by W. R. Bolen
Our next stop was Love Acts, possibly the most disgusting strip club south of the Mason-Dixon. As we made our approach, one of our younger members was getting tossed out. Apparently he’d gotten a little handsy with a stripper and tried to slip her a rogue finger during a backroom lap dance. We posted up around the center stage, swallowing scotch like water, and a full-blown money-spending race had begun. As I rained twenties down on a stripper named “Diamond Cream,” my conscience returned and smacked me in the face with a momentary flash of responsibility. I couldn’t help but wonder what Katie was doing. I looked over at Turbo, and he had his face sandwiched between a stripper’s oversized ass cheeks.
“Jesus, this is nauseating,” I accidentally said aloud.
“What’s that, baby?” Diamond Cream inquired.
“Fuck.” I was surprised she’d heard me. “I said you need Jesus.”
I pulled Turbo’s head from the jiggling ass sandwich and told him it was time we found our girls. He grabbed the other guys and we headed for the exit, much to the dismay of the pole pros working the stage.
Once we were outside I checked my iPhone and found an excessive eighteen missed calls and repetitive texts from Katie filled with horrific spelling inaccuracies, caused by drunken dyslexia.
1:00 a.m.: Whats up
1:10 a.m.: Townessss where r u
1:36 a.m.: Uhhhhh Whatever
1:45 a.m.: woohooo! shots shots shots shots shots!
2:18 a.m.: Meet us Pat O’s!
2:26 a.m.: OMG I lobe this gucking bar! Come heee!
2:45 a.m.: sick of old men hittig on me I want you bad
I could barely see straight, but in deciphering her messages I was fairly certain she wanted me to punch my ticket to pound town. I led the group as we plowed through the boisterous crowd toward Pat O’Brien’s. Once inside, we figured it’d be pretty difficult to find the girls, but we were wrong. I immediately spotted them onstage with the band, jumping around like crazed groupies at a Beatles concert, with fifteen creepy old men staring up at them from below. As I was making my way toward her, Katie picked me out of the crowd and immediately jumped down, screaming.
“TOWNESSSS! Oh. My. God. Where have you been? This place is so great!”
“Well, one of the guys got sick at the casino, so we had to make sure he was okay,” I lied.
“Aw, what a Debbie Downer.”
She kissed me, and tasted like a shot of vodka. She was clearly wasted, so I was relieved when she suggested we head back to the hotel to initiate the after-party. I grabbed her hand and led her back through the crowd toward our temporary home.
We assembled at the hotel bar, but had no clue as to the whereabouts of Nate or his date. I ordered a couple shots, decided there was no way I was giving Katie anything else to drink, and ended up taking both of them. Then I tried to dance with her, which consisted of me holding her up while she swayed back and forth like a hippie who’s had one too many hits of bad acid.
“Let’s just fucking go upstairs,” she demanded with drunken feistiness. “I want to play.”
Jackpot. She was basically deadweight as we staggered to the hotel room. Good thing I found her, because she would’ve been an easy target for anyone eyeing her onstage. In the elevator on the way up to our room she hit her head on the wall, then slid to the ground like she’d been shot. The definition of class personified. I pulled her up and held her until we reached our floor, then we made our way toward the room.
After spending ten minutes finding the fucking keycard that was oddly hidden in my pack of cigs, I swiped the thing and attempted to open our door. It was latched shut, so I kicked it in. Welcome to the danger zone. Porn was blaring on the TV, Nate’s date was passed out in the shower fully clothed, and Naked Nate himself was passed out on the floor in the middle of the room, completely naked with his flaccid pecker in hand. Katie face-planted onto our bed without concern for the situation. I turned off Butt Pirates of the Caribbean, which was ordered for $29.99, and tried to wake Captain Dumbass.
“Hey! WAKE THE FUCK UP!”
I kicked him a few times, but he didn’t budge.
“Dude, WAKE UP! COME ON!”
When I leaned over to see if he was breathing, I noticed a puddle of white, creamy liquid crusting over on his stomach.
“Oh fuck! Nate, what the shit did you do?”
He responded with a deep, drawn-out groan, unable to conjure up the English language. At this point I was furious, so I threw a towel over the disgusting bum and started hitting him with a pillow as hard as I could. He finally stirred, then rose like a zombie, took one glassy-eyed look at me, and climbed into bed next to Katie—immediately passing out.
“Oh, okay. Fuck you guys. I’m out of here,” I stood and said to my three unconscious friends.
The scenario was far too depressing for me to end my night with, so I bailed.
Back in the hallway, I immediately got a huge whiff of a very distinct and familiar smell. Someone was turning their room into a greenhouse. I roamed aimlessly, following the scent, and banged on the door closest to the odor. Luckily, it was one of our sophomore members, Craig (pre-med), who invited me in, coughing smoke in my face and grinning like a senile mad scientist.
“Townes! Come on in! Join the party.”
I entered, praying the situation wasn’t similar to the room I had just exited. Apparently Craig had made friends with a couple local performers after a show, because “the party” was comprised of two aspiring rappers, two strippers, and there was no sign of a second roommate or anyone’s dates.
The sunlight had begun to peek through the blinds, and I was in the midst of an epic comedown. I definitely needed some of the medicine this unusual ensemble possessed.
“Hit this shit, dude, it’ll make you feel better,” Craig said.
You don’t have to tell me twice, Doctor. I went face deep into a gravity bong, took a hit, and the second I leaned back I knew I was fucked. Until that moment I had managed to successfully balance the mixture of sleep deprivation, uppers, downers, and hand grenades that had flooded my system, but my body had reached its limit.
“Oh shit! White boy can’t handle his weed!” yelled one of the strippers.
“Dude, are you okay? Be cool.” Thanks for the advice, Craig.
I was so fucking stoned I couldn’t even open my mouth to speak, so I nodded like a mute kid with a learning disability. Blacking in and out, I rammed through the door into the hallway and fell over into an ice machine. I tried to stand back up but collapsed, easing my way toward my room with the wall as a crutch. I swiped my card over and over trying to get inside, and realized it was the wrong fucking room.
My conscience chimed back in: Who’s telling who to go fuck himself now? Amateur clown.
I could hear my brain counting down the seconds until shutdown. 10, 9, 8, 7… Fuck, I needed to find my room. I tried the next door, and it swung open. 6, 5, 4… I fell to my knees and started crawling, then my face hit the carpet as I felt the door close on my feet. 3… 2… 1. Shutdown.
I woke to the sound of Katie’s voice.
“Townes?”
Her foot nudged me in the ribs.
“Townes!”
“I’m up, I’m up.”
I peeled my head up off the carpet and pulled my feet in through the door, letting it close behind me.
“What the hell happened last night?” she whispered with a concerned sternness. “And why are you sleeping in the doorway?”
“I was with Craig and some—never mind. What time is it?”
“Nine-thirty in the morning. I woke up next to Nate, and he was… he was…”
“Naked?” I asked, smirking. “Yeah, I saw that.”
I got to my feet and saw that Naked Nate was still out cold in my bed, his date had found her way to what was supposed to be their bed, and Katie was already dressed and ready for the day.
“You want to get breakfast?” she asked. “You look like you need it.”
“Thank
you and yes, yes I do. Let me change and we’ll get out of here.”
At the hotel’s complimentary breakfast we ate with a bunch of the younger guys and their dates, and I was updated on the rest of the events from the previous evening. These were the stats:
Three groups were evicted from their rooms for receiving multiple noise complaints. They moved to the Holiday Inn two blocks away.
Five guys got into a fight outside Razzoo’s bar at 4:30 in the morning with some Deltas from Oregon after an argument about football.
One of our freshmen, James Perry, spent $3,600 in the Penthouse Club VIP room after he caught his date making out with a random guy.
A sophomore nicknamed “Bull” broke his arm falling down the stairs of the hotel. Apparently security had found him standing with his eyes closed in the elevator on the fifth floor, not pressing any buttons, and asked him what floor he was trying to reach. He opened his eyes, panicked, ran out of the elevator, pushed open the door to the staircase, and fell down the stairs. He spent all night in the ER.
In the end it was a historically successful trip. New Orleans was a city built for frat moves, and we kept the tradition alive and well to the best of our abilities. We gave it our all, left it all on the playing field, and went home without any regrets. Stories from our trip would be told to rushees for years to come, and pictures would circulate through Facebook and Twitter, threatening to end political careers for some guys before they’d even begun. It was an incomparable final formal to cap off my active membership as an Alpha, and the exclamation point at the end of the best years of my life.
Fraternity formals are one of the great oxymorons of society. Hundreds of guys and girls dress in their finest suits and dresses, and then get completely obliterated, gradually deformalizing their outfits by the night’s end. But they look damn good doing it…
On Fashion and Formals
The better you dress, the worse you can behave. TFM.
This blazer gives me confidence I don’t even need. TFM.
The grin you get when your professor asks, “So did anyone do anything fun this weekend?” TFM.
Sneaking drugs past cops by hiding them in my bloodstream. TFM.
The blazer chest-pocket beer. TFM.
Landing a haymaker at the bar in a sports coat. TFM.
Smoking weed in a bowtie. TFM.
Any occasion worth wearing a blazer is worth bringing a flask. TFM.
Carrying uppers in the coin pocket of your khakis. TFM.
Went to a pajama party in khakis and a button-down because that’s usually what I pass out in. TFM.
Riding the ice sculpture at formal. TFM.
“A little bit softer now.” TFM.
Formal shotguns. TFM.
Getting weird at formal gatherings. TFM.
Not giving a single fuck at formal. TFM.
The morning after. TFM.
Epilogue
THE VERY NEXT WEEK AFTER OUR FORMAL IN NEW ORLEANS I became an official alumnus of Alpha. I had paid my dues in full and been an active member of the fraternity for the maximum of four years, so that was it. It was all over. I even spent another year on campus, but I was more focused on graduation than blacking out and slaying randoms. The good times had come to an end and the real world was calling.
It was incredibly depressing, because I knew the truth. I knew I’d graduate, get a great job, marry a total smokeshow, have athletic kids, and build a life for myself that 99 percent of the world would envy, but things would never be the same. When my firstborn enters this world I’m sure I’ll say it’s “the happiest day of my life,” but will I really be happier than I was being showered with beer in the middle of a party with three hundred people screaming at the top of their lungs around me while I’ve got two hands full of tits? Probably not. The real world comes with real responsibilities, taxes, career choices, and mature women who know better.
But when I’m an old man, retired and knocking over picture frames with my medicated boner, I’ll still think back to those nights I had with Monte, Turbo, Nate, and all my other friends, and smile when I think about how good we had it. No matter how much time passes, or how things change, nobody can take those years away from us. Nationals might crack down on hazing, universities might ban alcohol on campuses, schools might do away with fraternities altogether, but they can never take away what we had. Did we act irresponsibly? Sure. Did we piss some people off along the way? Definitely. Did most of us almost die? Yes. Would I go back and do it all again? In a fucking heartbeat.
My birth certificate says I’m 19 years old. My ID says I’m 25 years old. My wardrobe says I’m 43 years old. TFM.
Being the peer who pressures. TFM.
Ordering food delivery, then passing out before it arrives. TFM.
Giving condescending nicknames to people you barely know. TFM.
“How old are you?” really means “I want to fuck you, but I don’t want to go to jail.” TFM.
People call me by my first and last name with “fucking” in the middle. TFM.
Overdressed and under the influence. TFM.
Studying is for people who don’t trust their instincts. TFM.
“2 hour parking” sign over my bed so they know they’re not welcome to stay the night. TFM.
Told the GDI in front of me, “Hey do you want to split the work? I’ll do 1-5 and you do 6-10.” Told the GDI behind me, “Hey do you want to split the work? I’ll do 6-10 and you do 1-5.” TFM.
“Here, put your number in. I don’t know how to spell your name.” TFM.
We gave up on coming up with a witty name for the party, so the theme was “Ex-Athletes and Sluts.” TFM.
The band from last year refused to return because of my behavior towards them. If they had played “Free Bird” there wouldn’t have been a problem. TFM.
I like my women like my whiskey, 18 years old and mixed up with coke. Just kidding, I would never do that to the whiskey. TFM.
“I’ll quit after college.” TFM.
I don’t pay for my friends. I pay for a mansion where we throw parties that you’re not invited to. TFM.
Never helping with group projects, but always being the one who presents them. TFM.
Public display of erection. TFM.
Better late than sober. TFM.
Awoke this morning with my slampiece in one arm and a half empty bottle of Maker’s Mark in the other. Guess which one joined me for breakfast. TFM.
Waiting for rush to be over so I can take a 4-month break from having to bend over and tie my own shoes. TFM.
The perfect blend of complete gentleman and total asshole. TFM.
Slamming like it’s the 60s, getting high like the 70s, dressing like the 80s, making money like the 90s, and drinking like it’s the end of the world. TFM.
“I really shouldn’t do this.” Spoiler alert: she does it. TFM.
Telling the rushee with pierced ears that the house is closed when there is obviously a full-blown rager going on. TFM.
My relationships are like trick candles. She can blow me all she wants but we’ll never go out. TFM.
Telling GDIs to come back when we have an open party. We never have an open party. TFM.
Sorostitutes aren’t allowed over during “sorority silence.” Luckily, strippers are always welcome. TFM.
If I wanted to be your friend I would’ve given you a bid. TFM.
Using your one phone call to order pizza for everyone in the drunk tank. TFM.
Impressing the mother on the dance floor, and then impressing the daughter in the bedroom. TFM.
Waking up from a blackout with a ruler duct taped to what feels like a broken ankle. TFM.
I trust my pledge brothers with my life, but I keep a padlock on my liquor cabinet. TFM.
Diagnosing every injury sustained by a brother as “a broken vagina.” TFM.
Telling someone “I’ll see what I can do” when the situation is clearly out of control. TFM.
“It was like that when we got
here.” TFM.
Goths call us conformists. Hipsters call us mainstream. PETA calls us cruel. Environmentalists call us close-minded. Feminists call us womanizers. Socialists call us greedy. Liberals call us ignorant. But despite all this, society calls us successful. TFM.
Suits and boots. TFM.
Swinging for the fences. TFM.
The one-handed keg stand. TFM.
Alumni relations. TFM.
The frat pile. TFM.
Using cargo shorts to light your cigarette. TFM.
Beer bonging at sunrise. TFM.
Fighter pilot beer bongs. TFM.
Frat boarding. TFM.
Having the captain stow a keg. TFM.
Studying abroad. TFM.
Being “that guy.” TFM.
Acknowledgments
First and foremost, I’d like to thank Madison Wickham and Ryan Young for founding TotalFratMove.com, hiring me so that I didn’t have to get a real job, and trusting me with the opportunity to write this book.
I’d like to thank our agent, Byrd Leavell, without whom none of this would’ve been possible. Byrd reached out to us at TFM knowing there was an opportunity for this book to exist, and then gave me a shot at writing it. His foresight and step-by-step guidance was essential, and I am eternally grateful.
I’d also like to thank our editor, Ben Greenberg, his assistant, Pippa White, and everyone at Grand Central for their unparalleled professionalism and dedication to this project. Also, Roland Ottewell for his expert copyediting, and Catherine Casalino for her work on the cover.
