by Nathan Holic
“I’ve got your New Mexico report here with today’s mail,” LaFaber says.
“You do?”
“Why else would I be calling you on a Friday?”
“I thought maybe there was an emergency,” I say.
“An emergency?”
“Never mind.” I lean back into the stiff mattress, the scratchy sheets, but still this feels more comfortable than any of the guest room beds over the last two months. “Did I do what you wanted? In the report?”
“I’ve just finished reading,” LaFaber says, then clears his throat.
“It was tough to write. I’m, like, really putting myself out on a limb,” I say, and I don’t know why I feel it’s necessary to remind him. He knows. A man who’s made his career marketing himself as the Leadership Guru, the man who can show you how to Put Values First in your organization, a campus legend at Alabama, a fraternity legend at Nu Kappa Epsilon, a legend amongst all national fraternity legends, but also a man who has made his career painting over dirty ceiling fans. Yes, he knows what it means to fabricate a report; after all, he’s likely done it a thousand times in order to get where he is now. “I don’t usually do these sorts of things.”
“These sorts of things?” he asks.
“I mean, like, lying about—”
“I didn’t ask you to lie,” he says.
“Didn’t you—”
“Charles, I just finished reading this report.” He clears his throat again. “If something is inaccurate, and you know it’s inaccurate, that would reflect very poorly upon you if anyone was to find out, and especially upon me if I was aware of the inaccuracies.”
“No,” I say. There is a slight fold in one corner of the wallpaper above this hotel room’s television, almost like a dog-eared page in a book, where the glue must have loosened. I can’t stop staring at it. When I look away, my eyes return just seconds later to the wallpaper to see if it changed. “It’s accurate, is what I mean. I was just making sure it was detailed enough for your purposes. For the, um, good of the National Fraternity, I mean.”
He exhales, and now I wonder if even this—acting annoyed when speaking to me, sighing when I “just don’t get it”—has been part of his performance all along. As if he needs me to feel deflated, reliant upon his expertise. “For right now, this report will work,” he says. “We’ll be able to suspend the chapter. You did fine, Charles.”
“Have you talked with them lately?” I ask. “About the hazing?”
“Nothing new has developed, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“There are good men at that chapter, you know,” I say. “One of them would actually make a good consultant. If anything happens at New Mexico State, I’d recommend that a few of their members be kept—”
“Probably won’t happen.”
“Probably won’t…? Well, if you need me to go back out there?”
“It’s expensive to send consultants out there,” he says. “And to send a consultant out there for a National Review, or a Re-Org? Better off just closing them. They’re dead weight.”
“Is that why you really—”
“You’re back at the Headquarters next week for our mid-semester debrief,” LaFaber says. “We’ll talk about it then. Might need you to sign the official paperwork authorizing the chapter closure and the expulsion of their membership. But that’s next week.”
“Next week,” I say.
“They rent their house, so we won’t need to worry about evictions. We’ve got no real financial obligations at New Mexico. Anything else you’d like to discuss, Charles, while you have me on the phone?”
I’m thinking of the last two weeks. I’m thinking of Bowling Green, of Dr. Vernon and the CSP Master’s Program and an extra spot reserved for someone from a national fraternity, of the too-young-to-have-this-job Greek Advisor at Purdue, of the bar from last night, of the parking lot and the broken branch, of Jenn, of Maria, of the black-and-white photo of the house fire at Florida and my father telling me to avoid things I couldn’t handle, of the man I wanted to be and the man I’ve become because I couldn’t avoid it, of the gang-bang showers and the missing clothes and the photos and the Purdue sweatshirt that I’m currently wearing and I don’t even know who it belongs to.
“What are the chances that we could suspend the Purdue chapter?” I ask. “If I had some rock-solid evidence that…I don’t know…hazing, maybe. Worse than anything we’ve heard from New Mexico State.”
“That house?” LaFaber asks. “Their membership numbers look pretty good. In fact, they won the Chapter of the Year award at Purdue last year. Last year’s consultant helped them with their Awards Binder, and they cleaned up.”
“This chapter? An award?”
“It’s all about presentation. You know that.”
“What if there was a party at this house, a really bad one? Worse than Illinois.”
“This is all hypothetical?”
“Maybe.”
“We’re living the mission, Charles,” he says. “If a chapter isn’t living the mission, then we might consider our options. We are values-based.”
“But what would it take?” I ask. “That chapter. Purdue. Profitable, historical, great awards packets, a hell of a house. What would it take, Walter?”
He’s silent for a moment. Perhaps he wasn’t expecting an outburst, not today, not a Friday afternoon. “If you know something, tell me,” he says. “But otherwise, that chapter is operating very efficiently. Alumni contributions from Purdue…” He pauses, and I can almost hear him lick his lips. “Their values, so far as I hear, are just where we like them. Their charter is safe.”
“That’s all I wanted to hear.”
“Okay, then. I suppose we’ll see you back in the office next week?”
“Sure.”
“Keep fighting the good fight out there,” he says. “Remember: one chapter at a time. You are a leader, Charles Washington. You are a leader, and you will—”
“So,” I say, “is that all you needed from me? I’ve got work to do.”
“Oh,” he says, and I hang up.
*
Late in the evening, after a few drinks at the hotel bar downstairs (all of them purchased with the Nu Kappa Epsilon credit card: “Charge it to the room,” I said), I google myself. What has changed, I wonder, from the days before summer training when I first tried to clear the muddy shit-clumped footprints I’d left across the world wide web?
The old familiar 18-century Charles Washington, the younger brother of the nation’s first president, no longer leads the google search results, I learn.
Now, suddenly, it is my Facebook page that appears first.
“Charles Washington,” the search result’s summary reads. “Network: Indianapolis, Indiana. College: Edison University. Facebook is a social utility that—”
And I click onto my own page, try to view it as the outside world might view it.
“Charles is…boilermakin’,” my status says.
That’s what I wrote two days ago. It was supposed to be clever, a reference to Purdue’s athletic mascot, but it just seems stupid now, stupid like my black screen-print pissed-off angel tshirt. And my profile picture? Charles Washington in a tuxedo at the Alumni Ball, rose pinned to jacket, looking off in the distance as if this was a staged head shot. This has always been my “classy” picture, chosen for my profile because… what? I expect the world to believe that I dress in black tie every day, that when I drink, I do so at galas and banquets, that I eat dinner rolls with every meal and that I only use butter shaped to resemble butterflies? I look at the photograph now, the forced certainty, the three-drink glaze in my eyes…
I hit the “back” button, which deposits me again on the google search results.
Farther down the page, I appear once again: the Nu Kappa Epsilon National Fraternity web site, the “Meet the Staff” page that Maria was able to find so quickly and easily. “Full bios for each Educational Consultant,” it says. “Click here to—”
And yes, I click the link, and now I’m looking at the NKE staff page, the photos taken on our third day of summer training. “Brock London,” buzzed blonde hair and intense eyes, “Nick Bennett,” spiky black hair, looking surprised that someone just flashed a photo, and “Charles Washington,” combed brown hair looking too stiff for comfort, eyes focused so hard on professionalism that you’d think I was starring in a law firm commercial. “Each of our consultants is a proven leader from a rich and diverse campus community,” the text reads. “They know what it takes to make a student organization successful, and they will visit nearly fifty schools over two semesters in an effort to keep all chapter operations running smoothly. Educational Consultants are our front-line warriors—”
And I click on my picture.
Those eyes.
Focused on professionalism.
“Charles Washington is a graduate of Edison University in Fort Myers, Florida, and holds a BA in Organizational Communication. During four years as an undergraduate member of Nu Kappa Epsilon, Charles served as the president of his—”
He is the missionary who visits the brothel as soon as the sky goes dark.
Back, back, back. And I’m on the google search results page again.
18-century Charles Washington is still there as a search result. A thumbnail-sized image, a portrait of Charles Washington standing in the warm study of some mansion in Virginia or Maryland or Pennsylvania. I used to think that he was just an irrelevant relic of American history, his painted portrait so forced, so obvious. The wig. The silly clothing. The sword at his beltline. Expression straining at regality. He’s playing dress-up. But there is his Wikipedia page directly below my own Facebook page, more than 200 years separating our portraits…we’re in this together, now, the two of us. This is how the world knows us, these snapshots.
And then I’m back on my Facebook profile, scrolling through comments left on my wall.
“Charles is now friends with Amanda Garrison and Boyd Fulton.”
“Charles was tagged in Edwin Cambria’s album: SENIOR YEAR.”
From an old fraternity brother, Brandon Seders: “Bro, you still traveling? Give me a call. I’m headed to Chicago for business. We should meet up.”
Message from Sam Anderson: “We need to talk, man. No joke. I got a call today, dude. This is not what you promised! Why haven’t you called me back?”
And then I’m on Sam Anderson’s page, where his status update reads, “Sam Anderson is…sick of all the bullshit.”
His page is filled with comments from other New Mexico State fraternity brothers:
“What’s going on with Nationals, Sam?”
“Are we getting closed?”
“Are they pulling our charter? This is fucked up, man!”
“BULLSHIT IS RIGHT, SAM!”
“Hey, did you ever talk with our consultant? He said he’d help us out, right?”
And farther down Sam Anderson’s page:
“Sam was tagged in Maria Angelos’ album: JUAREZ.”
And yes, I should have known that they would be Facebook friends.
And there are thumbnail-sized pictures of Sam and Maria hugging in a dark bar, crowds behind them, blackness and multi-colored club lights co-existing in the background, and I remember taking this picture.
I click on Maria’s online “JUAREZ” photo album: 85 total photos.
And as the images load, I see my own face developing, pixel by pixel. Corona in one hand. Another image: Coronas in each hand. Another: arm at Maria’s waist. Another: my face on her face, my tongue in her mouth. One photo where the two of us hold tequila shots in a toast, and another photo where the two of us are tilting the shot glasses back and the tequila is rushing into our mouths. And her captions tell the world all that the photographs have left to mystery: “And this was my first college lesson about never trusting men,” and “Charles Washington, the esteemed Nu Kappa Epsilon fraternity consultant, buying drinks for an 18 year old!!!” and “Never let a man sleep in your dorm room, or he’ll steal your clothes!” and there I am in the baby T and boxer shorts, the morning after Juarez, stunned face, surrounded by the purple and pink nightmare of Maria’s bedroom. Nothing I can do to erase this. Only a matter of time, wasn’t it?
*
The next morning, I know for sure what I’ve got to do.
After I’ve re-organized my suitcase—any Fun Nazi business cards now thrown into the trash, everything neat, just the way it was two months ago—I make another phone call. Dr. Vernon at Bowling Green State University.
“Yes,” he answers. “And who is this?”
“Charles Washington,” I say. “The consultant. We met last week.”
“Ahh. Charles Washington. On a Saturday?”
“Your contact sheet had your cell phone number. Did I catch you at a bad time?”
“I’m very busy today, actually. I’m supposed to meet up with a friend in a few minutes.”
Then: silence.
I’ve been pacing the room for the last few minutes, trying to script what I might say to the man who could offer me a second chance, a new future. I walk quicker, flipping through the pages in my mind, searching. “I was wondering about the CSP program,” I say. “If there are openings for the Spring semester?”
“One,” he says.
“One.”
“One in Spring, and one in Summer,” he says. “We’ve already got applications for next Fall, and it’s going to be extremely competitive.”
“I want to do this. Can I…what do I have to do to get that spot?”
“Well. I need to know that you’re serious.”
“I’m serious,” I say. “I need to get out of here. Out of consulting. Out of my car.”
“Grad school isn’t easy. Our program isn’t easy.”
“Listen. I just had my clothes stolen out of the shower at Purdue, okay? Chased through the hallways, kids taking pictures of me. Somehow, I don’t think grad school is going to present the same challenges.” And now I’ve stopped at the hotel room window, am peering into the parking lot at the hanging clothes and snap-shut cases in my Explorer, all that I’ve crammed into my traveling office. “I need to get out of this, and I am serious—serious, okay?—about doing something positive, something that’s going to, like, make a real difference. Serious.”
“All right,” he says. “I believe you.”
“So what happens if I…I mean, could I just drive out to Bowling Green this weekend?”
“Classes in the Spring are a bit premature, don’t you think?”
“Right, but—”
“And you’re not the only consultant we’ve targeted. The only one applying.”
“There are others?”
“You have potential,” he says. “But there are five or six that could be useful subjects for the program. Not enough spots for everyone.”
“Useful subjects,” I say. “What if I…what if I quit? What if I quit my job with the Headquarters and just started working with you right now? Like, even before classes? You said you had a grant to explore the national fraternities, right? I could quit. I could come right now.”
“No. You can’t quit.”
“I can call LaFaber right now. Tell him—”
“You can’t quit,” he repeats. “You won’t be a useful subject if you have less than a single semester of experience. No no no, Charles Washington. You need to finish out the Fall.”
“I don’t know if I can do that,” I say, and let the drapes fall shut.
I don’t know if I can smooth out the paper:
“You need to finish the Spring, also.”
“The Spring? But I want to apply now. I need to get out of here.”
“Are you really serious about this opportunity?” he asks, and for a moment I can almost hear the smile in his voice, the demanding lilt of those final words speckled with the same cruel delight as when Walter LaFaber asks a question that is really no question at all: just another chance to let everyone k
now who’s really in charge.
“Very serious,” I say.
“Then you’ll finish the semester. And you’ll lobby for that Illinois expansion in the Spring,” Dr. Vernon says. “Lobby hard.”
“You know about the Illinois colonization?”
“A small world we have here in higher education,” he says, again too gleeful, and I think of Grant Farmor, the Greek Advisor at Purdue, the kid who seemed to burst with excitement over the nitty gritty gossip of the national fraternity world. After he learned about the interest group, did he immediately call Dr. Vernon, fill him in as if he was Vernon’s little frontier outpost spy? Or has Dr. Vernon known all along, even before Farmor told him, even before Farmor told me, even before I met with Dr. Vernon last week, even before…even before I was sent on an emergency visit to close the University of Illinois chapter to begin with? How long has Dr. Vernon known? How much does he know?
“I don’t know that there’s going to be an expansion, not officially,” I try. “No one at Headquarters has told me anything about it. For God’s sake, I still have the old charter in the back seat of my car.”
“Oh, it’s coming, the colonization,” he says. “No doubt about it. Just convince your superiors that you would make a phenomenal Lead Expansion Consultant at Illinois. You closed the chapter, after all, so you’d make the perfect consultant to organize the colonization.”
“I…I’ll try.”
“Get that position, and you’ve got a guaranteed spot here for summer,” he says.
“If not?”
“We won’t talk about that,” Dr. Vernon says, lower by several octaves. “We want to document the inner workings of these colonizations, from a national fraternity perspective. Everything. In order to change the culture, we’ve got to change the institutions.”
“Change the institutions,” I say.