Total Frat Move

by W. R. Bolen

  Being mistaken for one of the lawyers in court. TFM.

  Adding the final exam for court ordered DUI school to the fraternity test bank. TFM.

  When you’re with people that matter, the illegal things you do don’t. TFM.

  The great lawyers of tomorrow breaking an absurd number of laws today. TFM.

  Behind the back of the law. TFM.

  Drunk drive-thru. TFM.

  Supplying your own painkiller. TFM.

  Road Trip Raging

  PEOPLE ALWAYS TALK ABOUT COLLEGE LIKE THERE’S NO opportunity to elongate the experience. I was always told, “Townes, college will be the best four years of your life,” but the truth is that anyone who graduates from college on time is a moron. I have a cousin who graduated magna cum laude from Vanderbilt in three years. She probably had sober sex, snuck around her dorm’s musty hallways a few times—giggling past curfew—and made dean’s list all six pathetically short semesters spent almost entirely in the library. Congratulations? Every Easter, Thanksgiving, and Christmas I remind her she’s a GDI failure in my eyes. As you know by now, I made sure to take full advantage of every second I earned on campus, leaving a trail of destruction in my wake.

  Each memory I’ve shared with you is precious to me, but none more than Alpha’s formal during my first senior year. Even if you decide five, six, or eight years of undergraduate studies are necessary to absorb a suitable dosage of the college experience, you still only get four spring formals (assuming you pledge your first semester like a fucking man). For the third consecutive year we voted New Orleans as our destination, so we were all familiar with the morally corrupt city with which we were dealing. The mind has to be in a disturbed place to handle the shit that occurs in that town, and normal livers can’t handle the amount of alcohol we forced ours to absorb during our stay. So I spent weeks preparing myself mentally (by skipping class) and physically (by drinking, fucking, hazing, and playing golf as often as possible).

  When it comes to formal, the bus ride ends up being almost half the fun. The nine-hour pilgrimage is nearly as dangerous as Bourbon Street itself, and the seniors’ bus is indisputably the most volatile, because for us (the old balls) this is the last hurrah, and we just don’t give a fuck. During this final voyage the goal is to shatter any remnants of your moral compass and come out of the three-day fog with as many inappropriate stories as possible. All the while it’s important to keep your date’s level of respect for you, or her BAC, high enough that she’ll still let you drunkenly pound her privates. Otherwise, you’ll end up trolling the hallways of the hotel for randoms, or worse.

  Our caravan of charter buses planned to leave at 8 a.m. on Friday to ensure a suitable arrival time in the Big Easy. Some people had Friday class, but showing up wasn’t even an option. Weeks ahead of time, Nate and I arranged to take two freshman girls from different sororities as our dates. We figured their unfamiliarity with each other would give them an opportunity to discuss The Bachelorette and how much they adore Diet Coke. Apparently I had met my date, and invited her to formal, at a bar on a Tuesday night the week before. None of which I remembered. The following day I received a text from a contact I had saved as “9”:

  3:13 p.m.: OMG totes excited about New Orleans! It’s gonna be the best weekend ever k call me soon Townes!!!!!!!!!

  It took me an hour or so to figure out who she was, but when I did, I wasn’t disappointed. Her name was Katie Groom, and yes, she was stacked. The number 9 must’ve been my drunken assessment of her good looks. We picked up Katie from the Omega house and Nate’s date from Kappa, and then made our way to the frat castle. It was early and I was battling a hangover, so it wasn’t until boarding the bus that I realized these two rookie slams were both wearing sundresses appropriate for a day at the racetrack. They were completely oblivious to the level of filthiness about to take place during the drive.

  The drinking started immediately. Coolers were packed in the far back of the bus and spread throughout the aisles. Katie had stuffed mine with a case of Keystone, a bottle of Woodford Reserve, and a box of wine for herself. The backpacks stored in the overhead compartments were crammed full of tobacco products, snacks, and miscellaneous drugs. The instant the driver fired up the diesel engine, Turbo downed a beer bong filled with whiskey. By 10 a.m. he’d be an unstoppable force of destruction, full-sprinting in the opposite direction of the finish line that should’ve been his date’s vagina. As we pulled out of the parking lot the movie Top Gun began on the TV screens, and Monte started a roaring “USA! USA! USA!” chant, inaugurating the trip. Some sorostitutes who thought they’d be able to get some sleep were caught off guard by the swift start of binge drinking and obnoxious patriotic noisemaking. They reluctantly joined in to avoid standing out like heteros at a gay pride parade.

  One of the more entertaining aspects of the trip was observing the interactions of sorority girls suddenly thrown into a frenzied situation together. The spirit of camaraderie between brothers was at an all-time high. Testosterone was flowing as high fives were exchanged, and beers were being shotgunned on every aisle. Contrarily, the awkward disdain that the grab bag of random dates pretend not to have for each other was also at an all-time high. Miraculously, two girls who normally wouldn’t acknowledge one another’s existence conversed when forced to sit a few feet from each other. I’m no zoologist, but I’m pretty sure this is what it’s like when two lesbian pandas scissor each other after being caged in captivity for an extended period of time. The tension was eased with the nonstop flow of Franzia box wine, and slowly these girls found they might not be so different after all; some just prefer Lilly Pulitzer to Vera Bradley. Regardless, they had no choice but to become allies if they wished to survive the days ahead, both socially and physically. What else were they going to do? Their dates were too busy drunkenly reminiscing on pledgeship and form-tackling each other.

  Two hours in, someone toward the front of the bus broke out weed brownies and Adderall, then passed them around to the casual drug users surrounding him. Not only was everyone already buzzed on whatever booze they’d decided to start the morning with, but thirty minutes later several passengers were so high that they struggled to sit still, wide-eyed and grinding their teeth. As I polished off my seventh beer, I asked Katie if she wanted either of the aforementioned substances. She quickly shook her head as she looked at me like a terrified puppy during a violent thunderstorm.

  “No! I mean… no thanks. I’m good with my wine!”

  “That’s fine. Just being a gentleman,” I responded as I put my arm around her and gave a reassuring everything-is-going-to-be-okay squeeze.

  I don’t know how much we paid the Greyhound bus drivers, because I wasn’t the fucking treasurer, but it wasn’t enough. It seems to me that hauling our hedonistic asses to NOLA would be far more entertaining than driving a bus full of near-death stiffs to an Indian casino, but for whatever reason they didn’t appreciate having beer funneled onto their heads while they drove down the interstate in the early morning. The poor guy had already gotten on the loudspeaker twice and respectfully asked that we “calm down a bit.” We responded to his request with a chorus of boos, and Turbo shouted, “DO YOUR FUCKING JOB, PEASANT!”

  By noon, things really started to get out of hand. The line for the bathroom on the bus was unacceptable, so Nate made his date into a human curtain so he could piss into a bottle already half filled with dip spit. Everyone was entirely too fucked up, and the drivers pulled over in the middle of nowhere to gas up and give people a chance to grab some fresh air. This was every gas station’s bad wet dream: three buses of drunken lunatics descending onto their property, knocking over aisles of chips and gum and blowing hundreds of dollars on pork rinds and sexual lubricant. They had a rack of American flag bandanas. It was gone. They had fifty packs of Marlboro Lights. They vanished. A few of the couples didn’t exit the bus, but awkwardly remained under blankets trying to play off the fact that they were participating in dry handjobbing and finger blastin
g. Everyone else chain-smoked cigarettes outside, and raided the gas station for munchies, more nicotine, and more alcohol. I stumbled through the store and into the restroom, where I found Turbo blowing chunks all over the wall, laughing hysterically as Monte laughed in the stall next to him.

  “Turbo, uh… you all right there, chief?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine. Why do you ask? BLAHHH [projectile vomit].”

  “Well, you’re spewing all over the wall. Aim at the fucking toilet, psycho. I’ll see you back on board.”

  Once everyone was corralled onto their respective buses, the browbeaten driver attempted to do a head count. He gave up, mumbled something under his breath, and stepped on the gas. Back on the road, five hours in, the chaos continued. Most of the guys had drowned themselves and their dates in enough alcohol to initiate sloppy midday makeouts, clumsily fondling each other. Parsells and Rogers were crushing up Adderall and snorting it to stay awake.

  Monte and his perpetual girlfriend Sarah were in one of their good phases, so he’d invited her along and had her straddling him in the back row with a blanket wrapped around them. I’m 99 percent certain there was some shameless public penetration going on. As he smiled and gave a double thumbs-up behind her back, I took a picture with Katie’s camera, hoping it would be posted on Facebook for at least a couple hours before it got taken down. Others were slowly coming in and out of consciousness as we rolled toward the Sin City of the South.

  Pack twenty-five guys with hot dates onto a charter bus filled with as much alcohol as it can hold, tell them they’re about to have the time of their lives getting blackout drunk in another city, and then crank up the tunes and let the good times roll. That’s the vibe on one of these buses, and it makes for some damn good TFMs…

  On Road Trips

  The only time you’ll find me on a bus is on the way to formal. TFM.

  Making charter bus drivers wish they’d chosen a different profession. TFM.

  Pissing out the bus window at 70 mph. TFM.

  Talking shit to the driver because he hit a pothole during your kegstand. TFM.

  Using your blazer as a blanket to turn an OTPHJ into a good old fashioned on the bus. TFM.

  The collective “aahhh” at the charter bus piss stop. TFM.

  Never getting back the security deposit for the bus. TFM.

  On a road trip, we don’t “visit” places. We pillage and destroy. We’re basically just really well dressed Vikings. TFM.

  Luggage. TFM.

  Being discreet. TFM.

  Almost getting hit doing a Louisville Chugger in the middle of the street. TFM.

  Bourbon Street Brutality

  BEFORE LONG, OUR LAWLESS CARAVAN WAS IN FRONT of the hotel at the corner of Bourbon and Canal. Someone at the front of the bus turned “Summer of ’69” on full blast. It was a bittersweet awakening for those who were passed out. The driver insisted that on our way off we tidy up in order to get back our deposit. We didn’t give two shits about the deposit. Everyone booed him again, inaccurately throwing empty cans in his general direction.

  Katie and I were in the back of the bus, so I still had time to pound one last beer before exiting. I was too excited to pop the top, and instead performed a Teen Wolf, biting into the side like a fucking animal and spewing it all over myself. Katie looked at me like I was crazy, but I was too drunk to care. As everyone found their way toward the exit, our chapter president tipped the driver $500 for putting up with our shit, and to ensure he gave us a ride home.

  I was rooming with Nate, so we met in the lobby for a drink with the girls before heading to our rooms. We wanted to make sure these naïve eighteen-year-olds got properly acquainted so we could attempt a switcheroo, or a four-person Eiffel Tower. At the very least they needed to feel comfortable being smashed like piñatas in beds just a few feet apart.

  While the girls got ready to go out for the night, Nate and I headed to Turbo’s room and railed a few lines to get in the zone. We threw on khakis, button-downs, and blazers while Nate attempted to communicate the erratic thoughts firing through his brain at 9,000 rpms.

  “It’s incredible that in an era of such economic hypocrisy a place like this still exists where men such as ourselves can defy modern moral measures,” rattled Nate.

  Things can get pretty fucking weird when drugs influence Nate’s already overactive mind. I’ve crafted a standard response to calm him down in these situations.

  “I blame the liberals,” I replied.

  “Exactly,” he said as he slipped on his jacket. “Why are they so uptight? Look at me… I’m relaxed. Let’s fucking do this.”

  I texted Katie to meet us in the lobby as we headed toward the elevator. It’s pretty difficult to get arrested on Bourbon Street. You basically have to piss on a cop or murder an étouffée vendor in plain sight. It’s nearly impossible to get arrested anywhere when you look good in a blazer and have superhuman argumentative powers obtained with quality stimulants. We were ready to show the city who’s boss.

  When Katie came downstairs the look of frightened bewilderment had faded, which meant she had either bonded with the female roomie or was blackout drunk (possibly both). Regardless, she was comfortable, which was great news for me.

  “All right, are you girls ready to see what New Orleans has to offer?” I asked.

  “Yes! Let’s get some food, we’re totally starving!” said Katie.

  “Well fuck, you two look good enough to eat! Am I right, Townes?” yelled Nate, awkwardly trying to mask his mental state.

  His date giggled bashfully, and I shook my head in disbelief. Katie took my arm and we strolled out onto Bourbon to get dinner, where the real shit-show would begin.

  We had a party of twelve, and dinner got belligerent quickly. New Orleans isn’t known as a quiet city, but we were by far the most loudmouthed patrons in the establishment. I maintained inebriation with bourbon on the rocks, and the girls all ordered their shitty girly whatever-the-fucks. Not a single one of us was carded. The waiter knew, based on our attire and drunken demeanor, that we were about to spend big money. Katie spilled her drink all over the girl next to her immediately upon receiving it. I laughed hysterically and hit Nate with a fist bump as we watched Katie rub the victim’s legs down with napkins. Sluts. Thanks to the heated adrenaline pumping through my body due to the mix of amphetamines and alcohol, I repeatedly left the table to rip cigs. The wait staff was having trouble keeping up with the frequency of our drink orders, and Turbo, whose eyes were occupied by the murderous rage that fills him when he holds an empty beverage, started shouting at busboys and random passersby.

  “PABLO! HURRICANES! NOW!”

  Everyone gorged on delicious Cajun food, washing down the spiciness with drink after drink. I forced down bites, relieved of hunger by the uppers I had consumed. Things were starting to get hazy, and we had definitely overstayed our welcome, so we asked for the check: $2,275.

  It was time for credit card roulette. Turbo dumped the contents of his date’s purse out onto the table, and as she yelled at him we each threw our plastic into it. The first card was drawn, and it was mine, saving more money for strippers and gambling. I slammed my drink onto the table in a fit of celebration, and it shattered in an explosion of bourbon and ice. As I turned to look for a waiter, my conscience raised a little red “maybe you should slow down” flag in my mind. I grabbed a random drink off a passing server’s tray, told my conscience to go fuck itself, and watched as the game went on.

  Only Nate and Turbo remained, staring each other down like whiskey-bent outlaws in a western face-off. Turbo’s card was drawn, and he grabbed it with a victorious “FUCK YES” while he held his middle finger in the unlucky loser’s face. Naked Nate hung his head in defeat and footed the bill as he muttered, “Fuck it, I’ll win it back at the casino.”

  Night had fallen, and we stumbled out of the restaurant.

  The street was littered with extremely questionable and shady characters, as per usual, and our group of wel
l-dressed rageaholics stood out like a wealthy sore thumb, further boosting our elitist aura. Immediately, we devised a plan to send our underage dates to a bar with some of the younger guys so we could hit Harrah’s casino and focus on gambling without distractions. I gave Katie a don’t-blow-anyone-else reminder makeout, and told her we’d meet up in an hour.

  “Don’t stay too long. I’ll get lonely without you,” she flirted as she winked at me.

  “I’m just going for a little while so I can win you some spending money for shopping tomorrow, then I’ll be back,” I assured her. “I promise.”

  We rushed into the casino like a pack of fiends in need of a fix, and when the sound of shuffling chips and spinning wheels hit our ears, we all imagined the same thing: making it rain thousands in winnings. Within fifteen minutes at our first craps table, I was down 500 bucks, Nate had given up another $1.5K (still fratting in the face of adversity), and Turbo was forced to leave the table after his dripping nosebleed got on the felt. When they kindly asked him to step away, he screamed obscenities at the pit boss, citing a brain tumor as cause for his condition, threatening to sue.

  “This is a goddamn travesty! I’m a sick man!” A partially true statement.

  I considered myself up a couple grand after escaping credit card roulette, so I started tripling my bets. Strangers were retreating from the tables we had taken over as we blew money pounding scotch and cigars. Two honeymooners from Kansas looked particularly distraught with our behavior. With a roll of the dice and two lungs filled with smoke, Nate addressed them.

  “Don’t beat that up too hard tonight. She’s second-wife material.”

  They eyed us in astonishment and scurried away. It was time we got the fuck out of there before we were blacklisted. Naked Nate refused to leave the table, and I knew it was likely he’d remain all night, desperately trying to recoup. The rest of us hit the restroom, keyed a couple bumps of instant energy, and bailed back onto Bourbon.