by W. R. Bolen
“Get your fucking ass inside that trash can, Adams!” Mr. Weston yelled, pointing at Adams with his ladle. “If you can’t keep my food down you’ll join it in that fucking can!”
Adams threw one leg over the side and stepped into the sea of puke.
“Crouch down, you ungrateful little shit,” Mr. Weston commanded. Then he turned back to the line and finally reached my tray.
The slop he served looked like watered-down lasagna that had been rotting for weeks, and smelled like sewage. It wasn’t even close to resembling enchiladas, but I decided to man up and bury my face in the tray.
As I slurped away at the liquid sludge I heard Parsells dry-heave and picked up my head just in time to watch him throw up directly onto our tray, mixing his bile in with our alleged Mexican dinner. My psyche took a big hit. The actives’ cheers suddenly seemed far away and muffled, and the room spun around me as Parsells used his hand to scoop his own vomit from the tray back to his mouth.
“Holy fucking shit!” said Mr. Brewster.
I heard Mr. Weston’s voice egging Parsells on. “That’s right! You’re a fucking animal!”
Parsells snapped. The crazy-eyed look of a man filled with the determination and drive to survive took hold of him as he shoveled everything from our tray into his mouth. My food, his food, his puke… he swallowed all of it. I stood in awe as he reached over to Monte’s tray, grabbed a handful of his food, and downed it as well.
The sight of his collapse was as much as I could take, so I tapped him on the back to let him know I was evacuating. Then I let go of my end of the tray and sprinted toward the trash can at the far end of the room, as the other one was already surrounded. Turbo reached it at the same time as me, and we collided as I sent my projectile mouth diarrhea sailing into Adams’s hair as he covered his face with his hands. As I leaned over with drool streaming from my mouth and tried to apologize I felt someone stagger up behind me. Whoever it was hurled all over my back and neck, causing my own gag reflex to trigger once again.
“What you’re eating is old oatmeal mixed with melted cheese, jalapeños, and around twenty bottles of Tabasco,” Mr. Weston announced as I fought through the crowd that surrounded the trash can. “It was marinated in the kitchen sink with used Band-Aids and condoms, and topped off with a long stream of piss from Mr. Harris.”
My mind went numb and throw-up dripped down the crack of my ass as I squeezed back into my spot on the line and grabbed one side of the tray. I glanced over at Parsells, who was breathing heavily, with slop hanging from his lips and chin.
“The enchiladas weren’t so bad,” he said.
“Yeah.” That was the only response I could muster. We had both gone into shock.
By the time the next course came around I felt like someone had poured battery acid down my throat. I was sweating profusely, and could feel my head pounding from dehydration.
“I think you guys need a palate cleanser,” said Mr. Weston.
The actives roared in response.
We were each served a sardine, completely covered in wasabi. I took it down in one gulp without even flinching, and couldn’t taste the sardine because the wasabi was too strong to give way to any other flavors. My body was in survival mode, running on nothing but adrenaline. I stood with my left hand over my mouth and my right hand holding up our tray, waiting for whatever came next.
“Who wants an ice cream cone for dessert?” asked Mr. Weston.
He wasn’t lying about the cones, but instead of ice cream there was a giant blob of Crisco stuff with dog food and sprinkled with dip. I attacked it aggressively like a starving child who had just been handed a turkey leg. After I finished it off I looked at Parsells, who had only managed to eat half of his and was just standing there staring at the rest of it. He couldn’t take it anymore. I grabbed the cone from his hand and crushed it into my face. Around half of it ended up on the floor, but nobody seemed to notice.
Suddenly applause filled the room, and for once the booming cheers of the actives seemed completely congratulatory instead of sarcastic and demeaning. I looked down the line and saw some of my pledge brothers smiling with a sense of accomplishment. Others bent over and spit into the dirt, or held their hands over their mouths.
“Well done, boys!” Mr. Weston yelled. “Well done! You’ve survived Alpha Cafeteria. I swear on this house that the rest of the night is yours to actually get some fucking sleep.”
Several actives walked down the stairs carrying crates of water and set them down on the two wooden tables. Atwater followed with a plastic bag filled with bottles of Pepto-Bismol.
“Get yourselves rehydrated,” said Mr. Weston. “You’ll find every cap is sealed, so don’t worry—the water hasn’t been fucked with. Oh, and if you haven’t already, I recommend making yourself throw everything up before drinking that Pepto. Otherwise you’ll take the most painful shit of your life.”
Then he and the other actives filed up the stairs and shut the door behind them.
I had survived the most traumatizing night of my life, and even though I was pretty sure I was going to die from a stomach ulcer, I had finally earned some sleep. Granted, that sleep came on the floor of a basement covered in puke that smelled like a Dumpster, but it was sleep nonetheless.
I woke to the sound of Mr. Weston’s 7:50 a.m. megaphone announcement, and walked over to check the freshly posted assignment sheet with the rest of the guys. It read FIGURE IT OUT, so we all headed upstairs to find a chore. I grabbed a broom from the pledge closet and pushed it around the house aimlessly. Every pledge brother I passed was just going through the motions as well. Turbo was dragging a mop behind him as he walked in circles around the kitchen. Rogers was adding coat after coat of paint to the same spot on the living room wall, completely zoned out. I actually watched Nate hammer the same nail into the porch railing for five whole minutes while I swept.
The actives completely ignored us the entire morning, and when I got back from class not a single one of them could be seen.
“Where the fuck is everyone?” I asked Monte.
“I got back at nine o’clock and haven’t seen a single active since,” he said. “Neither has anyone else.”
Through the entire afternoon we were the only ones in the house. Then at six o’clock, when all thirty-nine of us were back from class, Atwater walked in the front door wearing a suit and tie and carrying a duffel bag. He walked right past me without even blinking and said, “Grab everyone and line up in the dining room.”
Atwater stood with a solemn expression on his face without saying a word as we got in order, checking his watch twice before he finally spoke.
“I’m going to cover each of your eyes individually,” he said. “You’re not to say a fucking word the rest of the time we’re here, or on the way to our destination. You fucking idiots must’ve really done something to piss Mr. Weston off, because he’s talking crazy that he’s going to blackball every single one of you and take a huge spring pledge class to make up for it. I’m taking you to a meeting with President Harvey to decide what the fuck to do.”
I knew immediately that he was completely full of shit. Atwater was always the nice guy, and they would never send him to take care of something like this. One by one he blindfolded us and led us onto what sounded and felt like a bus. Death metal blared the entire time as sharp turns and bumpy roads sent me bouncing up and down in my seat. When we finally came to a screeching halt at our destination someone grabbed me by the arm and led me off. When my feet hit the ground I heard Atwater’s voice in my ear.
“Congratulations, motherfucker. You made it to initiation.”
I can’t go into any real detail, because we swore on pain of death never to reveal any of Alpha’s ritual to outsiders, but it was the most surreal experience of my life. The nearly 150-year-old initiation ceremony was spooky, weird, and more moving than any religious service I’d ever attended. Several guys (not me) cried tears of joy from a combination of the emotion, stress, lack of sleep
, and deprivation of healthy food. It went on for six hours, and when it was all over all 110 actives gave me the secret Alpha handshake and hugged me as their equal.
As I made my way back toward the bus, which was now filled with cases of beer, Mr. Weston approached and put one hand on my shoulder.
“From now on you call me Arthur,” he said, extending his other hand. “Congratulations, Townes, you fucking made it.”
“Yes sir, Mr.—I mean, Arthur.”
I would never get used to that.
The shackles had been removed and I was on top of the fucking world. Every single horrific thing I’d been forced to do, say, and eat was completely worth it. I was a part of something much bigger than myself, and had a whole new world of opportunity in front of me, filled with sorority girls and a never-ending supply of alcohol.
Fraternities across the country utilize Hell Week as one final test before initiation. In order for the pledges to reach the finish line they must first endure the mentally and physically exhausting traditions that have been formed within the fraternity through generations of hazing. During a semester that is filled with humbling tasks, suffering, and abuse, Hell Week stands alone, but initiation is always waiting at the end of the tunnel…
On Hell Week
Betting cigarettes on which pledge will cry first during hell week. TFM.
Eating prime rib in front of the pledges during hell week. TFM.
The pledges’ assignment for the week was to break a world record. TFM.
I thought I missed my 1:00 p.m. class, but I saw a pledge in the common room with both hands directly above his head and realized it was only noon. TFM.
Bending the truth at the hospital during hell week. TFM.
The pledges think they see light at the end of the tunnel. It’s the hell week train. TFM.
Played porno on the bigscreen TV in the fratcastle and muted it. Had 2 pledges make the sounds. Funniest 30 minutes of my life. TFM.
Various smells randomly cause hell week flashbacks. TFM.
GDI referred to finals week as “hell week.” If he only knew… TFM.
EDITORS’ NOTE: For even more obvious reasons, nobody takes pictures of hell week.
Taking a nap during Hell Week. TFM.
Christmas Tree Pledge. TFM.
Tagging the pledges with emasculating balloons. TFM.
The Frat Castle
CHRISTMAS BREAK CAME AND WENT, AND I SPENT MY second semester trying to make up the ground I’d lost with my 1.75 pledge GPA. It was all worth it, though, because when I pulled a 3.25 my parents approved my move into the Alpha house, otherwise known as the frat castle, for sophomore year.
You know how monks dedicate themselves to a life of silence, or priests pledge themselves to a life of celibacy? Moving into the frat castle is like pledging yourself to a life of being twice as loud and fucking twice as much in order to make up for all the monks and priests in the world. It is an honor reserved for those who have shown they have the ability to maintain enrollment while upholding a reputation for constant inebriation.
The house is a little over $1.5 million of redbrick beauty, standing three stories tall and nine windows wide with four massive white Greek columns out front. Each bedroom sleeps one brother and is connected with a neighboring bedroom through a joint bathroom. During parties these bathrooms serve as meeting points for casual drug use, sexual strategizing, and other private pursuits. There are ten bedrooms in the main hallway of the first floor along with the dining room, living room, and kitchen. The other fifteen bedrooms are spread throughout the hallways of the second floor, and the third floor is just storage with access to our notorious crow’s nest that overlooks campus. The house sits almost directly in the middle of Greek Row, with the Delta and Sigma houses on either side.
The grounds outside the house are what really make it the total package. In the backyard, behind our party patio, is a full-length asphalt basketball court (donated by my dad, known as “the Prescott Pavement”) and sand volleyball pit. Landscapers, who are paid for with part of our annual dues, come twice a month during the pledge offseason to keep up the hedges, cut the grass, rake the sand, and water the flowerbeds. A couple times a year they end up having to replace everything entirely because of plant alcohol poisoning, thousands of cigarette butts, rivers of piss, and spontaneous party fires.
With every hour that I called the house home I became more and more seduced by its energy of anarchy. The phrase “peer pressure” doesn’t do justice to the subconscious mindset that forms within every resident moments after setting foot on the property. An ambulance, fire truck, and university police cruiser all visited the house on my first day for completely unrelated reasons. I’ve never felt more alive and so close to death at the same time.
On move-in day, I was in the middle of unpacking when Tim showed up wearing a tank top that said BACK TO BACK WORLD WAR CHAMPS with an American flag in the middle. Nobody called him by his real name anymore, because on Spring Break in Cancún he took four hits of ecstasy, snorted two grams of coke, and smoked an eighth of weed in a twenty-four-hour period. That’s when he was dubbed “Turbo,” and the name stuck permanently. During his infamous bender, when I told him we needed to leave the club at 5 a.m. to catch our flight home, he yelled, “I’m staying, man!” and continued grinding on random ass. We had no choice but to leave him in Mexico. He showed up at the frat house forty-eight hours later with no recollection of the night, asking why we left him.
Turbo claimed the bedroom next to mine, set a case of Natty down in the middle of our adjoining bathroom, and tossed one to me.
“Good summer break, bud?” I asked.
“Fucking amazing,” he said, slamming a box down on his bed. “Railed two of my high school girlfriends and got a new driver.”
He didn’t really unpack, just tossed boxes around his room and rapped along to his iPod dock, polishing off beer after beer. I went out to my truck to grab my bedding, and when I came back in Turbo was sitting at my desk fucking with my computer.
“You got any tit pics on here?” he asked between sips.
“Not where you can find them.”
“Whatever, man, it’s Top Gun time. Quit making your bed like a fucking maid and let’s hit the sand.”
“Top Gun time” described the alcohol-infused version of volleyball that we played, where elaborate high-five celebrations were just as important as points.
“I’ll be out when I finish getting my shit set up,” I told him.
He set two fresh beers down on my desk, looked over at me with disappointment, and said, “Don’t be a bitch,” then walked off down the hallway with his case of beer.
I finished making the bed, tossed my first empty can into the trash, and grabbed my drill out of the truck to mount my flat-screen on the wall. Every few minutes one of the guys would stop by and shoot the shit.
Rogers: Holy shit, Townes, I haven’t seen you since the Fourth of July. Let’s get fucking shitty tonight.
Monte: I am absolutely dominating v-ball. Come play on Team House Dogs when you’re done.
Trendall: You’re pretty ballsy letting Turbo be your neighbor.
Nate: Switch to whiskey. House dogs have a reputation to uphold.
Everyone living in the frat castle is known as a “house dog.” It’s a slogan that serves as a badge of honor and a label of responsibility to act even more demented than everyone else in the chapter, which is no easy task.
A few minutes later my room was in order, and I had finished off the beer Turbo left for me. I was making my way outside to toss a few boxes in the parking lot Dumpster when I felt my phone vibrating in my pocket. It was Monte, probably calling to hassle me about volleyball. I picked up and started talking immediately.
“Dude, I’m just tossing my boxes and then—”
“Get out here!” he interrupted. “Now! Turbo is about to light himself on fire!”
“What? Where?!”
I tossed the boxes into the Dumpster and to
ok off running around the side of the house toward the backyard. When I turned the corner around the garden I saw Turbo in the volleyball pit sprinting back and forth along the net with a beer in one hand and a gasoline container in the other. He was singing at the top of his lungs and dousing the net with gas, spilling it all over the sand in the process.
“Highhhwaaay to the danger zone, dun dun dun dun! Gonna take it riiiight innnto the danger zone!”
Monte and I watched from a distance, amazed that within two hours of move-in he’d managed to black out and get his hands on a gas can. Trendall shook his head in disbelief and covered his eyes while the other guys who had been playing backed away from the court. I grabbed a beer from Turbo’s cooler and leaned against our Civil War cannon to enjoy the show.
“House dogs!” screamed Turbo. “Let’s play some fucking fireball!”
He slammed what was left of his beer, threw it straight up in the air, struck a match, and held it to the middle of what was clearly a brand-new net. Flames shot to the left and right, engulfing the entirety of the white twine. Turbo stumbled backwards, surprised by the size of his creation, tripped over the volleyball, and landed on his back with the gas canister still upright in his hand.
“Holy shit,” he said under his breath.
The flames grew higher, giving off black smoke, and the net began to droop from damage, but Turbo got to his feet and picked up the volleyball, undeterred.
“All right, let’s play! Let’s see who’s got the fucking nuts to try and spike it on me now!”
“Maybe you should take a few steps back from the flames,” Trendall suggested.
Turbo’s jaw tightened, his forehead wrinkled, and his excited smile wilted as he paced toward Trendall like he was going to hit him.
“I’m sick and tired of you being such a fucking pussy. Sand doesn’t burn. Now why don’t you pull out your tampon and come—”
