This life we tryna make
Jackboots, badge brutes
Hands up, don’t shoot
“Everyone!”
Pigs in blue
I see you!
Pigs in blue
Killa held the mic out to the crowd.
“I see you!” came the thunderous response.
A girl from the back was hoisted by the crowd and passed forward on a sea of arms. She made it all the way to the stage, as if an offering, and Killa swooped her up, then dipped her low, planting his face on hers.
“That’s what I’m talkin’ ’bout, yo!”
The crowd roared its approval as the girl was hustled off by security.
After finishing his set, someone came from backstage and whispered something to Killa, who then said, “Listen up, yo. I’d like to introduce Devon’s very own boss man, the man who puts the action in yo’ Jackson, Milton”—Killa leaned over as the assistant whispered in his ear—“Strauss. Lemme hear it!”
Milton emerged from the side of the stage, waving. Killa gave him the mic and disappeared backstage. The crowd chanted, “Milt! Milt! Milt!”
“Thank you, Devon! And thank you, Killa C Note.” Milton pronounced it killer. “Isn’t he great, everyone?” More cheers, but with less enthusiasm. Rufus, spying from the wings, knew they smelled a speech.
* * *
Ah, here they were. His people. Milton loved these opportunities. What a crowd this year! He was also pleased with the size of the media presence. At least seven or eight vans were parked just outside the plaza. Naturally, Devon’s PR staff had tipped some reporters about whom he was going to introduce, knowing it would increase exposure for his important announcement.
“It’s so great to see everyone together as one community. Because that’s what we are, right? We’re a community. Una Crescimus. Together, we grow! Am I right?”
There was scattered applause. Backstage, Rufus could feel the energy being sucked out of the plaza.
Milton hardly noticed. “But we’re still a long way from perfect, aren’t we? As you know, one of our community has been drawing much-needed attention to that fact in a very dramatic and selfless way. I’m talking, of course, about Lulu Harris. Can we have a hand for her?”
The plaza gave respectful applause.
“So, with Lulu as our inspiration, I’d like to make an important announcement. Devon University will pledge fifty million dollars toward making our community more gender inclusive. Thirty million dollars will be allocated toward the hiring of female faculty, including four new tenured positions in the Women’s Studies Department, ten million dollars toward women’s health initiatives, and ten million dollars toward the construction of a new women’s cultural center!”
Applause was polite at best. Where was Killa?
“And, of course, Devon is leading the way toward inclusiveness by evolving beyond the need for single-gender organizations.”
The crowd’s tone changed slightly; boos mixed in here and there with a few cheers.
“With that, I’d like to introduce one of Devon’s most illustrious graduates. Some of you may have seen her around campus the last couple of days, and she just shared some amazing news with us.… Here she is, the talented and wondrous … Camille Thornton!”
Camille made her way to the mic to polite applause. Rufus could tell patience was running thin with the liquored-up and adrenaline-fueled crowd, and this wasn’t a rap star. More like some actress their parents liked. But she was a Devonite, and famous, so that was cool. Plus she was Lulu’s mom! They would give her some rope.
* * *
Camille’s master plan was back on track as she stood in front of an audience, the place any actor was meant to be. Maybe everything was turning around. She even liked Lulu, which was a nice bonus. It could easily have gone the other way.
The media were here in force, owing to her dramatic revelation that Lulu Harris was her long-lost daughter. Just why she was “lost” wasn’t being asked, not yet. For now, the feel-good story was quickly sweeping through entertainment news and even into mainstream news. Someone from People was here. The magazine was sure to be sympathetic, especially since they’d just featured Lulu in their last issue. This was a home run for them. Camille’s publicist and agent were both beside themselves with glee. The timing was “perfect,” according to Noah. “I can’t believe you managed to keep this a secret all these years. No one can do that these days. Not in this town.”
“Just get the damn film out of development, would you?”
“Oh, I’ll be making calls all day. This is gold. Love you, baby!”
Camille cried out now to the sea of faces, “Hello, Devon! It’s so great to be back, and thank you for the kind reception you’ve given this old actress.”
“We love you!” someone shouted.
Camille laughed. “I love you, too!” A beach ball was batted to the stage and she gave it a good kick, prompting cheers. “As you may have heard, it’s here at my beloved Devon that I was just reunited with my daughter, Lulu, after so many years. She is so, so special. Aren’t I just the luckiest person on the planet?”
More cheers echoed around the plaza.
“Lulu has been suffering for a cause, a cause we all care dearly about, and one I plan to make a film about. It’s called Gender Games, and I hope you’ll all come and see it.”
“Where’s Killa!” someone yelled.
As an actress, Camille was adept at reading crowds, and she knew she couldn’t hold this one much longer. She’d gotten her plug in. It was time.
“I’d like to say one more thing, just one … Crawl!”
“Peace!” came the response.
“Crawl!”
“Peace!”
“Let’s hear it for Lulu!” Camille motioned toward the archway in the corner of the plaza that led into the Dix. Out from the arch’s shadow emerged the long-lost daughter … crawling.
* * *
Oh, crap, thought Milton. He quickly ducked backstage and dialed Martika. “Where are you?”
“Up in my office, watching.”
“What the hell is going on? I thought the last Crawl was tonight when everyone was cleared out.”
“That makes two of us.”
“I don’t like this, not at all. Half these kids are probably drunk.”
“Well, I don’t see what you can do about it,” said Martika, leaving the distinct impression that whatever happened, it wasn’t her problem. Milton noticed Martika’s choice of pronoun—you. “Stop this thing and you could have a riot on your hands.”
The Crawl was now fully emerging out into Bingham, where the throng was doing its best to make way. Behind Lulu, out of the archway, emerged row after row of supporters. The vagina on wheels was there, as was the entire Womyn’s Collective. The newly tenured Professor Smallwood was also there, trying with some difficulty to ride his recumbent bike in slow motion.
Milton hung up the phone and immediately dialed Jimmy Trout, Devon’s head of campus security. “Jimmy, don’t intervene, but have your men close, just in case. I don’t like the looks of this.”
“Well, sir, there’s gonna be a problem with that. As of five minutes ago, my men staged a walkout and the union is backing them.”
“What? Why?”
“Let’s just say they have an issue with the entertainment.”
“What are you talking about? Tell them to get back on the job right now! We’ll work out any issues later. You know I’m a big supporter of the union, but I’ve got three thousand drunk kids and a protest going on.”
“Perhaps the university should have thought of that before it hired a cop-hating rap star. But I’ll be sure to pass your message along.” The connection was severed.
* * *
Moving up the time of the Crawl had been Lulu’s idea. Camille was impressed with her instincts. So much more exposure. But Camille knew crowds were fickle things, and this one wanted Killa back. The Crawl was old news. Time to pump them up a
gain.
“Crawl!” Camille cried into the mic.
“Peace!” replied the crowd.
“Louder this time. Crawl!”
“Peace!”
The crowd parted for Lulu like the Red Sea as she slowly made her way toward the center of Bingham.
Camille paused when she heard a sound, a musical sound, that didn’t belong. What was that? She tried to spy where it was coming from, but Bingham Plaza was like an echo chamber. It could be anywhere.
Wait, was that … a bagpipe?
* * *
The full complement of Fellingham members emerged into Bingham from around the back of Grafton. They were led by none other than Sir Alexander Hargrove, their erstwhile leader. He wielded the sacred scepter, waving it back and forth as he marched. Accompanying him was a bagpipe and tenor drum. The others followed in neat rows, men dressed in traditional Scottish kilts and women in matching tartan skirts.
Earlier that week, Hargrove had received a call from Win Gubbins, who explained the situation. Win called Lulu an “affront to civility,” sensibly omitting his own particular grievance.
Hargrove was confused at first. “Wasn’t this woman removed from the Wall of Belonging?”
Win reminded Hargrove of the scepter heist and argued that no one who had treated Fellinghams in such a manner deserved to be fêted as a heroine. This was a matter of principle; a statement needed to be made, one that was just so. And besides, it might be a bit of a hoot. Perhaps Sir Alex could be persuaded to come back for a visit?
Hargrove checked his calendar, and upon remembering he had no gainful employment interfering with his ability to fly four thousand miles for a good wingding, he readily agreed. Besides, he hadn’t been back to gay old Devon since graduation. He arrived on a plane from London the next day.
The crowd, sensing the kind of ironic amusement they loved so well, made way for the Fellinghams column, which vectored directly toward the Crawl. The two groups came to a head in the middle of the plaza. Win Gubbins motioned to the bagpipe and drum and they went silent.
Alexander Hargrove handed the scepter to Win and raised what appeared to be a scroll.
“Good people of Devon,” Sir Alexander cried. “We, the good members of the Society of Fellingham, officially register our objections to this farcical display known to some as the Crawl. Miss Harris violated our trust just as she violates yours. We declare her to be a fraud and a strumpet.”
The crowd was conflicted, and there rose an unsettled murmer as people considered how to react. They loved Lulu, of course, but on the other hand, whatever was going on here appeared to be amusing.
Representatives from the Womyn’s Collective, though, weren’t conflicted at all. Pythia Kamal, Yolanda Perez, and others looked like they wanted blood. “Get out of the fucking way, white boy!” yelled Yolanda at Hargrove.
Lulu, as usual, looked oblivious.
* * *
From a window on the third floor of Grafton, Red Wheeler quickly forgot his anger over the sudden enrichment of the campus feminists. Watching his handiwork unfold below, he laughed himself silly in an empty classroom. This was working out even better than he’d hoped. Bagpipes! Those guys were classic!
Sir Alexander was not finished. Still reading from the scroll like a town crier, he said, “We also declare the existing drinking age to be a barbarous New World edict and demand its immediate revocation.”
That drew some laughs and more than a few cheers.
Hargrove, for his part, was clearly enjoying himself. “And furthermore—”
“Look!” someone yelled.
The crowd turned as one toward Mathers Walk. There was something large a couple hundred yards away, something that wasn’t there a minute ago.
Oh, dear, thought Milton.
“Is that a…?” asked Pythia Kamal to no one in particular.
It was, and it was coming their way.
The Betas had arrived.
Along Came a Phallus
THE BETAS HAD spent the last several days in feverish activity constructing their last testament, their magnum opus, their final fuck you. Using a trailer bed for a base, they worked up from there with a wood lattice, which was then covered with cardboard and finally papier-mâché. Vibrant swirls of pink and purple paint were added for realism.
The structure was so tall they had to lay it on its side to transport it to Mathers. When raised, it would be stabilized with thin wire cables running to each corner of the trailer bed. Pulling it along were eight brothers, four each on a pair of ropes. Mound captained one rope and Digger the other. Tug supervised while the rest marched to the sides, all dressed identically in gym shorts and white T-shirts.
After rounding the corner onto Mathers, just where it dead-ended into Dudley, they stopped. They dropped the two lead ropes and grabbed two thin cables attached to one end of the structure. At this, Tug yelled, “Ooh!”
All the brothers responded with “Ahh!” and those manning the cables gave a mighty pull.
Tug, again: “Ooh!”
The brothers: “Ahh!” And with it another tug.
“Ooh!”
“Ahh!”
With each pull, the structure rose a bit higher until, pointed skyward, it stood twenty-five feet if an inch. The brothers secured the cables, took up the lead ropes, and were on the move again. Tug changed the chant.
* * *
The crowd in Bingham grew even more confused. Was this all part of the Fling? First the Crawl, then the odd people with the bagpipes … and now, what the hell was going on down Mathers? Coming toward them was, unmistakably, a big penis. It easily matched the vagina statue in its blushing anatomical precision. Clearly visible on the float’s front and sides was the word #Dickpeace. Gradually, they heard the chant.
“Dick! Peace!”
“Dick! Peace!”
From his perch in Grafton, Red Wheeler jumped up and down with glee. Surely, this was his crowning achievement, an unmatched work of performance art. It wasn’t exactly aiding the Struggle, but he was allowed a day off now and then, wasn’t he? If only there were a canvas to sign or an audience to accept his bow. He was the maestro of chaos.
He pressed his face to the leaded glass, eager to see how the final movement would play out.
* * *
Now, there’s something you don’t see every day, thought Eph. A giant penis and a giant vagina on a collision course. Plus, people in kilts. What could go wrong?
Forgetting today was the Fling, Eph had come to campus to gather some last remaining items from his office. He hadn’t officially heard from the administration regarding his fate, but he didn’t need to. His life at Devon was over, and a dark depression had settled over him. When he came upon the Fling, he was grateful for the distraction, although distraction was perhaps an understatement.
Eph had on a baseball hat and glasses just in case, but there was little chance of his being noticed, not in the middle of this circus. He stopped at the spot where Mathers connected to Bingham, the enormous phallus moving slowly in his direction. The boys manning the rope lines reminded him of Egyptian slaves, pulling stones for the pharaoh. Equal parts curiosity and amusement glued him to the spot.
The Crawlers had used the distraction of a giant rolling penis to push their way around the Fellinghams people. Lulu’s well-established route would exit the plaza and take her straight toward the Betas. Eph felt a few drops of rain beginning to fall. He glanced up; the skies looked ominous.
A minute or so later, the two groups ground to a halt in a standoff right in front of where Eph was standing. It occurred to him that most rational people accused of sexual assault would not choose to stand right next to a large protest where said person was the primary focus. He was done caring, though, and this was too entertaining to just walk away. He did, however, pull his baseball hat a bit farther down his face.
Clearly, no one was quite sure what to do, standing there, all staring one another down. Did the Betas look pleased? If it was th
eir goal to stop the Crawl, they had accomplished that. For the moment.
Breaking the momentary silence, Yolanda Perez yelled, “You irrelevant, privileged pigs! Out of our way!”
The Betas took out their phones, tapped them once or twice, and held them in the air. The tinny electronic voice of several dozen phones spoke as one.
“Douche Crawl!
“Douche Crawl!”
Teddy nodded his approval to Finn Belcher, the creative genius behind Douche Buddy. Finn pushed another button and a large Bluetooth speaker mounted on the float came to life.
“DOUCHE CRAWL!
“DOUCHE CRAWL!”
A few of the Crawlers started yelling, “Fraternity pigs!” and hurled clumps of dirt and grass they tore up from just off the walk. At that, the Betas tapped their phones again.
“BLOW ME!” came the booming electronic voice, as if from the great phallus itself.
Mere weeks ago, Eph might have been upset with the events unfolding on his beloved campus. He might have still tried to care about Foucault and to understand the nuanced differences between fifty-eight genders. Mere weeks ago, he really did dress up as a vibrator at a trans-rights march. But that was then. Today a broad grin emerged through his depression, and he wondered how it had taken so long for the campus tribes to come to a head. He also wondered where the hell campus security was.
Then, not for the first time that afternoon, there was a sound that was out of place. It was loud, really loud, and coming from the stage speakers.
It was unmistakably the sound of two people having sex.
The Betas silenced their phones and the Crawlers stopped throwing dirt. All heads turned toward the stage. As rain started to fall in earnest, the grunting and moaning continued through the speakers, each moan testing the limits of the subwoofers. Suddenly, the big video screen came to life, and there, in high definition, were two people having sex on a couch.
Enthusiastically.
Campusland: A Novel Page 30