Yearbook (12 page)

Amy stared at her grinning guest several seconds, saying nothing. Why, she suddenly wondered, was she wasting time with this juvenile? What was it made her think he had any potential in the first place? Had his photography talent clouded the fact he was probably as dull as the rest of them? “If you think you could ever be happy in a sheepherder’s organization like Kappa Phi, I’m afraid we don’t really know each other at all.”

“But why?” Guy asked, hurt by her switch in tone.

“Because Kappa Phi is composed of rowdy, beer-guzzling, dumb jocks. What the hell have you in common with them?”

“It’s the best fraternity in school!’’ Guy was firm. “And I’m becoming very fond of beer!”

“Sorry, Guy. They’re just not for you. You’re far more sensitive than any of those—”

“Sensitive
?” Guy raised his voice. “I am not sensitive!”

“It was meant as a compliment.” Amy tried soothing him.

“And it just so happens Corky Henderson—”

“Corky Henderson is a mindless monkey
,” Amy stated with a vehemence that surprised even her.

That did it. Biting his lower lip to hold back unwelcome emotions, Guy stood up. “I have to leave. My legs are killing me. “

“I understand,” Amy said softly, trying to figure out how their mad tea party had suddenly gone so sane. “The lotus position is an acquired discomfort.”

Neither of them said anything as Guy walked, Amy trailing, to the front door.

“Thank you,” he said softly.

“Sorry if I upset you, Guy. It’s the last thing I meant to do. And if things don’t happen to turn out the way you hope, I’d be happy to discuss it with you.”

Guy opened the door and stepped into the hall. “Everything’s gonna be fine!” he assured her. “But thanks for the concern. And for your information, Miss Smarty-Pants … Corky Henderson is not just a casual acquaintance. He happens to be my friend. My best friend. My very best friend in the whole goddamn world!”

SEVENTEEN

CHOOSING THE RIGHT OUTFIT for so important an event as a rush smoker was a difficult challenge. Looking cool and detached, smooth and bon vivant, the casual man of the world was not so easy when your wardrobe revolved around nothing that looked good on you.

After trying on and discarding everything he owned, Guy finally opted for his old red alpaca cardigan. Buttoned up, he looked in the mirror. Perry Como before Geritol.

After ten minutes of brushing down his cowlick, he went downstairs, a nervous wreck. Strolling into the kitchen, he found Rose and Birdie awash in dinner dishes, still nibbling leftovers.

“This is it!” he announced. “How do I look?”

“Just fine,” said Birdie, his reliable support, rubber-gloved hands deep in suds.

“Yucch
/” decreed Rose, his reliable non-support, polishing up a plate. “ Where’d you get that sweater?”

“Arrived in last month s Care package,” he tossed back.

“Looks it,” said Rose, placing the dish inside the cupboard.

As Guy kissed his mother good-by, she asked, “Where you off to?”

“Oh”—very casual—”the Kappa Phi smoker.”

Birdie smiled innocently.

Rose looked at him in disbelief. “You’re such a liar!”

Guy swung out the kitchen door.

Nathan was tuned into a boxing match as Guy entered his lion’s den.

“Am I interrupting?”

“No, no. Round just started.” Nathan downed a sip of beer and bit into a pretzel.

“I’m off to Butch’s fraternity smoker, Dad. Wanted to say good-by.”

Nathan turned around. “That’s a pretty snappy sweater, fella.”

“You like it?”

“Sure. You look fine. “

Guy relaxed.

“Good luck, son. Just talk slow, act calm and you’ll be fine.”

In his deepest register, with his tightest grip, Guy shook hands with his father. “Hi.
My-name’s-Guy-Fowler”

“Pretty good,” Nathan reviewed the performance.

Guy turned to leave.

“Don’t fall down, you mother!” Nathan pounded the arm of his chair and screamed at the tube. “I’ve got fifty fat ones on you, son of a bitch.
Get up!”

Flat on the mat, the fighter didn’t hear Nathan. The referee was counting as Guy left the room.

Dick Lanier’s front door was ajar when Guy arrived at the smoker.

Should he be polite and ring the bell or do the manly thing and just push his way in? While he was deciding, the door swung open.

“Hi!” said Guy pleasantly to the eleven-foot basketball monster standing behind the door.

“Come in!” said the colossus.

“Dis must be de place!” Guy addressed both knees as he passed them.

The living room was empty.

“Everyone’s downstairs. Throw your coat in the bedroom.”

“Thanks.” Guy carefully extended his hand. “My … name’s … Guy.” Low and slow. “Guy … Fowler.”

“Dick Lanier!” returned the square-jawed jock without expression, before walking into the kitchen. So much for friendly chatter.

Guy dropped his parka on the pile in the bedroom and then walked to an open door. A lot of noise was coming up from down there. His heart pounded.

Taking in a deep breath, Guy stuck out what there was of his chest, stood tall as nature would allow and then, ever so slowly, descended the stairs, down, down into the first circle of hell—Dick Lanier’s finished basement.

The paneled room was packed. Forty guys surrounded a poker table.

Talk was subdued. Everyone watched the six gamblers.

Corky, one of the players, sported a cigar from the side of his mouth. Across from him, scooping in winnings from the previous hand, sat Butch. His hair was greased back, overdosed on Vitalis.

Guy reached the bottom of the stairs.

“Hi there!” A handsome, broad-shouldered fellow introduced himself. “ChuckTroendle.”

“Guy,” came the response, slow and soft. “Guy … Fowler.”

“Wadda ya know?” asked Chuck, firmly grasping Guy’s shoulder. “Don’t tell! Let me guess. “

A visionary summoning spirits, Chuck closed his eyes. “Swimming!”

Long pause. Chuck looked at Guy for confirmation.

Guy stared back, saying nothing.

“Not swimming?”

Guy shook his head. Not swimming.

Sizing him up, Chuck again pinpointed Guy’s specialty. “Skiing!”

Guy decided he couldn’t risk disappointing him. “Yep,” congratulating Chuck’s perception, “skiing.”

“Thought so.” Chuck chuckled. “It’s you short toads always zoomin’ past us. Make the best downhill demons. Something to do with shorter bones being more flexible. Anyway, I’m rush chairman. I greet everyone and it’s nice to have you here, Farley.”

“ Fowler,” Guy politely corrected him.

“Right. Fowler. Hey! We’ve got a Fowler. Big Butch!”

“Yeah. Big Butch is my big brother.”

Chuck looked at Guy quizzically, trying to figure out the gimmick. He turned to the poker table and yelled, “Hey, Butch! This kid here says he’s your brother!”

In unison, brothers and guests alike turned to see to whom Chuck was referring. They stared at Guy. Then, spectators at a tennis tournament, heads turned to Butch.

Stunned by Guy’s unexpected appearance in his sanctuary, Butch could think of nothing to say.

Heads went back to the short visitor. Lowering his voice, Guy smacked a fist into the palm of his hand and grunted, “Wadda ya say, Butch?”

All eyes traveled back to the poker table. Up to Butch.

Hunched like Fagin over his winnings, wondering if others had found Guy’s locker room greeting as trumped up as he had, Butch ended the match, acknowledging, “Guy! Wadda ya know?” Then he took the deck and announced, “Seven-card stud!”

“I’m out!” said Corky, gathering his small pile of money. Leaving the casino area, he walked to the stairs. “How’re you doing, kid?” he asked Guy in passing.

“All butterflies. Can’t quiet down.”

“You’re too delicate. Take deep breaths.”

Corky excused himself and left to help set up an area upstairs to screen the prospective pledges.

Butch kept shoveling it in. Nathan had carefully taught him a wicked poker, a training which gave the big boy a definite edge over other players in the group.

At Butch’s summons, Guy hurried over. “Why didn’t you tell me, for Christ’s sake?” Butch whispered into his little brother’s ear.

“Tell you what?” Guy whispered back.

“That you wanted to join? What’d you do? Ask Corky? I’d’ve brought your name up.”

“I never asked Corky. It was his idea.”

“How do ya think it makes me look? My own brother brought up and not even by me?”

“I asked you, Butch. Before school started. You said you’d get me in soon as I made the football team.”

“J said that?” Butch was all innocence.

“Come on, Butch. Up to you!” a player interrupted their whispered conference. “We playing poker or not?”

“Go stand on the other side,” Butch told Guy before picking up a stack of coins. Without even looking at his newly dealt cards, he opened. “Haifabuck, wise-ass!”

As instructed, Guy walked halfway around the table, watching without comment.

Neither the high stakes nor the growing animosity toward his long winning streak bothered Butch. Draining weekly allowances, he played on Three, five and ten dollars a pot.

Guy stood directly behind the hulk of a first-string offensive tackle named Jenkins, who was incurring the heaviest losses.

Shuffling cards, Butch named the game. “Five-card draw,” he said, and dealt.

Jenkins, the offensive tackle, beamed; too happy to be faking it. What he lost to subtlety, he scored in bravado, tossing out two dollars, the maximum bet.

Only Butch and a guard named Calvin stayed.

The offensive tackle took three cards. Calvin took one. Butch three.

The heavy betting began.

The offensive tackle threw in another two bills. Calvin, obviously not having made his straight, cursed and folded. Butch saw the bet and raised it another two. The offensive tackle saw Butch s raise and bumped him another two.

Butch bumped him back, and there was suddenly a green salad of money on the table.

Butch squinted at Jenkins. “Okay, hotshot. Let’s see. “

Nobody breathed. The offensive tackle laid his cards down. “Two aces!” he gloated.

“Very good,” Butch said quietly as he placed his cards on the table. “Jeez, awfully good. But I got three two’s.”

Everyone took a deep breath at the same time.

“Shit!” declared Jenkins, pounding the table with a heavy fist.

“Temper, temper!” scolded Butch, wagging a finger at the sore loser.

Feeling some recognition of family pride might be in order, excited and even momentarily proud of the dramatic way Butch had pulled off that last hand, Guy blurted out in a high-pitched cracked voice, “Keep it up, Butch, you’ll soon be driving an Oldsmobile all your own!”

At which point the seething offensive tackle in front of Guy raised hisliead, turned and asked, in all sincerity, “There a
girl
in here?”

Everyone stopped talking and looked at Guy.

No. Please, no. Shutting his eyes, Guy looked down, devastated. Everything had been going so well. He’d been in total control. Now, in one unguarded moment he’d let himself go and out had come the dreaded piercing tone, the sissy Mickey Mouse squeak no one with any cool would ever care to call fraternity brother.

A small, stifled giggle burst from somewhere to Guy’s left. Then another.

More humiliated for the genetic association than for Guy, Butch fast shifted the focus. “Pick up your cards!” he snapped gruffly to the other players. “Up to you, Pete!”

The game went on, and Guy, looking only at the floor, waited for this most costly of embarrassments to pass.

Three quarters of an hour later he had still not uttered another word. Cold-eyed, he stared at the poker table until Chuck Troendle trotted down the basement steps and tapped him on the shoulder. “You’re next, Farley. Follow me.”

Guy followed.

Corky and four other upper classmen were seated around a banquette just off the kitchen. They rattled off to Guy the virtues of fraternity life. The giving the getting the camaraderie. Safety in numbers. The comfort of knowing there were thirty others like you in there pitching behind you a hundred and ten percent all for Kappa Phi.

But being asked to pledge for this select group was no easy affair. Besides needing a unanimous vote of the brotherhood to be polled later that evening, eventual admission would come only after a long and demanding hazing period. Kappa Phi was no home for soft sisters. Was that clear? Any questions?

Guy had no questions.

The lecture concluded, the members of the exclusive fraternal order began their cross-examinations.

Playing his appointed role, Guy catered to their loaded questions. He talked of friendship and trust. Any fraternity brother of his could most assuredly stay the night at his house, borrow his car, share his girlfriend.

After the interview Guy was directed back downstairs. Silently, he observed the poker game still being waged.

Another hour passed before Chuck Troendle finally announced, “Any of you already interviewed can leave whenever you’re ready.”

Guy was ready. After an attempted smile to Dick Lanier, now serving as gracious doorman, he excused himself, found his coat and escaped the Kappa Phi smoker.

EIGHTEEN
 

DRAWN BY THE LIGHTS Guy wandered to town, hating himself for having been dumb enough to believe the impossible. Added to the depression from the evening s bullshit was that it was Friday night and he’d just missed the last show at the Avalon.

Hands low in pockets, he walked into the wind.

As soon as all the prospective pledges had left, the brothers gathered downstairs to decide which of them would be honored with invitations to become slaves on trial.

One by one, names were called. Each was discussed before being accepted or rejected. Candidates were running half in, half out when the secretary read aloud, “Fowler, Guy!”

Heads turned to Corky and behind him, to Butch. Fraters fidgeted in their seats.

Corky looked down at the flowered pattern of the linoleum wondering how he had gotten himself into this mess. While he speedily juggled thoughts, preparing to say damned if he knew what, Butch raised his hand.