Free The Dilettantes by Michael Hingston

So yeah, maybe the whole thing was a false alarm after all—another of those overly camouflaged performance art pieces by some amateur culture-jammer. Or maybe Keith set it all up, just to be a dick.
    A freckled kid walked past
The Peak
’s table, wearing a flannel shirt and jeans so tight that he moved like an action figure. He winked at Alex as he went by, and gave him a thumbs up that he triedto disguise by cupping his other hand around it like a parenthesis. Poking out of the giant camping bag on his back was the unmistakable head of a boom mic, which he’d awkwardly tried to conceal with the help of an ill-fitting floral lampshade.
    “Look at that fucking guy,” Alex muttered, as the kid tottered away into the crowd. “That’s the worst disguise I’ve ever seen.”
    Chip looked up from his drawing. “Who?”
    “Him.” Alex motioned again. “I forget his name. With the microphone on his bag.”
    “I don’t see any microphone. Where is he? Behind the chap with the lamp?”
    “Oh, come on, what is his
name?”
Alex irritably drummed his fingers on the table.
    Clubs Days was a cornerstone of
The Peak
’s news beat, always reliable for a photo essay and soft cover story, but Rachel considered it far beneath her talents. So it always fell onto the associate news editor’s plate instead. Technically the two positions were supposed to work in tandem, but Rachel always cleared up that misunderstanding right away; news, so long as she was running it, would be a meritocracy. And she was the best. (She was also the sole judge.) This guy with the lampshade-microphone was the latest model in the associate news factory line, and just a few weeks into his first semester on the job.
    Currently the associate news rookie was wearing his Average Student disguise, which he probably hoped would lead to getting real, hard quotes without the biases that come with tedious red tape like full disclosure.
    Alex watched him approach the High Altitude Poetry table, where three thinly bearded guys sat at typewriters. They took suggestions from the crowd and each wrote one line, in character, before passing it on down the line; this year featured a scruffy Beat poet, a Gold Rush–era prospector, and a talking inukshuk.
    “So, fellow students,” the associate news editor announced, lowering his reedy voice a full octave, “how’s the turnout this year? Looks to me like it’s been fairly average thus far.” He pressed his way right up to the front, the lampshade rocking dangerously back and forth above. “And you, poets? Any thoughts regarding the state of poetry in the world today? How’s the decline? Steep as ever, am I right?” He broke out a rehearsed laugh, all shoulders and teeth.
    Meanwhile, a girl in a polka-dot blouse was eyeing
The Peak
’s table from across the aisle. She slowly approached, eyes glued to the sign-up sheets.
    “Hello there!” Chip bellowed.
    No stranger to the protocol of Clubs Days, the girl didn’t meet his gaze right away. “So this is the newspaper, right?” She ran a finger along a turned-up corner of the latest issue.
    “Right you are, m’lady. Right you are.” Chip rested his hands on top of his stomach. His stare was as direct and unnerving as ever, though she didn’t know that yet. “Are you a reader? Dare I say, a
fan?
”
    She shrugged. “Sure. I mean, I read it every week.”
    “Every week! Ho! Did you hear that? Looks like we’ve got a
fan
on our hands.” Chip slapped Alex on the forearm, but he was busy watching the rookie news editor try to drum up a quote from the talking inukshuk. “Well,” Chip continued, “feel free to peruse our catalogue, as it were. One thing’s for sure: the price is right. Though if you really are a fan, as you claim to be, you’ll no doubt have seen these particular editions already.”
    Getting people to sign up for
The Peak
’s mailing list was an intricate courting process. Maybe it was easier for other groups because their demographics