The smell of crawfish and self-tanner sits in the air.
Multiple sharpie-tattooed hillbillies approach the bar, gripping their debit cards like a life raft, desperately in search of an ice-cold beer. The cover band that has taken the stage tonight makes an ambitious attempt at “Sex on Fire” by Kings of Leon. 
In the midst of the chaos, Luke Copley manages the situation at the bar with the grace and ease of a seasoned pro. Bottle caps soar into the trash while cards are swiped, drinks refilled and tips stashed.  
It is here, while Luke bartends for a sorority date party, that I desperately try to remember the first time we met. My memory fails me, but I do know it had to be an opinion section meeting, and that I left the office with an unexplainable feeling that my editor, Luke, had created an environment that I wanted to be a part of.  
Luke Copley is the type of person most people will think they understand on sight. He is, from a Mississippian’s point of view, the poster child for stereotypical transplants from New York. Even after a few months of knowing him, I would not say that this is an unfair observation. But what one might miss from the surface is his own earnest attempt to understand this place.  
I was lucky enough to hear a few excerpts from personal essays Luke wrote during his first year in Starkville, almost four years ago. Disregarding the obvious fact that they were extremely well-written, there was a clear bite within the text that showed some definite disdain for the things he had discovered here. And I understood even as a native of this state, there are many things that continually shock me. One thing that I did not expect, however, was for Luke Copley to censor himself as he read pieces of these essays. He skipped over parts that he deemed “too mean.”  
As we drove to his apartment, he explained to me that the longer you spend in Mississippi, the more you can see it as a victim of situation larger than itself. He said he does not know where Mississippi goes from here. 
Like you could expect from any writer worth their salt, he has a million and one unfinished works. He gave me bits and pieces of plots from past and current projects, each being unique in their own right. The most you can currently find of Luke Copley’s work online, though, is via The Reflector, where he has worked since his sophomore year. 
To witness opinion meetings under Luke’s direction is a privilege not many can claim. Staples of the weekly Ops meetings include the requirement to bring two ideas to the table, a seemingly random theme (sweater night, candlelight vigil, foursquare) and a question posed by Luke that he says aims to be something that you have never before had to consider, but you immediately know the answer to (“What’s your least favorite place you’ve ever been?” “If you had to kill someone in this group, who would it be?”). All of this comes together to create an environment that has sustained the life of the opinion section for the past year. 
Luke speaks of his favorite authors and his writing with a tone of adoration not unlike a reverend in the pulpit. He speaks in a way that also makes it clear that to him, there is no plan B. Writing will sustain, no question about it.
Over the course of the past week, I saw Luke everywhere, from class, a section meeting and work, to a regular Friday night. The amalgamation of all these experiences was supposed to give me an idea of who he was, to put together the pieces of the puzzle. Luke is a creative mind, one that never stops thinking about the next idea, the next project or the next story. He knows who he is and what he will spend the rest of his life doing.  
As multiple yellow buses arrive at the venue to pick up their mostly-intoxicated charges, the line at the bar empties and shut-down procedure commences. Closing includes a drastic change in noise level, an odd pooling of crawfish water at our feet and a distinct scent of chlorine. Most relevant to Luke, however, is the enormous pile of white receipts that will eventually reveal if the willingness to small talk with customers was a profitable endeavor.  
The pile slowly diminishes as we do typical closing shift banter. Just as the last receipt is tabulated, Luke bids me goodbye by complimenting my reporting and giving a firm handshake.