* * *
Win was gobsmacked. Lulu Harris had made carnal congress with this walking pestilence? That Harris had been lavish of virtue, he knew. She was a bloody sexual philanthropist, but he himself had been rebuffed, left to his own ministrations. That the harlot went and shagged this common hippie compounded the shame.
The rejection had made the decision to expel Lulu from Fellinghams that much easier. (In the wake of her departure, the society decided going forward to refer to expulsion as “getting plaqued.” That bit of cheeky taxonomy pleased Win, so at least something positive had come out of l’affaire Lulu.)
“So, look,” Red said. “I don’t know what happened with her and the English teacher, but whatever it was, I don’t see her as the victim type, do you?”
“We are in agreement.”
“Did you know she’s doing her final Crawl on Friday?”
“Slither.”
“What?”
“We prefer to call it the Slither.”
Red chuckled. “Hey, that’s good. Anyway, word is the administration’s had enough, and they told her to wrap it up.”
“Everyone knows that. It was in the Daily. Although Friday … isn’t that the Fling?”
The Spring Fling, or Fling as it was always called, was a big blowout the day after classes ended, which was also the beginning of reading period. Exams followed a week later. The event centered on Bingham Plaza and always featured a name act. Last year it had been the cowpunk revival band Drunk Bob and the Confessions. This year it was a famous West Coast rapper, Killa C Note. Killa was legit ghetto, from Compton, so students were excited.
“It is,” said Red.
“Although I suppose the Fling is during the day, and she slithers at night.”
Red grinned broadly. “So, dude, here’s the thing. That’s exactly what the administration thinks, but there’s something they don’t know. She’s changing her last crawl to three in the afternoon, right in the middle of the Fling. It could be a circus.”
“How do you know this?”
“I know everything that goes down on this campus, man.” In reality, he had been informed by Chris Huffman at the Daily, who had been tipped by the Womyn’s Collective, which had, in turn, been told by Lulu. For some reason she had let them in, if only just this once.
“Okay, so what of it? We don’t care what that woman does anymore.”
“Well, maybe you don’t care. Maybe you don’t mind at all that she’s a thief who fucked you over after you so nicely made her a member of this fine establishment and then went out and got famous on a lie. Maybe I was wrong and you don’t care about any of that at all.”
Win looked toward the scepter over the mantel in the other room. If it was worth a hundred dollars, he’d be surprised. Truth be told, he hadn’t given the scepter much thought lately. What still burned was that night at the Beta house. He’d been dancing with Lulu and thought he’d read the signals right, but the wench had shoved him away like he was some smelly homeless person asking for money. Was that the night she’d ended up with this orangutan?
“If I may,” Win said, “I recognize you. Aren’t you a campus provocateur? I would think you quite approve of Miss Harris’s activities. Why are you bringing this information to us?”
“Let’s just say I think she’s a fraud and leave it at that. I don’t like frauds.”
“I see.” Skepticism was written on Win’s face. He imagined Red Wheeler was well acquainted with any number of frauds in the campus activism racket, though Win didn’t particularly care one way or the other. The Fellinghams crowd was happy to keep its distance from all that. “So you are proposing … what?”
“Nothing. I just thought you should know, in case you thought you wanted to … do something.”
“Do something.”
“Right. And by the way, did you see this?” Red pulled a magazine out of his backpack and handed it to Win. It was the latest copy of People magazine. On the cover, a flag on the right corner said, “Feminism’s Rising Star,” and there was a tiny head shot of Lulu. Win looked aghast as he flipped through the magazine, trying to find the article. Hideous treacle, he thought, skipping over pages of journalistic puffery. Then, there she was, posing with her ball and chain, mustering her most plaintive look. The title read, “Lulu Harris—a Crawl for All.”
Win quickly scanned the piece. Notably it said, “While Ms. Harris declined to be interviewed for this article…” Yet there she was, clearly posing for the money shot. Her complicity was clear.
“That conniving whore.”
“Thought you might find that interesting.”
“Thank you, Mr. Wheeler, for bringing this matter to our attention.”
“Anytime. You can keep the magazine.”
* * *
Red Wheeler could not have cared less whether Lulu was a fraud. Maybe Ephraim Russell—that sap who taught Huck Finn—hit on her, maybe he didn’t. Red suspected not, given the girl’s inclinations. It didn’t matter, though, because she had captured the moment, the zeitgeist. He had to hand it to her. It was rare that he saw his own talents as a campus incendiary outmatched, and by a first-year no less.
But it created an unacceptable situation. His normal dominion over the campus left was in grave jeopardy. He felt his power sliding away like Jell-O off a spoon. The fucking Womyn’s Collective was milking this thing for all it was worth, and the other groups were going their own way. It was all about specialization now.
The ingrates.
Had they already forgotten about the oil company divestiture? That was all Red Wheeler! The summit he called was a disaster, and his attempts to call a campus-wide strike had fallen on deaf ears. They were all too busy elbowing one another for Milton’s table scraps. And now the Womyn’s Collective was “expelling” him from the Crawl. Bitches!
The seeds of chaos must be sown.
Red walked purposefully toward Patterson Gymnasium, a building he had never visited in his seven years at Devon. Today would not be his first. His destination was behind the gym: fraternity row.
Betas Are Boned
THE BETAS WERE not known for their sense of industry, or, for that matter, anything else that required real effort outside of athletics. Occasionally, though, something fired their collective imagination. There was that time they’d taken the empties from an entire semester—the ones usually thrown into a pit in the basement until one of the goats could return them for deposit money—and constructed a near-perfect fifteen-foot replica of the Great Sphinx of Giza. For almost a day they danced around it, wrists bent, hands pointing like funky Tuts. It was meant to be the centerpiece for an Egyptian-themed party where guests were invited to come dressed as their favorite plague. But, perhaps inevitably, someone slammed into it, right into the missing nose. He was followed by others, who destroyed the structure in mere moments, leaving a pile of over two thousand cans. The party was nonetheless a great success, the empty cans being repurposed into something like a children’s ball pit.
Today’s events, Teddy knew, required a similar level of motivation and creative thinking. Milton Strauss had approved recommendations from the Committee on Fraternal Life at Devon, and it was a death sentence. For all their outward indolence, the Betas were motivated on levels most took care not to show. They had all made it to Devon, after all. Something got them there. Secretly, many had excellent GPAs, and most were elite Division I athletes. Some harbored ambitions for Wall Street or law school. Others wanted to teach. Being shut out of leadership positions and recommendation letters was a nonstarter. Something had to be done.
Technically, they were having a meeting, but mostly they were lying around the living room hungover. The smell of stale beer permeated the woodwork.
“We are so boned,” said the Mound.
The others moaned their agreement.
Billy Curtis asked to be recognized. “We and the other fraternities are all off campus, and none of us publish membership rolls. How the hell are they gonna kno
w who to fuck over?”
That very question was the subject of great speculation. Rumors were going around that Devon would employ snitches who might employ devious means to ferret out offenders. One rumor had them loitering across the street, monitoring the comings and goings of members—block watchers, like in old East Germany. Someone else heard that anyone up for leadership roles would have to sign an affidavit swearing he didn’t belong to any all-male organizations.
That rumor had credibility.
“Well, there is one way out,” said Tug. He knew that the committee had cited the single-sex nature of fraternities as the core problem. The statement said, in so many words, that men spending time with men created a ferment of sexual predation. “Toxic masculinity” was the phrase everyone was throwing around. The statement further suggested there was a way forward for any fraternity agreeing to expand its membership to women, who would presumably exert a civilizing influence. “We could admit women.”
Tug was met with a blizzard of red Solo cups heaved in his direction, drops of yesterday’s beer hitting his face.
“Mound’s right,” said Der Führer. “We’re boned.”
“There is another solution,” Finn Belcher said, looking up from his phone.
“Brother Belch, by all means,” said Tug. “You have the floor.” Belch had the highest GPA in Beta, so the brothers generally listened to what he had to say.
“So, you know how the university recently decided to allow anyone to self-identify?”
“Huh?” Der Führer asked.
“Self-identify. You are what you feel you are. When you apply to Devon, you can now check any box for gender. It’s the new thing.”
“They said that?” asked the Mound.
“Yes, it was everywhere. Didn’t you read … never mind.”
“Yeah, so what of it?” asked Der Führer.
“Okay, so hear me out on this. One of us changes our official Devon identity to female. By their own rules, they’re not allowed to question it. Seriously, it could work.” Finn smiled, pleased with his cleverness.
“But who would it be?” said Billy Curtis. “I ain’t becoming no chick.”
“Fuck no,” said Mound. Nor will I.
“But, Mound, you already have experience with transgender bathrooms,” said Digger. “You’re halfway there!”
Everyone laughed.
“You wouldn’t have to become or even act female, numbnuts. Just say you were,” said Finn.
“So who would it be?” Tug asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe we could draw straws.”
“Not fuckin’ doin’ it,” said Mound. I respectfully decline.
That pretty much did the idea in. The brothers all shouted it down. Some made lip farts of disapproval.
Tug threw up his hands. “So we’re finished. Is that what you’re all telling me?”
Belch looked up, a thought percolating. “Wait, we still have till the end of the year, right?”
“Yeah, as far as we know,” Tug answered.
“And you said that commie dude told you there’s a Crawl during the Fling?”
“That’s right.”
“What’s left in the treasury?”
“Six hundred and forty-seven bucks. Why? What are you thinking?”
“Anyone know how to make papier-mâché?”
No one did, but the answer was found quickly on the internet. Finn outlined his idea and there was vigorous approval all around. “And one other thing. I almost forgot about this.” He held out his phone for all to see. “Like I said, I was pretty hammered at the time.”
There was a whoop of excitement as it dawned on the brothers what they were seeing. “Holy shit,” Tug said.
It was agreed. If they were going down, they were going down like Betas.
Captain Jack
“EPH, HE’S NOT “WELL. They think it’s Parkinson’s. I know he’d like to see you.”
“Since his first choice isn’t available?”
“That’s not fair,” Ellie said
Eph knew it wasn’t, but he figured he’d earned the right to some self-pity.
“Listen, I read about what’s going on up there, this Crawl. It was on the news, so I googled it and your name came up. I tried calling but you didn’t answer. I was concerned about my baby brother.”
“I know, I’m sorry. I guess I didn’t want to know people back home were talking about it.”
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah, Sis, I won’t lie, it’s been a rough patch. Hopefully it works out. I didn’t do any of the things they’re saying.”
“I know you didn’t. You don’t even have to say it.”
* * *
Unlike Eph, Jack Russell never went to college. He was one of twenty-three in his graduating class of Ashley High School to enlist in the army. For some, it was just something to do when few other avenues were available. Others, though, felt the call, like a lot of boys across the South. Jack sported a buzz cut his whole senior year and decorated his bedroom with military posters. He’d felt the call for years.
Off they all went, all twenty-three, on a bus one morning to Fort Jackson in South Carolina. The Russell family saw them off, and a tearful Millie handed Jack a bag of her famous pecan tarts for the long drive.
Like a lot of boys from Alabama, Jack was a crack shot, and the army soon trained him as a sniper. After several months at Fort Jackson, he was transferred to Fort Irwin, in the Mojave Desert, where soldiers could acclimate to conditions similar to those in Afghanistan. He called home every Sunday and sounded eager for deployment. For someone who had never been outside Alabama and the Florida Panhandle, it was all a great adventure.
Eventually Jack got his wish and became the first Russell to leave the country. He quickly built a reputation as an effective sniper. He was often called on to protect patrols from a distance, acting as lookout and, if necessary, protection, courtesy of his Winchester Magnum. In one engagement, while positioned on top of a water tank almost a mile away, Jack held off a group of insurgents who ambushed his company while on IED patrol. He had six confirmed kills and bought enough time for his company to evacuate. For his actions he received the Bronze Star. They wrote a big article about it in the Ashley Standard. Millie cut that one out for her scrapbook.
Jack’s absence made things tougher for Eph. His heart wasn’t in farming and he no longer had Jack’s coattails at school. Big Mike was a good man, but didn’t know how to relate to a son who liked to read all the time. Tension grew as the months passed and Ellie frequently had to act as a buffer, the way daughters sometimes do.
The knock on the door came on Jack’s second tour. Millie saw the chaplain and the notification officer, solemn faced, walking up and refused to open it, knowing what waited on the other side. She wanted just a few more moments of a world where her boy was still alive. Big Mike summoned all the stoicism a man could muster and let them in.
Jack Russell had died a hero, which was only natural. Nine men in his company had come under heavy attack by an al-Qaeda militia. Heavily outnumbered, they sought refuge in an abandoned farmhouse. As the militia closed in, Jack, aided by his spotter, picked them off one at a time from their nest in a stand of trees some five hundred yards away. Unfortunately, his steady fire allowed militia members to make the nest and they fired mortars. As shells exploded around him, Jack kept picking the enemy off, knowing if he abandoned his position the farmhouse would be overrun. It was later confirmed that Jack had had an astonishing fifteen kills before the remaining militia retreated. Angry over their losses, though, the jihadists had fired a few more mortars from behind a building. One got lucky and hit the tree over Jack’s nest and instantly killed his spotter. Jack himself took shrapnel but was still alive when those whose lives he’d saved got to his position. He died in the transport on the way back to base.
The Russell family’s first trip to the nation’s capital was to bury Jack at Arlington. Millie was presented with the burial flag and Jack’
s posthumous Medal of Honor. It was the only time Eph saw Big Mike cry.
Millie would never get over the loss of her eldest boy. She succumbed to an aggressive cancer a year later. She didn’t fight it very hard.
Eph was pretty sure that every time Big Mike looked at him he was reminded of the better son. Ellie tried to keep up spirits, but over time the house grew silent. Eph grew resentful that a normal childhood had been stolen from him and resolved to find his way out. After a year at a nearby community college he won a scholarship to Samford and never looked back.
He wasn’t sure Big Mike even noticed.
Gherkins Are Small Pickles
EPH ONCE AGAIN made his way across Bingham Plaza to Stockbridge. Students were scurrying everywhere with final preparations for tomorrow’s Fling and were too preoccupied to notice a disgraced professor in their midst.
An enormous stage had been erected in front of the Dix and sound checks were being performed. Adjacent to the stage was a twenty-foot video screen. Eph had never heard of Killa C Note but he wasn’t surprised. He didn’t know much about the rap world.
Electronic music blared from the speakers …
Love you! Love you!
The Fling was probably the high point of the year for most students. Classes were over and they had a week off until exams. The administration understood the constant pressure most students felt and that periodically steam needed blowing off. Best that it be done in a largely enclosed space like Bingham where campus security could keep an eye on things.
Eph wished he could share in the collective mood. Titus had called earlier and told him the tenure committee was going with Toes. Toes was going to be the Edward S. Phelps Professor of English.
“I suppose this doesn’t come as a surprise, after everything,” Titus said in a sympathetic voice.
It didn’t, but it still stung. Minutes later D’Arcy showed up and said, “I’m afraid I have bad news.”
Campusland: A Novel Page 27