“You can relax a minute, Thesaurus. Sit down and talk floater to floater.”
“Master,” the pledge said politely. “Is that an order, Master?”
“It’s an order. Sit down and relax a few minutes.”
Grinning, Davy shut the room door, sat down on the bed, and relaxed.
“Well, Davy, what I wanted to talk to you about…that experience you had with Chi Mu Eta last year, how was it?”
“Master, copaceutic, Master—”
“Ken.”
“—Ken. I enjoyed it beyond words.”
Ken felt his eyebrows go up. “I’m asking, because there have been complaints.”
“There have?”
“You may have heard rumors about Cadmus House serving as campus monitor on other fraternities, trying to make sure the hazing never gets out of hand?”
Davison nodded eagerly.
“Well, those rumors are true.” It was largely Cadmus House that had kept the Astoria Greek hazing relatively free of drugs, alcohol, scatalogical elements, and overtly sexual stuff for going on a decade, through a combination of negotiation and a fairly wide tolerance of less dangerous stuff. Ken went on, “You also hear some pretty strong rumors about Chi Mu Eta—that they’ve got a basement full of old Lodge stuff.”
Davy’s nod went from eager to vigorous. “Oh, yes, I’ll substantiate those rumors, Master ... Ken. In fact, they were the reason I pledged Chi Mu Eta last year. I was not disappointed.”
Ken felt just slightly at sea. “Well, you aren’t the first one we’ve had substantiate the rumors, but since the other reports came from floaters who hadn’t made it into the fraternity, we’ve sort of felt we might be trying to press wine out of sour grapes.”
“I didn’t make it into Chi Mu Eta, either.”
“No, but you’re the first who seems ready to report his experience without lodging any complaint.”
Davison cocked his head and looked thoughtful. “Well ... Perceptions and proclivities vary, as they say ... Unless ... Oh, yes! Of course, was that—No, leading question. Expunge it ungerminated.”
“Anyway, I’d like to hear whatever you can tell me about it. In words of three syllables or under.”
Not so much grinning as beaming, the pledge got himself into storytelling position, cross-legged on the bed…and then hesitated.
“If you’re worried about getting anybody into trouble, the rejected pledge who lodged last year’s strongest complaint is Red Terhune, the frat rats he named are Hark Hardwick, Bob Kozmowski, Rick Sanchez, and Gary Hamill. We also know the names of all the other Chi Mu Eta brothers, of course, including the pledges who made it in last year.”
“That simplifies matters.” Relaxing again, Davison settled into his story. He was a good storyteller, with a pleasant speaking voice.
“The various Hell Week preliminaries—no, that’s five syllables—shenanigans?—still too many ... well, you know—at Chi Mu Eta were certainly no more strenuous than yours here. In some ways, I think, milder. Certainly nothing as gloriously melodramatic as Cadmus House’s Slave Auction last Sunday evening.”
Ken grinned back, remembering Davy, stripped to the waist, striking a pose on the “auction block” in the front yard, flexing his swimmer’s muscles and advertising himself: “Genuine octoroon, willing, able-bodied, and biddable!” He might actually be an octoroon, too. His coloring made it plausible. “I think you can skip Hell Week, Thesaurus. That’s all pretty open stuff, and no complaints on record there.”
“Ah! Cutting to the chase, then: Here we are, deep in the bowels of the Chi Mu Eta house, this pioneer Victorian basement of dank and dusty side chambers unsuspected…they had divided us upstairs into groups of four pledges, each with his fraternal sponsor. Red Terhune, Jim Paschal, Andy Richwein, and I, hoodwinked and, naturally, attentive—every last fiber of our anatomies a-tingle, as one might say ... Those hoodwinks served as my first solid clue that the Chi Mu’s really did have a basement replete with quasi-antique Lodge paraphernalia. They were very old, molded like the upper part of the face, more effective than plain, improvised cloth blindfolds in shutting out sight. And at some point in my misbegotten youth, possibly in an antique shop, I had browsed through an old Lodge catalog, which had been much on my mind ever since arriving here at Astoria State U. and hearing the rumors about Chi Mu Eta. So I had foreknowledge of what to watch for. That might have made the evening more fun for me.
“They had paired us up: Jim and Andy, Red and I, and we knew all along that only two of us four would win final acceptance as fraternity brothers, so they played scrupulously fair in that. ...
“At one point Hark said he thought all four of us pledges were looking feeble. Gary suggested that a good, hot cup of coffee might help revive us, and they led us into another side room, a homey chamber with a couple of prints of dogs playing poker and old pin-up posters of glamorous film stars in bathing suits. A plate of cookies and a tall coffee urn, garnished with cups, waited on a table painted white, with half a dozen chairs of wood in red, blue, and green standing around it. Our sponsors sat us down and poured us each a cup of coffee. And very good coffee it was: dark, rich, chocolaty ... quite gourmet. Of course, after we had drunk it—I’d been expecting this, and waiting curiously to see what, exactly, we’d be shown—Hark lifted the lid off the urn, said, ‘And now to reveal our secret ingredients,’ took up a pair of tongs, and pulled out a filthy old gym shoe, a huge rubber spider, and a bat which I hoped had expired of natural causes, laying them side by side on the table, steaming and dripping brown fluid. Remembering the catalog, I knew the real secret had to do with a false bottom and the spigot delivering a brew that had never been in the slightest contact with the props in the upper portion of the urn. So I smiled, remarked that it must save the house something on their grocery bill, and held out my cup for more.”
After a second’s thought, he added, “My fellow pledges all looked somewhat green, however. Especially, if memory serves, Red. And I found nothing I might do to reassure them, not in the immediate presence of our sponsoring mentors, except to keep smiling and holding my own cup out in trust of a refill.
“I fear that my fellow pledges gave no token of feeling reassured. They may already have formed the opinion that I was odd. But our mentors seemed thrown a little off stride. Refilling my cup—none of the others wanted more—Hark and Gary began taking us out one by one, rewarding me for my supposed courage about the coffee by leaving me until last.
“When my turn finally came, Hark brought me into what I think may at one time have been a small coal cellar, now cleaned, painted red, floored with deep red carpet, and having in the ceiling, not far from the single, naked light bulb, a substantial grab hook on a rope and pulley arrangement.
“Seeing only Hark, Bob, and Gary, I ventured to ask where my fellow pledges might be. Bob made answer, in his best imitation of a hollow voice, that they had already endured the ultimate test of their courage, and proceeded to hand me a heavy ball about the size of a large grapefruit or small cantaloupe. It seemed to be solid iron. Is this the episode you’ve had complaints about, Ken?”
“I’d rather not say. Not yet, anyway. Go on.”
Davy nodded. “For the first time that night, I felt some degree of misgiving. ‘Alarm’ might not be too strong a word. Where, after all, were my compatriots? My inner agitation grew as Gary hung the iron ball upon the grab hook and worked it up and down several centimeters by means of the silent and well-oiled pulley, which served to demonstrate the compact weight of the said iron ball. Hark meanwhile taking pains to position me on the floor. I secretly, and rather feverishly, searching my recollections of the old catalog. My inner apprehensions received a rather severe spur on feeling large patches of carpet sopping wet beneath me.
“‘Wait a minute,’ said Gary. ‘Where’s that hoodwink?’”
“Bob produced it, and Hark applied it to
my face, then took some moments longer about positioning me exactly ... so…then at last pressed one end of cord into my hand. ‘Now,’ said he, ‘for your ultimate test of courage. Pull this string and release the iron ball above you.’
“Easy enough to issue such a command! Less easy to obey it. When I felt I could more or less rely upon the steadiness of my vocal chords, I inquired where the weight was most liable to strike me. ‘Ah!’ one of our mentors replied. ‘Where, indeed? There’s the surprise and glory of the iron test.’
“Perhaps, I thought, striving desperately to bring to mind the relevant catalog page, perhaps that’s the trick—they’ve so positioned it that the ball will not land anywhere near me? But where were my fellow pledges, and what was this moisture seeping from the carpet into my garments? ‘Suppose,’ I ventured after another moment, ‘I refuse to pull this cord?’
“A trio of heavy sighs answered me, and one voice said, ‘Then one of us will have to pull it for you.’
“‘We’ve had to do it before,’ said another upperclassman. ‘Seems to make it worse, somehow.’
“‘One of you other floaters pull it this time,’ said the third sponsor, ‘while I help hold him down.’
“‘No!’ I choked out somehow, adding that I would do it, if they allowed me only a few moments more in which to compose myself…and then continued to procrastinate, thoughts chasing one another through my head of my family, my friends both at home and here in Astoria ...
“You know, of course, that I survived and recovered (unless, of course, I should prove to sit here before you a singularly well materialized specter)…but I did not know it at the time. My rational mind told me that all up to now had been mere funhouse horseplay, that this was no doubt but one more elaborate practical joke, that any deaths, maimings, or mysterious disappearances on campus over the years must inevitably have made their way into the pages of the old newspapers I had combed in library and morgue preparatory to selecting which Greek houses to court, that perhaps a page or two had been missing from my guiding catalog whenever and wherever I examined it ... But the rational part of the brain is rather easily outvoted deep in unfamiliar and confusing cellars at midnight, surrounded by sophomores and upperclassmen who are still relative strangers, with neither sight nor sound in immediate evidence of one’s own compeers, and the painful memory of a compact iron ball the size of a cantaloupe poised at ceiling height above some unspecified portion of one’s anatomy ...
“Thoughts flitted through my head of simply rising, removing the hoodwink from my own face, and walking out ... What could they legitimately do to stop me? The answer came: quite a lot, actually, once the question of legitimacy is thrown out. There were three of them, each one older than I and thus, during these years of our rapid growth, somewhat larger and stronger. And if this were indeed one more practical joke, it should prove, after all, harmless enough. While if it were not, they must already be breaking laws with impunity, and, seeing that I had at best the foggiest of ideas how to make my way through a basement perfectly familiar to them, they should overtake me and force me down again with perfect ease!
“One of them said, ‘Well, brothers, I don’t think he’s going to—’
“At that, thrown into perfect panic, I cried, ‘No—wait!’—flung one arm up to shield my face and the other—the one holding the cord—down to protect you know what, and, I truly believe, more in terror reflex than deliberate intention, jerked the cord.
“Something heavy plopped down on my lower hand—I felt a squish, and warm fluid drenching my trousers, and I feel confident I emitted a sharp squeal before comprehension dawned that I had in fact been struck with a waxed-paper bag containing about a hundred milliliters of warm water, which they must have substituted for the iron ball while I lay hoodwinked.
“Laughter rose from many more throats than three: my fellow pledges, along with the fourth Chi Mu mentor, had been watching from concealment behind a false wall, and I think one of them said something about ‘human, after all,’ and another something to the effect, ‘pulled it himself, didn’t he?’ I have never felt clear whether this last was approbation or its opposite, but at the time I cared nothing at all for that particular question, being too busy laughing along with everyone else, for relief—sheer relief—relief so blessed as almost to be worth the preliminary mental agony.
“There were no more attempts at trickery. All the rest was mere open buffoonery.
“As the climax and grand finale, we came to what they called ‘The Battle of Tippecanoe,’ in the largest unpartitioned portion of basement we had yet entered. Here, the floor was concrete innocent of any covering save swashes of blue and green paint. Two large canoes rode these ‘waves,’ running freely on well-oiled casters. We were paired off—Andy and Jim, Red and myself—one member of each team given a pole tipped with a large cushion, the other receiving a sturdy, cork-tipped pole, or ‘oar,’ for steering the vessel along while our partners strove to overset each other—man, teammate, and craft. I think we rather did ourselves proud at this sport, considering that we were all, as far as I know, rank novices who had never played it before.
“For the first time that evening, I now began to worry whether I had made too good a showing. It was never my desire nor intention, Master Ken, ever actually to become a member of Chi Mu Eta. And here were three other floaters all of whom, so far as I could guess, desired fraternity life very keenly. How tragic if I, with the heart and soul of a Gosh-Darned Independent, were to usurp the place coveted by one of them! When I defected, would they then allow another of my fellow pledges in…and how would he feel, gaining his place among them by default? So I tried to catch my teammate’s eye, in hopes of assessing how badly he wanted membership. I may have succeeded only in distracting Red and thus handing Jim the opening he seized to overset us.
“Our sponsors lost no time in hailing Jim and Andy as their new brethren. It occurs to me that Red Terhune might find just grounds to include at least one fellow pledge in whatever complaint he lodged with you?”
Ken shook his head. “Nobody’s filed any complaints about fellow pledges and initiates.”
“Initiates? As to that, there are rumors of further entertainments that awaited Andy and Jim, but of those, of course, I can reveal nothing from personal experience. The price for satisfying my curiosity there would have been too high. Why, not only might I have cost a worthier floater his place, but I might someday have found myself forced to administer that test of the iron ball to another set of hapless pledges! Although, now that it’s safely over and done with, I cannot say I regret having had the experience. It resembles Mark Twain’s famous observation that a classic is something everyone wants to have read.”
Ken peered over his steepled fingers for a moment, studying the sophomore. “So, Thesaurus. Has it ever been your desire or intention actually to join Cadmus?”
“Ooops!” Looking sincerely embarrassed, Davy scrambled off the bed and stood hanging his head. “I’ve slipped, haven’t I? ... The pitfalls of letting oneself get carried away.”
“Relax and let’s talk about this a minute. Why don’t you want to join us?”
“I ... No offense, please, don’t take any offense. Cadmus is a great house—warm, wonderful camaraderie, a housemother beyond compare, affectionate mascots ... if ever I had craved fraternity life, it would be here! I’m sorry ... please accept my sincerest apologies ... I simply prefer a…call it a more nearly eremitical lifestyle.”
“You know,” Ken suggested, “frat brothers don’t have to live in the House.”
The pledge hesitated a generous amount of time before saying softly, “Yes, but it would wreak havoc with my hobby of collecting as many partial initiations as possible.”
Ken raised his brows. “Come again?”
“It is an ambition I have nurtured since—oh, I think since seventh grade or thereabouts. With adroit planning, I cherish the hope of garner
ing the cream of the Greek experience at the rate of one hazing for each of my five university years, without ever actually completing an initiation.”
Ken felt bemused. “Seems a little like hitching the horse behind the wagon, doesn’t it? I wouldn’t have put you down for a masochist.”
“Perish the thought!” Davison sounded somewhere between alarmed and insulted. “Boundlessly—almost inconveniently—curious I might be—but not by any means masochistic—I detest being in actual pain! Why do you suppose I have taken such care to select an institution with so capable and competent an internal affairs watchdog as Cadmus House? Why do you suppose that, even here at Astoria State, I choose which new fraternities to rush only after diligent investigative research?”
“Seeing that this is the first I’ve heard about all your preliminary investigative research, I didn’t suppose anything about it one way or the other. How did you slip your true intentions past our rush and pledging process?”
“Master, I simply added the mental proviso ‘if I were of the temperament to join any fraternity at all,’ Master. That made it seem not entirely mendacious, at least to my own psychomystique.”
“All right. Well. Before you do anything else today, get yourself to a typewriter and type me up a full report, with two carbon copies, of what went on in the Chi Mu Eta basement last fall. Have all three copies in my hands before dinner, and we’ll talk more about your little…collecting hobby.”
“Master, thank you, Master. I hope this won’t get any of them in trouble? It really was all a funhouse romp with sleight-of-hand flourishes.”
The Fanciers & Realizers MEGAPACK Page 66
