Bishop (A Frat Chronicles Novel)

by B. T. Urruela

  Now it just feels like I’m cleaning the uncleanable for no real purpose. What is cleaned one day is dirty the next, time and time again, and I don’t know how it happens so frequently other than it being purposeful. And the study sessions; well, it’s hard enough for me to focus on all the boring gen. ed. courses that I hate more and more with every passing second … tick tock … of every passing minute … tick tock … of every passing day I spend in those classrooms, listening to an unsatisfied over-the-hill professor yammering on about politics more than he does college Algebra. And then I worry that I won’t know what the hell I’m doing by test time. And then I worry about worrying so much about Algebra in the first place when I’ll never fucking use this shit again.

  Fuck Algebra.

  It’s not that I don’t appreciate the time I’ve spent with these guys I’m linked up with. Much to my surprise, they’re good kids, with good heads on their shoulders. Even at their young age, they’re deeper than most. The university is full of the rich and entitled. They mock the professors in the backs of classrooms, forgetting, or simply not caring that their parents are forking over ten thousand a year for them to learn in those very classrooms. They rev up their engines as they cruise around the quad, over and over again, as if with each lap their dicks grow longer. They mouth off at the bars and clubs downtown, undeterred by superior size or experience.

  In my pledge brothers, I haven’t seen a hint of that unrelenting narcissism and deluded ego that seems to run abound here in Crescent Falls. Even Mac, with his manic personality and tendency to whine, has grown on me. I care about these guys and they care about me. And it’s about the only thing keeping me linked up and standing on my tired feet in this musty fraternity basement.

  “Does anyone know what the hell’s going on tonight?” Mac asks, sighing heavily and looking down the line toward me. “How long do we have to just stand here?”

  I shrug. “Until they come and get us.”

  “For Chrissake, Mac. We’re all standin’ here, just the same as you. We know as much as you do,” Jeremy adds.

  “I just don’t get why they’d have us come this early if they weren’t ready for us. And if they’re not ready for us, why the fuck do we have to stay linked up like this? It’s been what, an hour and a half?”

  “It’s a part of the process,” Carter says.

  “But why?”

  “Mac, your whinin ain’t gonna change a goddamn thing,” Jeremy scolds, shaking his head.

  “Well, fuck me, Jeremy. I’m just curious. You may not mind standing around twiddling your thumbs like a fucking idiot, but I do.”

  I finally shift my eyes to Mac, and in a patient tone, I say, “Mac, none of us want to be standin’ here playing with our dicks right now. We’re not supposed to like this shit. We’re supposed to conform to it.”

  Mac lets out an annoyed groan, dropping his head. “I wish we could just have some alcohol or something, at the very least,” he says.

  Carter laughs, shaking his head slowly. “Careful what you wish for, buddy,” he says with a chuckle.

  Mac darts his eyes to Carter and asks, “What do you know?”

  Carter shrugs. “I know you just need to relax, expect the unexpected, and anticipate these next two months sucking ass for the most part.”

  “Is there really a point to all this? And why do we always have to do this shit on Thursdays? They do know we’ve got classes tomorrow, right?” Mac groans.

  I glance over at Mac, a smirk stretching across my face. “The point, dear Mac, is to separate the weak from the strong. Which are you, little buddy?” I lift my eyebrows and shrug. “Think about it.”

  “Gentlemen …” Trevor’s voice interrupts us as he descends the basement stairs, drawing our attention. Brady and Zane are behind him, each of them carrying a bottle of whiskey. Upon closer look, I read ‘Old Crow’ on the label and let out a quiet groan.

  “Are you ready for your second pledge challenge, maggots?” Brady asks us, though he avoids eye contact with me.

  Did he see me talkin’ to Ember?

  “Fuck yeah,” the others respond loudly, in unison, but I don’t. I just stare straight forward, thinking about a cigarette, its sweet, settling smoke filling my lungs.

  Trevor puts up his hand, motioning for the other two officers to bring the bottles forward. “Tonight … is Old Crow Night,” he says with a grin. Zane and Brady hold the bottles out toward us.

  “What’s Old Crow?” Mac asks, examining the bottles with trepidation.

  Before Trevor can answer, I respond, “The worst shit you’ll ever drink in your entire fuckin’ life.”

  “Prrretty much!” Trevor laughs. “You guys have to kill both bottles between the four of you before midnight.” He motions toward us. “You guys can unlink and take them.”

  We free our arms, and I shake mine out to get the blood flowing. Mac takes one of the bottles and Jeremy takes the other.

  “This bottle’s plastic,” Mac says as if he’s never seen one like it before, his eyes wide.

  “That’s what you’re focused on right now?” Carter asks, chuckling.

  “I’m just saying … what kind of alcohol comes in a plastic bottle?”

  I laugh. “The worst fuckin’ kind.”

  “And you get to drink it!” Trevor says with a big game show host thumbs up, as the other two take a step back.

  “This ain’t gonna be fun.” I let out a heavy breath as I look to Trevor. “And probably not very safe.”

  “Nobody’s ever died from it,” Brady says, a smug look on his face.

  “Is that how we’re gaugin’ shit tonight? If we don’t die, we win?” I joke.

  “Just take your time,” Trevor says, rolling his eyes at Brady. “You’ve got seven hours to finish. That’s enough time to get drunk, puke, and rally, and then get drunk again.”

  “And then pass out and die,” Carter mutters.

  “We swear, if you die, we’ll take full responsibility …” Brady hesitates. “In letting your parents know you broke in here and stole our liquor, drank it all, and killed yourself.” He grins, and I realize it now, looking at his stupid face, how much I’d like to punch him.

  “You guys’ll be fine,” Trevor says. “Tim will be down here in a few minutes to watch you and make sure everyone stays alive since he isn’t going to the social with us. No cheating. And if you still have the capacity to walk after this, we’ll be down at the Rusty Trombone with Kappa Phi.” Trevor pats me on the back. “Have fun, gents. Feel free to pass out here tonight if you can’t get home safely.”

  As Trevor and Brady make their way back up the stairs, Zane stays behind, waiting for them to disappear out the door before he motions for me to join him.

  When I approach, he quietly says, “You be the judge when one of them needs to be cut off. We really aren’t trying to get anyone fucked up here. It’s just part of the game. Tim isn’t going to be watching you too closely, and everyone else will be at the social. Do enough to get drunk, and …” He gestures his hands as if he’s pouring something out. “Just find a way to make that shit disappear.”

  “I got you. Thanks, Zane.”

  “No problem,” he says, patting my back and following the others up the stairs.

  It’s the most I’ve heard him say since the bid ceremony.

  “Yo, Bishop, what’d he tell you?” Mac asks as he continues eyeing the unopened liter of gag-inducing whiskey in his hands.

  “Nothin’. Just wants to make sure you don’t die tonight, Mac.”

  Mac lowers the bottle, a confused look on his face. “Me, specifically?”

  “Yeah.”

  “He must like me.” I break out in laughter, and he looks at me in confusion. “What?”

  “It’s not that he likes you, he just knows what a liter of whiskey can do to your, uh, body type.”

  He puts his hands up. “What? Fit?”

  “No. Emaciated.”

  Carter laughs loudly, and Jeremy nearly spits u
p the mouthful of whiskey he’s just poured down his gullet, the first Old Crow drank tonight. As he swallows, his face tightens, his eyes closed and lips pinched together.

  “Arggghhh.” He sticks his tongue out, waving at it as spit runs from the tip of his mouth to the floor.

  “That bad?” Mac asks, worry taking up his features.

  Jeremy nods, his tongue still out, his eyes now open and desperate. “Any chasers? Somethin’? Anythin’?” he forces out breathlessly.

  “There has to be something in the fridge,” Carter responds, heading that way to inspect.

  “Oh my fuckin’ word, that was the worst fuckin’ shit I’ve ever tasted, and I’ve licked a biker’s shitter after a long ass ride,” Jeremy says, scraping his tongue with his fingers.

  “What did you just say?” I ask, smiling.

  “That was fuckin’ disgusting, man. All I’m sayin’. How we gonna drink all that shit?” Jeremy panics, ignoring my question.

  “Without chasers, I guess. There’s nothing in the fridge or behind the bar,” Carter replies, making his way back over to us.

  “You’re kiddin’ me.” Jeremy groans.

  Carter shakes his head solemnly.

  “Sorry guys. You won’t find anything to drink in there.” Tim’s deep voice pulls our attention to the set of stairs in the far corner that lead to the brothers’ rooms, a cooler in his hand, and he’s sporting a pink bathrobe.

  “Why not?” Mac asks.

  Tim walks past us, plopping down on the couch, and sets the cooler next to him. He turns on the TV, pulling a lever on the side of the couch. His combat-booted feet pop up with the leg rest, and I realize he’s got nothing on below the belt except his boxers and the boots. I turn and stifle a laugh.

  “Comfortable?” I ask as I face him again.

  He smiles, his eyebrows dancing as he strokes his long scraggly beard with one hand and grabs a Coors from the cooler with his other. “My legs get hot,” he reasons, taking a swig before he starts channel surfing.

  “What about the boots?” Mac asks.

  Tim lifts one to inspect it. “My feet get cold,” he says, settling on a channel and tossing the remote beside him as he lowers his boot back to the footrest. He looks over at us and eyes the bottles in Jeremy and Mac’s hands. “No chasers with your Old Crow, boys. You gotta do it straight on OC night.”

  I motion for Jeremy to give me the bottle and he happily hands it over.

  “Why Old Crow?” I ask, taking a swig and feeling the harsh bite as it trails down my throat. I fight a grimace from taking up my face for no other reason than to show Jeremy up. On the inside, my mouth, throat, and stomach are on fucking fire.

  “Tradition,” Carter responds with a grin.

  I laugh, taking another terrible swig and handing it off to Jeremy, who quickly passes it over to Carter.

  “I hate tradition,” I mutter, pulling the pack of cigarettes from my pocket. “I’m cool with not chasin’ that dog piss with anything, but I gotta at least smoke,” I say to Tim as I motion toward the side door.

  Tim looks over there and then back at me. “Sure. No cheating though. If I hear the sound of splashing, I’m going to crack some skulls.”

  “I’m goin’, too,” Jeremy says, hacking a wad into the bar sink.

  “Me three,” Mac adds.

  Tim looks over from the TV, annoyed. “I don’t give a good goddamn who goes to smoke, just no cheating.”

  “Gotcha,” I say, slipping a cigarette between my lips as I snatch the bottle from Mac’s hands.

  Killing the last of the second bottle, half of which ended up in the grass adjacent to the parking lot, I toss it onto the couch and raise my hands in the air victoriously, long since drunk as fuck.

  “Done, bitches!” I yell, lowering my arms and wobbling from the sudden movement. “Who’s goin’ downtown with me?” I continue, looking back toward Jeremy seated on the bar top, and then trailing my eyes to Carter and Mac on the couch. Carter is face down on the cushion beside Tim, hands to his stomach and groaning. He’s been in this position for a good thirty minutes. Mac is currently passed out on the other side of Tim with a fucking thumb in his mouth and an empty bottle of Old Crow cradled in his arm like a football.

  My focus trails back to Jeremy, as he swings his legs back and forth.

  “Are they even alive?” Jeremy asks, a slight slur to his words. He otherwise looks okay as he drinks from a beer he stole from Tim, who passed out an hour or so ago after putting down a twelve pack by himself.

  Jeremy abruptly lifts his arms and shakes them. “We fuckin’ did it, man!” he yells, hopping off the bar and staggering over toward Mac. He snatches the bottle from Mac’s arm and then grabs the one I threw on the couch and sets both bottles on the bar top. He stands back and admires them for a moment, before looking toward me and repeating, quieter this time, but with no less enthusiasm, “We fuckin’ did it, man.”

  “We should get medals,” I say, rubbing the new throb that’s started in my temples.

  “We should get medals!” Jeremy agrees excitedly. Shaking his head, he adds, “Damn, right, we should.” He hesitates for the briefest of moments before saying, “I’m fuckin’ shit-canned, man.”

  I nod, squeezing my eyelids shut. “You and me both, bud,” I mutter.

  “And you’re talkin’ about going downtown?” Jeremy asks skeptically, forcing me to open my eyes.

  “Girls, dude,” I reason.

  Jeremy looks like he’s debating this in his head. He mouths the word ‘girls,’ scratching a pointer against his temple.

  I lean in closer to him. “Girls, dude,” I repeat.

  He looks at me, his head nodding slowly as he seems to be making sense of what I’ve just said, and then he yells, “Girls, dude!”

  He heads straight for the stairs, but at the last second turns on his heel and points to the three of them on the couch.

  “Should we check and make sure they’re alive first?”

  I look back at them, Mac and Tim snoring, Carter groaning, and I smile.

  “I cut ’em off hours ago. They’re fine.” After a brief hesitation, I ask, “Hey Carter, you alive, man?”

  Carter groans.

  “You sure, buddy?”

  He groans again.

  “I need words, man.”

  He turns his head, half opens his eyes, and says, “I’m fine. Go.”

  “Mac, what about you?” I ask, but there’s no response. “Mac?!”

  He snorts and abruptly lifts his head, his eyes wide.

  “You good, Mac?” I ask.

  “Fucking sleeping, man,” he mumbles, dropping his head back to the couch cushion. “Sleep … fuck … waking me up… and shit.”

  I look back at Jeremy and shrug. “See?”

  “Alright, well”—he points to the stairs—“girls, dude!”

  Making our way out the door, we start down frat row toward Main Street, probably about as obnoxious as two guys can get, but in our present state, it bothers us little.

  A minute or two from the Rusty Trombone, where we intend on meeting the brothers for a post-hazing drink, I notice two guys walking in the opposite direction toward us—staggering is more like it—and they’re taking up the whole sidewalk. I wait for them to notice us coming, but they don’t. They’re in some polos and colorful shorts, a backward snapback barely sitting on their heads, trust fund Rolexes on their wrists and gold chains around their necks. Frat kids, no doubt. The kind I fucking hate.

  Jeremy jumps out of their way and into the street to avoid them, while I turn sideways and try to pass between them.

  One of them, a blond, while the other has dark brown hair peeking out from under his cap, glances back and says, “Watch out, bitch!”

  I turn and wait to determine if he really just said what I think he did.

  Jeremy freezes in his tracks and turns too, his mouth slack.

  “What did you just say?” I ask, putting a hand to my ear. “I don’t think I heard you c
orrectly.”

  The mouthy blond stops suddenly and glances back with his eyes remaining on mine this time, and repeats, as if I’m deaf and he’s sounding it out, “Watch. Out. Bitch.”

  I turn completely now as he and his friend continue walking away. I follow behind them for nearly a block before the blond bitch looks back again.

  “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he asks, passing me a sneer.

  “I’m about to teach you a lesson, boy. The first opportunity I get to beat your fuckin’ ass, I’m gonna take it.”

  “Out on the side of the road, huh? You know how many cops run through here, dumbfuck?”

  “Nah, not right here. I’m not that stupid. I won’t get arrested for your ass,” I say, checking my surroundings.

  No cops, no cars, no people. Perfect.

  As they continue walking, the drunken swagger still present in their step, I spot a business a block ahead with its front door tucked into a cove—a cove hidden from the sidewalk.

  Inching my way closer to him, I say, “But I refuse to let you get away without a lesson learned, either.”

  Charging forward, I grab fistfuls of the blond kid’s shirt and push him into the cove. His friend follows in after us, but not in time to prevent three swift, heavy fists from connecting with his buddy’s jaw. Blood spurts from a instantaneously busted lip and drains from his crooked nose. A look of shock covers his face.

  I shoot my eyes toward his friend, who is frozen in his tracks. “You want some, too?” I ask, the blond kid’s collar clutched in one of my fists, while the other one rains down on his face a couple more times for good measure, though my eyes are still locked on his friend.