American Fraternity Man

by Nathan Holic

  Occasionally, in that long cocktail haze before dinner, she found me to relay some bit of round-the-house gossip from the evening (“Darrell’s father just knocked into the trophy case” or “I found an empty vodka bottle in one of the planters on the back patio…”), but then she was gone just as quickly, always ending each exchange with a hug and a kiss and a “This turned out well, Charles. You should be proud.”

  The lavalier was upstairs. In hindsight, maybe I could have presented it to her then, while everyone waited for food and had nothing else to occupy their attention. Maybe it would have been productive, even, to unite 150 drunk-hungry people in a common task that pulled them momentarily from the bar and made them forget about their hunger. But there was still a full night ahead, a full awards ceremony, and who wants to be hog-tied before the food even arrived?

  *

  At some point there was a brief lapse in the noise and chaos of the cocktail hour, and I slunk outside to find my mother in the back courtyard. My father had disappeared somewhere else, likely to make phone calls or check his email on his Blackberry.

  “If I didn’t know better,” I said and sipped my vodka-tonic, “I’d think you and Dad were avoiding one another.”

  My mother took too long to answer, and I realized in that moment that I shouldn’t have made the joke. They’d arrived together, after all, but he hadn’t had his arm around her, hadn’t poured her a drink or said a word to her, and they never seemed to get close enough that their skin might touch even accidentally. They’d never been a giddy touchy-feely high-school couple, but it seemed strange to see my father speaking with another set of parents without even bothering to introduce his wife.

  “That’s crazy,” my mother said eventually, then swirled her wine glass and finished off the last few ounces of red.

  “Enjoy your massage?” I asked.

  “I always enjoy my massages.”

  “I’m just glad you’re enjoying yourself. That’s all I want, really.”

  “Don’t worry,” my mother said and held up her empty cup. “Your father might be joyless, but I’ll enjoy myself.”

  “That’s the spirit!” I put my arm around her. She’d never had any problem with the fraternity, had never lectured me about it as my father had, never found newspaper articles about hazing accidents or alcohol deaths. Hell, she’d never even pulled her circumnavigation stunts with me: canceling payments to the fraternity so that I’d get kicked out. Three years before, she’d enjoyed herself at our Family Weekend, and tonight, she was sitting out in the courtyard with a glass of wine, striking up conversation with a crew of other women spread across the outdoor lawn chairs. “Let me get back to the bar, then,” I told her, “and get you another drink. All that alcohol isn’t going to drink itself.”

  My mother craned her neck, searched this way and that. “Get me something stronger,” she said. “Vodka, maybe. Your father wouldn’t want to hear this, but if I have more wine, I’ll fall asleep.”

  *

  Sometime after I took the first heavy-duty trash bag of liquor bottles and beer cans from behind the bar and out the back door, the van for Old Smoky BBQ finally arrived. I’d already sent Edwin to the local 7-Eleven to pick up Doritos and pretzels so that the mothers—some of them three-deep on Edwin’s chocolate martinis—would have something in their stomachs to absorb all the alcohol. “This is not acceptable,” I said to the driver after the food had been unloaded. I said it loud enough for the entire house to hear me; I wanted to make sure the parents knew it wasn’t my fault, that the fraternity and the Senior Send-Off were both still flawless.

  “Huh?” the driver said.

  “Tell your manager that we won’t be using Old Smoky again,” I said. “Tell him.”

  “Is something wrong? Is something missing?”

  “It’s…the time frame is not acceptable.”

  “Um,” he said. “I got here as quick as I could. There were speed limits.”

  But no, of course he wasn’t responsible. He’d probably delivered ten other orders that evening, all at the times noted on whatever paperwork his boss had given him. And now everyone was looking at the two of us, angry Charles Washington with a vodka-tonic in his hand, and perplexed 16-year-old delivery boy wearing a t-shirt with a cartoon pig on the front. All of the parents staring, even as the twelve disposable aluminum tubs, each covered in foil and arranged on the long tables of our dining room, waited to be opened and served. Fathers, mothers, and sons all inching closer to the food, but with marked restraint, no one wanting to jump the gun and dig in first. Twelve aluminum tubs, and several stacks of styrofoam to-go containers filled with Texas Toast and fried okra. Everyone staring, first at the two of us, then at the food. What is he arguing about? Give us the motherfucking barbecue!

  “Here,” I told the driver, and handed him his tip. “Just get out of here.”

  And I walked back inside. Edwin was just now bringing from his upstairs mini-fridge the small glass bowls of barbecue sauce and hot mustard and mayonnaise, balancing each precariously on his palms and forearms, arranging them around the carefully designed stacks of napkins. The food had been a long time coming, but our presentation was flawless.

  “Barbecue?” my father asked. “Interesting choice.”

  I hadn’t even noticed him approach me. “Thought it would be easiest for a large group.”

  “Couldn’t just grill out yourselves?”

  “You know about our kitchen,” I said.

  “Right. You guys can’t use your own kitchen. House full of fraternity guys, and no one has a grill?”

  So my father wasn’t impressed with our catered meal…fine…I’d draw his attention back to the single element of the party that I knew was a hit. “You like the bar selection?” I asked, motioning toward the far end of the room, where—even with the food just delivered—a crowd still remained, a tall man in gray slacks holding the bottle of Grey Goose high, turning it around and examining it in the same way that a Revolutionary War musket or a piece of Confederate cash might be inspected on Antique Roadshow, before eventually nodding satisfactorily and pouring himself a drink.

  “Your mother appreciates the wine,” he said.

  “Yeah. She told me.”

  He swirled the ice in his cup. “She’ll drink too much and have a headache.”

  “She’s fine.”

  “You’re not the one who has to drive her,” he said.

  I pointed to his cup. “What are you drinking?”

  “Water.”

  “There’s a lot of stuff over there. You like martinis.”

  He crept toward the foil-covered metal tubs. Everyone else was still keeping their distance while I arranged the plates and plastic silverware, but there was an energy pulsing in that room: if I didn’t get out of the way in the next minute, I would be stampeded. “Are you trying to get rid of me?” he asked.

  “No. Of course not. I just…” I flung my arms out desperately, knocked over one of the napkin stacks. “I just want you to enjoy yourself,” I said, and bent to gather the mess I’d created, smacked my hand on the side of the table.

  “Well,” he said and pinched the foil lightly; seeing that it wasn’t too hot, he lifted the corner to peer inside. He’d found the tub of pulled pork, and we both stared at the tall piles of meat as if beholding an ancient wonder of the world. “I’d have a much better time if I had a plate full of barbecue,” he said. “Want to get this party started, Charles?”

  And finally it seemed as if the two of us were in agreement; it was just pulled pork, sure, but in that moment it became something more important: it was my choice of which university to attend, my choice to join the fraternity; it was the house, my brand-new career, my ability to save the world, all inside those steaming metal pans. And so I lifted the foil covers, curling them back on themselves to protect and keep warm as much of the meat as possible. Proud of the pulled pork. The baked beans. The roasted quarter-chickens. The mashed potatoes and macaroni and cheese! Cornbread
! Green beans and almonds, sliced smoked ham, smoked sausages, dry-rub ribs! The entire menu of Old Smoky BBQ, ready to be consumed, ready to feed the appetites of all these parents, ready to assuage concerns, to give final confirmation that their sons had made the right choice when they’d joined this fraternity. Here it was!

  Except—

  “Serving spoons?” my father asked, and he had a sesame-seed bun opened on his plate. “Tongs?”

  “Sure,” I said. “Do you see a plastic bag around here anywhere?”

  I fumbled, hit my hand again.

  “I don’t see anything,” my father said, and behind him, other parents had formed a line, some grabbing plates and buns and napkins the same as he had, their moods and spirits high, men and women who were previously strangers now chatting and joking with one another, some holding full martini glasses, others with whiskey on the rocks. A woman in white pants was laughing so hard that it almost looked painful, and her husband was slapping her back. Another couple was clinking wine glasses, and Jenn stood at the bar with a group of her sorority sisters, girls who were dating Nikes; she topped off with a healthy pour of cranberry juice a set of glasses half-filled with vodka and ice. This was what a cocktail party was supposed to looked like. This was polished adulthood. Everything I’d wanted. But somehow I’d missed the smallest of details.

  “I can’t find any serving equipment,” I said, madly searching beneath the table, under the trash bags we’d hung to collect dirty paper plates. “Edwin? See them anywhere?”

  “I don’t see anything,” Edwin said from the bar. He was searching through cabinets as if—for whatever reason—the delivery man might have stashed a set of tongs up there.

  “Something wrong, Charles?” Jenn called out, finishing her final pour.

  “No, no!” I said. Crawling on the floor now, searching searching.

  “Charles,” my father said, and he looked back over his shoulder at the long line, where parents were taking notice of this situation. Standing in clumps of brand-new friends. Turning to one another, all of them asking the same questions. “What’s wrong?” “Why won’t he let us eat?” “What’s the hold-up?” “Who’s in charge, here?” The woman in the white pants had stopped laughing, face sucked of its humor.

  And now my mother was wedging herself into the line, grabbing a plate. Cocktail cup in hand. “What’s wrong?” she asked. “Charles, what are you doing?”

  “Nothing!” I said from beneath the table. “I’m sure it’s around!” Rising, banging my shoulder against the table again, nearly knocking over the cornbread.

  “Oh, you can’t find the spoons?” my mother asked.

  “Sometimes you have to ask to rent serving equipment,” my father said. “They don’t always just give it to you. Did you ask?”

  “Edwin,” I said. “Did they say anything about serving equipment?”

  And now Edwin was walking toward us empty-handed, disappointment etched into his face. “I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t remember them saying anything.”

  “Didn’t ask them many questions at all, did you, Charles?” my father asked.

  “The two-hour window…that wasn’t my fault.”

  “You’ve probably got something in your kitchen,” he said.

  “It’s locked, Dad.”

  “Oh. Right.”

  But he knew. He knew.

  “Why is the kitchen locked?” my mother asked.

  “They pay a staff,” my father said. “They’re not allowed inside their own kitchen. Maybe next time I should bring my own utensils.”

  “That’s silly,” my mother said.

  “Hungry!” someone shouted.

  “I’ve explained this to you!” I said, trying to keep my voice down.

  Jenn approaching now, cranberry-vodka in hand, her crew of sorority friends fanning out behind her with looks of mild puzzlement. As she passed the tall man in the gray slacks, I noticed that his drink was empty now, too; he was standing in a static line, eating ice cubes, eyebrows raised in frustration.

  “Why don’t we just use the plastic utensils to scoop it out?” my mother asked.

  “That’ll have to do,” Edwin said. “No other option.”

  “Charles, just grab some spoons and forks,” my father said. “It won’t be pretty, but it’s better than nothing.”

  “I’d prefer to use a serving spoon,” I said. “It’s got to be around here.”

  “Charles. We’re hungry. A plastic fork will work.”

  “I can find it. The event deserves better.”

  “It’s going to get cold, Charles.”

  The long, long line—over a hundred people by now, parents, children, all the khaki shorts and polo shirts and button-downs and ties and jean skirts and white pants, all of my fraternity brothers holding Heineken bottles, everyone pulled in from the living room and the courtyard and the game room—they were all looking at him now. My father. They knew what was happening, and what they saw was this: little Charles, the supposed president, rummaging around, panicked, an empty plastic bag in one hand. Parents looking at my father as if he was the sensible one, as if…as if…who the hell was I? Why couldn’t I just clear out of the way and let the man do his job? As if my father had planned this event, as if I was his mere assistant. For fuck’s sake, let us eat!

  “Fine,” I said. “Plastic utensils.”

  And a cheer arose from the crowd. “All right!” one man yelled.

  “Teamwork,” Edwin said, clapped my father’s back. “Nice work, Mr. Washington.”

  My father opened the Ziploc bag of plastic utensils, dumped them out on the table beside our now-silly-looking glass bowls of barbecue sauce. And even though my father had been first in line, he stepped aside, motioning for the next couple to fill their plates, and as they stepped past him en route to pulled pork, they smiled and thanked my father, and he waited until the very end, a hundred people, two hundred, after the last couple—who shook his hand and called him a gentleman—before he finally stepped back into place in front of the pulled pork tub. But before doing so, he turned to me and said, “Come and grab something to eat, Charles,” the same voice that any of the parents in the room would have used to reprimand a 10-year-old. And he didn’t move to fill his own plate until I’d done so.

  *

  After dinner ended—only scraps of pork and burnt toast left at the tables, a line of trash bags stuffed with sloppy plastic plates and used silverware—it was time for the academic awards presentation, and then the cake. And, of course, the lavalier.

  This was my farewell, my personal send-off, a memory that I hoped I could keep close for the full summer of training and then sixteen weeks of Fall travel and then sixteen weeks of Spring travel, like baby pictures in a grown man’s wallet. This would be another Alumni Ball moment for me, my final bow. My night redeemed.

  CHAPTER FIVE: After-Dinner Drinks.

  “Your attention!” I shouted to the room, and there seemed to be a great deal of wobbling in the fraternity house by now. Mothers holding glasses of wine, hands on their husbands’ shoulders. Fathers leaning against walls, bellies swollen from an ill-advised second or third trip to the buffet, a quarter-pound of extra brisket and four ribs too many, and still finishing another bottle of Heineken. Everyone engaged in sedated post-dinner conversations throughout the house, swirling as they talked, spilling beer and white wine.

  “Your attention, please!” I said again, and now Jenn was standing five feet in front of me. Seeing her was a reminder: I was speaking to the room, but really I was speaking to Jenn. Or I would be soon, at least.

  But the room continued to buzz in a hundred different conversations. I waved my arms for attention, a small table topped with a half-dozen engraved academic plaques waiting to be presented and distributed, and it was Jenn who smiled up at me and then placed her drink on the table to unleash a vigorous earthquake-clap that didn’t seem possible from such tiny hands.

  The room stopped, cups frozen at lips, mouths paus
ed in mid-word, as if stuck in a Saved By the Bell time-out.

  And it was Jenn who kissed me on the cheek, who projected her voice to reach the entire fraternity house, inside and out, upstairs and down, 150 people in all, Jenn who introduced me—“My boyfriend, the president of the fraternity, an amazing guy who planned this entire night, and he’s just got a few words to say”—and it was Jenn who gripped my hand, the sort of soft squeeze that you can’t misinterpret and you can’t fake.

  The room broke into polite applause, not nearly as loud as a single clap from Jenn.

  “I want to thank you all for making the trip to attend our Senior Send-Off,” I told the assembled crowd. I tried to keep my eye on my girlfriend. To let her slip away, back into the crowd, would be to dash my plans: she needed to be close so that I could bend casually to my knee and present her the charm. “This event took a lot of planning,” I said, “and we wanted to make sure that we used this opportunity to spotlight some of the great aspects of our fraternity.”

  But as I spoke, the faces and bodies were already un-freezing, hands stuffing into pockets and backs slumping against walls in anticipation of some long and exhausting speech. Please, do we have to listen to this? “Diversity in our membership,” I was saying, “a commitment to service, a National Headquarters that strongly believes” —mothers taking sips of wine, glassy eyes glossing further— “depiction of fraternities in the media and in Hollywood is 100 percent wrong, and we wanted to show you that” —fathers whispering into the ears of their sons, my fraternity brothers patting their dads on the back and then slinking away to the bar to mix a couple more drinks. Cell phones out. Text messages.

  But I continued speaking, said something about the mission and about the socially responsible citizens we were creating, and how proud I’d been to represent them all as their president, and my father stood in the back of the room, water in hand, never failing to make eye contact as I recited my prepared speech about the importance of scholarship to the fraternity mission; he sipped the water just the same as he sipped his morning coffee, stared directly into my eyes, perhaps already thinking of how he would call bullshit on my convictions.