Bishop (A Frat Chronicles Novel)

by B. T. Urruela

  “Welcome to Hell Week, guys,” Carter says with a weary tone and an exasperated look on his face.

  “WAKE THE FUCK UP!” DAMIAN yells, startling me out of my broken sleep. I wipe my eyes which are burning from the light now filling the basement. “I said, wake up! Hell Week, day two, has started. Remember when you’re going to and from classes every day this week, we have your class schedules. We know where and when your classes are, and we won’t hesitate to boot your ass out of pledging a week before you become a brother if we find you fucking around.”

  As we stand from the cold floor, the repercussions of sleeping with only a blanket separating me from the concrete make themselves known. I stretch my stiff back with a loud pop as Trevor motions to the four of us.

  “Remember, you must carry your bricks with you everywhere,” he says. “If a brother runs into you and asks to see your brick, you must show it to them. If you’re not in class and at the house, you’re to be cleaning or studying for midterms. No exceptions. Now, get to cleaning, pledges.”

  Mac grumbles his way to the utility closet as the rest of us shuffle behind him to grab cleaning supplies, all of us likely wondering the same thing: Why the fuck are we subjecting ourselves to this?

  I’ve never in my life been more thankful for classes; though, in each one, fighting to stay awake was a challenge. It felt like I was in basic training all over again. Back then, we got little sleep, as we are now, and we’d physically exert ourselves for hours upon hours. After that, they’d make us sit in an air-conditioned classroom to learn about field dressing wounds and how to properly take apart an M-16. Really riveting stuff.

  Now that my classes are over, freedom has vanished, and we are two seconds from finding out what fuck-fuck game we get to play tonight.

  We’re linked up in the basement as Trevor paces back and forth in front of us as usual. Damian stands to the back with his chiseled arms crossed and a don’t-fuck-with-me glare on his face.

  My feet are killing me from cleaning for most of the day, and my busy mind is running at a mile a minute.

  I want to quit.

  I want to punch Damian in the face and run.

  But I want to help my boys get through this too.

  Fuck!

  “Tonight is a very special night,” Trevor says, an ominous tone to his words that worries me. “You will be tested on your patience and mental acumen.”

  Just then, Tim comes forward with three boxes in his hands, stacked on top of each other. As he gets closer, I notice they’re puzzles.

  Fuck.

  Damian grabs one, Trevor grabs the other, and simultaneously, the three of them open the boxes and dump the pieces into one big pile.

  “Let’s put some puzzles together, huh, pledges?” Damian says with a shit-eating grin on his face and a big thumbs up.

  There’s a collective groan from the four of us.

  THE THOUGHT OF A BED and pillows has my head adrift in the world of the half-living. It’s not that five hours of sleep isn’t enough for the normal person, it’s that it’s not fucking enough for me. Not to mention, my desire to put an old familiar sitcom on and just lay down and chill is insatiable. I can almost see Jerry right here as I mop, red lights from the Kenny Roger’s Chicken sign painting his anguished face.

  I can see Joey changing into Thanksgiving pants and Ross getting a level-eight tan.

  We haven’t been able to drink during Hell Week either, which I’m sure would please Carleigh. I’ve never wanted alcohol so bad in my life. Or a therapy session for that matter. I’d do a body shot off JD’s unwashed asshole right about now if it’d get me out of cleaning and challenges.

  The door abruptly opens, and Trevor and Damian enter, descending the stairs. Behind them, Brady comes, and the sight of him makes my fucking blood boil.

  “Pledges, welcome to the third night of Hell Week,” Trevor says, that plastic smile of his irritating me more with each day. He motions toward Damian. “The wheel, good sir.”

  Damian heads to the utility closet as Trevor makes his way back up the basement steps. He opens the door once more, and through it come brothers with plates in their hands.

  Damian exits the utility closet with a large spinning prize wheel in his hands. He sets it on the bar top. Looking closer, I see these prizes are no prizes at all. Each triangle reads something different, something horrible. Bull Testicles, Raw Fish, Maggots, Worms, Sour Milk, Grasshopper, Pig Intestines, Underwear Head.

  As my eyes move from the wheel to the brothers approaching us, my mouth drops open, my eyes wide. They carry plates with raw fish, worms, a cup of curdled milk, maggots, dried grasshoppers, a pair of stained underwear, and what I would imagine to be bull testicles and pig intestines, though I can’t tell the difference between the two.

  “No fucking way,” Mac says, his eyes wide and face contorted in a way that makes me think he’s just been told he’s dying.

  “Yes way! Welcome, pledges, to the Wheel of Death. There are two items on this list you will be eating tonight. Chance will dictate which two they will be,” Damian says, an evil smirk on his face.

  “Pledge president, you’re first,” Trevor says, motioning toward the wheel.

  I let out a sigh, shaking my head as I shuffle toward the bar. “I can’t believe I’m fuckin’ doin’ this.” I point toward my pledge brothers. “You’re welcome, fuckers.”

  I step up to the wheel, my eyes shifting to Damian who stands just beside it. I want to smack the smile right off his face, but I’d also like to live to see tomorrow.

  Spinning the wheel, the time it takes to stop feels like an eternity. I don’t even want to look, closing my eyes instead and waiting.

  “Bull testicles!” I hear Damian yell, and my heart sinks.

  I open my eyes, and Damian motions behind me. One of the brothers walks forward with a plate of some pinkish, brown meat cut into cubes. Shaking my head, I grab a piece, slimy and warm, and I eye it for a moment. First letting out a deep sigh, I then shrug and toss it into my mouth, swallowing without bothering to chew. I do the same with the remaining pieces and then return to my place in line, linking up with Jeremy as my stomach turns in circles. I don’t show my complete disgust on my face. I have a reputation to maintain, but I have never been closer to vomiting in my life. My mouth has gone completely dry, my throat fighting back regurgitation.

  Mac is next, and he gets spoiled milk. I’ve never seen a funnier sight in my life. He ends up finishing half of it and throwing it right back up into the glass.

  Jeremy pulls the pig intestines and seems to take it just fine.

  Carter gets grasshoppers, and though it isn’t pretty, he manages them down alright.

  When it comes back around to me, I survey the options that are left and quickly stumble on the underwear.

  “Before I fuckin’ spin here, I gotta ask, are we supposed to eat that dirty-ass underwear?” I motion to the plate with the filthy tighty-whities on it.

  “No, no, no,” Damian says, waving me off. “That’s the cool part. It’s the one thing you don’t have to eat.” By his tone, an idiot would assume he has good news coming. I know better by the evil smirk tugging at his lips. “You just gotta wear them on your head,” he says.

  My eyes go wide. “Are you fuckin’ shittin’ me?”

  “Nope,” he responds smugly.

  I shake my head. “All I can say is, if I land on that, I’m sorry guys, but I’m outta this motherfucker.”

  I spin the wheel, and look this time, knowing that this spin will determine my continuation with this fraternity.

  The wheel slows, stutters, and eventually stops on raw fish, and I’m not quite sure whether I’m relieved or disappointed. Taking the raw filet from the plate, I dispose of it quickly, and without much trouble. I eat enough sushi for the texture not to bother me. It’s the warmth that brings those familiar feelings of naseua, along with the bull nuts that still sit heavy in my stomach.

  I go back to my place in line as Mac walks
toward the wheel cautiously, his bottom lip between his teeth and a serious wrinkle in his brow. He moves his hand to the wheel, but hesitates a moment before he spins. When the wheel stops, the only person in the room not laughing is Mac.

  Underwear Head.

  Mac turns toward us, his mouth agape, eyes wide. “This is so fucked!” he whines, throwing his hands in the air.

  “This is fucking Hell Week, bitch!” Damian howls. He starts chanting, “Underwear head! Underwear head! Underwear head!” and before long, everyone in the basement is chanting along with him. The brother with the plated underwear holds it out for Mac. Mac eyes it, and then us, his head shaking slowly.

  “On with it!” Trevor shouts, motioning toward the dirty undies.

  Mac reaches out, but hesitates, his hand trembling just inches from them.

  “Put it on, pledge, or we’ll put it on for you,” Damian threatens with an evil little smirk on his face.

  Mac pinches the underwear by the band with two fingers, lifting it from the plate, inspecting it with a curled lip. “This is so completely fucked. Whose underwear even is this?”

  All eyes fall on Tim as he lifts his robed hand into the air, flashing the rock on sign. “Ran a mile in that pair two years ago when I was pledging.” Tim grins, his eyebrows doing a little wriggle.

  Mac gags, dropping the underwear to the ground. “Fuck this, I can’t.” He crosses his arms and shakes his head.

  “You don’t and you’re out,” Trevor says bluntly.

  Mac’s eyes trail to the underwear wadded up on the floor, and then back at us.

  I shrug. “It’s now or never, Red.”

  He squats, lifting the underwear with two fingers again, and shakes his head before he pulls it over his face in one swift movement. The basement goes crazy, brothers cheering and whooping it up as Mac removes the underwear and throws it to the floor. It meets the concrete about the same time as his mess of vomit does. It splatters across the floor and the brothers closest to it jump back, though some still makes it onto their shoes.

  The basement gets even louder, the cheering deafening.

  “We got a puker!” Trevor yells, and he’s met with more raucous shouting.

  Mac shuffles toward our line, still hunkered over with hands to his gut.

  “Uh-uh. Where you going, Mac? Grab a mop,” Trevor says, shaking his head.

  Mac turns slowly, a pitiful look on his face as he shuffles toward the utility closet.

  Trevor points to the wheel. “Jeremy, you’re next.”

  Once Jeremy effortlessly takes down some maggots, he strides back to the line.

  “Jesus, dude. You got an iron gut,” I say as he links back up with me.

  “Country boy, brother. I grew up eatin’ every goddamn part of the pig!” he responds as the brother with the last remaining plate, worms wiggling away on top of it, approaches Carter, holding the plate out for him.

  Carter takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly before he takes the mess of worms and tosses them into his mouth. He tries to swallow, but gags. Tries again. Gags again, and then finally takes them down and keeps them there. He holds a tight hand to his stomach as he makes his way back over to us, shaking his head with shame written on his face.

  “Pledges, congratulations on successfully completing day three of Hell Week. Get some rest. It’s going to be another early morning,” Trevor says, sending a shiver down my spine as the raw fish and bull testicles form a nauseating slurry in my stomach.

  I’VE NEVER BEEN MORE THRILLED to see the inside of a VA hospital in my life. We were woken up at six this morning to go on a seven-mile run. Of course, Damian and Trevor led us, their football crafted bodies running us ragged as they barely broke a sweat. As I sit in the air-conditioned office, the hum of the air vent creates a cozy ambience. I can feel my eyes shutting of their own free will.

  “Bishop?”

  I shoot my eyelids open, caught off-guard by her voice. Shaking the cobwebs out, I respond, “Yeah, sorry. What did you say?”

  She laughs. “Well, you sat down, I asked how you were doing, and your eyes started closing. Have you been having trouble sleeping?”

  “You could say that. It’s Hell Week in the fraternity.”

  “Hell Week?” She laughs. “What in the good Lord is that?”

  “It’s just our last week of the pledgin’ process. A whole lot of horse shit. Not a lot of sleep.”

  She shakes her head. “Didn’t you have enough of those games in the Army?”

  “What can I say?” I shrug. “I guess I’m a glutton for punishment.”

  “So how have you been otherwise, Bishop?” Carleigh asks, her smile warm but her body language apprehensive, as if she’s still trying to figure me out.

  I sit back in my chair, a wide smile on my face as I give her a shrug. “Livin’ the dream, Doc,” I reply.

  She narrows her eyes at me. “What did I say about ‘Doc’?”

  “Sorry, Carleigh. I’m livin’ the life people only dream of.”

  She smirks. “If sarcasm could be measured, I think you’d be pushing red.”

  “It’s my second language,” I respond, smirking.

  “Why don’t you tell me the truth, Bishop? It’s getting to you, isn’t it? I can see that.”

  “The disrespect, mainly.” I shake my head. “It’s been rough.”

  “So, tell me again, why are you doing this to yourself?” she asks, a bit of pleading in her tone.

  “I need to see it through.”

  “Why?”

  “Because …”

  “Because why?” she repeats, sternly this time.

  “Because that’s what I do. When I start somethin’, I finish it. Is that so hard to believe, Carleigh?”

  “You’re so beyond this though.”

  “And who are you to say that?” I ask, more harshly than intended.

  “I’m your therapist, and somebody who has gotten to know a little about you. You have to trust me, Bishop. I’m not your enemy. I’m not the bad guy. I’m your friend. I only want to help you.”

  “You wanna help me?” I ask, arching an eyebrow.

  “Yes,” she responds, exasperated.

  “Make these thoughts go away. I’ll take a magic potion, acupuncture, fuckin’ voodoo, I don’t care. I just wanna stop feelin’ this way.”

  “What way?”

  I take a deep breath, my heart pounding in my chest as the floodgates begin to open. “I wanna stop feelin’ so damn alone, even with so many people around me. I wanna stop hatin’ myself so much for things I can’t fuckin’ change. I wanna stop feelin’ so goddamn sorry for myself.” I hesitate, my eyes on the floor, when I continue, “I wanna know who the fuck I’m supposed to be now.”

  “Why do you put all this pressure on yourself?”

  I shrug, shaking my head. “I don’t know. It’s just how I’ve always been. As much as I live in the moment, as much as my Peter Pan Syndrome influences me, I hate not knowin’ what’s ahead. I hate not knowin’ where I belong.”

  “You still have so much left to give, Bishop,” she says, leaning on the desk, her brows furrowed with concern.

  I roll my eyes. “Like what?”

  “I don’t know.” She shrugs. “You tell me.”

  I lean forward. “I was meant to be a soldier, Carleigh. It’s what I was born to do. It was taken away from me. Poof. Gone. Where do I go from here? What do I do?”

  She puts a hand up, as if she’s trying to calm me. “Okay, Bishop. I’m not trying to get you worked up.”

  I hadn’t even realized I was getting worked up. I let out a heavy breath and say, “Sorry, Carleigh. I didn’t mean to get so tense. I’m just…” I shake my head, sighing. “I’m lost. And fuckin’ tired.”

  “Well, that’s why you’re here.”

  I laugh. “No, I’m here because I beat a kid’s face to shit.”

  She smirks. “I’m a big believer in ‘everything happens for a reason.’ You’re here with me because you
need this counseling, Bishop. You do have a problem.”

  Her words hurt, the truth in them the most painful, but before I can retaliate in anger, I’m overwhelmed by the concern in her features, as genuine as the smile I sometimes get out of her.

  “I know I do,” I mutter, my head in my hands.

  “And how do we fix the problem?”

  I laugh. “Isn’t it your job to figure that out?”

  She’s not amused. “It’s both of our jobs, yes, but I want to know what you think it will take to resolve this. To feel okay about yourself and where you’re headed.

  “I couldn’t even tell you, Carleigh. I really couldn’t. I just don’t know who I am anymore. I’m mentally exhausted. Drained. I can barely think, let alone figure out how to fix this catastrophe.” I point toward my head, letting out a heavy sigh before adding, “I hope you’re happy, by the way.”

  “What about any of this makes you think I’d be happy?” she asks, rearing her head back and her lips pinching together.

  “Me spillin’ my guts.”

  “Well, yes, I am happy you’re being open and honest with me. It’s necessary if we’re to make any progress.”

  “How many military members have you worked with?” I ask, seemingly catching her off guard with the abrupt shift in conversation.

  “A lot. Why?”

  “How many would you say you’ve helped?”

  She shrugs. “I don’t know, Bishop. Not enough. It could never be enough.”

  “Do you think you can help me?”

  “Will you continue to be honest with me in here? Be open to change? Willing to accept your own fault in this?”

  “The first two … yes. But willin’ to accept my fault in this? What do you mean by that?”

  “I mean, you have a lot of power, Bishop. You’re assertive, dedicated, loyal. You have the ability and the determination to pull yourself out of this. You just have to want to. You have to need to. We’ve both agreed you have a problem here. Now, how do we fix it? Where do we go from here?”