"Group Maintenance" < ⚡ with Penguinator ⚡ CAUTION: not sparkly yet

[TeaPlease]

 

The college map had long been frayed from use. Its crinkled edges of the printer paper had added to the worn look, blots of discoloration and smudges from bumps, spills, and falls dotting the detailed layout of the old college. Gripping it in sweaty palms was probably not the best idea either. Still in his mind, Gene was reeling and trying to piece together what brought him to this college. Highschool had been a drive to get through- he’d built up the an alright transcript that made him a possible candidate for a technological or dramatic field. His community service hours were filled up at basically bare minimum and he’d obtained two teacher recommendation letters. PERTs testing was what really had him shine. Brightly.

 

✕

 

Growing up in backwoods Kentucky came in handy. The financial record of his family was nearly abominable. Doubled with the history of broken homes, strife, and evidence of the government card proving his Native American status… Letters flew in that he’d forgotten about. In the hostile environment, positivity seemed to be obfuscated. And yet, it breathed a new opportunity through its constant suppression.

 

Things had to be done on crazy whim- like filling out a crumpled application stuffed in a book for a place that was not a university stationed in his home. Months of back and forth. Fights with his parents. Fights with strangers who apparently backed up his parents-- it was a mess. But now he was here. Late registration though it may have been, his correspondence with the head of Fine Art had been amicable enough where the man seemed to be inclined to accept him. Even with his complex situation.

 

The actual college itself was isolated. Denver was already a sleepy town, the Rocky Mountains campus containing little else than what it sponsored. On-site dorms weren’t available but his scholarship had landed Gene in the Regency housing center in the cheapest unit available. It took half an hour on shuttle to get to campus, and the computer lab was open after-dark for nappers and quick sleepers at a cost. RMCAD was even sleepier, not a popular option for the majority of people looking for scholarship and degree opportunities. Gene’s presence in the Photo and Video building was didn't feel right. He was here, at a college, so far away from home among its fancy rich people who wore 45 dollar cardigans around their waists and drank 14 dollar iced coffees.

 

Their accents, their hair, the diversity of character and clubs. The dissonance between joy of finally being somewhere nice and normal occurred when paired with the reality that Gene may have launched himself out of the dirty water his lungs were used to.

 

Even now his body was stiff. His heart hammered, air being sucked in through his nostrils. It wouldn’t surprise him if some predator took him for a cornered meal.

 

His class may have just been that in the first place.

[TeaPlease]

The professor of the crafted Sound Design and Editing had been particular about who entered her class.

 

Talking with her had allowed his entering and he caught up on course work from home and once on the campus. It hadn’t been much. Understanding syllabus requirements, basic cross-hatching and demonstrating understandings of scientific concepts. Supervision had been dispensed. But now, in this red-velvet room with its close, intimate quarters, Gene felt like this was the real test. There were only four other students from what he saw. All of whom seemed to share similar expression of vexation and detached judgement. It made Gene want to slowly keel over and vomit. They couldn’t hear his heart but anxiety persisted on that crazy train of thought.

 

“Take a seat,”

and Gene took a seat, a rounded table set for base of operations. The room was furnished with audio equipment galore. Work stations were placed around the room of HP touchscreen desktops, an audio waver and mixer in the near back. Doors branched out into seperate “audio labs”, much like recording booths. Gene’s wandering eyes took him around a little ways before snapping to the sudden entrance of another student.

 

The cat-eyed frames and smoothie clutched in one hand matched the soft click of heels. “Sorry I’m late, my alarm’s a bust.” Gene didn’t know who this girl was but she definitely smelled like alcohol and southern-style collard greens. It was a nice introduction, however. She was the only one that seemed to actually smile at him upon first glance due to previously speaking with him at the campus supply store. The professor [thankfully] didn’t force introductions, only opening up discussion about the first masterworks of visual monotony transformed by beautiful sound design and construction. Gene’s notebook sat on his lap as he stayed silent, smiling, and serene with firebombs and quakes of nerves erupting inside of his body.

 

⚄

 

Class passed. Hours of serenity crackling with a doomed mind.

 

The assignment was to work together on breaking down individual sounds used in the Jazz Singer, known as the first talking film, and come up with ways that it could be improved upon if it were to be remade with sound technology that appeared a mere decade or two later. One group effort, one paper discussion. Seeing no other way out of the situation, Gene approached the gathered group with a weight on his legs and sweating armpits.

 

“-- with conformity as some sort of social osmosis. And she decides to send me to guidance because she’s ‘concerned about how I’m feeling’, like! I wrote an essay about social observations, what else does she expect?” There was one young man currently talking with a bag slung over his shoulder, who spotted the sudden silence due to the encroaching figure that was Gene Owle.

 

It was judgement day. The young man slid his eyes over to the woman that had smiled at Gene that day. She took a dry sip of her smoothie and directed looks to the other girl present, then the two figures that neatly finished off the quintet.

 

Sweat beaded on the back of Gene’s neck but he smiled. The girl’s gaze returned to him and she smiled again- something about it seemed cooled. “I remember you. You’re the guy that was looking for that Intro. textbook. Welcome to the class ‘n all that. I’m Sonja, since no one else seems in the mood to open their mouths.” Her tone was breezy and pointed towards the others behind her as Gene replied with a measured, “Nice to meet you”.

 

Clearly it was their turn to respond. The man talking before introduced himself as Andy but seemed cautious of the reactions the other three would have.

[Penguinator]

Alerts kept popping up on the silver iPhone 5s, as Jessica scrolled through her Instagram account for the countless time, pretending not to attentively count the hearts she received on her latest picture. She tuned out Garrick’s zestful portrayal of some poor sod’s forced abstinence;

"... seven months of that shit, only to be dumped on his ass, if it was me I’d...", and it was tuned out again, stretching her legs under the mahogany table, and popping her neck. She sent a brief glance at Martial, who was sitting opposite her. Their eyes met, and maintained contact for a number of seconds before her attention was once again diverted to the task of endless scrolling. Jessica could see that he was as fascinated with Garrick’s impressions on this particular sob story as much as she was. She saw within her peripheral vision that Martial was contently flipping his Zippo lighter from one side to the other, letting it fall flat down and then repeating with ritual precision. She pressed the button on top of the device, effectively turning it into a mirror, after a one finger swipe in a fruitless effort to make the screen more reflective, before proceeding to check her makeup and look for traces of circles under her eyes. The click of the door made her look up, her eyes lingering when they didn’t spot the expected image of the professor, or Sonja, who she knew would be fashionably late in an unfashionable place. They followed the stray through the room, waiting for the moment in which it will realize it is in the wrong place, only to watch it getting comfortable at their table.

 

Martial noticed Jessica’s neck wasn’t craned toward her phone, and reflexively paused to inspect it, turning around to follow her line of sight. The blank that had been filling up his brain, releasing it of all pressure, and allowing all remaining power to be concentrated in the slow falls of the lighter, started flowing out as this new person began to occupy it. Everything suggested that this was a new student, late submission, out of place. As the lecture started, almost completely ignoring this change, he took out a notebook and got ready to write down the occasional couple of words and abbreviations, as the teacher seemed to like this, and it gave him another opportunity to drift off, or communicate with Garrick, who was sitting next to him, through unprepossessing scribbles.

 

"Symbolically, the struggle of a singer to let his voice out. The work is filled with dynamic transition: lento, accelerando, presto...", the professor said in a single breath, "and fermata." picking it up again with a significant movement of her hand, marking the stop.

 

---

 

Being in such a small group made it hard to communicate, so when the pressing ban on chatting was lifted, Garrick casually pointed out:

"There’s a new student."

"Yeah."

It was only a little while before he approached them, a comfortable pause ensuing as Martial thought about how black his hair was before he proceeded to quickly scan his appearance and make quick judgments. He looked like he was forcefully injected into a high school drama, faced by the eternal „who do I sit with in the cafeteria“ dilemma, and martial found it all comical, same as all scenes in life that embody such cliches. The first time his father took him to play catch he kept dropping the ball on purpose. But nobody could deny that these situations don’t make their subjects at least a little bit endearing. Their humbling character is rather humanizing.

 

“I remember you. You’re the guy that was looking for that Intro. textbook. Welcome to the class ‘n all that. I’m Sonja, since no one else seems in the mood to open their mouths.”

“Nice to meet you”

 

"A new face", Garrick exclaimed.

"Just ignore it, it’ll probably go away.", Jessica answered, manicured nails already making tapping sounds against the phone’s screen.

Martial looked at Jessica with a small curve of his brow and the beginnings of an apologetic smile which turned welcoming when he pointed it at the newcomer.

„You’re being an ass, Jess. I’m Martial.“

„Garrick.“ Followed the introduction and a wave from the guy slung back in his chair, arms crossed, his build classified as athletic, his face leaning over the boarder of attractiveness, framed by blue eyes, a short, well groomed beard and hair color that closely resembled blond. His height also wasn’t something to be ignored.

[TeaPlease]

It was practically tangible. Gene felt the sweat curling on his body; somewhere it dripped but he refused to show his discomfort. They all knew each other. The class didn't have anyone else in it. He'd glanced at the roster the professor had and it was already cut it half for preservation of paper purposes. Drums were pounding in his head but the serenity never cracked. He was a casual guy, a cool guy, and his mind processed quickly the names and faces of the people that opened their mouths. The attitude towards him seemed pitiful or dismissive. That was okay. He was new here. He didn't belong among them, was the first thought, and this would probably have to be a time-worn inclusion or something to prove his worth. Maybe even humanity. -- that's what the girl had said. It. Was he that- an it?

 

How long had he been thinking the smile stuck on his face minutes could have passed and they were waiting or did they not care maybe they didn't maybe they wanted him to make a fucking fool--

 

"At least there aren't a lot of names to remember, in my case." Careful enunciation. Enough where it wasn't professional, but self-taught, sitting and staring at Youtube videos and repeating over and over what conventional 'normalcy' sounded like.

 

Sonja caught on quick and exchanged a quick glance with Andy. Sheep in a patchwork frock, that's what this was. She would have felt pity if it wasn't so funny. Andy leaned forward with his friendliness and Gene caught the social cue to shake his hand as the man stepped to the forefront. Laughter. "Ah, true! Advantage you, huh-- what was it, you said?"

 

"Oh, I uh. I didn't." Stupid. "It's Gene." Technically. "Not short for anything, just that."

 

„Gene. Okay. Cool! My name's Andy."

 

As always with introductions, there was an air of lingering strangeness. No one knew him, and Gene didn’t know anyone. Names were personal but only glances. There could be meanings in such words but that doesn't qualify much in who it is someone touches, smiles at. The classroom was cold and Gene let his two fingers hook in his pocket. Sonja smiled as she sipped and watched something frightened glance for an exit. Urges were animalistic and she could tell that the fight of flight instinct was being battled in the new comer's head. Andy persisted in the inevitable niceties. "Where do you stay?

 

"Oh, uh, I'm in the… Regency. Little apartment." Gene's ears were buzzing. The intonation was off.

 

"The Nest?" The buzzing grew louder. He had a feeling he should know what that meant and his smile widened. He tried not to look at the door. Could this be over now "I stay there, too. Hey, we're going to catch lunch--" no one had decided on that "and when that's over, I'll head back with you to the shuttles. Sound good?"

 

No, it doesn't sound good, and Sonja wanted to communicate this as some sort of broadband signal as her eyes situated on Andy's lower back in the effort not to appear obvious to Gene- who was behind him- that she definitely did not like the sound of that. There was a big gap between "new person" and "coming to lunch", a gap they hadn't really had to deal with. This was a chancy major fusion that was exclusive only and extremely specific. They already knew each other. They had formed lunch after class, at various places depending on the prevailing palette passion of that week, and that's what they did not this kid no one really knew and who she felt herself beginning to anger at for not denying the offer.

 

No, he stood there, sheep in his frock, as if he swallowed a bug and its life was flashing before his eyes. The smile dangerously dimmed. "I have my own..."

 

"Nonsense! Come with us. Table's big enough for six. We need to discuss our project anyways, right? Group work."