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“Fuck no.”

“Prove it,” the tall guy with the shaved head challenged.

“OK.”

I opened my wallet and removed four joints. I handed one to each of the three surprised guys before I lit mine and theirs.

None of them seemed too convinced about me but slowly hit on the joints anyway. Funny, how laughter died everywhere as soon as I showed up.

“What're you doing here?” the surfer-looking guy asked, sounding a little friendlier but not much.

“Rushing. What about you?”

“Same.”

“Aren't you a little old? You look about twenty-five.”

“I'm twenty-six. And I fucked around too long. Now it's time to get serious about my future. Anyway, I heard college is more fun if you're in a fraternity.”

A husky guy with a goatee at the end of a pointed chin walked unsteadily down the stairs and approached us. “Anybody know where I can score blow?” he whispered. A yellow sun circled by orange and blue flames was tattooed on the side of his neck.

“Heard the boardwalk has more sellers than buyers,” I answered.

“Thanks, man.”

“What's this Rule of Eleven shit that I heard some actives telling other rushees about?” the giraffe-sized guy asked. “Anybody know?”

“Yeah,” the coke guy answered, lighting up a joint. “No matter how many pledges there are, no more than eleven can be sworn in as actives.”

Just then it started to drizzle so we all went inside.

Then fucking-A! Who do I see standing in the front hallway? My asshole cousin Lyman!

My heart thumped loudly even though I tried to hide my
shock at seeing him as I approached him. The bright floor lamp behind him made his silky, jet-black hair look dark purple, and his soft, pink skin almost lavender.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” I asked, trying to sound casual.

“I'm rushing,” he answered with that George W smirk on his face.

“You got into Stanford and Berkeley. What're you really here for?”

“What do you think? To fuck you over and get the money. And I've already started.”

Sunday, September 8

9:30
P.M
.

T
HIS WAS THE LAST NIGHT OF RUSHING
,
the night the actives voted in the new pledges. It was like the seventh game of the World Series; there was no tomorrow. It was now or never. My five million was down the fucking toilet if I didn't get selected as a pledge tonight. I was older and smarter than anybody here. I knew I could con these hicks into accepting me. Big wide smiles, extra-firm handshakes, laughing the loudest, backslapping. I'd do it all. It's the same formula for getting elected President of the United States.

The guys I smoked dope with the first night were back most of the other nights too. All four of them—the Bart Simpson guy, the big surfer, the tall Air Jordan guy, and the guy with the goatee—all seemed to be friends with each other.

But same as before, nobody took much interest in me even though I was at the house more than any other rushee. I forced smiles, shook more hands than a politician, and laughed at unfunny jokes. But nothing seemed to change the grim atmosphere. Guys would smile awkwardly and say hello disinterestedly
and some would even have trite, bullshit conversations with me. But other than meaningless small talk, I felt like I was only a piece of furniture around there. Nothing I said or did seemed to make any difference or interest anybody.

The words on the banner that said WE PROMOTE FELLOWSHIP obviously didn't have me in mind.

Jack Christianson, the fraternity president, led one smiling rushee after another down the hall and into a room where they closed the door. A few minutes later they came out, with each rushee beaming as he proudly wore a dime-size, emerald green pledge pin with the white Greek letter Σ in the center.

Meanwhile, time passed and I kept walking around getting more and more jittery, pretending to sip the tasteless beer from the plastic cup while trying to act friendly with a bunch loser guys I'd have never spoken to except under these uncomfortable circumstances. My stomach was in knots. My temples throbbed as I wondered when Christianson was coming for me. But it was getting later and later. I checked the Rolex; it was nearly midnight.

I was nervous as hell. I didn't want to join the goddamn Marines. Talk of war was everywhere. The odds were about ten-million-to-one that I'd survive the first day of boot camp. But what else could I do? Getting a job was out of the question. Here I am, you bastards! I wanted to scream out.

It seemed like about two dozen eighteen year-olds with big smiles and green pledge pins were being congratulated by the older-looking guys, obviously the actives. Everybody seemed to be laughing and joking and shaking hands with each other, already beginning the so-called fraternity goal of promoting fellowship. Most of the rushees who weren't selected yet gave up and left. The way I counted it, there were only three hopeful rushees that were still wandering around like lost souls: me, Lyman and some tall, pencil-necked guy with a large, silver stud protruding from under his bottom lip. Each of us stared at the other two like predators. I felt like I was playing musical chairs with hanging as the penalty for the loser.

Christianson and a jockey-sized active with a red bandana
twisted over his head walked over to the guy with the lip stud. A few seconds later they took him to the room where the other new pledges got their pins.

My stomach started bouncing like a non-stop pogo stick. Suddenly, a wave of nausea swept over me. I ran out of the house and into the back yard. I barely got to the bottom step before I puked my guts over a bed of dying pink roses. Thank God I was alone there. My mouth tasted sour and rancid, my face felt flush and my head was ringing from ear to ear. The heavily-falling mist was turning into light rain as I tried to pull myself together. I checked my watch again. It was almost 12:15. My rightful inheritance was evaporating! A crisp breeze started, chilling me. I thought about leaving right then and telling everybody to fuck off, but I decided to wait until the end so I walked back inside and desperately tried to mingle a little more.

It took me a few minutes before I realized that Lyman wasn't there. Maybe a miracle happened and he gave up.

Shit! Then I saw him walk from the hallway to the living room with Christianson. Lyman winked at me and pointed his chin downward toward his heart. I followed the pathway and gasped. The fucker got into the pledge class! He was wearing the green pledge pin and I was nothing but a twenty-six year-old reject.

But I wasn't going to get fucked-over without making sure they'd remember me forever. There were so many stupid regulations in the College Handbook that were meant for adolescents in a rural Kentucky bible school that I'd find some reason to close this fraternity down. Besides drinking in the house or smoking pot in the yard, my memory would also include seeing guys scoring coke from each other here. I'd gladly be a witness against these bastards while wearing my Marine dress uniform.

My asshole was so tight that a jackhammer couldn't penetrate it. I tried to act unconcerned, standing there alone in front of the big-screen TV pretending to look interested in some ESPN stock car race. If there was a mirror there I'd check it to make sure I
wasn't wearing a T-shirt that said I had communicable TB. And if isolation wasn't bad enough, I started stinking up the area with potentially-lethal farts which would have cleansed the room of the AIDS virus. I started moving around a little, like the white trash drivers of the stock cars racing on TV, so nobody would connect me to the stench.

I checked my watch again. It was almost a quarter to one. As I looked up, Christianson approached me with a grim expression on his face; gone was the big smile he had for the other rushees who got accepted into the pledge class.

“Stafford, please come with me.”

I clenched my ass cheeks together, desperately trying not to fart as I walked along like a guy with each leg in a cast.

I followed him like the others had, until we entered a nearly dark room that looked like a den. He closed the door and pointed to one of the two tan, leather chairs facing each other in front of an unlit gas fireplace. As I sat down, I noticed that we were alone. The only light was from a tiny, flickering candle that was on a table across the room.

“This is the Chapter Room,” he explained. “Ordinarily only for active members.”

I was silent except for the pounding of my heartbeat that he probably heard. God somehow must've inserted Crazy Glue in my ass, temporarily keeping it silent.

Christianson had a soft, almost preacher-like voice with a very slight southern accent. “This is unpleasant for me,” he said apologetically, looking down at my feet. “From your PLEDGE APPLICATION, I know you're a legacy. That your grandfather was a Sig O at Columbia. Ordinarily we want to have all future generations as members.”

He looked up at me. I was rigid and stayed silent. From both ends.

“But you must know,” he continued in the same tone of voice, “that you've been a big question mark here all week.”

He was a little taller than me and about ten pounds heavier. Now he stared intently into my dark brown eyes, trying to check my reaction. He scratched his head which already had the
beginning of thinning blond hair.

Whatever he was trying to tell me, I wasn't going to make it easier by helping him pronounce my death sentence.

“Look,” he said hesitantly, “it takes three guys to blackball any prospective pledge. You had three.”

“Fuck!”

“We voted four times and each time you got the same three blackballs.”

He paused for effect. I almost threw up again but there was nothing left of the Big Mac and the fries that fertilized the rose bushes. And I could feel the Crazy Glue in my ass losing its strength. I was too drained to speak as more uncomfortable seconds of silence passed.

“But,” he finally said, probably figuring that I looked so weak that I'd faint any second, “one of the three guys who blackballed you is a gambler. In fact, he books sports bets for most of the school. He decided to give you a chance. Here's what he's willing to do.”

Christianson stopped talking and walked over to the door and opened it. A tall, fat guy shaped like a bowling pin with light brown kinky hair and rimless glasses came in. He was wearing a green eyeshade that looked ridiculous, especially in this dark room.

“Stafford,” Christianson said, as both guys faced me. “This is Bookie.” We shook hands like robots and each nodded a little. “He'll tell you the break he's going to give you.”

Bookie rubbed his nose and longingly sniffed whatever was on the pussy-finger of his left hand. Then he reached into the front pocket of his royal blue and turquoise CAS windbreaker, the same school jacket that most of the actives wore, and removed a silver dollar. He held it out to me.

“Flip it. If it's heads I vote to let you pledge. If it's tails you're blackballed out of here.”

Before I could say anything he tried to hand it to me. I backed away like the coin was radioactive. I wiped the sweat off my forehead then I felt the back of my neck. It was wet too.

“Flip it,” he ordered.

I couldn't fucking believe it! They were making me flip a coin for five million dollars! I just stood there dumbfounded and as motionless as a statue.

“Flip it or I'll say it's tails and you're out of here,” Bookie threatened.

What could I do? Nothing. So I took the coin, trying to act casual. But I'm sure I was shaking like a vibrator while trying to keep my ass cheeks together so I wouldn't start farting again.

No question that these guys were serious. I had no choice. So I flipped the goddamn coin. It bounced up and down on the hardwood floor like a guy jumping on a trampoline. As the bounces became shorter and shorter, even in the dim candlelight, I saw it was going to land on tails. I was going to lose! Hurriedly, I stomped my right Puma down on the coin like a Mexican crushing a cockroach. I grabbed the coin before either guy could clearly see that tails was facing upward and tried to twist it upside down as inconspicuously as possible.

I stood up, holding the coin in the open palm of my hand. “It's heads,” I said matter-of-factly, praying like hell that my nervous voice wouldn't crack.

Each of them exchanged quick glances but said nothing.

Bookie looked at me and snickered before turning to Christianson. “I'm almost sure it was tails.” He walked across the room to the door and opened it before he turned around and looked at Christianson. “Let me think about it,” he said, before he closed the door and left.

None of the finalists on
American Idol
could've been more nervous than me right then. My throat felt like I was gargling with sand and my heartbeat reverberated like Flea's bass playing a Red Hot Chili Peppers song.

Bookie was gone for less than a minute when another guy came in. It was the little guy with the red bandana on his head who was sipping a cup of beer. From five feet away he smelled like he fell into a vat of cheap cologne. I noticed a small, gold-loop earring in his left ear like mine.

“Bookie's still thinking of blackballing this guy but said you should call it,” he told Christianson.

The room was silent as I stared at Christianson's expressionless face that hadn't felt a razor for a couple of days. It was the longest ten seconds in history.

Finally he spoke. “OK, you can pledge. But it was tails wasn't it?”

I shook my head and tried to deny it but no words came out.

His tone got sharper. “Tell me the truth or you're out of here. It was tails, wasn't it?”

I took a deep breath and nodded. “Yeah,” I mumbled in a scratchy voice.