Chapter 4
Are You Feeling Like Me—Weller
They set aside three days for Rush Week and I managed to burn through the first two days with anxiety and indecision. As the last day winds down, and five o’clock comes around, I find the anxiety creeping back in, telling me I don’t need these guys. Telling myself I’ll make friends some other way, but I know it’s not likely. And as strong as the pull of anxiety is, I’ve always combated challenges head on.
I did it when I signed up for the Army, all those years ago, to escape a life I despised; the feelings then, much like they are now, a deep-rooted anxiousness that takes hold when I’m in the uncomfortable position of meeting new people. I did it again when the rocket-propelled grenade sent rock, metal, and dirt into my face, sending me into a coma, and killing Jensen and Callahan; changing life as I knew it in a way I never thought possible. I didn’t let the prosthetic eye keep me down, though, nor the scars etched across my cheek. Not even the persistent, crippling nightmares of that day; the things I could’ve done differently, the places I’m so willing to trade. I’ve always kept pushing forward, and that’s what I intend on doing today. It’s why I’ve willed myself to this road, parked along frat row, and observing the houses that line the road. Greek symbols sit above each of their doorways. My heart pounds and palms sweat as I will myself out of the vehicle; one slow, hesitant step after another. I shut the door and take a deep breath, scanning the houses for the first one I’m set to visit. Perhaps, the only one I’ll visit. Delta Iota Kappa was the only fraternity to email me back. They said they have other veterans in the fraternity as well, which was a nice surprise, so they’re the only one on the docket for now. I can visit any of the other houses I’d like, but if I don’t need to, I won’t.
The Delta Iota Kappa house is situated at the top of the road and as I cross the street toward it, I focuses my nervous brain on the keg they must have in there—it’s a frat party, after all—and I figure, after a few beers, the nerves will be numbed. How stupid of me to not have had a few beforehand.
The three-story house is expansive like the others, but unlike the others, it looks to be run down; a sore sight on the otherwise picturesque road. I chuckle, spotting beer cans littering the front yard and the wraparound porch out front. Through the parking lot, there’s a sign with an arrow pointing toward an open side door that reads “Rushes enter here.”
I take a deep breath, letting it out slowly, as I inch my way toward the open door; rap music soundtracking my arrival from the inside. Just as I reach the door, a guy steps out with a smile. He's tall and muscular, with a mop of disheveled blond hair on his head—messed up in a purposeful way—and he has piercing hazel eyes. Sporting a pair of skinny jeans and the Delta Iota Kappa letters in red scrawled across his black tee, he looks like he belongs in the fraternity recruitment catalogue.
Putting out a hand, he asks, “How's it going, man? You here for rush?”
I take his hand and give it a quick, but firm, shake. “Yeah. The name's McKenzie. But everyone calls me Bishop or just Bish. I emailed one of you guys yesterday.”
“Oh shit, the veteran, right?”
“Yeah, did I talk to you?”
“No, that would've been our Social Chair, Brady. I'm the President of Delta Iota. Trevor. Did Brady tell you we’ve got some other veterans in the fraternity too? Including two of our officers.”
“Yeah, he mentioned that.”
“We’ve got the most out of any fraternity on campus. A few ROTC guys, too. None of the military guys are here tonight, though, but you’ll get a chance to meet them soon. Come on in and make yourself at home," he says, gesturing toward the door for me to enter. “Drinks are in the back by the bar. We're all just hanging out for a few minutes, getting to know each other before we start interviews. Let me know if you need anything.”
“Is there anyone specific I need to connect with in there?”
“Not really. Brady’s in there, and I’m sure he’ll introduce himself. There’s a few of the younger brothers in there as well. And then a few other rushes. We’ll be calling the meeting to order in a minute. Just waiting on a couple more rushes to show. Simple meet and greet until then.”
“Alright, thanks.”
"I'll see you in there." He smiles again, a practiced, superficial smile, before heading around to the front of the house.
I make my way inside, and scale a small set of dusty stairs down into the basement. There are people scattered throughout the sizeable room; some on couches in an arch, around a big screen TV at the far right end of the room, others standing near the bar at the opposite end of the basement. None of them seem to notice my approach; the music blaring from the speakers set into the ceiling at each corner of the room a welcome distraction. I head toward the bar, where three particularly young guys lean, no letters across their chest, unlike most of the others in the room. They're each clutching a can of soda, which I assume means they're underage. No surprise there, as I reckon none of them could grow a decent beard.
I nod toward them as I approach, but my focus quickly shifts to the cooler seated on the old weathered bar top. A neon Bud Light sign casts a red glow against it.
“What the fuck?” I exclaim upon reaching the cooler and examining it further. I look toward the first wallflower; a young, rail thin kid, paper white—the Irish type who freckle tans in the sun—with messy red hair, and a patchy beard. He could be Ed Sheeran’s long-lost brother.
“There's only soda in here. No beer?” I ask.
The ginger shrugs, looking over to the others, who pass their own shrugs.
“I was surprised myself,” the one furthest down the bar says. He's fit, with dark hair and an innocence to his face that is offset only by a thick scar running along his cheek, and a thicker one trailing down his neck. I make note of this, so I can ask him about it later, intrigue brimming, when there's a tap on my shoulder.
“Hey, you're the veteran, right? McKenzie?”
I turn to see a pretty boy type standing behind me, flashing his envy-inducing smile and flipping his Beiber hair out of his eyes. He's wearing a black polo with the collar popped, letters neatly printed in red over his right pec, and an offensive pair of red shorts I wouldn't be caught dead in, but the guy somehow pulls it off.
I shake his hand and say, “Yeah, but just call me Bishop.”
“Right on. I'm Brady. I was the one you were emailing with.” He leans a toned arm against the bar top and motions his head toward the cooler. “Sorry about the selection. The university has a strict ‘no alcohol’ policy during Rush Week.”
“Ohhhh, I was wondering about that. It said rush party on your website, I'm thinking ‘frat’... ‘party’... shit's gotta be fun.”
He smirks, shaking his head as if he can understand the confusion. “Not much fun to be had during Rush Week. That comes after you get a bid.” He stops himself, putting a hand up. “If you get a bid, I mean. Not that I think you'll have any problems with that. But we'll have to vote on it tomorrow.” He motions to the three guys behind me and continues, “Have you met these guys yet? They’re rushing too.”
“No, not properly.”
“Let me see if I can remember this correctly,” Brady says, pointing to the ginger first. “This is Charlie. Right?”
The ginger nods and shakes my hand. “Yeah, but everybody calls me Mac.”
“Good to meet you, Mac.”
Brady points to the one in the middle; a tall, gangly fucker with long black hair and a brooding expression on his face. He doesn’t look as if he even wants to be in his own skin, let alone a fraternity house.
“Sorry, bro. What was your name again?” Brady asks.
The tall man tries to hide his annoyance, but to no avail. “Jamie,” he mutters, his voice barely loud enough to overcome the music.
I shake his hand and notice right away he's got a feeble grip, his hand soft and underworked.
“Nice to meet you, Jamie.”
Finally, Brady points to the young guy with the scar on his face and says, “This is Carter. He's a legacy, so he'll be getting a bid, no matter what.”
“Carter. How’s it going?”
He shrugs, and says, “Can’t complain.”
“You guys get to know each other a little while we wait on the others, and then we'll get this shit going,” Brady says, before turning and making his way to the door where Trevor waits.
Carter motions to my prosthetic eye, a slight smile and look of relief on his face. “Can't help but notice I'm not the only one with the face stamp.”
“Yeah, that's always a sight for sore eyes.” I chuckle, motioning to my prosthetic. “Or should I say, sore eye.”
“No shit, that’s a fake?” Mac asks, leaning in toward me to get a better look.
“A prosthetic, yeah.”
“Can barely tell,” Mac says, straightening as he shakes his head in disbelief. “And I’m glad to see I’m not the only ginger here.”
He laughs.
“Yeah, I’m pretty lucky. They make some realistic prosthetics these days. And, uh, no, I’m no ginger.” I motion to my head and flash a coy smile. “It’s brown.”
Mac laughs. “Whatever you gotta tell yourself, dude.”
“That happen in the war?” Carter asks. “If you don't mind…”
“No worries. I'm used to talking about it. It happened over in Baghdad. RPG attack. Shrapnel went through my cheek and into my eye socket,” I say, pointing to my scar.
“Fuck,” Carter mutters, shaking his head. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“What's an RPG?” Mac interjects.
“Don’t you play Call of Duty?” Jamie asks, a scrutinizing look on his face. “It stands for rocket-propelled grenade.”
Mac shrugs. “I got better things to do,” he says.
“Yeah, rocket-propelled grenade. Only the real kind.” I laugh, making an explosion gesture with my hands.
“Crazy shit,” Carter says, his eyes wide.
“You ever kill anyone?” Jamie stares at me intently, his words left lingering in the air.
There’s always someone who has to ask that stupid fucking question.
“A few, but I don't really like talking about it.”
“My bad,” Jamie says, though with no sincerity to his tone.
“No worries. It was my job. I’m not bothered by it. I just don’t like talking about it… out of respect for the dead.” I shift my focus to Carter, hoping to change the subject, and I motion to the scars etched on his cheek and neck. “What about you? How’d you get those bad boys?”
Carter’s finger trails the length of the scar slowly; it’s thick and a few shades off from his
light complexion.
“Car wreck for me. Nothing too exciting.”
“Shit must've been bad,” I say, my eyes trailing the scars, appreciating the commonality.
“Yeah, it was. Really bad. I was young, though. Don't remember much of it.”
I can tell by the way he says it, and the touch of sadness taking over his features, that he remembers more than he'd like to… and more than he's probably admitted to most people.
Suddenly, the music cuts off and it draws our attention. Brady positions a stool in front of the TV as Trevor motions toward us. Another guy I have yet to meet sets up a video camera on a tripod, just before the stool, and the remaining brothers take up the couches behind the camera.
“Alright, guys,” Trevor says. “We're gonna go ahead and start interviews now, and hopefully the other guys will show up soon. We'll go alphabetical, so Bishop, you're first.”
I give a quick two-finger salute to the other rushes as they head toward the stairs before I make my way to the stool. Taking a seat, I let out a deep breath as I feel a wave of heat trail down my back when I realize all eyes are on me.
Trevor chuckles, placing a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t sweat it, man. Super easy stuff. This is just a way for us to get to know more about you.” He gives me a few pats before swinging his hand over to the camera and turning it on. He takes a seat and pulls a piece of paper from his pocket. Unfolding it, Trevor clears his throat and looks up at me.
“So, man, these will be standard questions. Just a way for us to get to know you. Cool?”
I nod, and Trevor directs his attention to the sheet of paper.
“Okay, we are interviewing rush candidate, McKenzie Bishop. Goes by Bishop. So, Bishop, where are you from?”
“I was born and raised in LaBelle, FL, but I’ve been all over since eighteen, when I joined the Army.”
“What did you do in the Army, and how long were you in for?”
“I was Army infantry and served six years total.”
“Okay, and what are you majoring in?”
I chuckle, shrugging. “Shit, I got no fucking clue. Just Gen Ed for right now. I’ll figure things out as I go.”
Trevor laughs. “No worries, man. We’ve got a lot of undecideds in the fraternity. So, why BSU?” He puts his hand up and motions around the room. “Why the beautiful town of Crescent Falls, Pennsylvania,” he adds in a sarcastic tone.
“I don’t really get along with many people back home. Didn’t wanna go back there. I did my rehab in DC, so I wanted to be reasonably close, if I ever need to get more work done. BSU was one of the first schools to accept me. I liked the area. It really is beautiful, though I’m sure if you’ve lived here a while, it could get old. But, I don’t know, it’s my kinda shit. So, here I am. That’s about it. It was kinda done on a whim.”
“I’m from New York originally, Long Island, so I know what you mean. It’s a whole different world here, but one of the best decisions I’ve ever made,” Trevor says, before his eyes trail back to the paper. He hesitates, before looking back toward me and clearing his throat. “Now, you said rehab? What do you mean by that?”
I point to my eye. “I lost my eye and broke a few bones in my cheek on my last deployment. I went through a couple years of therapy and surgeries to get everything unfucked.”
“Shit. I saw the scars. Figured something like that happened, but couldn’t tell the eye was fake.”
“My uncle has a fake eye,” a rotund, young guy says from the couch to the right of me. I glance at him, unsure of what to say.
Congrats?
Trevor shoots the kid a glare before looking back toward me.
“That’s Chunk. He’s a first-year brother, and knows better than to just speak out of turn during interviews. Don’t ya, Chunk?” Trevor flashes me a wicked smile.
“You guys know I hate that name,” Chunk responds, crossing his arms defiantly.
“Blame your Big Bro, buddy. He’s the one who picked it for you.”
“Well, I should’ve been able to pick my own big brother and not ended up with a dickhead.”
Trevor looks back at me, ignoring Chunk, whose brows pinch together, and he mutters something inaudible under his breath. Trevor continues, “Well, we all really appreciate your service and sacrifice, man. Like I said earlier, we’ve got a lot of vets and ROTC guys in the fraternity, and we respect all you guys for what you’ve done.”
“I appreciate it,” I say, before tilting my head and passing a mischievous smirk. “The ROTC guys still gotta earn that appreciation, though. They haven’t done shit yet.”
Trevor laughs, nodding, but I notice one of the guys behind him fidgets uncomfortably on the couch, a look of disapproval on his face.
Must be ROTC. Fucker.
“Yeah, true. I didn’t think of that,” Trevor says before eyeing the paper again. “So, what do you think or know about the pledging process? You’re obviously a bit older. Do you think the process will get to you?”
“Honestly, I don’t know shit about fraternities, other than what I’ve seen in the movies. If it’s anything like that, I have no clue what to think of it, or if I’ll even be able to go through with all this. I’m big on respect. And to be disrespected in some of the ways I’ve seen in movies, I just won’t be able to deal with that. I’m willing to earn my way—cut my teeth, so to speak—and do the things the other pledges are made to do, but that can be done without being disrespectful, I think.”
Trevor nods as if he anticipated such an answer. “It’s nothing like the movies. I can promise you that, man. Like anything else, Hollywood overexaggerates shit. Pledges will have to put in the time though, do some shit they might not normally do, earn their stripes, but—you aren’t going to be hazed, or fucked with, or anything like that. Nothing even close to what I’m sure you’ve experienced already in basic training. Besides, we’re under probation right now, after some pledges complained last semester about hazing. All eyes are on us, so in that way, you’ve lucked out.”
“Couldn’t agree more about earning your stripes. It’s necessary in an organization like this, and I’m willing to put in the effort. Just don’t want to be disrespected in the process.”
“Shit, well, Bishop.” Trevor looks around to the others seated behind him with an approving nod before his eyes return to mine. “I don’t really need to ask anything else. You’re pretty much a shoo-in for pledging. We all really appreciate you coming by our house. I think you’d be a great fit. Are you visiting any other fraternities? Or have you already?”
“No, not yet. If you say I’m a shoo-in, though, I don’t really wanna fuck with visiting anywhere else. I like that y’all are like Animal House around here. The others looked a bit too stuffy for my tastes.”
Trevor laughs. “Animal House is spot-on. We DIKs don’t fuck around. We do it right, and once you get your bid, you’ll see. Epic parties, hot fucking girls, and more alcohol than you’ll know what to do with.”
I nod approvingly. “I can get down with that.”
“Plus, fuck the other fraternities, man. They’re a bunch of bitches. You definitely chose the right one.”
“Right on. I’m ready to do my part.”
Trevor shuts off the camera and stands. “Alright, man. Well, if you could send Jamie in next, that’d be great. Stick around for a bit, though. We’ll meet with you all again after interviews.”
“Sounds good,” I say, standing, too, and shaking Trevor’s hand before I make my way to the stairs.
“Hey, Bishop,” Trevor calls out and I stop in my tracks, looking back toward him. Trevor’s got a shit-eating grin on his face. “What do you think about Jamie?”
I scrunch my lips and creases form in my brow as I pretend to think it over. After a brief moment, I shrug, swiping a pointer across my throat. Grinning, I turn and head for the stairs.
I light a cigarette and takes a puff, leaning my back against the side of the house. Mac and Carter stand around me, as does a new guy who showed up while I was interviewing. His name is Jeremy, and he’s got jet-black hair beneath a dirty trucker hat, and he’s built like he’s played sports his whole life; chiseled and lean. His eyes are piercing, stoic, but he’s got a wide grin that seems ever-present.
“What are the rings for?” Carter asks, motioning toward the thick carbon fiber ring on my thumb, and the skull rings on my middle finger and pointer.
I look down at them and shrug. “You ever been in a fight with rings on your fingers?”
Carter passes me a skeptical look.
“No, I haven’t,” he responds. “Is that really why you wear them?”
“It’s not why I started, but after getting this one for Christmas from an ex in high school”—I lift my hand and point to the skull ring on my middle finger—“and then beating the shit out of the dude I caught her with a few months later, I was stuck with them. Fucked that dude’s world up. Fucked up a few more since then, too.”
“No shit,” Carter says, getting a better look at the ring before I lower my hand. “Looks like it would do some damage. You been in a lot of fights?”
“I’ve had my fair share over the years. You?”
“Not too many fist fights, but I wrestled for most of my life.”
“You were a wrestler?” Jeremy asks.
Carter nods.
“I wrestled too. Down home in Allenton.”
“Where’s that?”
“About two hours southeast of here. Middle of goddamn nowhere, s’where it is,” Jeremy responds, chuckling as he pulls a tin of dip from his back pocket and opens it, rifling a wad out and stuffing it into his bottom lip.
“Oh, you’re real fucking country, huh?” Mac asks with a slanted smile.
“As country as they come, brother.” Jeremy laughs, stowing the tin back in his pocket and crossing his arms. “Cow tippin’, trail muddin’, squirrel huntin’ redneck. You name it, I probably done it.”
“Nice.” Mac nods with approval. “So how is it around here anyway? I’m from Boston, so this is like fucking Mars to me. It looks pretty small. Anything fun to do around here?”
Jeremy laughs. “Drink, drink, and drink some more. There’s about three bars downtown, but the parties are where it’s at here in Crescent Falls. That’s why I’m even here. No parties without the letters across your chest, and I was bored outta my skull last year. Ain’t doin’ that shit again.”
“Sophomore?” I ask.
Jeremy nods and asks, “What about y’all?”
“Freshman,” Carter and Mac respond in unison.
“With military college credits, I’m a sophomore too,” I say.
“Did y’all attend any other rush events this week? Any other frats?” Jeremy asks.
I shake my head. “Not me.”
“I came by here yesterday, and visited Sigma Chi the day before,” Mac responds. “But they were some fucking assholes. Not my type. Met some cool guys here yesterday, and I heard this was the most welcoming fraternity. Plus, I heard their weed game is strong.” His eyebrows dance. “So, here I am.”
“I’m legacy, so I haven’t bothered with any other fraternities. My dad would fucking kill me,” Carter says with a shrug. “What about you, Jeremy?”
“I visited that Jewish frat, Sammy, on accident last night,” Jeremy replies, laughing.
“Jewish frat?” I ask, quirking an eyebrow as I toss my cigarette to the ground and stomp on it.
“Yeah, Sigma Alpha Mu. They were strictly Jewish when they first started, but have been open to all religions for a while now. Fuck if I knew any of that before I started visiting these places. And you’d be hard-pressed to find anyone not Jewish in there. They didn’t take too kindly to my country ass. Bunch of New York, New Jersey fucks in their ranks. I never did get along with them types. I stopped by DIK for the first time on Monday, and met some cool guys. Figured I’d give ’em a chance.” Jeremy glances toward me. “You meet Sarge yet, by the way? Y’all would hit it off.”
“So I’ve heard. Do you know what he did in the military?”
“Not really, but I’ve heard some fucked up stories about him from some of the other guys. He was a sniper or somethin’. Ranger, too. All I know for certain is that guy’s a fuckin’ trip. He cracked my shit up. Makes his own moonshine, and talks about militias and government conspiracies and shit. Always got a half-burnt cigar in his teeth.”
“Interesting,” I say, thoughts of all the pretend veterans I’ve met over the years passing through my thoughts.
“Yeah, he’s a fuckin’ riot,” Jeremy says, as the opening door pulls our attention.
Jamie comes outside and motions to Mac.
“You’re next,” he says, and Mac scurries inside, the door closing behind him.
“How was it?” I ask, and Jamie just shrugs.
“You were in there. You should know,” he says, annoyance thick in his tone.
“Well, fuck me. You’re a fiery little spit fuck, aren’t you?” I say, scoffing as I light another cigarette. I chain-smoke when I’m bored or anxious; of which, I’m currently both.
Jamie shoots me a brief glance, but my unwavering return stare causes him to back down.
“Sorry,” he mutters. “I just hate shit like that. Felt like I was being interrogated or something. Did they ask you how many women you’ve slept with?”
“Nah.”
“If you’ve ever done any drugs?”
I shake my head.
“If you’ve ever been arrested?”
“No, but I think I got some leniency, coming from the Army. They seemed to like that.”
“That’s some bullshit. I mean, not you being in the Army. Just how invasive they were with me.”
“Comes with the territory,” Carter says, shrugging. “They want to know they’re bringing in somebody who can contribute to the frat. Someone who will be a good brother. My dad told me all about this shit. It’s not gonna be a fun couple months. I mean, we’ll have access to a lot of killer parties, alcohol, shit like that—but a lot of bullshit mixed in too.”
“What kind of bullshit?” I ask, and then I grim adding, “and I’ve had access to alcohol for a good four years now. Six if you count my late teens spent at Fort Bragg.”
Carter chuckles, shaking his head. “Eh, I’m not really supposed to talk about it. The brothers asked me to keep everything I know secret, but it’s nothing too crazy. Just bonding type shit.”
“Okay, okay. I guess I’ll play along.”
“Trust me. It won’t be too bad. And it’ll be well worth it in the end. My dad is still friends with most of his fraternity brothers.”
“I’ll just have to take your word for it, I guess.”
After an hour or so, and half a pack of cigarettes, I breathe a sigh of relief as Carter comes through the door and waves the rest of us inside. Trevor motions for us to join him and the others by the seating area. We oblige and Trevor clears his throat, that broad politician’s smile taking up his face again. I can see him so clearly in my mind, ten years from now, in a tailored suit and an American flag pin on his lapel; a gorgeous wife on his arm and adoring constituents calling out their praises. This man was made for politics.
“Alright, guys. We all want to thank you for taking the time to come out here and go through this dog and pony show. I know the interviews aren't too fun, but it’s necessary. All the guys who couldn’t be here today need the chance to get to know you before we vote. Once we have our meeting tomorrow and take a vote, we’ll be giving out bids. Prepare for Friday evening. We’ll be by to pick you up, if you’ve received a bid. Other than that, you guys have a good night, and thanks again for coming by.”