Grey

by Aundrea Ascencio

  "No, it's not a love letter," Robert snapped, snatching the crumbled paper back, but Eric had seen enough to probe further.

  "A writers’ guild, huh? Is that some secret club where you dress up in costumes and live in a cartoon fantasy world all your life?"

  "Do you ever once think about things before you say them?" Robert asked. "Or do you always talk out of your ass?"

  "My ass is never wrong."

  "This isn't your business. I am not obligated to share my personal matters with you," Robert said, snatching up the last of the paper wads.

  "Personal matters? Ow, look at you. Aren't you proper?"

  "You just don't take a hint," Robert said under his breath, as he shoved the papers into his bag. "Have a nice afternoon."

  "You too. Have a nice evening," Eric said, yet continued to follow him out the library. "But about this club. How does somebody get in if they're interested?"

  "You don't even know what it's about."

  "Writing. Duh. What do I have to do? Fill out an application?" Eric asked.

  "We're not accepting any new applications this semester," Robert said firmly.

  "What about next semester?"

  "Can you even write?"

  "This is America, Roberto. What do you think?" Eric said.

  "I meant do you have experience writing poetry and fiction."

  "Anybody can write fiction. I wrote for a school magazine in high school."

  "For how long?" Robert asked.

  "About a month."

  "That's the equivalent of one issue."

  "Ya, I had some complex ideas," Eric said awkwardly. "The editors just didn't get me. It was mainly political commentary pieces. A little poetry now and then."

  "Our columns are reserved for short story writers only," Robert informed him.

  "So I'll write a longer poem. No problem."

  "Sorry," Robert said. "I don't think you meet our qualifications."

  "Look, man, I shouldn't even have to ask. I could just..." Eric trailed off when Robert raised an eyebrow at him, making him remember himself. He took a deep breath, swallowing his agitation, and continued. "Is there anything else you people do besides write? I mean there's got to be a treasury position, or some form of marketing? Public relations? Something other than what's on a page?"

  Robert sighed with measured patience and finally turned to face Eric. "Even if there was a position like that, it wouldn't matter now. They're cutting our program. The school doesn't have the funding. Since there's already a school newspaper, they think a Fiction club is excessive. We've tried to keep this club going for three semesters now, but no one wants to permanently sponsor us. So far, the journalism club controls the school paper and all the fiction columns, and they're squashing us out any way they can. They don't want us cutting into their profits and they have more heads in the student council, so this semester they picked up enough votes to drop us. I have until the end of this semester to come up with a petition and find sponsors off campus to fund us. We've got a few donations, but most people are interested in sports programs. If we can raise enough money to get our magazine published for two more issues, then maybe we can support ourselves by the profit we make, but that's under ideal circumstances."

  "So what are your ideas? Do you guys got some kind of concept you're building your magazine on or is it just fiction in a vacuum?"

  "Not sure yet."

  "Well, if you want my opinion-"

  "I don't," Robert interrupted.

  "But if you did, I would say that it's hard to sponsor something built on a shaky concept. Where's the investment? You're just asking people to throw their money away on your self-important ramblings in a diary."

  "That's not really the issue right now. What's the point in starting something if we probably won't finish it because of funding?"

  "Well, then you're broke and that's on you. You're going in with the wrong mindset. Why waste people's time investing in your product when you don't even believe in your product?"

  "I believe in our writers. We're good at what we do," Robert insisted. "It's money we don't have."

  "That don't mean shit. You can write a whole book that's the shit, but if you're marketing is shit, then nobody gives a shit."

  "Can you please stop saying that word?"

  "Americans love sports. Get over it. Sports programs earned that right. Sports programs bring in money, and they give people what they want for their money. I don't think making sponsors feel guilty for supporting the athletic program is going to get you your magazine. People don't fall for that emotional crap anymore. Rather than bitch about all the money going to sports or the Journalism program, step up your game a level and make them see why your proposal is important. Make them feel like they need what you're selling. Why do I care about your idea and how is it going to make me some money?"

  "So sellout is what you're saying? This is about more than just making money. It's people expressing themselves. You can't really attach a price tag to that. You talk about it like I'm going to be meeting with a CEO or something." Robert pointed out. "It's just a college magazine. This isn't People. Obviously businesses have other interests outside of a school publication."

  "Why would they overlook it? It's cheap advertising, especially if the topic is relevant to their business," Eric said. "Forget big CEO businesses. What if I was just a local small business owner? I'm looking for a way to promote my business as well as stack up easy tax credits. If I had the money to cover your publishing expenses, how would you sell me your product? What's your proposal? And remember, presentation is everything. Your first impression is your last impression."

  "I don't know," Robert said, shrugging. "I thought about changing it up to attract a larger audience. Maybe we could write on current events or happenings around campus. I don't know. I'm not the idea person. Chantel usually does better at the brainstorming."

  Eric fell silent, walking quietly beside him for minutes, pursuing his lips pensively. Robert found his silence more unsettling than not talking. At least when Eric was talking, his behavior could be predicted more easily. When he finally did speak, Robert exhaled in relief.

  "What's she come up with so far?" Eric asked.

  "I don't know. She seemed to like my idea about reporting on current events and having students write in their opinions, but nothing is official. Her goal has always been to help amateur writers gain exposure. We used to give them a small compensation for their entries. That was a big boost for our magazine but we stopped when money got tight and less writers sent us their work. She had even considered your idea of renting our columns out for business ads, but that could take time. None of us really have any marketing experience."

  "No shit."

  "I could sit here and give you a whole list of ideas we've considered, but it won't make a difference," Robert said, shrugging. "I appreciate the concern, but this magazine is pretty much dead."

  Eric chuckled. "Don't start doubting Chantel prematurely. I made that mistake once," he said. “She’s not that stupid. She can pull things off. Even if your ideas aren't that original, I'm sure she'd make it unique somehow. She could sell it. You agree or disagree?"

  "If we had what we needed to make it happen, I know she would. I'm behind Chantel 110 percent," Robert said.

  "Then I'm behind her 110 percent," Eric replied.

  He reached for his bag suddenly, and Robert jumped back cautiously. "What are you doing?"

  "Relax," Eric said. "I don't carry my guns in this bag, despite what people say about me behind my back." He fished out a black leather checkbook. Eric Brandt-Chandler was engraved in silver old English letters in the left hand corner. Eric pressed the first check down, and filled it out with astonishingly neat and disciplined penmanship.

  "Brandt-Chandler?" Robert questioned.

  "Ya, you've never seen a hyphen before? One part German, one part American," Eric said. "Two great cultures that merit equal representation in my name. There's nothing wrong with
embracing your heritage, Roberto."

  "It's Robert!”

  "Whatever. I won't tell anybody about your understandably desperate need to assimilate to whiteness, and you won't tell anyone I wrote this check," Eric said, handing it to him. He ignored Robert's puzzled expression as he continued. "You suck at sells pitching, but that's expected. Luckily, it's not your business skills that are writing the magazine. I doubt it'll go far, but you deserve a chance to prove me wrong. What's business without risk? I'll give you sponsorship for the rest of the semester, and if you turn a profit and get the recognition you want, I'll continue to fund the program. But absolutely no paying the writers. If they want to spend their life as a starving artist instead of getting a real job, that's on their dollar, not mine."

  "Why are you doing this?" Robert asked. When he saw the amount written for five thousand dollars across the top, he persisted, "You don't have to do this."

  "Don't argue with me. Don't ask me questions. Don't look at me like a jack ass. Just take the money. It's all you guys are getting from anyone."

  "Is this real?" Robert examined the check critically. "It's not going to bounce on me?"

  "Is that how you talk to a sponsor?" Eric asked. "You got your money, now stop being a bitch about it and do something productive."

  "Chantel's not going to believe this."

  "Then don't tell her. All the better," Eric said. "Don't tell anyone I'm sponsoring the club."

  "Why? That's the whole deal. You give money and we recognize you and your business...or whatever it is you do to get your money." Robert eyed him suspiciously. He lowered his voice. "Are you one of those Mexican cartels?"

  "I don't mess with that shit," Eric told him. "I just like my privacy. Nobody's got to know it's me. It doesn't have to change anything between us. In fact, this will be the last time we have a conversation like this. We're not on friendly terms. We just understand each other."

  "Ya, I respect that, but I got to ask," Robert said. "What's in it for you? You don't just write a check and not expect something in return."

  "Like I said, I value my privacy above all else," Eric said. "If I'm paying for anything, it's for that. It's my own business. Nobody else's."

  "Ok, well if you won't take any recognition, you're welcome to come to our meetings and see what we're working on," Robert told him. "It's the least I can do."

  "I won't make any promises," Eric replied, and with that, he abruptly turned and marched in the opposite direction, resuming the walk of his segregated world.

  He made good on one promise, however. He and Robert never spoke face to face again.

  The Elephant in the Room

  One Year Later...

  Lord Jesus, help me.

  Though Chantel wanted to scream and pull her hair out, she sat calmly and with poise, tapping her pen steadily against her notebook. An hour and a half had gone by, and they were still stuck on question number two in the agenda. With only fifteen minutes left in session, there was absolutely no way she could get through everything, even if she skimmed through it. Yet again, she would have to find a time to squeeze in another meeting to address questions three through seven, which would require her to make room in her oversaturated schedule, and to harmonize with everyone else's compacted schedules and lame excuses, which was increasingly getting old.

  It was no wonder that the quality of work and communication in the club had diminished in the past few months, as nothing ever seemed to get done when they were all together. Naturally, instead of owning up to their own lack of initiative, the group tended to put the blame on her, their newly elected club president. It was clearly her lack of leadership skills and not their initiative that brought on the decline of the club. All the problems they found themselves facing were not of their own doing, but of her stepping into a place where others were not fully ready to accept her. The early termination of the previous president and sudden election of another had left a handful of dissatisfied individuals in the ranks. Yet Chantel remained optimistic that she could prove herself. If Barack Obama could do it, so could she.

  "Themes," she demanded the room's attention again. "We were talking about possible themes for March's issue. Let's try to stay on topic."

  "I still think we should do the Once Upon of Time format," Marisol Hernandez suggested, ignoring the glares of Tate Ansley across the room.

  "Ok," Chantel acknowledged, nodding and taking note of it. It wasn't the best idea she'd heard, but at least they were talking again. "Why?"

  "What do you mean why? Because you can't go wrong with it. Everybody wants to be a princess, meaning everybody wants to be me. You should just make this issue about me."

  "Nobody wants to read about your ghetto ass lifestyle in a magazine," Tate said. "And fairy tale themes are overdone and lame. We're not in high school, and we'd appreciate it if you didn't shove your residual insecurities of a broken childhood down our throats."

  "You got a problem with my ideas, snowflake?" Marisol questioned, flipping her hair and poking her lip out. "Or do you got a problem with me? If you got a problem with me, you need to say it to my face and stop hiding over there behind that laptop like I can't hear you, nigga."

  "Your idea is cliché," he repeated more loudly, so she had no problems hearing him. "And it's lame."

  "Your shirt is lame," she replied. "You need to stop stealing your granddad's clothes, or stop your mama from dressing you in the morning. One of them. For real, though."

  "Well, Marisol, I'd rather look like my grandfather than a harlot. For real, though."

  Marisol turned to gawk at Chantel, as if she had delivered the insult. "Did he just call me a hoe? Girl, you better do something. It's about to get real in here."

  "Hey, positive energy, guys," Vera Ansley's soft voice chimed in. She shot Tate a warning look through her thick glasses, daring her brother to defy her command for peace.

  "I'm just saying what everybody else wishes they could say," Tate said, slouching in his chair. "It's a dumbass idea."

  "I agree with Vera," Chantel said. "We need to at least have a constructive conversation in here, if not a focused one."

  "I don't think it's dumb," Mia Lara spoke up. Overnight, her hairstyle had gone from pink and spiked to a charming burgundy A-line cut. "I actually think it's kind of cute."

  Tate rolled his eyes. "There's too much estrogen in this room."

  "Not our fault you signed on to a chick magazine," Marisol said, shaking her long dark hair at him.

  "For the chicks, ya, exactly," Tate emphasized. "But not you, I mean."

  Marisol snickered, twitching her perturbing lip at him. "Don't nobody want your skinny white ass anyway. Boy, you're just a snack to Mari."

  "One, I just threw up in my mouth, and two, if you want people to take you seriously, don't refer to yourself in the third person," Tate informed her.

  By this time, Chantel had given up completely on being presidential, and sunk behind her copy of Pride and Prejudice so her reddening face was no longer visible. Only Mia seemed to notice her gesture and tried to bring the room back together on Chantel's behalf. "What do you suggest then, Tate? Let's be proactive for once during these meetings and throw in some ideas?" Mia challenged.

  "Maybe something slightly more intelligent," he clued her in. "More realistic. In the real world, it's not about fairy tales. Shit happens. Things get fucked up. Fairy tales get twisted. It's not about girls in glass shoes. Nobody wears glass shoes. There's no fairy godmother when you're living on a dollar and some change. There's no charming prince coming to your rescue. The world is a tough place for you ladies, and you're just insulting yourselves by buying into these unrealistic ideals based on cartoon princesses that historically weren't even created to represent girls like you anyway."

  "Just because your parents didn't hug you enough as a kid, Tate, doesn't mean we should adopt your pessimism," Marisol shot at him.

  "Oww, pessimism," Tate replied. "That's a big word for you, Mari. Over two syllables. Slow
down, girl, or you'll choke."

  "It's Mah-ree, not Mair-ree. You roll the frickin' r. I don't know how many times I done told you that," Marisol shot back. "Call me Mary again and see what happens."

  "What do you think, Chant?" Mia asked, attempting to control the atmosphere of the room again. "He could've said it better, but I think Tate's got a valid point."

  "I agree with him," Chantel said honestly, despite the ugly look that Marisol awarded her. "Let's face it. Life is shit. That's the reality of a large percentage of our readers out there. If we as a new magazine publish something strictly along the lines of fairy tale, what message does that send to everyone? Nobody's going to take us seriously. We'll be back where we started, and we've worked our asses off to get where we are now."

  Seeing that she was outnumbered and that many were siding with Tate and Chantel, Marisol changed her tone. "I'm not saying it has to be about dungeons and dragons, but I as a reader do not want to waste my time reading something that would put me on edge. People don't read to get news about life anymore. They read to escape life. They pick up our magazine to relax during their down time. Down time is precious. Why would I want to read stuff about race relations or gender inequality or politics? This magazine is supposed to be something people read for fun."

  "Write about people then. People like hearing about people, especially when it's about themselves," Tate suggested. "Write about real people. Not princesses. Not vampires. Not werewolves. Not celebrities. Normal, everyday people on campus. If you absolutely have to write about a fairy tale, find someone real who's actually lived it. Write about what really happens after happily ever after."

  "What would you call that though? That's complicated to word in a catchy kind of way," Vera pointed out.

  "Any ideas?" Mia turned to Tate.

  "Just call it that," Tate said, shrugging. "After Happily Ever After. That's it."