All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

CHAPTER ONE: Wednesday, September 6, 1989, 7:18 p.m. On the evening of Wednesday, September 6, 1989, a week before formally meeting Natasha Warkoczewski for the first time, I approached the general classroom building, GCB for short, looking for Juan Wayne. Not only did my University of Missouri-Columbia college plans not include meeting reporters like Juan and Sasha, they didnt originally include investigative journalism at all. I was almost 18 years old and 18 years away from my founding of Forrest Post. My half-baked dreams revolved around an attempt to make my own living designing full-color posters for Black Flag shows, even though that particular band had broken up years before and never had funds for full-color advertising to start. In the late 1980s, design programs were only made for Macintosh computer systems. Fifteen Mac hard drives with design programs were available for students to use on the UMC campus of 24,000 undergraduates. They had three megs of RAM space and 40 megs of hard drive space. Whopping at the time. They sat in one room on the second floor of Walter Williams Hall, then part of the University of Missouri Journalism School, now part of the Reynolds Journalism Institute. The program is famous to journalists around the world and unknown to almost everybody else. To get into the Journalism School, students from Japan to Joplin, Missouri were required to apply second semester sophomore year. Attending preparatory news-related classes at UMC was encouraged. And, according to other students, volunteering at The Meaneater student newspaper could make a difference to professors sympathetic to the unbridled student voice. I had no idea what volunteering to write a story meant until the evening I caught up with Juan Wayne, my first co-reporter, in order to pop my journalism cherry. John Radcliff, IV, The Meaneater editor in chief, believed coverage of the MSA weekly meeting was routine enough for a first time reporter such as myself to handle. Still, he asked Juan, a boy who had previous experience on his high school newspaper, to stick close to the story just in case. As I got close to the site of the assignment in the early evening that night, I spotted Wayne partially hidden behind the hanging branches of an oak tree in front of GCB. Didnt you bring a notebook? Wayne questioned me from under the tree. Even in the early autumn twilight, my lack of experience was apparent. Rad was right to assign a second person to the story. I showed up for my first gig sans notebook, without a mission and clueless. Dont you even have a pen on you? Wayne asked matter of fact, inspecting my empty hands. Negative. I was blowing it. The idea of jumping into a story with questions, contacts and angles was still far beyond my grasp. However, even then, the absurdity of

Juan Waynes Mexican cowboy moniker and position under the tree was clear. And wasnt the whole concept of coming up with a cooler name than your own kind of grade school? Why are you hiding under a tree? The sun had just set. Speaking to a shadow of a man, his thick glasses reflected the early autumn moonlight, the only fully visible sign of Juans human life in the approaching darkness. I dont want them to see me, he whispered standing close to the trunk of the tree. Not sure how to act or where to stand while on assignment, I stepped unto the mulch before I ducked my head under the low branches to meet him. A refreshing chill made the air seem cool under the oak. The August heat was finally giving into September relief. Students walked by on the open sidewalk, some turned towards us, possibly to catch a glance of unbridled freshman fever. Why dont you want anyone to see you? The president of the MSA put in a request with Rad asking that Waynes head swung back and forth, watching students pass, light reflecting off his glasses bouncing around. I, specifically, he continued, not be permitted to cover their weekly meetings anymore. But, why? Another cool breeze blew by this time revealing Waynes choice of cheap cologne. The leaves trembled overhead. Theres no time to get into it right now. But, suffice it to say, I was chased out of last weeks meeting by the president of the MSA and I need you to cover for me. So, what should I do exactly? How should I cover for you? Breaking rules always attracted me and this round involved a shadow man. The boy silhouette moved further away from the growing number of students on the sidewalk to lean his back against the limestone wall of the new campus building. GCB sat across a wide concrete walkway from Brady Commons, a popular place for students to meet, snack and study late into the night. A thin boy holding Dungeons and Dragons cards and an overweight girl with pink hair sat on a sidewalk. They were affectionately noted by passing students as The Make-Out Couple. The lip-locked twosome had become somewhat of an on-site fixture. They were commonly seen lounging around, inside and outside Brady, body to body. That night their fixed make-out point was under a sign, lit with a floodlight, depicting Truman, the university mascot, an illustrated black and gold Bengal tiger. Trumans upturned paws directed students and parents, to the overpriced student bookstore inside, just past Brady Grill. Now that I think about it, its probably better you didnt bring a notebook or a pen, Juan whispered over a Morrissey song playing from a boom box near the MakeOut Couple. Just go in there and act like a student. But, I am a student.

The song was Hairdresser on Fire. Exactly. They will never suspect you. You look too amateur to be a serious reporter. As I was considering Juan Waynes seniority over me, he moved with stealth behind a bush closer to the entrance. As he crouched down, shadows of his floppy hair flew up in the night breeze. Morrisseys voice in the sound waves warned I could be finished in an hour unless my hairdresser decided to save me. The words encouraged me to trust Juan, trust him to tell me the right thing to do, the right look for a reporter, how to put a game face on. I moved towards the bush closer to Juan. Oh, shit, theres Ashley, he let out from down low, his breath warming my knees. I had seen Ashley Lawrence at my first story meeting the night before. The redhead walked past us as a camera hung around her neck. She reminded me of Andie in Pretty in Pink. She was with a blonde girl I didnt recognize at the time, a bebop who would turn out to be Jeni Tiller. She was wearing an over-sized Frankie Say Relax t-shirt over cutoff shorts and florescent pink tights. So 1984! Within a week, she would become the main advertising representative at the paper. The conservative girl with the dated look was best friends with Jenny Taylor and Jennie Tyler, my future advertising director at Forrest Post. Little did I know that early September night at the beginning of my Meaneater career, how seriously members of the staff took their roles as guardians of the unofficial fourth estate of the United States government: the watchdog press. Juan Wayne wasnt the loose cannon I believed him to be that night. Well, he certainly was, but at that point I didnt realize his fire was part of a battalion, another ink geek gang member with the newspaper. They had seemed so innocent during my first Tuesday afternoon story meeting. So, just walk in there, sit down, look straight ahead and listen. His request seemed far too simple for the tension he was building. Which room is it? How big is it? The MSA meetings takes place in the 200-seat auditorium in the basement of GCB. Juan motioned towards the only windows illuminating the five-story building. There are two doors; one near the stage in the front of the auditorium, facing west, and one near the seats in the back rows, also facing west. Youll enter that door, nearest the buildings main entrance. Got that? I think so. The stage door is further from the entrance, near the end of the hall, Juan added. Thats where Ill be. More and more students filed into GCB. My inquiring eyes spotted a few more people I had seen at the story meeting. A tall boy wearing black clothes and pink sweatbands on his wrists shuffled past. I would later know him as Ronnie Bolt. And, a small girl in a red, corduroy skirt with almond eyes and unkempt hair, who would turn out

to be Natasha Warkoczewski, waved to Ronnie near the front door before they entered together. Oh, shit, what are they doing here? Juan whispered from below with passion as oak leaves ensconced me from the rest of the general public. What do you mean? This is supposed to be myour story, he answered. The tension he was building was making me nervous. A day before, I had no idea how much other students were interested in student government. My friends and I never planned to spend our college nights at MSA meetings. We knew as soon as we hit campus we were going to prefer our Wednesday nights, or any weeknight, at T. Bakers, one of the few bars serving underage drinkers in 1989. Where will you be again? I asked. Listening in from behind the stage door. Youre not going into the auditorium? His obsession to remain hidden seemed absurd to me. A hundred people are inside already. What makes you think the MSA members will even notice you? Theyll notice me, Juan snorted with pride. Listen; were running out of time. From behind the bush, he stood up again. The items on this weeks agenda should include changing this years homecoming theme from Good Ol Mizzou to something more racially inclusive, the renaming of GCB to MLK and brainstorming ways to break up the student bookstore oligopoly. He looked back and forth along the walkway. Pick up as much information about the MSAs agenda as you can before you get chased out. Chased out?! I laughed with confusion. Why would I be chased out? Just be ready to run, he urged. Its almost seven-thirty and time for the meeting to start, He moved out from the tree and onto the sidewalk. We better get inside, he turned to me. I came out from under the branches and met my partner on the sidewalk. Dozens of students were flooding into the building now, many of them craning their necks to check out Juan and me who had just popped out from under the tree. In response, Juan tilted his head down to the ground. As we systematically blended in with the crowd per Juans lead, I tried to take on the manner of a regular student, the student I had been just minutes before I met Juan under the oak tree. Wait! Juan! I stopped walking toward the buildings entrance. What am I supposed to be listening for specifically? I lowered my voice as Juan waved me to continue moving toward the front door of GCB. I froze up as I realized I still didnt know what a reporter was supposed to do. We descended the stairs to the basement hallway. Entering the space lit with fluorescent lights, I could see his green eyes darting around. You dont need to listen for anything in particular, His attention was everywhere

at once. The assignment is just meant to be routine coverage of the meeting. Thats why Rad stuck a cub reporter on it. Coverage? Just watch what happens and remember what people say. You know: Coverage, he instructed. Rad and I are also curious to find out if they will mention the inflammatory piece I wrote about last weeks meeting in the Friday issue. What was that about? You didnt read it? My face flushed with shame as my superior reporter scolded me; Theres no time to explain. All you need to know is I am forbidden to attend another damned MSA meeting! As we walked down the hall towards the auditorium doors, my nave and jilted mind had a moment to process what was happening. The whole situation was getting more and more ridiculous. However, Juans creation of a mountain out of a molehill was intriguing enough to pull me inside GCB. Looking back, Juan treated the MSA meeting with the importance of a classified intelligence Senate committee meeting in Washington DC. In conjunction, my nerves tinged with excitement, my enquiring mind looked forward to seeing a melodrama about to unfold before me with a hope for Juan and his cheap cologne to create a spectacle in the auditorium. My mind and spirit were attracted beyond my control. My fearless leader motioned towards me, with a nod of his head, to enter Door Number 1 near the back of the auditorium and back row of seats. As I turned towards it, he raced through the milling crowd further down the hall towards Door Number 2, the one nearest the auditorium stage. The reporter was wearing a pair of running shoes and breathable pants. Unprepared for the unexpected, I regretted opting for tight-fitting jeans and flip-flops. My body followed the wave of other students entering the back door. Many entrants were casually dressed. Ashley and Jeni Tiller were sitting near the back. Ashley turned towards me as I entered, then whispered to Jeni who turned to me in turn. Neither of them officially acknowledged me as I looked past them, pretending not to recognize them. They, in turn, both looked to me with expressions of confusion. Many entrants were casually dressed. But, as I stood perusing the auditoriumseating situation, I spotted some students wearing suits and ties. Later, I would find out they were members of the Young Republicans Club, an especially serious outfit during any election time. A mixture of excitement and paranoia overwhelmed my senses. I sat in the last row nearest the door in case I really did have to run. Boredom unexpectedly followed. The scene felt like a classroom situation, a hundred or so students, sitting in uncomfortable wooden desks, opening notebooks, clicking pens to function, anticipating a meeting featuring a lot of information, but not much excitement. My nerves settled. A couple of students sat by the podium on the stage in front. An 19-year-old

pimply teen, who looked 12, wore a blue, button-down shirt. In contrast, sitting to his left, our right, was a large female who was probably 20, but looked 36. She wore beige parachute shorts and a white button-down shirt with multiple pockets. She was introduced by her stage partner as the MSA Secretary. The woman, dressed like she was going on an archeological dig, began the proceedings with a summary of the meeting the week before. Seemingly nothing out of the ordinary, neither Juan nor The Meaneater were mentioned. All seemed safe as I considered Juans delusional state of mind. My heart beat at a regular pace again before I noticed the door near the stage open a crack. The seeds of my gumshoe instincts told me it was Juan. The crack kept opening and closing throughout the summary. Ashley and Jenis bodies stiffened a few rows in front of me. When the MSA President, the pimply teen, replaced the secretary at the podium, the crack opened wider, about a hands width. The president droned on about Octobers Homecoming, the importance of school spirit and unity, African-American students expressing fury over the years theme, Good Ol Mizzou, and how their fraternities and sororities had no intention of dressing up like Sambo to celebrate the years the university didnt accept students of color. After a few minutes behind the microphone, the president spotted the stage door opening twenty feet to his left. He continued talking for a minute, but he became too distracted by the door, as it opened and closed, to continue. Whos there? the president asked in front of a captive audience. Ashley stood up. She knocked into knees and notebooks on her way toward the aisle running along the west wall from the stage door to the back door. Come in! With the presidents invitation, the heavy door closed with a thud. No one there. Heads in the audience turned to look toward the stage door, necks craned to check for themselves. A few guys stood up. Ashley made it to the aisle and breezed past me and disappeared through the back door. The speaker continued on topic. The guys standing sat down. As the white man continued expressing the need for the Homecoming theme to reflect all colors of the student body for an all-inclusive campus, attendees wearing purple and gold Al Meg fraternity t-shirts nodded along in agreement. In turn, some white faces sulked and grimaced. The door near the stage and the MSA president cracked open again. This time, the president started walking quietly towards the door without a verbal cue to the ghost behind the stage door. Sudden fear convinced me for certain it was Juan. Ashley knew it and I knew it. As the president of the MSA sauntered over to the door with the certitude of a student government official, hundreds of eyes watched him. I took the distraction as an opportunity to slip out the same door I used to enter the auditorium. Softly opening and closing the back door, I moved into the main hall with

quiet grace. My eyes registered Ashley and Juan near the stage door. Juan was waving his hands and arms her direction, motioning for the girl to go away. For her part, Ashleys arms were busy urging Juan to move away from the door. An expression of anger reddened her otherwise attractive face. She really did resemble an angry Molly Ringwald. Out of curiosity, my feet moved me towards the silent, ugly scene. In desperation, Ashley moved toward her adversary, grabbed the boys shoulders and started pulling him away from the door. Spotting me moving toward him, Juan turned to face me as he fought off Ashley in silence but without success. Good, youre here, he whispered and smiled to me. Apparently, he was pleased with my dedication to his cause. Ill give you the agenda after I steal it for safe keeping. Dont do it, Juan, Ashley whispered with fury. Who are you to tell me what to do? Juan loudly whispered to Ashley. No one likes you, nobody has ever liked you. If you had a camera, you wouldnt have to steal evidence, she shot back, holding her camera up high. Or better yet, if you, or any of the members of the unprofessional Meaneater staff acted like professionals, maybe people of importance would actually want to give you the information you so desperately need. Before I understood what either of them were talking about, Juan pulled away from Ashley, opened the door, and moved swiftly into the auditorium. Ashley raised her empty hands into the air in disgust. She turned toward me and looked me up and down before racing back up the hall from where she came, past the back door of the auditorium and toward the front doors of the building. There he is! the presidents voice bounced out of the open stage door into the tiled hallway before it automatically shut. Sounds of a physical kerfuffle echoed out into the hall. Isnt that the guy who stole the agenda last week? A gravely, male voice wondered aloud from inside the auditorium. Not wanting anyone to see me through the window of the door, I moved my body against the wall near the doors frame and hinges. There he goes again, a girl shouted from the stage inside. Curiosity got the better of me. In an attempt to get a peek of the drama happening onstage inside the auditorium, I eased my body along the door and toward its window. As I did, the door suddenly slammed open pushing me toward the wall again. Before I knew it, a mans right arm reached back toward my injured arms and hands to shove a piece of paper my direction. Juans cologne whizzed as the door handle jammed into my waist. Move! I heard him shout.

On instinct, before my mind had time to question why we were running blind, my legs and feet carried me out from behind the door, up the hallway behind Juan. We both ran up the stairs and out of the building. Our feet carried us past our bush and oak tree, around the corner of the building and toward a fountain in the mall on the other side of GCB heading to Missouri Avenue. Something inside convinced me we were safer off campus grounds, away from MSA territory. Our limbs, fueled on adrenaline, charged us past the Reynolds Alumni Center and across Maryland Avenue. My thoughts wondered back to the times I had run away from policemen in the middle of warm nights in St. Louis, when I spent time with boys in stolen cars, before they disappeared into halls of juvenile detention. It felt good to run again, away from student presidents and Young Republicans and toward Providence. A dozen fraternity brothers sat in lawn chairs behind the Delta Up Kap house drinking beer out of yellow plastic cups from Harpos. One of my thongs flipped off and into the air behind us. They cheered us on as our stride continued towards the Theta Phi house. Our pace slowed behind a couple of houses at Fifth Street a few steps away from Providence. Once we caught our breath, Juan laughed and laughed and laughed. Theyll never catch me! He cackled with a heavy howl under the chilled moonlight. I didnt think you were going to follow me, he explained. I assumed you would stay hiding behind the door. My heart stopped racing. Im impressed, he admitted aloud, as if seeing me for the first time. What did you say your name was again? Julie Forrest. Nice job, Forrest. His right arm lifted offering a celebratory high-five. Instead, I handed him the crumpled agenda. Thursday, September 7, 1989, 4:20 p.m. Juan Wayne is such an unbelievable asshole! The outspoken girl sitting at the computer terminal next to mine inside The Meaneater offices was named Lucinda Powers. She preferred her name presented in bylines as all upper case, like INXS. The only African-American staff member at the time, her short dreadlocks stuck up and out in all directions. Braless and sporting boy shorts, the girl had a tomcat style all her own. Powers shook her head in disgust at what she saw typed out on the terminal screen before her. Juan Wayne provided The Meaneater with coverage of a Pro Life rally from the steps of the capital building in Jefferson City, the same reporter who ran away from the MSA meeting with me the night before. At approximately 4:21 p.m., and at a loss as to what to do without my first writing partner, I sat in front of a terminal, next to Lucinda and several other reporters. The

newsroom in the basement of Brady Commons was abuzz with activity. Phones rang, voices shouted, papers passed, photographs glued. The twenty or so people racing around seemed to know what they were doing, where they were going and who they had to speak with as I sat in the eye of the storm without a clue. The students immediately surrounding me, in the tight space of a dozen word processing terminals, punched away at keyboards in a mad rush to meet the Thursday night deadline. Who were these people and where did their energy come from? The south and west walls were covered with cork bulletin boards colored with flyers promoting bands playing at The Blue Note, announcing drink specials at The Field House and selling tickets to comedy acts performing at Memorial Union. The north wall was mostly frosted glass shining in light of dull colors from the carpeted hallway. Three beige and two black push-button telephones, weighing about 10 pounds each, sat on the tables, between the terminals. Natasha Warkoczewski, the small girl with almond eyes I had seen outside the MSA meeting approached Lucinda. She wore a dark brown, flowing dress topped with a blueberry-colored woolen scarf. Somehow, I just knew she had a collection of well-worn Nancy Drew books stashed somewhere. Holding a half eaten Peppermint Pattie in her left hand and a notebook in her right, she questioned Powers; Is the Pro Life story finished yet? Lucinda assured her with Almost. As she walked away from us, Ronnie, a tall boy with dark curly hair and bright, brown eyes, raced up to grab a notebook sitting on the table near one of the reporters and quickly raced off again. Up close, I could see the fine lines of his Joy Division t-shirt. He had been outside the MSA meeting, too. For the sake of typing in the MSA story together, Juan had agreed to meet me where I was sitting, the pit, as he called it, at 4:00 p.m. He assured me, after our lifeaffirming run, that punching out the piece would be no big deal. At 4:23, he was still nowhere to be seen. Looking around trying to spot a single person to help me, or even a reason to start punching on the keyboard in front of the chair I was occupying. Everyone appeared so frazzled and harried, interrupting the waves of action seemed suicidal. Slouching deeper into the hard plastic of the chair, I regretted not asking Juan for either his dorm room or phone numbers. Juan Waynes lede is so ridiculous I just dont know what to do with it! Lucinda Powers eyes opened wide as her brows furled in disgusted wonder. Half a moment later, however, her disgust defied her with a smile. MDC always told us John Wayne was a Nazi! Les Moore, entertainment editor and my dorm mate, stopped by the pits entrance between the south wall and the beige partition. He was heading out the door to the hallway in the basement of Brady Commons when he stopped to show off his musical skills. Les I already knew. He lived in the dorm room above mine with his roommate Matt Wilde. With a freckled complexion and a crooked nose, thanks to a few fist fights, Les was into hardcore music and fantasy games. Upon meeting him when I moved onto

campus, he reminded me of love interests from high school: basements, caves, love shacks. Inside the reality of the Hadley-Major residence hall, however, he didnt stand a chance next to his dark, tall, handsome roommate. And, since they lived together, the two boys were found standing together often. The situation fueled his rage against society. Les Moore, Im at a loss! I dont know what to do with this awful Pro Life story lede. How do I edit this? Lucinda called up and over me to him. Give it to me, fair lady! Les approached Lucinda from behind with a Shakespearean air. His green eyes focused on the screen in front of her. Quote From the back of the bus, I descended the stairs the copy editor read aloud, into a throng of angry, African-American welfare mothers waving Pro Life picket signs with animal fury. The copy editor hesitated before Les howled in laughter. I might just leave it as is, Lucinda stated with finality. Why? Les wondered. It will make The Meaneater look bad, but I want everyone to know who Juan Wayne really is. That lede sentence is heartless indeed. Almost in the same breathe, Les asked; Wheres his MSA story? Rad has yet to receive it. He turned his head up and around. Has anyone seen Wayne today? I havent. I piped up, psyched to finally serve a purpose in the newsroom. Still, I started to wonder why in the hell my delicate initiation into this crazy world was put into the hands of a man with a bad reputation. Everyone sitting in front of terminals turned around in unison only to not recognize me and turn right back around and continue typing in copy. From where I sat, the action on the black screens in front of the writers resembled a green snake chasing a thumbnail-sized, blinking box. Finally, Les offered me a nod of quiet recognition. Are you here to write a story? My dorm mate appeared genuinely surprised. Well, I was supposed to Used to being ignored the preceding 25 minutes, it took me a second to realize I was being directly addressed. Could you move so someone else can use that terminal? His ugly good looks and certitude lead my body away from the computer. Were on deadline. I went to the MSA meeting with Juan, I admitted with shame. In a flash, Les Moore was interested. What happened? Les eyes opened wide. Like Juan, he assumed something newsworthy could and would happen at a dull student meeting. As Les stood still and erect, I could clearly make out a Krokus t-shirt from the 1986 summer tour decorating the boys slight chest.

We got chased out. Lucinda let out a guffaw. What did I tell you guys? A few of the other reporters chuckled though the rhythm of their typing didnt skip a beat. He knows how to write a story, the hardcore-black metal fan noted in Waynes defense. Grab readers. But, is starting with a racist lede worth the grab?! Powers questioned. Is it racist? Les, philosophizing, turned his head up to the white popcorn ceiling. Back of the bus?! Lucinda countered. Defeated, Les bloodshot green eyes turned to me again with a touch of sympathy. Chased out? He questioned me. What happened this time? Powers added with a victorious smile. The president of the MSA shouted Thats him! before Juan shoved the MSA agenda in my hands and we raced out of the building. Heads at terminals turned around to face me with new interest. We ran as fast as we could towards Missouri and Fifth towards Providence. I realized I was making myself out to be a criminal to the senior editors. An odd mixture of shame and pride hit me. Ha! I knew it! Lucinda announced. That kids only been reporting in Columbia for two weeks and already hes ruined his integrity all over this little town. My fellow Hadley-Major dorm mate let out a sigh, his efforts to defend Juan defeated. In the main newsroom, photographers, including Ashley, sifted through stacks of photos. She lifted her head to face us for a moment before making a grimace and looking back to her stack. Broadsheets changed hands. A door opened and The Meaneater editor in chief stepped out and into the newsroom with Jeni Tiller, the one who sat at the MSA meeting with Ashley. The couple had a disheveled air. The head honcho raised his head to inspect the chaos of the main room. Grinning, he appeared pleased with the frenetic activity inside his newspapers walls. Invert those pyramids, babies! The newspapers 20-year old main man shouted out to no one in particular. Reporters confirmed their intentions with shouts and raised fists. Not knowing inverted pyramid style, my senses became acutely aware of the geek factor surrounding me. A pain crept up into my frontal lobes. These were the types of amped up bores with school spirit I avoided in high school. Alright, Ill find someone else who was there, Moore assured me as he looked around the newsroom. Maybe Sasha can write about the MSA meeting.

My body stood still for a moment. Was I, as reporters in movies said, pulled from the story? Helpless behind Les, I froze, unsure what to do next. Was it really over? Was my innocence really lost for nothing? Before I even knew the term journalistic integrity, my senses felt mine was lost. As I stood feeling the humiliation of the unceremoniously deflowered, the black metal man seemed to sense my lack of closure and turned around to face me. Hey, sorry it didnt work out, Les soothed with eyes of renewed sympathy. Thanks for coming. The mood felt terminal until he added with a note of cheer, Come back tomorrow at 4:00 and well give you another assignment. Like hell they will, my mind reeled. As I turned around to leave with an empty feeling of dejection (from nerds!) and the thought of never returning, Ashley aimed an unexpected camera inches from my face. Her lens appeared much larger up close and her body blocked the exit. She scowled at me. Say cheese! In retrospect, the request was ideal for an era of oversized Firenze brand sweaters with shoulder pads like the canary yellow one Ashley wore that day. Against my will, my presence at The Meaneater was permanently documented. Snap!