Total Frat Move

by W. R. Bolen

  The beginning of college means one thing: the beginning of rush. A new group of freshmen floods in and unparalleled excitement sweeps over campus as the independent lives of the future leaders of America begin with the crack of thousands of beers. These TFMs embody this time period…

  On Fraternity Rush and the Beginning of College

  Back to school shopping at the liquor store. TFM.

  Meeting people for the first time, multiple times. TFM.

  The leaders of tomorrow being unable to remember last night. TFM.

  Themed parties: the gentlemanly way of telling girls to wear something slutty. TFM.

  Holding back your laughter when the recruitment chair tells the rushees “We have a strict zero tolerance policy when it comes to hazing.” TFM.

  Freshmen move-in, it’s like Christmas, but for your penis. TFM.

  GDI approached the door and tried to explain that his girlfriend was inside. I said, “There are a lot of guys’ girlfriends inside,” and slammed it shut. TFM.

  What I called “that night of drinking where I almost died” in high school is now just called Thursday. TFM.

  Enjoy the front seat of my car now rushee, you’ll be in the trunk soon. TFM.

  Twenty-one to drink, eighteenish to sleep over. TFM.

  The beer pong dunk. TFM.

  Blacking out and getting onstage with the band. TFM.

  Dancing like you’re not a well-off private school kid. TFM.

  Passing out in the midst of the destruction. TFM.

  The rushees don’t know what’s coming, but it’s coming. TFM.

  The Ice Cream Social

  RUSH CONTINUED FOR TWO WEEKS AFTER THAT LIFE-changing toga party kick-started my college career. Every night the Alphas gave us another reason to rage that tested both the limits of my liver and the elasticity of my jeans due to repetitive dance floor boner exposure. Thursday through Saturday the dorms emptied and the streets were littered with people headed to different parties. Girls were waved past the hired security at the entrance of the Alpha house, and the unfortunate guys who weren’t on the rush list walked away staring at the ground.

  Even on the rare weeknight that a party didn’t break out at the house, Atwater and his recruitment captains took the rushees to dinner with a different group of sorority girls. And we didn’t go out for chicken fingers and onion rings. It was always the back room at an upscale steakhouse where we could get obnoxious, or a sushi place where we would bang out sake bombs and slam Japanese beer. Everything was charged to the chapter credit card as part of the rush budget, and Atwater never even looked at the check before slapping down the plastic.

  Their goal was to impress us, and it worked. School never even had a chance to become a priority. How could I give a shit about my history lecture knowing a few hours later I’d be double-fisting beers and singing “Tiny Dancer” at the top of my lungs with a girl under each arm? It was nonstop boozing, laughing, flirting, and fucking with zero consequences that felt like it would never end. Then, one fateful Friday, my phone rang and Atwater’s name appeared on the screen.

  I pulled my iPhone from my pocket and muted SportsCenter to answer his call.

  “Townes, put on a blazer and slacks, pick up a gallon of your favorite ice cream, and head up to the house.” His tone was far more serious than usual.

  “Ice cream? What flavor do I—”

  “Just pick a fucking flavor and be there by six o’clock sharp.” Click.

  None of the Alphas had ever expressed any emotion other than enthusiasm to get me sloppy drunk and laid, and I’d never heard Atwater sound even mildly irritated. I had no idea why he was acting like a dickhead.

  I sat in silence, considering the possibilities, until Monte walked in from class and told me he just got the exact same call from one of the recruitment captains who assisted Atwater. “Rush might be over,” he said as he slid one arm into his blazer.

  “And we might be fucked,” I replied. It was already 5:45, so I grabbed my coat and we headed into the parking garage to get my truck.

  “Did he seem pissed off to you?” Monte asked.

  “He hung up on me.”

  Neither of us said a word the rest of the way to the grocery store. My brakes squeaked as I swerved into a parking spot and we hustled inside to grab ice cream.

  A few minutes later we arrived at the frat house with time to spare. The parking lot was overflowing with SUVs and trucks. Most had Alpha stickers on the rear window along with Ducks Unlimited or Coastal Conservation Association decals. We parked on the street as several other rushees were getting out of their cars, and I saw dozens of others in sport coats already standing around picnic tables set up on the front lawn.

  We approached the tables and I realized that not a single active member of the fraternity was in the yard, just rushees. That’s when I looked up and saw at least forty of the 110-man chapter packed onto the second-floor balcony, looming over us. They had beers in their hands and scowls on their faces, staring down like vultures at soon-to-be-dead prey.

  I set my ice cream down on a table with countless other buckets, every one of them vanilla, and walked over to Tim to see if he knew what the Alphas had planned.

  “Tell me you know what the fuck is going on here.”

  “I have no fucking idea,” he said. “I was one of the first people to show, and when I tried to head upstairs one of the seniors was like, ‘Stay in the fucking yard!’ I feel like a dog in a $300 blazer.”

  I walked through the crowd, stopping and talking with guys I hadn’t seen in a few days. One of the other rushees, Garrett Rogers, was in the middle of telling me how an RA walked in on him pounding a girl in her dorm’s laundry room when a loud whistle from the upstairs balcony interrupted him. The president of Alpha, Sean Harvey, leaned over the railing with his hair neatly combed, wearing a navy blazer and a red tie with blue stripes. He put his fingers to his mouth and whistled once more, louder this time.

  “Fellas, pay the fuck attention!” he yelled.

  Everyone stopped talking and stared up at him.

  “Today is a very important day in your lives,” he began. “It is one that will change you forever if you accept the honor we bestow upon you. You’ll notice that not all of the fucking freeloaders that have been coming to our parties are here today. That’s because we’ve spent the last few weeks evaluating all of you, and those guys aren’t Alpha material. You, however, are being invited to be a part of our fraternity. Congratulations to the forty-two of you on receiving bids from Alpha!”

  In a split second all my worries turned to sheer, face-melting happiness. A chorus of congratulatory applause and roaring cheers rained down on us from the balcony, along with empty beer cans, packs of cigarettes, and a couple of lawn chairs. We rotated through one another, slapping backs and shaking hands with accomplishment in our swagger and acceptance in our smiles. Nate and Tim hugged it out. The ovation continued as I took a deep breath and let out a sigh of relief. I had been looking forward to this moment from the second I received my acceptance letter to the university. There was never any doubt I’d get in, but it was still a huge weight off my back knowing I was no longer a GDI.

  President Harvey told us to take the next half hour to get to know each other in a sober environment for a change, and then Atwater stepped up to the railing and congratulated us.

  “Enjoy that fucking ice cream, and if you’re here in thirty minutes we’ll assume you’ve accepted your bid. Congratulations on being invited into the best goddamn fraternity on this campus.”

  Robert Earl Keen was turned up full blast inside the house as Monte walked up and hit me in the arm so hard that my hand went numb. “I knew we weren’t fucked, you jackass!”

  We sat down at the table next to Nate and I grabbed a plastic spoon to dig into a melting tub of vanilla. I looked up at the balcony where the flock of actives had been staring down at us, but they were gone. My smile widened as I imagined them inside, setting up for the party of the centu
ry to welcome us as brothers.

  Nate nudged me, drooling ice cream down his chin and grinning like a happy twelve-year-old sitting at the cool kids’ table for the first time. “Tonight is going to be fucking classic. I’m getting a chubby just thinking about it!” I nodded in agreement as I slurped down another spoonful.

  But suddenly Robert Earl Keen shut off mid-song and was replaced by harsh, screeching death metal appropriate for the intro of a roided-out antagonist in the WWE. The heavy bass and deep-voiced screaming destroyed every endorphin that was dancing through my brain. Trendall, one of the other rushees, whose dad was also an Alpha, had a look on his face that turned the drip of paranoia running down my spine into frozen panic.

  I followed his eyes up to the balcony and saw a solitary man with a beard that would take me years to achieve. I’d never seen him before, and I thought I had at least seen every brother in the house. His medium-height, bulldog-like frame stood in a power position with both hands gripped tightly on the wooden railing, grinding a toothpick between his teeth. His face showed no emotion, like a hairy robot, and he scanned each of us with his eyes like he was doing a head count.

  “Who the fuck is that?” I whispered to Monte. He didn’t answer.

  The bearded man headed for the stairs while I fidgeted and looked for things to stare at besides his menacing face.

  He walked slowly up to us wearing a Brooks Brothers button-down that displayed a thick forest of chest hair, khaki shorts with an inseam that would make 1980s Chevy Chase proud, and beach sandals. The chorus of “RE… SPECT” from Pantera’s “Walk” sounded through the balcony speakers, and suddenly, with an authoritative leap, the bearded man mounted my table, knocking buckets of ice cream aside as he made his way to the middle.

  “Welcome!” he bellowed. “My name is Arthur Weston, but you pieces of shit will address me as Mr. Weston, sir! I am your pledgemaster, and for the foreseeable future, you are FUCKED!”

  His stony face, rough beard, and shaggy brown hair showed no sign of weakness. I glanced around the table at faces that had been decorated with total comfort and acceptance just minutes before. Now they wore nothing but somber humility and dejection. Tim had his head down staring into a tub of Blue Bell, and Trendall was visibly shaking as his wide eyes focused on Mr. Weston’s hairy feet. We were a bunch of preppy kids from privileged backgrounds who had spent the last few weeks soaring in drunken bliss, and we weren’t even close to prepared for a reality check of this magnitude. All the authority figures I’d ever had, including my parents, coaches, and teachers, were much older than me. Mr. Weston was only twenty-one, and was already more intimidating than all of them combined.

  “Starting now, you have three minutes to be in the basement, lined up in alphabetical order by last name, with your backs parallel to the wall,” he said. “Have your chins in the fucking air, and your eyes on the fucking ceiling.”

  He had the stage presence of a seasoned general, but even as his tone remained calm I could feel danger, like being in the eye of a great storm. I was frozen. I couldn’t move. None of us could.

  And that made him angry.

  “Now, goddammit! Move your worthless fucking asses!”

  He kicked a bucket of Ben & Jerry’s into Trendall’s face with the accuracy and force of a Cristiano Ronaldo strike. Trendall fell backward off the bench and thudded into the dirt, his nose bleeding and his face covered in vanilla.

  “Run, you ice-cream-munching cum stain!” Mr. Weston picked up a second bucket and hurled it at Monte, nailing him in the back and sending him stumbling forward.

  I stood up and sprinted aimlessly toward the house, clumsily running into Tim. I realized I had no idea where I was going, while Mr. Weston screamed obscenities.

  “Move, you fucking losers! Faster! Run!”

  Another bucket of ice cream sailed past my head as Mr. Weston let out a powerful evil laugh. Liquid splattered onto my shoulder and I looked up to see two brothers hanging out of their windows, yelling and throwing beer as we passed.

  “Who’s smiling now, bitches?” one yelled down at us. “This is a fucking nightmare you’ll never wake up from!”

  Just like that, rush was over. There would be no more free steak dinners, no more undeserved compliments, and no more getting kidnapped by hot girls with great tits. We were in Mr. Weston’s world now, and it was about to get dark.

  The moment when pledgeship becomes a reality is gut-wrenching for the rushees. The wool is pulled from their eyes and they realize the fraternity members have been treating them like kings only to enslave them in their pledge program. It’s an incredibly sobering moment, and more of a mind-fuck than finding out Santa Claus isn’t real…

  On the Beginning of Pledgeship

  It’s all fun and games until somebody gives you a bid. TFM.

  The look on the legacy’s face when he realizes he’s just as fucked as the rest of the pledges. TFM.

  The house has that “new pledge class” smell. TFM.

  Changing their cell phone contact name prefixes from “Rushee” to “Pledge” and loving every minute of it. TFM.

  We had the pledges for under an hour before the risk management chair had to intervene. TFM.

  Forcing the pledges to take a moment of silence for their recently deceased dignity. TFM.

  “Why are all these guys being so mean?” asked the confused pledge. TFM.

  The pledge fire. TFM.

  Speed Bump Pledge. TFM.

  Wherever it snows, Snow Shovel Pledge goes. TFM.

  Mr. Weston’s World

  IT QUICKLY BECAME OBVIOUS THAT MOST OF US DIDN’T even know the basement existed, much less how to get inside. For a few seconds our directionless pack stalled out until Rogers took the lead. One by one we headed through a heavy wooden door into the dusty, stale dungeon. Once inside, we started yelling our last names at each other in the dark, desperately trying to get in order.

  “ADAMS!”

  “RUMSEN!”

  “TRENDALL! FUCKING TRENDALL!”

  “MONTGOMERY!”

  “PARSELLS!”

  “ROGERS!”

  “PRESCOTT!”

  I pushed my way in between Parsells and Rogers while the name-yelling continued. It sounded like there was a stampede taking place on the floor above us. Dozens of stomping feet shook the ceiling and sent a cloud of dust pouring down around us. Phil Collins’s “In the Air Tonight” had been turned on full blast to smother any cries for help. I stared up at the ceiling and my dad’s words echoed in my head. Take the hazing like a man. I heard the basement door slam shut. Mr. Weston Sir was among us.

  “I want each of you to look at the worthless shitbags to your immediate left and right!” he instructed. “These are your pledge brothers! The men you will suffer with every single day for the next twelve weeks! And you will suffer, you can bet on that.”

  I looked at Rogers, who looked back at me, and then over at Parsells, who was too afraid to break eye contact with the ceiling.

  Mr. Weston shouted again. “Eyes back on the fucking ceiling! You’re in my world now, and my world has rules. Pay close attention. My mood depends entirely on whether or not you follow the fucking rules, and my mood is very, very important to you.”

  He paced back and forth in front of us. Every time he paused I could feel the tension in the room skyrocket. He randomly raised his voice for parts of his delivery he considered especially important.

  “These are the rules of pledging… ATTIRE! You will wear a collared polo shirt tucked into Wrangler boot-cut jeans with boots at all times on campus. The only exceptions are TUESDAYS, which are meeting days, when you will wear your PLEDGE UNIFORM, which consists of a white button-down, red tie, and a blue blazer with khaki pants.”

  He stepped past me and paused for a second to collect his thoughts. The thunderous stomping overhead continued, and dust from the ceiling sprinkled into my eyes. My palms were sweating and I could feel my heartbeat pounding through my chest.

  �
�There will be no hair products, no jewelry, no watches, no ankle socks, no sandals, no facial hair, no hats, no sunglasses, no long hair…”

  He hesitated momentarily in front of Parsells, and then yelled directly at him.

  “No stupid fucking faces!”

  Someone toward the beginning of our alphabetical line sneezed, and Mr. Weston sprung toward him in what seemed like a single bound, defying physics like an NFL linebacker.

  “SHUT THE FUCK UP!”

  His head was on a swivel as his eyes scanned back and forth, and then he calmed himself and continued. I tried to keep my breathing to a minimum out of fear that I would draw his attention.

  “There will be no drinking, no tobacco of any kind, and no drugs. That ice cream was the last fucking treat you’ll ever have. You will address every active as ‘Mr.,’ call him by his last name, and end every sentence with ‘sir’ when you talk to them. If you see an active on campus you will approach him with a firm handshake and address him like I am about to address this mindless fuck right here.”

  He stepped in front of Monte and extended one hand firmly for a shake.

  “Sir, Alpha pledge Arthur Weston, how are you today, Mr. Montgomery?”

  Monte tried to shake his hand without looking at him, but missed awkwardly, and Mr. Weston slapped his hand away.

  “Do not fucking touch me! Who the fuck do you think you are?”

  He stood on his toes and screamed in Monte’s face.

  “I will fucking eat you alive! Uncooked! I will fucking eat you!”

  He remained on his toes, inches from Monte’s face, silent. Monte stood tightlipped and fixed his eyes on the ceiling. Mr. Weston was looking for a reaction, any excuse to keep demeaning Monte, but he didn’t get one and backed away to continue his pacing.