulfed by the smell of over-caffeinated millennials and the sounds of fingers and foreheads smashing against the keyboards. I, on the other hand, wasn't slapping my head against the keys, but rather, resting it peacefully. One might think a crowded computer lab would make sleeping an impossible task, but if you're a trained professional in the art of napping in public places such as myself, no task was impossible. I managed to rest long enough so that the keys left an imprint on my cheek before I was smacked awake by some rolled up paper. I whipped around for the culprit until my eyes leveled on the petite frame of my chief editor, the short, yet dangerous, Charlotte Jackson.

"If I had known you were going to take this time to catch up on sleep, I would've dimmed the lighting for ya, Hugo," She crossed her arms in front of her chest and shifted her posture so that one hip was tilted above the other. I swear, if mortality was ever able to beat Charlotte (which I've honestly concluded is impossible), she'd be buried in that exact same position, like she was waiting for death to give her an explanation.

"Well, better late than never, right?" I pulled my face into a tight smile. No spark of amusement flashed through her eyes. I stood up straighter. "Sorry. Won't happen again."

She shook her head and raised her hands in exasperation. "I don't get you, Hugo. I really don't. You say you want to finally get some reputation around here, but all you do is sleep and unplug Arnie's keyboard when he's not looking. Not to mention how you purposefully get the wrong coffee orders every time we send you out--" I rolled my eyes and slouched in my chair, tired of hearing the same, notorious nagging. "--Oh, and don't think I haven't noticed it's you who's been messing up the printer settings--"

"First off, Arnie's an easy target, it's too tempting. Secondly, I'm not your intern, I shouldn't be running coffee orders anyway. And thirdly, I quite like the pink font. I think it makes a statement."

"Arnie deserves better."

"I deserve better."

Charlotte sighed, sat on the desk space beside my computer, and reached into her back pocket. She handed me a small book with the words "PLAYBILL" written across the top. My heart sank. "This week, you're in charge of reviewing Modern Love written and composed by--"

"That Cortés kid, yeah, I know. Hey Charlotte, how bout you send someone who's actually, oh I don't know... interested in live theater?"

"I thought you wanted a bigger story? Leonardo Cortés is--"

"A highly esteemed musical prodigy and the son of a world-renowned pianist. Yeah, yeah, I know. Robyn's basically a walking Wikipedia page for that guy. Did you know he's Puerto Rican? A lot of people confuse his nationality because his first name sounds so Italian, but no, his father grew up by the coast of San Juan." I recalled that one, fatal afternoon where I made the unfortunate decision to ask Robyn what she was listening to. We were both pulling late nights at the campus library and I was in a desperate need of a distraction. When I asked her, her eyes lit up and her lips contorted into a sadistic smile. I made no further progress on my speech for my public speaking course, but I am now a certified member of a prestigious fan club. If college doesn't work out, there's always that to put on my resume. 

"Wow, you know your stuff. See if you can slip that into your review." And with that, Charlotte jumped off my desk and left. I stared at the playbill between my fingers and scowled. Even the cover art looked cheesy. 

\ \ \

When I got back to my dorm, there was a dirty green sock hanging from my doorknob. One of the very few perks of being an RA is having a dorm all to yourself, but when you have a friend like Ernest, you might as well cross that perk off the list. I pounded on the door, informed him that he was now in charge of washing my sheets, and reluctantly left him and his girl to their own devices. On my way to the lounge area, I was stopped by Kamaria, a history major and part-time mom-friend. We hardly knew each other which meant she probably tapped my shoulder because she was in need of counseling or a favor. 

"Hey, Hugo. How's life treatin' ya?" She asked with an overcompensated smile. At least she had nice teeth. 

"Like dirt. What can I do for you, Kamaria? Karin still a bitch?" The only time Kamaria ever came to me was to complain about her god-awful roommate. In most cases, I would say people like Kamaria are just overdramatic and uptight, but from the things I've heard and witness, Kamaria's complaints are fairly valid. Karin's the kind of girl that probably killed a kitten out of fun in a previous life (if not this one). 

"She threw my shoes out the window yesterday because she thought they were her ex-boyfriend's. She either needs to get a fucking grip or I need to start wearing more feminine clothes." I looked her over; she was wearing cargo pants and a soda-brand t-shirt. I shook my head. 

"Nah, you've got an early 2000's Avril Lavigne thing going on. Ever thought of wearing heavy eye make-up?" I amused myself picturing Kamaria at a vanity table, drawing raccoon circles around her eyes. Her face involuntarily convulsed in disgust. I laughed. 

"Anyways, I came to ask you something," She looked unsure of whether to ask, almost as if my answer was a raised palm ready to strike. I nodded my head, urging her to continue. "Well, it's just... the RA's in the other floors always organize little get-togethers, set up fun games, and decorate the halls around this time of the year. And during Halloween, we really didn't do anything cool or exciting. I mean, even the substance-free floor threw a cool Tim Burton night where students dressed up as Tim Burton characters and marathoned his movies. And the floor below us organized a month-long murder-mystery game and one floor even--" 

"What are you getting at, Kam?" I didn't like where her rambling was going. I'll be the first to admit--I'm a lousy RA. Listening to other people's problems is not my forte, I suck at planning events, and I'm about as far from a role model as you can get. The only reason I took the job was because they needed someone who was too poor to afford housing and too lame to have a life outside of campus. 

"Christmas is around the corner and I thought maybe we could do... I don't know.. something," She motioned around our bare floor and sighed. 

I narrowed my brows, "Aren't you an atheist?" 

She chuckled and shrugged unapologetically, "It's not like we're gonna reenact the birth of Jesus in the lounge area. Just put up some reindeer and fake snow for Christssake!" 

Long story short, I agreed to having a hall-decorating night as long as Kamaria raised enough money for supplies. After finally getting cozy in the lounge room and reading a couple chapters from Stonewall by Martin Duberman, I caught Ernest walking down the hall in nothing but a towel. I whistled flirtatiously as he approached. He scowled at me.  

Ernest sat down beside me, towel and nothing else, and stared at me intently. I stared back, apathetic. "You high?" He asked.  

I glared at him, still annoyed that he used my dorm as some kind of sex dungeon. "No." 

Ernest furrowed his extremely bushy eyebrows and combed a hand through his tousled, light brown hair.  "Why not?" 

I sighed and closed my book, "Good point." 

| Author's Note |

I decided since I haven't written anything in over a year, I would at least try. This idea has been going through my mind ever since I read about Jonah Lehrer's plagiarism/false information scandal. I just thought it'd be interesting to write about the struggle between a desperate, unrecognized journalist and a well-known artist with just about everything on the line.  Few things I wanna make clear, though: 

I do not work in the journalism field. While I am in my high school's Broadcast Journalism club (I'm really cool, I promise), it's pretty far from the real deal so if I seem like I don't know how things work, it's cause I don't. Feel free to correct me. 

I'm not in college, nor do I know anyone who's gone to college. Everything I know about college is from media and the internet. If it seems like I don't know what I'm talking about, it's cause I don't. Feel free to correct me. 

This is extremely casual, as most of my works are. I don't have a schedule, I don't have a detailed outline, or an outline at all, actually. I'm just trying to write here. 

I don't know how to end this. 

((Drops mic.)) 

((Accidentally.))