THEY SET ASIDE THREE DAYS for Rush Week and I manage to burn through the first two with anxiety and indecision. As the last day winds down, and five o’clock comes around, I find the self-doubt creeping back in, telling me I don’t need these guys. Telling me I’ll make friends some other way, but I know that’s a lie. 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, are 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 and chest, leading to a medically induced coma, and killing Sanchez and Callahan, changing life as I knew it in a way I never thought possible. The weight of losing them still sits heavy on my soul.
I didn’t let the prosthetic eye keep me down, though, nor the scars etched across my cheek and the one running wide and straight from my collarbone on the right side to the middle of my pec. Not the persistent, crippling nightmares, nor the things I could’ve done differently. Not the survivor’s guilt and the dead men whose places I’m desperate 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, observing the houses that line it. Greek symbols sit above each house’s doorway.
My palms sweat as I climb 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, which was the only fraternity to email me back. They said they have other veterans in their ranks, 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 to, but if I don’t need to, I won’t.
The Delta Iota Kappa house is situated at the top of the road, which is a steep hill leading down to Main Street. As I cross, I focus my nervous brain on the keg they must have there—it’s a frat party, after all—and I figure, after a few beers, the nerves should be well numbed.
How stupid of me to not have killed a few beforehand to begin with.
The three-story house is expansive like the others, but unlike the others, it’s 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 broad, toothy smile. He’s tall and muscular, with a mop of disheveled blond hair on his head—messed up in a purposeful way—and piercing blue 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 catalog.
Putting out a hand, he asks, “How’s it going, man? Are 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 last night.”
“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. The name’s 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, 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.”
“Alright. Sounds good. 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 descend a small set of dusty stairs down into the basement. There are people scattered throughout the sizeable room, some on a sectional around a big screen TV at the far-right end of the room, others standing near the bar at the opposite end. None of them seem to notice my approach. The music blaring from the speakers set into the ceiling at each corner of the room makes a welcome distraction. Heading toward the bar, I spot three particularly young guys leaning with their backs against the filthy wood top, 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 not one of them could grow a decent beard.
I nod toward them as I make my approach, but my focus quickly shifts to the cooler atop the bar. A neon Bud Light sign on the wall casts a red glow over 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 without SPF 1000. He’s got messy red hair, a wild look in his eye, and he’s the only one even attempting a beard, which is patchy at best. His bohemian-ish threads and Bob Marley t-shirt let me know he’s probably my guy to score some herbage.
“There’s only soda in here. No beer?” I ask.
The ginger shrugs, looking over to the others, who pass shrugs of their own.
“I was surprised myself,” the one furthest down the bar says. He’s fit, veins with dark hair and an innocence to his features that is offset only by a thick scar running along his cheek, and a thicker one trailing down his neck, which shocks me a little, and intrigues me. I make note of this, so I can ask him about it later, when there’s a tap on my shoulder.
“Hey, you’re the veteran, right? McKenzie?” a voice asks from behind me.
I turn to see a pretty boy type leaning against the bar behind me, flashing his envy-inducing smile and flipping a mop of pin straight dirty blonde hair out of his eyes. He’s wearing a black polo with the collar popped, which I force my eyes not to roll at, fraternity letters neatly printed in red over his right pec, and an offensive pair of red shorts I wouldn’t be caught dead in, but, I must admit, the guy somehow pulls them off.
I shake his hand and say, “Yeah, but call me Bishop.”
“Right on. I’m Brady. I was the one you were emailing yesterday.” He runs his fingers through his hair, motioning his head toward the cooler. “Sorry about the selection. The university has a strict ‘no alcohol’ policy during Rush Week.”
“I was wonderin’ about that. It said ‘rush party’ on your website. I’m thinkin’ 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, that is. Not that I think you’ll have any problem 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. “Charlie, right?”
The ginger nods and shakes my hand. “Yeah, but everybody calls me Mac.”
“Nice 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 at 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 has 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 goin’?”
He shrugs and replies, “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, 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 to get a better look.
“A prosthetic, yeah.”
“Can barely tell,” Mac says, straightening as he shakes his head in disbelief.
“Yeah, I’m pretty lucky.”
“That happen in the war?” Carter asks. “If you don’t min—”
“No worries. I’m used to talkin’ about it,” I say, cutting him off. “It happened over in Baghdad. RPG attack. Shrapnel went through my cheek and into my eye socket. Caught some in my chest as well. Punctured a lung.” I point to the scar on my cheek.
“Fuck,” Carter mutters, shaking his head. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“It is what it is. Occupational hazard.” I shrug.
“What’s an RPG?” Mac interjects.
“Don’t you play Call of Duty?” Jamie asks, a scrutinizing tone to his voice. “It stands for rocket-propelled grenade.”
Mac shrugs. “I got better things to do than shoot fake people with a bunch of twelve-year-olds,” 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 lingering in the air.
There’s always some asshat who has to ask that stupid fuckin’ question.
“A few, but I don’t really like talkin’ about it.”
“My bad,” Jamie says, though with no sincerity in his voice.
“No worries. It was my job. I’m not bothered by it. I just don’t like talkin’ about it … out of respect for the dead.” I shift my focus to Carter, hoping to change the subject. 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 on his cheek 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 tracing the scars, appreciating the commonality between us.
“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 shrouding his features, that he remembers more than he’d like to … and more than he’s probably willing to admit to himself. How easily I can remember that age—eighteen, nineteen years old with the whole world at your feet, but also sitting squarely on your shoulders. When you’ve been through a trauma, it increases tenfold. The pressure to be ‘okay’ or ‘normal’ becomes unbearable.
Suddenly, the music cuts off and it draws our attention toward the sectional in front of the big screen TV. Brady positions a stool in front of the TV as Trevor motions us over. Another guy I have yet to meet sets up a video camera on a tripod in front of the stool, and the remaining brothers take up the couches behind the camera.
“Alright, guys,” Trevor says as we approach. “We’re going to go ahead and start interviews now, and hopefully the other guys will show up soon. We’ll go alphabetical, so Bishop.” His eyes fall on me. “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 heavy 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 you better.” He gives me a few pats for good measure 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, he clears his throat and looks back up at me.
“So, Bishop, these’ll just be standard questions. Cool?”
“Fire away.” I nod, and Trevor directs his attention to the sheet of paper again.
“Okay, we are interviewing rush candidate, McKenzie Bishop. Goes by Bishop. So, Bishop, where are you from?”
“I was born and raised in LaBelle, Florida, 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 Infantry and served a little over six years.”
“Okay, and what are you majoring in?”
I chuckle, shrugging. “No fuckin’ clue. Just gen. ed. courses for right now and, I guess, I’ll figure things out as I go.”
Trevor laughs, waving me off. “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. “There are certainly better options out there.”
“I don’t really get along with many people back in Florida. Didn’t really wanna wind up back there. I did my rehab in D.C., 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 and I liked the area. It really is beautiful. 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.”
“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, honestly,” Trevor says, clearing his throat. “Now, you said rehab? What do you mean by that?” His eyes flit to my prosthetic for the briefest of moments.
“I lost my eye and broke a few bones in my cheek on my last deployment. Caught some shrapnel in my chest too. 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 man 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 then looks back at 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 him a wicked smile.
“You guys know I hate that name,” Chunk responds, crossing his sausage 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 instead of ending up with the dickhead I got.”
Trevor looks back at me, ignoring Chunk, whose brows pinch together as 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, tilting my head and giving him a mischievous smirk. “The ROTC guys still gotta earn that appreciation, though. They haven’t done a damn thing yet.”
Trevor laughs, nodding with understanding, 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. “So, what do you think or what do you already 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, or if I’ll be able to go through with it. I’m big on respect. And to be disrespected in some of the ways I’ve seen in movies, I know I won’t be able to deal. 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 bein’ disrespected, 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.”
I chuckle. “Trust me, I get it. I’ve seen that pile of shit they call a war movie, The Hurt Locker.”
Trevor laughs, nodding again. “Exactly. So, it’s not anything crazy out there. Pledges will have to put in the time, do some shit they might not normally do, you know, 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 about hazing last semester. We’re under a microscope now. All eyes are on us, so in that way you’ve lucked out.”
“Couldn’t agree more about earning your stripes. It’s necessary for an organization like this, and I’m willin’ to put in the effort. Just don’t wanna be disrespected in the process.”
“Absolutely not.” Trevor smiles. “Shit, well, Bishop.” He looks around to the others seated behind him with an approving nod as he folds the paper back up, his eyes returning to mine. “I don’t think I 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 today? Or have you already?”
“No, not yet. But if you say I’m a shoo-in, I don’t really wanna fuck with visiting anywhere else. I like that y’all are the Animal House around here. The others looked 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.” The others chuckle from behind him. “You definitely chose the right place.”
“Right on. Well, 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 guys again after interviews.”
“Sounds good,” I say, standing 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. He has a shit-eating grin on his face. “What are your thoughts on Jamie anyway?”
I scratch at my chin with my pointer finger while creases form in my brow as I pretend to think it over. After a brief moment, I shrug, swiping my finger across my throat. “Fuckin’ weirdo.”
A chorus of laughter follows me up the stairs and out the door.
I light a cigarette and take 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, turned backwards. His gauged ears and eyebrow piercing are a unique juxtaposition to his country vibe and backwoods twang. He’s built like he’s played sports his whole life, chiseled and lean. His eyes are piercing and stoic, but he’s got a wide grin that seems ever-present, a warm spirit that emanates from him.
“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. I take it you have? 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 beatin’ the shit out of the dude I caught her fucking a few months later, I was stuck with ’em. 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.”
I nod.
“You been in a lot of fights?” he asks.
“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 says.
Carter nods.
“I wrestled too. Down home in Allentown.”
“Where’s that?”
“About two hours southeast of here. Middle of goddamn nowhere, that’s what it is,” Jeremy responds, chuckling as he pulls a tin of dip from his back pocket and opens it, digging a wad out and stuffing it into his bottom lip.
“Oh, you’re real fucking country, huh?” Mac asks with a crooked smile.
“As country as they come, brother.” Jeremy laughs, stowing the tin back in his pocket and crossing his arms as he leans against the house beside me. “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. Anything fun to do around here?”
Jeremy laughs. “Drink, drink, and drink some more. Smoke the green if that’s your thing. Fuck like a rabbit in heat if that’s your thing, too. There’s about three bars downtown, but the parties are where it’s at here in Crescent Falls. That’s what I’m doin’ here. Ain’t gettin’ into no parties without them letters across your chest, boys, 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 Beta Chi the day before,” Mac responds. “But they were some fucking assholes. Not my type at all. I swear, if I hadn’t known, I would’ve thought I was walking into a fucking squash convention. Looked like the Brooks Brothers vomited all over them. But I met some cool guys here yesterday, and I heard this was the most welcoming fraternity, so this is where I’m sticking if I get a bid. Plus, I heard their weed game is strong.” His eyebrows dance. “So hopefully my ginger ass gets in.”
“I’m legacy, so I haven’t bothered with any other fraternities. My dad would probably call for my head,” Carter says with a shrug. “What about you, Jeremy?”
“Only DIK. I stopped by here for the first time on Monday and met some cool dudes. Figured I’d give ’em a chance.” Jeremy motions toward me. “You meet Sarge yet, by the way? Y’all would hit it off. Funny ass motherfucker.”
“So I’ve heard. Do you know what he did in the military?”
“Not really, but I 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 bitin’ down on a half-burnt cigar.”
“Interesting,” I say, thoughts of all the pretend veterans I’ve met over the years passing
through my brain.
“Yeah, he’s a fuckin’ trip,” Jeremy says as the opening door grabs our attention.
Jamie comes outside and motions toward Mac. “You’re next,” he says, and Mac scurries inside, the door closing behind him.
“How was it?” I ask.
Jamie shrugs, letting out a light scoff. “You should know. You were in there, too,” he responds, annoyance thick in his tone.
“Well, fuck me. You’re a fiery little spit fuck, ain’t you?” I say, grinning as I light another cigarette. I chain smoke when I’m bored or anxious, of which I’m currently both.
“Sorry,” he mutters. “I just hate shit like that. Felt like I was being interrogated or something.”
“To be honest, you don’t seem like the fraternity type to me,” I say.
He shrugs. “I’m trying to be more social this year. My freshman year fucking sucked. But this …” His eyes trail to the closed basement door. “I don’t know.” He glances at me. “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 comin’ out of the Army. They seemed to like that.”
“That’s some bullshit. I mean, not you serving. 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 fraternity. Someone who will be a good brother. My dad told me all about this shit. It’s not going to be a fun couple of months. I mean, we’ll have access to a lot of killer parties, alcohol, stuff like that, but a lot of bullshit gets mixed in with it.”
“What kind of bullshit?” I ask, and then I grin, adding, “And I’ve had access to alcohol for a good five years now. Seven if you count my late teens spent at Fort Bragg.”
Carter chuckles, shaking his head. “Eh, I’m not really supposed to talk about the process. The brothers asked me to keep everything I know secret, but it’s nothing too crazy. Just bonding type shit. Some annoying shit they call ‘pledge challenges’ too.”
“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. Once we enter, Trevor motions for us to join him and the others by the seating area. We oblige, and he clears his throat, that broad politician’s smile taking up his features 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, flashing that synthetic smile with evil intent stirring inside. 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 BS,” Trevor says. “I know the interviews aren’t too fun, but they’re necessary. All the brothers who couldn’t be here today need the chance to get to know you as well before we vote. Once we have our meeting tomorrow and take a vote, we’ll be handing out bids. Prepare for Friday evening. We’ll be by your dorm or apartment 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.”