by W. R. Bolen
It ended right in front of me.
“Who wants to try and intro me properly?”
Please God, not me.
“You.” He poked me in the Adam’s apple with his burly index finger. “Address me correctly.”
“Sir, Alpha pledge Townes Prescott. How are you today, Mr. Weston, sir?”
“LOUDER, YOU QUIVERING TAINT!”
I could smell the whiskey on his breath.
“Sir, Alpha pledge Townes Prescott, how are you today, Mr. Weston, sir!” I deepened my voice to sound like a badass, but every fluid drop of my testosterone was hiding deep in the tunnels of my ass.
“Fuck you! That’s how I’m doing!”
Apparently that was his way of expressing approval, because he moved on.
“You will change your cell phone voice mail to ‘Alpha pledge, your full name, please leave a message.’ You’re not to use bikes, buses, or any other form of transportation such as skateboards or Rollerblades. If I see you on a skateboard I will put it inside you fucking sideways and you will never see the inside of this house again! You will WALK to class. No goddamn music, and no goddamn Facebook. If one of you cocksuckers writes on my wall I will ‘poke’ you in the throat with my fucking knee. Delete your account.”
He paused and spit a giant loogie, seemingly disgusted that his one-sided conversation with us wasn’t over.
“You will respect all ladies, even heifers and handicaps, and you will never use the front door of the fraternity house. You use the back door, the asshole of the house, because you are SHIT!”
In my peripheral vision I could see him looking up and down the line to catch one of us even thinking about smiling. The room was still filled with the booming, disorienting echo of stomping on the floor above us.
“Does everyone understand the rules?” Mr. Weston asked.
Not a single one of us spoke, terrified that one of the rules we’d already forgotten was to never respond to a question.
“I said, does everyone understand the fucking rules? The answer is sir yes sir!”
“Sir yes sir!” we rang out in unison.
“Louder!”
“SIR YES SIR!” The volume of our response shook the room.
“Fucking pathetic,” he said, but his gruff tone gave off a sense of pride.
Then he swung the basement door open into the wall, deepening the already existing doorknob-sized hole, and was gone as quickly as he came. We stood in silence, staring up at the ceiling.
Are we supposed to leave? I had no fucking idea.
The music suddenly cut off in the middle of a drum solo, and the stomping above us ceased. I heard the last few steps of Mr. Weston’s heavy feet ascending the staircase, and each one made me feel a little bit safer. When his footsteps stopped we were alone in silence for minutes that seemed like days. I checked down the line to my left and right, making sure I wasn’t the only idiot still staring fearfully at the ceiling. Then I imagined the world outside the basement. I saw kids in their dorms studying for exams that were weeks away; my parents at home enjoying dinner by the fire; tiny Asian women in a Malaysian sweatshop sewing shoes. So many happy, blissfully ignorant lives. Maybe they were the lucky ones for not being conned into this ridiculous world of tyranny.
Suddenly the speaker system kicked back on and Dean Martin’s “Ain’t That a Kick in the Head” was blaring through the house, accompanied by the clatter of dozens of feet running above us and down the stairs outside. The door swung back open and Atwater sprinted through with a bottle of champagne, spraying down the line as he ran past. Dozens of other actives followed, all holding champagne bottles, dousing us and jumping around like fucking maniacs. They filed into the basement until the room was filled.
“All right, you sons of bitches!” yelled Atwater. “Tonight is your fucking bid night! Your final night of freedom!”
The actives erupted as I forced myself to continue staring at the ceiling. My mind was being fucked so hard that it actually hurt, like a brain freeze. The champagne burned my eyes as I was strapped into the emotional roller coaster.
“You don’t have to stare at the ceiling anymore,” said Atwater as he pressed a bottle of champagne to my chest. “Tonight is a fucking celebration!”
I grabbed the bottle but held it without taking a sip, worried that I was being set up. I glanced around and saw that all my pledge brothers were being handed bottles as well. Atwater laughed at my distrust and stepped back to address the line.
“It is extremely important that you remember everything your pledge trainer Mr. Weston said here tonight, but the rest of the evening you should have the motherfucking time of your lives! Tomorrow morning you will be nothing more than shitty pledge scum, but tonight you are celebrating the fact that you and your pledge brothers are pledge scum for the best fucking fraternity on this campus.”
The actives shuffled around congratulating us, shaking our hands, and delivering quips to commemorate our accomplishment. Some were friendlier than others.
“Congratulations, man. Tonight is going to be insane.”
“Good job, bro. Let’s get fucking sloppy.”
“Enjoy tonight, you fucking pledge turd. Tomorrow the shit begins.”
Monte shrugged his shoulders in an act of mental capitulation. Trendall upended his bottle to drown his anxiety. Then Atwater spoke up again.
“Let’s head upstairs and get this shit started! The girls will be here soon.”
If he is any good at his job, your pledge trainer will haunt you from the moment he introduces himself until the day you die. He is the man in charge of every hazing session you go through. He orchestrates the entirety of your education about the fraternity, and bonds your pledge class by breaking you down and then building you back up together as one. But even after initiation, he never really becomes just another one of the guys. He’s always your pledge trainer…
On Pledge Trainers
Pledgeship was four years ago, but I still hold my breath and look around for my pledge trainer whenever I hear the intro to “Walk” by Pantera. TFM.
Unanimous vote for the marine as pledge trainer. TFM.
Even the active chapter is starting to buy into the pledge trainer’s mind-fuck. TFM.
Congratulations, we just elected the white Ray Lewis as pledge trainer. TFM.
Pledge trainer gave the pledges the hazing hotline number. Little do they know, it’s our drunkest active’s cell phone number. Welcome to hell boys. TFM.
Mid-chapter meeting haze off to decide on the next pledge trainer. TFM.
Parking a pledge’s car for him. TFM.
“Do it, pledge. DO IT NOW!” TFM.
The Final Night of Freedom
I GASPED FOR CLEAN AIR AS ATWATER USHERED US OUT of the musty basement like traumatized cattle. Mr. Weston’s voice was still echoing violently through my head as I tried to make sense of what was happening. The sort of confusion that can only be created by the perfect mind-fuck was still visible on many of my pledge brothers’ faces. The expression on my face was similar to that of an escaped mental patient getting a blowjob during a root canal. I was relieved that I had gotten my bid, horrified that Mr. Weston existed, pumped about the party, and dreading the beginning of pledgeship the next day.
The actives had reassumed control of the porch, and there was no fucking way I was going to be the first moron to stroll up and pretend we were all best friends again, so I stood my ground and waited to see how everything played out. But nobody else made a move.
“Why the fuck are you just standing there?” asked Atwater, pointing to the stairs. “Go! Party!”
“Is Mr. Weston up there?” asked Tim.
“No, you won’t see him for the rest of the night.”
Tim turned and bounded up the stairs with his bottle of champagne. I took a swig to get the taste of the basement out of my mouth and followed him.
We were greeted by a mob of actives and the crowd immediately swallowed Tim. David Young, one of the seniors
I had met at a dinner, put his arm around me and pulled me in.
“Y’all are solid,” he hiccupped. “Solid pledge class. You’ll do just fine.” Then he let go and turned back for the next guy, breath reeking of Budweiser and chewing tobacco, and I heard him say the same thing verbatim.
With every step I was stopped and given more words of approval and congratulations. When I finally got through the welcome committee I turned to find Monte and noticed a pack of Jeeps, Tahoes, and trucks parking in the street. Sorority girls were jumping out, screaming and hugging. It had been a full week since the ones going through rush had hung out with us because of their “sorority silence,” where freshmen weren’t allowed to talk to guys or drink as part of their recruitment process. The yard filled up as more and more of them arrived, and then they made their way toward the house. They were all wearing tank tops with their letters shaped by rhinestones, along with neon face paint and temporary tattoos.
Monte walked up and nodded to me.
“Thank God,” he said, looking at the girls. “I was really starting to miss them.”
We clinked our bottles together and I sloshed back the little champagne I had left and hurled the empty bottle at the roof of the Sigma house next door. While I watched it sail through the air I felt the back of my shirt tighten and a hand grip my shoulder.
“What the fuck are you doing, pledge?”
I turned around to face a pair of bushy eyebrows on a head covered in shaggy brown hair belonging to a guy wearing an untucked dark green polo and a look of disgust. I struggled to get my words out.
“I was just—”
“Is that how you talk to an active? Why the fuck do you want to be in this fraternity? Who are you? Why do you deserve to be my brother? Why are you even here?”
He was in attack mode, rattling off rhetorical questions in an angry tirade. Any response would’ve just fueled the flame, so I decided maintaining eye contact and looking intimidated was the safest play.
“What are you, fucking stupid or something?” he continued.
Atwater slid out from between two girls and grabbed him.
“Goddammit, Jackson, you fucking jackass, save it for tomorrow.”
“What’s the big deal?” Jackson smiled at him. “I was just having a little fun with the kid.” He smirked at me and chugged his beer as he turned away.
“Ignore that,” said Atwater as we both watched Jackson push past Trendall. “Did you see how many fucking girls I got for you?”
“Yeah, I just saw an army of them pull up. I’m assuming sorority silence is over?”
“You’re damn right. Get in there and make me proud.”
He turned to help two actives carrying a Gatorade water cooler. Pink liquid sloshed out as they set it down on a bench, and Scott McCandles threw a bag of 250 red Solo cups down next to it. Atwater grabbed a cup and threw it to me.
“Might as well,” he said.
I headed for the cooler and Monte trailed me, trying to reason with me as I filled up my first cup.
“Whoa! Do you really want to end up like Tim after Paint Your Toga? That shit is lethal.”
I nodded and gulped down the pink mixture. “I don’t give a shit, dude. I’m getting David Hasselhoff drunk tonight.”
The rest of our pledge brothers worked their way through the gauntlet, and the actives faded into the house after growing tired of congratulations. Trendall bounced in and out of groups, redirecting each conversation to Mr. Weston in a lowered voice until he was shooed away by those who were trying to stay positive and hit on girls. I was waiting in line for the cooler and well on my way to brutally murdering all my brain cells when I heard a familiar voice.
“Isn’t that punch supposed to be for girls?” It was Allison. I hadn’t seen her since the incident with the cannon.
“Well… girls and real degenerates who like blacking out immediately.”
She went in for a hug, but the punch had already begun to grab hold of my conscience, so I went in for an early, probably inappropriate makeout. She turned her head and giggled.
“Oh no, sweetheart.” She smirked. “We had fun, but I’m a little too old for you and you’re a little too crazy for me. You need a girl in your age group.” She grabbed a shorter girl with long blonde hair by the shoulder and turned her toward me. “This is Amy. She’s one of our new girls.”
I immediately refocused my efforts. “Amy, I’m Townes. Nice to meet you.”
She smiled and rocked her shoulders back and forth.
“You want some punch?” I offered like a true gentleman.
“Sure,” she said. “We’re celebrating, aren’t we?”
“I’ll leave you two to talk,” Allison said, and winked at me before walking away.
For the next thirty minutes Amy schooled me on sorority recruitment and how excited she was while I tried to appropriately divide my attention between her and getting dumbface wasted. The difference between sorority and fraternity bid day became clear immediately.
“Oh my God, I like absolutely love my new sisters! They are all so gorgeous and sweet!”
“Definitely.” I smiled. “Congratulations.”
“I mean like, being a Pi, it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Ya know? They just keep giving us presents! You must be so excited to be an Alpha. Did you get any presents?”
“Uh—not yet. How many girls are in your pledge class?”
“Like sixty-three of the absolute prettiest most gorgeous girls ever. I mean obvi some of them are going to other houses tonight too, but at least like twenty of us will be here all night.”
The actives were keeping to themselves inside with the older girls while we mingled with the new members of various sororities on the porch. Monte returned and I introduced him to Amy. Then she took us around and introduced us to some of her pledge sisters, all of whom were total fucking smokeshows. More and more girls kept arriving and the ratio became increasingly favorable. There were forty-two of us and twice as many of them.
After discussing the football schedule with the girls I was nine cups of punch deep, well on my way to blacking out, and smiling like a circus clown with red stains on and around my lips. The sound system on the back deck was playing country classics as my new pledge brothers and I started belligerently bonding, arm in arm with some of the Pi girls, singing along to “Friends in Low Places.” The actives weren’t fucking with us, Mr. Weston was nowhere to be seen, and I didn’t have a worry in the world.
As the song ended, five older girls came skipping from inside wielding handles of Taaka vodka, which is the equivalent of bottled homeless urine. They worked their way through a group of us, pulling heads back and dumping vodka down unsuspecting throats.
Tim walked up with his arm around a redhead. He leaned in toward me, attempting to be discreet.
“I’m taking her to do some X in the bathroom.” He laughed, but I knew he wasn’t kidding.
“Seriously? Now?” I asked.
“You want in?”
One of the Taaka girls walked up and gave me the “tilt your head back” look that I had become familiar with. I took a mouthful and swallowed as fast as I could before answering Tim.
“I’m good with this shit, but thanks.”
“Your loss, pussy.” He stumbled off with the ginger.
“What are they doing?” asked Amy, who clearly half heard our conversation. “That’s my pledge sister Whitney!”
“Nothing, nothing. She has to pee. He’s taking her to the bathroom.”
Amy was telling me about how she did cheer in high school and considered doing the same in college when Atwater walked out with his eyes completely glazed over.
“Inside to fuck shit up!” he yelled. “Everybody in!”
I wasn’t exactly jumping at the chance to rejoin the actives, but Amy grabbed my hand and we headed for the door. On our way down the hallway toward the party we passed Tim’s redhead coming out of the bathroom. Tim emerged thirty seconds later, looked
furtively to his left and right, and cut to the front of the mob to find Whitney again.
“Your friend is weird,” Amy yelled over the music.
“He’s a good guy,” I assured her. “He’ll take good care of her.”
When we made our way into the party room I decided to switch to beer for safety’s sake, and headed for the tub with Amy attached to my hand. It was filled with ice and packed to the brim with Natty Light and Keystone.
“You want one?” I asked Amy as I submerged my hand.
“I’m fine with punch, thanks, sweetie.”
More for sweetie.
I looked to the front of the room and saw a snowball of destruction beginning to form. The actives started flipping trash cans, throwing half-full beers at each other, and pouring entire cans onto each other’s heads. A wooden chair flew through the air into the wall, breaking into pieces. I realized they were trashing the place because now they had us to clean it all up for them. Even at our own bid night party, they were making sure we’d pay for it tomorrow.
Amy headed in for the less destructive portion of the crowd as I cracked my beer, held it a foot above my face, and let it splash into my mouth. I lost sight of her when a roll of toilet paper flew over my head, unraveling onto my shoulder, and she mixed in with the hundreds of people dancing. As I made my way forward to find her I spotted a shirtless Nate, ignoring song lyrics and screaming at the top of his lungs as if the apocalypse was imminent.
“Nate!” I yelled to get his attention.
He turned toward me, poured his beer onto my head, yelling the entire time, and ran off toward the tub for another. As liquid ran down my face someone pushed me hard from behind and sent me stumbling forward. I turned around and faced Jackson. His shirt was ripped and his hair was soaked. He looked like a bad celebrity mug shot.
“I fucking hate you,” he said, letting out a breath-filled laugh and then walking away shaking his head.
Deep bass was pounding through the floor, freeing girls from their inhibitions with every beat. They moved with the music in lines of three or four, spread throughout the dance floor. Some were facing each other and grinding, while others were ass to ass. Suddenly a random chick grabbed me by the arm and pulled me into her group. I had two girls behind me and two in front, all holding drinks overhead, but none of them were Amy. Tim came out of nowhere with Whitney and attached himself to her backside, and they became the caboose to the slutty dancing train. The X had obviously kicked in, and Tim was dancing with more ferocity than all the girls combined, aggressively attacking Whitney with his pelvis. She didn’t even seem to notice, just danced with her eyes closed and smiled like she was the only one in the room.
