“Wait,” Wilfred called out. “Rex, what’s gotten into you, man? Why are you flipping out on everybody?”
He turned back in toward us and rested his forearm on the doorframe, looking past us. “I had this weird dream last night. And I think I had almost the same one last week.”
“What did you dream?” Wilfred asked.
“All the fraternities were obsolete… because of the Internet.”
CHAPTER SIX
ERIN MASTERS' MODESTY
From beneath my loft, the recliner’s fake leather cushions provided a low yet comfortable cradle and the milky orange macaroni and cheese I ate from a plastic bowl was nice and salty. The windows had been opened and my air-conditioner was turned off with the cool outside air of the evening passing in and out. Drake sat at my desk in his jeans and sweatshirt as he perused and armchair-quarterbacked the Mathematics conjectures of grad students on a Web forum. He was further irked by a purchase of plastic collar stays I had made that past summer. He grasped and rolled the rectangular box of stays in one hand and clicked the mouse with his other.
Along the hallway, computer speakers rumbled with artificial gunfire; the cheers of virtual crowds in virtual arenas and the mimicked, digitized cords of Stairway to Heaven reverberated from the other side of the ‘U’.
“The Lorentz Transformation?” Drake said. “Jesus, what’s this guy’s problem?”
I ate a spoonful of macaroni. “Maybe you could break down and make a posting to the site. Show them how it’s done.”
Through the wall behind me I could hear Tag with his earbuds in, singing drunkenly:
“Girl, I stick it stick it;
I stick it stick it, Girl.
I stick it like spite; I
Stick it in then when I
Grab ya done grown big…right?
Now watch, listen here girl—
Listen thick girl: Watch me
Toss; Watch this boss…get down
Stick it to win. Stick to
Yo chin. Stick it, again.
Ya see? Ya saw me, huh?
Ya know me, right? That’s that
Fight. Yah, that’s it, wait…
Walk that kite on the tight
Now win this white wash flight”
Outside, in the hallway, Chris Dubnicek closed the door to his room and he and Erin began talking.
“Hey, we can hear them,” Drake said. “Is that Erin?”
“Yes, it’s Erin and Chris. They’re always in there. It’s driving me crazy.”
“Relax, Victor. It can’t be that bad.”
“I guess it’s not. But they’ve been talking and joking with each other practically nonstop for the past two weeks and I can’t concentrate. Rex hardly ever comes into his room anymore because they’re always there.”
“Shh,” Drake held his hand to his lips. He leaned forward.
Weakly through the wall, Erin said, “When’s Rex coming back?”
“Rex isn’t coming back,” Chris said.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure, sure?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“I’m not sure,” Erin said.
Drake turned to me. “Erin Masters is hot! Didn’t you used to hook up with her?”
“Yes. Once. And I know she’s hot, Drake. Trust me. I’m aware. I see her in the halls and on campus, everyday.”
“She has a MySpace account,” Drake said.
“I’m aware of this. I’m not going to that site, anymore.”
“She’s got nice pictures. I’ll show you.” Drake brought up MySpace.com. He logged-in and found Erin’s profile. “See. I told you.”
I didn’t look. “Yes. Wow. That’s great.”
Drake grabbed my robotics textbook. He opened it and leaned his face into the pages, mumbling something about the beautiful duality of the matrices within. His eyes moved and he turned pages.
“Hey Drake—”
Drake preempted with a raised finger and I set my bowl of macaroni on the carpet.
“Can they hear?” Erin asked.
“No, Erin, the walls are thick. I told you.”
“I don’t know. I feel like they can hear. I just. I feel—you know what we talked about. I don’t want to be self-conscious or uncomfortable.”
“I know. I understand. No one can hear us, Erin.”
“I just, I want it to be special my first time. For us—you know?”
Drake looked up, searching the room for something. “What time is it?”
“Almost 6:30.”
“Shit! I’ll be late to tutor those freshmen at the library.” He stood and looked back and forth between the windows and the door before leaving.
I got up and closed and locked the door. In my backpack, there was Calc homework to be done. Twenty problems, hard ones. I sat at the desk, thinking about pounding out these problems that seemed impossible to solve. Drake had left Erin’s MySpace profile up with its sexy entrance picture of her leaning over with her arms around her friends. Her tan cleavage stared out at me.
On the wall’s opposite side, Erin and Chris climbed into the loft. They giggled and a leg kicked the wall. “Wait—no,” she said, “not there.”
“Here?”
“Yes—there. It—keep—keep going. God, it’s—it… ouch.”
On a bookshelf above, a sliding spoon on a dinner plate kept their pace as it rattled. Breathy moans passed through the wall with clarity and soft musical emotions, then growing, almost like a widow breaking her hip, then like a girl savoring a chocolate morsel, then his gasps, his muffled cries.
“It—it’s ouch. Ah—ah. Wait, keep, keep. Oww—don’t stop.”
She was a virgin. Wasn’t she? I wasn’t sure. Something hit me like an arrow through the heart. I was a fool.
There was homework to be done. Or I could walk to the library. Or I could shoot a bullet through my skull. But I looked at her pictures, I listened.
The spoon rattled and the shelf shook.
This moment they had together, so sweet for them. The build-up to it was maybe set-up from a hundred things that slipped past me. Clicking through her bikini photos showed her eyes of no hunger and no want that she blessed the world with. Pretty brown eyes from which I hungered and her eyes tunneled inside to my stomach, my nervousness, impatient-ness of waiting—her face of love. Did the church thing put him over the top? How had he done it? And then—right?—how was the thing even accomplished. She demanded. So young, nice, slim, tan, beautiful. She deserved things. There was persistence in Chris and his tenacity. There was his callousness. How had he done it?
The spoon rattled from the shaking shelf.
She shrieked in pain. Don’t stop! she said softly with fear.
A yellow bottle of hand lotion loomed tall on a shelf above, somehow holding the absurd decision. Erin’s pictures stared out and I needed to relax.
Chris would pretend it had been easy. That was how he’d have fun with this. He was going to talk about this with looks—smug looks, where he stopped and looked me over—like anyone should be capable of it—but how then. Asking him wasn’t enough and he’d tell but he’d never let anyone really know how. Had his father told him how to convince her? Did he even know how he had done it? How did he convince her?
Suddenly something came to me. I looked over at the Ethernet cord leading into my computer. It seemed curled like a thin black smile. From behind that thin black smile I could see the alcoholism of the Can Man and the generations of addicted men on my father’s side making its stealthy reappearance—that was how he had done it. That was how he had convinced her. Dubnicek and Rex were the Vice President and President of the house, they both had girlfriends and they were the only two members that didn’t have an Ethernet connection in their rooms. All these weeks that I’d been investing my emotions into the black hole of my computer monitor, Dubnicek had been investing his into a woman. The simplicity of it made me feel stupid, ashamed, humiliated.
“I’ve waited for this!” Erin whispered.
“You’re mine. It’s… it’s mine.”
I found a picture of Erin where she lay on her back, smiling, waiting, and I unbuttoned my jeans.
“Chris, say you love me,” Erin said. “Tell me.”
“I love you!” The spoon rattled from the shaking shelf. “Yes; I love it!”
I froze before going any further, jeans half-unzipped, inhuman as I was, I stood, turning away, bringing my hand to my hot forehead.
A posting on her MySpace caught my eye:
’Hey Erin, I miss you bunches my bff. Are you sure this section is private? I get paranoid cuz I know they update the security settings constantly. Anyways, I know you wanted Victor to take it but if the dude’s got his head in the clouds and the time is right, then a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.’
I didn’t think—not like this, she said. Not so much and it… Ah! Ouch—yes!
I darted back to snatch at the blue Ethernet cable lying coiled from the computer to the wall outlet. My hands strangled and my arms and shoulders heaved, tugging at the wall outlet. I jammed my foot against the tack board near the outlet and heaved, ripping the beige plastic socket-cover from the wall with a crack, and heaved, pulling cable staples within the wall from studs, tearing cable sheathing, and heaved, shattering the plastic Ethernet plug, freeing it and sending myself toppling back as I pulled my halogen lamp down with me, cracking its bulb, darkening the room as my hand swiped inside the bowl into its spongy, wet macaroni. The wall gave a burning cannon wick sound and flashed white. The burning crawled up through the walls before mercury in the emergency sprinkler above my shelf popped the safety latch, filling the dark room with cold, wet showers.
The spoon rattled from the shaking shelf. It rattled from the shelf. It rattled.
The dark grey carpet soaked and I stood, darting about, unplugging the refrigerator, drying hands, grabbing a towel to unplug the air conditioner and the computer. I ran into the communal bathroom to grab the fire-extinguisher; pulled the pin and sprayed the tack board near the torn Ethernet outlet that had blackened like the flash burnt shadow of a bonsai tree. Cold sprinkling fell. I ran downstairs, looking for our House Mother, Ma Red, but I found Rex in the mail room, instead.
“Rex, I’ve got a problem—wait? What’s wrong with you?” I asked. “You look like shit, man.” His clothes were wrinkled; his hair unwashed and his eyes looked glazed and distant.
“Can’t sleep,” he said. “Nightmares.”
“What’s that in your hand?”
“An application to U of I.”
“You’re leaving us?”
“I can’t stand what’s happening to the house. Don’t you see it, Victor? It’s never been this bad this far into the semester. We can’t get people to pledge; we can’t get people to socialize; we can’t even get people to talk to beautiful girls. And with me at the helm.”
“Rex, that’s—ah, Rex I got a problem. Follow me.” And we headed for the basement’s laundry room to find the water valve. After a few attempts of him turning a valve and me sprinting up to my room, we managed to shut-off the sprinklers as well as ruin a few guys’ showers.
Rex and I headed back to my room. He looked over the white foam and examined the shattered Ethernet outlet. “Why’d you do it?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know what the fuck’s wrong with me. I lost it.”
Rex touched the torn, foamy edges of the empty, Ethernet outlet. “I think I know what happened here.” He looked about with spooky, distant eyes as he interpreted the foamy edges with his fingers:
“Are men going to love women? Or, are men going to love machines?”
I snickered at him stooped over the damage in his dirty, wrinkled clothes—unkempt, muttering like some sage madman.
He locked onto me and pounced, clenching, shaking my shoulders. “It’s not funny, Hastings. I want you to take that question inside your soul. Weigh it in your hands as if it were a real thing, deserving of your respect. I—I—I—”
He looked on the verge of sleep or collapse.
“Look, Rex. I’m sorry about this. I’ll pay for the damages.”
“Do you hear it?” Rex asked.
“Hear what?” I asked and recoiled from him. The guy stunk like BO.
He cupped his hand to his ear:
“Listen! Listen, listen—listen.” He turned to me. “Nothing. No voices. No thuds. No fights. Just the machines. They’re playing Guitar Hero in Room Seven, Call of Duty in Room Eight; Tag’s on Facebook; Wilfred’s on Chat.” He struck his arms and clenched hands into a pained Atlas pose and perched tears shook free from their lids: “How can I claim to mold them into men when they won’t face the beauty of the world?”
“Rex, I’m going to pay for it.”
He looked down. “That isn’t enough.” He turned to me. “You’ve been isolating yourself more and more. This is a sign of something bigger. It’s symptomatic.” He stepped closer. “What happened here? Tell me!“
“Nothing,” I lied. “Everything’s fine.”
“Speak! Speak, you fool, speak,” he said, swaying with fatigue and delirium, “Whatever it is, speak. This is your chance. This is our chance. Tell me what’s tormenting you. Speak!”
“Nothing,” I repeated, embarrassedly.
His eyes changed and flashed with an idea that must have soothed and pleasured him. “Frat court!” he said and pointed at me. “I’ll take your ass to Frat Court, Victor. Then you’ll face your problems. Then, I can—then, I can sleep. Must sleep. Miles to go…”
“Wait—Frat Court?” I asked. “Wait—Rex.”
Rex looked away and spoke in a buearocratic register, “I’m afraid I have to recommend to the Exec committee that you go before Standards.”
“Standards?” I asked.
“Some of the guys call the Standards Board: Frat court,” he said. He turned from me and his feet sloshed the wet carpet as he left. “Frat court, yes, that’s it.”
* * * * * *
A few days later, several members had invited me into a room with more members waiting inside on a couch and on green plastic chairs. They closed the door behind me and explained that they were within their rights to expel me from the house if I did not sign. So I signed. The appearance was set for the Wednesday evening after our Thanksgiving break from classes.
Having signed this contract called ‘The Standards vis-à-vis Fraternal Inclusion’ it seemed I was legally obligated to appear before the Standards Board. And just then, in my room, the college newspaper laid spread across the desktop but no one was looking to rent or find a roommate this late in the semester. I knew I had to call our house manager, Brad Torsten, for help.
The gray speaker of my cell rang as I pressed it against my red and sweaty ear. When he had taken my security deposit and given me my room keys, before classes started, he had said to call if I ever needed anything. And here we were. It rang again and my heart beat as my throat dried with the embarrassment and the self loathing that accompanied my nervousness.
“…Hello?” Brad Torsten said, again, gruffly.
“Uh… yes. Mr., Mr. Torsten. This is Victor, Victor Hastings.”
“Yer gonna have to make it quick.”
“I was wondering if we could discuss my upcoming case before the, uh, the Standards Board.”
“Look. I’m in the car. My kid needs to get to the dentist.”
“I was just wondering if this wasn’t a little extreme. Could we talk, maybe, and discuss this in private. I mean with, ah, reference to my expulsion from the house. I’m totally willing to pay for the damages and we don’t need to dip into my security deposit.”
“Can’t do it. I can’t interfere with the way you men do things over there. It would undermine the Alpha system. It’s sort of a sovereignty thing. I’m sorry Victor.”
“I see.”
“Look. I’ll be at the house early Wednesday evening and if you have further concerns we
can talk but I can’t interfere with the proceedings. Sound good?”
“Yes, Mr. Torsten.”
He hung up.
I picked up a photocopy of the contract I had signed. There was a place to include a listing of charges against the defendant. The charges had been originally written hastily in red ink with circled numerals next to each: 1. Damage of house property. 2. Isolation; and perversion of decency generally unbefitting the Alpha man. The second charge was plagiarized directly from an obscure passage of Scobey’s Field-guide. Ironically, this Field-guide seemed dated to me. I had read it cover-to-cover my freshman year and if the Field-guide had guided me I might not have been in my fix just then.
I was flying to Reno over the break to visit my parents and the plan was not to bring up the hearing.
CHAPTER SEVEN
A GHOST OR AN ANGEL
Before I knew it, the Wednesday night of the Frat Court had come. At six-thirty I put on my navy sport coat and my best brown tie and khakis. I hesitated over wearing our fraternal pin. Its use had lapsed among members. Erring on the side of caution, I pinned the silver lion’s paw over my right lapel, slantwise, toward my right shoulder.
I made my way to the main floor and down steps which led from the white-tiled anteroom into our Blue Room. The cobalt carpet had fresh vacuum tracks that my footsteps rubbed out. Set near the room’s corner fireplace, a nylon green and bronze-bordered covering draped a slender card table. On the tabletop, penny candles waited to be lit, a handsomely bound green and blue Scobey’s Field-guide would likely be read from pages marked by red bookmarks and a bronze gavel of a clenched lion’s paw rested on claws atop its jade pedestal.
In front of this table, someone had set a lone brown folding chair for me.
They would call me by my activation number: 1382. I had practiced, I had imagined my defense—each imaginable defense—from a standing position. I could hide this chair in the coat closet. But that would be misunderstood.
Behind this chair, the fake leather sofas, the simulated-wood disk coffee table and the black lacquered baby grand had been moved to make room for sixteen padded chairs.
Growing Up Wired Page 5
