American Fraternity Man (23 page)

“No, no. It’s just that a bar isn’t professional.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m
not a college student.”

“Bro, you’re only, like, a year older than most of the guys here.”

“No, really. I wish I could, but I can’t.”

“Come on. It’ll be good for you. It’s Friday night, man.” He slaps my back.

I tell him that I appreciate the invitation, but no. He narrows his eyes.

“Bro. This is a fraternity. A
frat
-er-nity. Just come out for one beer.”

“No,” I say. “It’s more than that.”

“You don’t got to drink if you don’t want to.”

“We’re trying to build socially responsible leaders,” I say. “We’re trying to change the culture of alcoholism. I can’t do that at a bar.”

He sighs, holds his hands up in surrender, backs away. “Whatever. Suit yourself, man.”

And that’s it. I’ve made my responsible decision. And so it’s Friday night and these guys will head to the University of Pittsburgh bars and enjoy the night, but I’ll creak back down the hall to the guest room to sleep and to model good behavior. Wait until morning. Pack up and drive to a hotel for Saturday night. Take the day off to figure out what I’m doing wrong out here. One day off. Then pack up and drive to Shippensburg University. Pittsburgh to Shippensburg, yes. Other schools where I can still accomplish the mission. Cover the proper material for the Alcohol Responsibility Workshop. Shippensburg to St. Joseph’s to New Mexico State. To Texas Tech. To Fresno State. Fourteen more weeks of travel for the Fall Semester. “Visit Reports Completed / 3 Days After Visit.” “No Fried Food/ EVER.” “Email Chapter Presidents/ Weekly.” “No Alcohol with Chapter/ EVER.”

But as the President walks away, shaking his head and already calling someone else’s name—“I invited him, but he’s being a pussy”—I’m thinking about the Mill, the slick countertops with drops of beer spilled across the lacquer, loud ‘80s rock from the jukebox, “Don’t Stop Believing” and “You Shook Me All Night Long” and pitchers of Miller Lite until Semi-sonic’s “Closing Time.”

*

Late at night I call Jenn, but, of course, it’s a Friday night. So—

“Whoooo!” she screams when she answers the phone.

“Jenn?”

“Whoooo!” Voice like a child on a roller-coaster.

“Are you out at the bars right now?”

“Whoooo! Charlie!” Car honking in the background. Chatter and laughter. “The girls say hi, Charles! But we’ve got to go!”

“Are you—”

“We’re coming! Hold on!”

A male voice in the background: “I got your nose, I got your nose!”

“Um,” I say. “What?”

“The girls say hi, Charles!” she says again. “Call tomorrow!”

When I hang up, I hear similar noises coming from the rest of the fraternity house: the hallway outside the guest room, the upstairs bedrooms, the kitchen, the chapter room. Cans crunching, girls giggling
, whoooo
! and high-fives and clanking bottles and someone saying “But it doesn’t
look
like a cauliflower!” I stare at my laptop screen and think again of the status updates I could write if only I clicked a few buttons, restarted my Facebook profile, re-joined that world.

But after a few minutes, I close the computer and try to settle into the disturbed guest room futon. Because there are two unthinkable
spikes in my timeline, snapshots that keep developing in my head throughout the night, photos tagged as “Charles Washington” just waiting for me to reactivate my account to be republished online for all the world to see. And I can’t go back to that.

CHAPTER TEN. The Grand Tradition.

This was my original plan for Saturday: after two straight weeks of fraternity house-hopping, I’d take a “free day.” Time off. A hotel stay. A day that wouldn’t smell like spilled beer and McDonalds wrappers, a day when I wouldn’t have to explain to anyone why binge-drinking was not an “extreme sport,” a chance to sleep in a comfortable bed and take a shower without wearing flip-flops on mildewy floors, a chance to get outside and fulfill my goal of “Jog three times/ weekly,” maybe sit at the pool, watch college football on TV, have a drink at the bar without worrying whether anyone was watching. At the very least, a chance to sleep comfortably, no frat stars crashing into my bedroom unexpectedly. Forget the failed workshop
.
Remind myself why I’m out here.

That was the plan. But this is what happened:

Early this morning. Everything still pre-dawn peaceful in the Pittsburgh chapter house. So quiet that I could hear the low hum of the outdated refrigerator in the kitchen down the hall, the scattered snores of fraternity brothers in their upstairs bedrooms. I was ten minutes away from sneaking out of the house and driving away and enjoying my Saturday off. But at 8:04 AM, my cell phone ring-tone blared through the entire first floor, the metal and plastic of the phone vibrating against the wood floor of the guest room so loud that I could hear the noise all the way down the hall in the bathroom. Without even dropping my toothbrush, I darted down the hall and found the phone and flipped it open and said something with a mouthful of Colgate that almost passed for “hello.”

“Charles,” said a familiar voice on the other end. “Good morning.” Crisp voice, starched. The kind of voice impossible to catch off-guard, the kind of voice that would never answer a phone with a full mouth: Walter LaFaber, back at Headquarters.

“Eyyy,” I said, trying not to swallow, and I hurried back to the bathroom, a glob of toothpaste slipping down my throat.

“You weren’t asleep, were you?”

“Mmmm?” I said. “Mmm-mmm.”

“Good. I’d hoped not. Where are you right now, Charles?”

I attempted the word “Pittsburgh,” but it probably sounded more like “Riisssrrruhrr.” The question was a mere formality, though; LaFaber
knows
where I’m at. He drafted the consultant travel schedules before I even arrived for orientation. He mapped the distances between chapters, divided the three consultants into travel territories. Brock London travels Texas and the Gulf States; Nick Bennett travels the South. And I drive everything beyond.

I covered the phone’s mouthpiece, spit into the sink.

“What are your plans for the day?” LaFaber asked.

“Driving. I have a hotel reserved for tonight.”

“Travel day?” he said.

“I need to stretch out in a real bed, get a good night’s sleep.” I looked around the Pittsburgh bathroom that I’d been using for the past three days, the once-white floor tiles that had taken on urine tones, the limp shower head, the thick black-orange mildew trail that slinked from the sink’s rim to its drain. I’d slept on a broken futon, had misplaced my shampoo and a folder full of print-outs, and as I’d searched for them this morning I’d knocked the stack of “Fun Nazi” business cards into the depths of my suitcase; they fell under shirts, inside shoes. “I need to recharge my batteries.”

“So you’ve got no plans, then,” LaFaber said.

“Well,” I said, but I knew immediately that I’d walked into a trap: LaFaber never asks a question if he doesn’t already know the answer. Not only does he have the energy and hard-hitting presence of a linebackers coach, but he also has a full shelf lined with leadership books and biographies of Great Men, each flagged with dozens of post-it stickers.
He knows exactly how to get his employees to do what he needs. Stares you down, silent, brown eyes growing darker by the moment, the scar on his forehead shining brighter like it’s watching you, too, and you’ll eventually cave. Doesn’t matter what he’s asking (“Could you pick up the sandwiches for the luncheon this afternoon?” or “I need you to run up to West Lafayette tonight to deliver a package”); when he’s done, you’re convinced it was your idea. And every time we talk over the phone, I picture him rigid with the same discipline I remember from the office. Perfect posture, puttied hair, unwrinkled pants, standing—never reclining—while on the phone. Walter LaFaber, staring into his office walls as though he can actually see past the trees outside, past the Indianapolis office buildings, as if he can see for miles and miles and he can actually stare me down from hours away. “No,” I said. “No, not like…
plans
plans.”

“So can you cancel the hotel tonight?”

“I don’t know,” I said. I leaned into the mirror. Flesh around my eyes looked worn. I could probably have slept for another five hours. Sometime after 2 AM last night, after the Mill closed, the first wave of drunk brothers crashed back into the house and raided the kitchen. Every fifteen minutes after, another carload banged through the front doors all at once, and they swore and shouted and drank in the main foyer for what seemed like hours, and as I lay on the guest room futon, I watched the door, afraid that someone might burst in to play Beer Pong or to have privacy with a girl. And now that the entire house had likely been woken by my cell phone, I knew I’d never even get out of here. The President would soon come stumbling downstairs with questions about the house air-conditioner, who to contact if it keeps freezing over, or maybe the Treasurer would stop me with questions about fire insurance, or some other gruff and angry frat star would want to argue with me about the benefits of hazing, of Hell Week, of making pledges drink piss. “There might be a cancellation fee,” I tried.

“Most hotels won’t charge cancellation fees,” he said.

“Oh.”

“I’ve got a treat for you, Charles.”

“Really.”

“I spoke to Dr. Wigginton, and he’d like to meet you.”

“Dr. Wigginton? Like,
the
Dr. Wigginton?”

“The Dr. Wigginton.”

Dr. Wigginton: one of only five living alumni awarded the title of “District Magistrate.” The sort of man for whom I was given a prep file, should our paths ever cross: made his career in business and politics in Philadelphia, initiated a charitable not-for-profit in Chester, supported Penn State substantially enough for the university to name a fundraising office after him (and is rumored to have made the “anonymous” financial contribution to the Nu Kappa Epsilon Headquarters that directly funded the fraternity’s award-winning “DO IT!” social responsibility program, the backbone of our leadership development mission and our workshops). Has a portrait hanging in the lobby of the headquarters building, awards named after him, wears embroidered sashes at conventions, and when he clears his throat everyone shuts up.
The
Dr. Wigginton. “Meet me today?” I asked.

“Today,” LaFaber said, and I could tell from his voice that he was smiling. On the one hand, he’s a supervisor dedicated to employee morale, slapping backs and issuing compliments, gripping shoulders, clapping high-fives, making you feel like he’s just done you a favor or given you a hook-up (“I’ve got a treat for you”). But on the other hand, he also revels in maximizing his staff’s every free second. “This isn’t a problem, is it?”

Last weekend, he questioned my dedication because I’d told him I was unable to drive 300 miles to Virginia Tech to investigate complaints of an unsanctioned party. “I’m all the way in Pittsburgh already,” I said. “Can the school investigate?” But LaFaber told me that the National Fraternity needs standards, that if we don’t hold ourselves accountable, we might as well become Animal House. “We’ll see what becomes of the situation,” he said sadly. “We could have handled things ourselves, kept the school out of it. I just hope this isn’t a recurring issue with you, Charles. You
are
in this for the right reasons, correct?”

“I can make it to visit Dr. Wigginton,” I said this morning. “I can do it.”

“Excellent. Smart decision, Charles.” He cleared his throat. “You’ll need to be on your best behavior, of course.”

“Of course.”

“Spotless in appearance. You are our representative.”

I rubbed my eyes, looked at myself in the mirror once again. “Don’t worry. I’ll finish up here, and…I spent the last three days with a bunch of frat stars. I’m sure they were a bigger challenge.” I was hoping for a laugh, but I heard only the tapping of his keyboard.

“He’s the type of person who makes things happen, Charles.”

“I understand. This is the sort of networking opportunity I signed up for.”

“He’s a tough man to impress,” LaFaber said.

“I can do it.”

“Yes, well,” LaFaber said. “It’s a bit of a drive, of course. So you better get started.”

So. New plan.