Goat

by Brad Land

  I OPEN BEN’S door sweating and the silver knob slips between my fingers. I wipe my hands on my shirt and try again. Grease has seeped through the egg roll’s white wrapping. Ben is still in his room. The television bounces off his glasses. I step inside and Will follows quietly behind. I give Ben the cigarettes and the egg roll. He thumps the Marlboros into an open palm, chokes the tobacco down close to the filter. He opens the pack and Dave and I stand motionless waiting for something to happen. Ben looks up. Cigarette dangling from his lips. Hands cupped. One thumb perched on a pink lighter.

  What? he says. You can leave. He swats us away with one hand like we’re insects. I hear the egg roll fall with a thud into his metal wastebasket.

  ON THE SECOND floor Will sweeps Patrick Wells’s room and I fold his newly washed clothes.

  Get up there, goat, Patrick says, and I look up from the clothes and see Will standing on a chair beside the wardrobe. He puts his feet on Patrick’s shoulders, climbs up into the top five-by-three-foot compartment, and it takes a minute, Will’s legs out over the front, bent over with his chest almost touching his thighs, he has to twist himself to fit. When Will’s inside, his back touches the top, his head’s between his legs, he looks like a folded piece of paper. Patrick laughs because it is funny to see Will all mashed up seven feet from the floor. He looks around and tries to find something to make me do and when he can’t, he turns up to Will, says fuck it get down, goat, and see if anybody else needs you two fucks. Will throws his legs over the side of the compartment and puts his feet on my shoulders. He wobbles trying to squeeze himself out, twists until he can jump down. Patrick tells us to get the fuck out of his room because he has to study. No one else on the second floor needs anything and Will and I feel like we came out lucky.

  ON THE THIRD floor we wash out seven plastic Miller Lite cups filled with tobacco spit in the bathroom sinks. There are three sinks. Will uses the sink on the far right and I use the middle one. The brother gives us Dawn to make the suds. The bathroom always reeks. The dark brown spit clumps in the sink, the water does not drain and the spit and tobacco all swirl around with hair. I gag from the smell. I leave the middle sink and move to the far left sink. Will says gross, that’s really gross, and I know I have to reach through the water and unclog the hair and the spit because someone will ream me if I don’t. I shove my hand into the water and feel for the drain, pull the hair out and run to the toilet to throw it in. I fling the blue door open, lean in and the hair splashes in the water. I turn around and see myself in the long mirror above the sinks. What are you doing? I ask myself. Shake my head back and forth. I stand crouched over with my hands on my knees and tell myself to breathe. Will has suds up to his elbows and he asks me what’s wrong. I just look at him. A brother comes in with four plates and some forks all dried with food. Tells us while we’re at it, why don’t we just go ahead and wash these too. He looks into the drained middle sink. There is still tobacco lining the edges.

  You better wash that shit down, he says. Points. Looks at himself in the mirror, brushes his red hair with a black plastic comb and leans forward. He presses two fingers against his cheek and mashes a pimple. Fuck, he says, looking at the blood he’s left on his hands. He takes some toilet paper and blots his face on his way out.

  THE CUPS ARE clean and dry when we bring them back to the brother. He says good work, goats, takes the top cup from the stack and spits tobacco over the lip. It streaks brown the whole way down and the brother tells us to leave, that he appreciates it mightily. There’s only one other brother at home on the third floor and he’s studying so he doesn’t want anything.

  WE LEAVE DANIEL HALL tired and filthy from the work, stumble into the thick air and Will turns, looks at me and breathes a long sigh. Places his hands on his slim hips and says that Ben Moore is a real bastard. I nod.

  Fuck him, I say.

  Yeah, Will says. Fuck him. He’s a shitfuck.

  What?

  Shitfuck. Nothing. Nevermind.

  I look at him and grin, give a feeble wave of my hand and turn to go up to my room.

  That night I dream of shadows. Nothing coherent, just this darkness at the doors and windows. I wake up sweating, still dirty from the hall check. Heart pounding. Go over to the window and check to see if it’s shut. Check the door lock. The television flashing. I sit on my bed and stare at the colors and I know then that it was the smile and the breath I was dreaming about. Or brothers. Whichever. But it doesn’t really matter. They’re the same thing.

  I wait for sunlight before I sleep.

  IT’S MY SECOND week and the fraternity owns me. The brothers are everywhere, waiting for me to slip. I walk to class and look for brothers. I eat and look for brothers. I’m in my room waiting on the phone to ring or for a fist to pound on my door. I sleep and now the smile and the breath are always in my dreams, dark and faceless, screaming, leering down at me and I am a quivering breathless child.

  Late in the afternoon I dress in a navy blue sport coat (the only one I own), a white oxford shirt that fits loosely on my shoulders, a red tie and brown loafers. This is what we’re supposed to wear. Personal appearance is important. The pledge master tells us that he doesn’t want to see any fucking sloppy pledges and that brown shoes are correct, white or blue shirts are correct, solid or striped ties are correct, but, above all, he doesn’t want to see any jeans or shorts or hats or any other weird shit because those are for Yankee fucks and faggots. We wear these things like we are soldiers, like they are holy, like we have never known any other clothes before.

  I LEAVE MY room at six o’clock and hurry over to Tillman Hall. Tillman is the most recognizable spot on campus. Its clock tower looks over the burnt-orange brick buildings and can be seen from any point on campus. It rings out the hours in dull one-note clangs. I climb the stairs to the second floor and find room two sixteen. I have the number scribbled on my palm. Most of my pledge brothers are standing around nervously, still wary of any place we are told to gather. The air inside the room heavy like an old church. Dust moves through the room’s muffled light like tiny dancing cells and every time I step on the faded green carpet clouds sprout behind my feet. Portraits of old men with white hair and black robes line the walls. They surround us, each of them austere and brilliant, their eyes fixed on every person here and we cannot move, we cannot breathe without someone watching us.

  Will Fitch stands by himself behind the other fifteen pledges, pacing around a brown wooden chair. Eyes fixed on the floor. His blue shirt is wrinkled and his tie dangles loosely from the buttoned collar. His cheeks glow like he’s been facing a stiff wind. I sit down in the chair and he continues to pace around me. He doesn’t look up.

  So, I say. Are you okay, man? He keeps walking. The circles become wider. He shrugs his shoulders.

  Yeah, he says, brings a hand to his head, weaves fingers through thick blond hair. I’m just, I don’t know, this is hard. I feel weird.

  I don’t know what to say. I want to tell him that I feel weird too, that my stomach is in knots but I just watch him pace and say nothing. I cross my arms over my chest. Dave Reed talking quietly to another pledge. Everyone speaking in hushed tones. Like we are in the presence of something holy. It fills the room in a low hum.

  Patrick Wells enters the room from a door directly in front of me between two glaring old men. The door falls shut behind him and he just stands there looking at us. Everyone turns to face him. Our hands fall to our fronts, palms laid flat over each other, and we are standing and breathing the heavy air, waiting for his mouth to open and for words to part the silent room.

  Patrick leads us into a large white room. Sunlight streams through the tall windows, lands in shafts on the floor. A crowd of brothers stands at the back and they follow us with their eyes, thirty heads turning at once. The pledge master is standing at the front of the room underneath a large portrait of an old man. White hair pulled back. Black robe. Mouth in a slit. A gold plate beneath the picture says Thomas Green Clemson. He wa
s the founder of the university. The look on his face says it all. That this is sacred. There is a pulpit directly below the portrait with what looks like a Bible laid open. Will in front of me. Every so often I see his right hand twitch at his side. We march in, all seventeen pledges, until Patrick stops the line and we turn to face the front. I can feel the brothers’ stares and I wonder if Brett is there burning holes in our backs like everyone else. I do not listen when the pledge master begins to talk. The air is pulsing and I know that I should be listening solemnly but all I can think of is how the words mean nothing, that somehow this is all wrong.

  All of the pledges bend down to one knee and huddle shoulder to shoulder in a circle. There’s an open Bible on the floor in the middle of us, and we all place our hands together on top of it. Our eyes closed, the Bible underneath all the sweaty palms. We swear allegiance to God and Kappa Sigma and I crack one eyelid slightly even though I know someone might see. Will mouths the words, his dry lips shift against each other awkwardly like he can’t keep up. His eyes flutter.

  I close my eyes again and move my lips like I mean every word.

  The pledge class says amen and stands. We all turn around at the same time and face the brothers at the back of the room. The brothers clap, all smiles. One by one a brother takes a pledge aside and sticks a pin onto his lapel. No one comes for me and Brett is nowhere. My pledge brothers spread away from me and at the end I am the only one standing, looking from face to face, at the ground, at anything to break the awkwardness of standing alone in the center of a room. Patrick Wells touches Dave Reed on the back and I see Dave jerk then smile. Patrick comes over and pulls me aside.

  Listen, Robert Tinsley, he’s your big brother, he couldn’t make it today, class or something, so I’m gonna pin you, he says. I don’t even know Robert Tinsley, and can’t figure out why someone who knows me isn’t my big brother. Patrick’s meaty hands fish around through his jacket and he pulls out a pin, pulls my right lapel forward a bit and weaves the pin through the thick navy blue cloth. Pats it gently with an open palm, looks me over and says that it looks damn good on me. I look down, rub the pin softly with my thumb. It is so small. I look for Brett again. I look at Patrick.

  Where’s Brett? I say.

  You know him, he says. He does what he wants to. I guess he didn’t want to come.

  I nod. And then I squint through the bent shaft of light that is still heating my face and shoulders, look out the window, trying to find my dorm but everything is white and dense and I can’t make it past the windowsill.

  EVERYONE BUT WILL FITCH is gone when I step outside of Tillman into the late afternoon. He’s sitting on the front steps. Loosening his tie. I plop down next to him. He looks at me and nods.

  Who’s your big brother? I say.

  Chance McInnis, he says. Still looking straight ahead. I nod and he doesn’t say anything back.

  Mine wasn’t here today, I say. Class or something.

  Will picks up a leaf from beneath his feet. Starts tearing one side. Picks at the leaf delicately like he’s performing surgery and I see his right hand twitch again. He holds the leaf in his left hand and shakes his right one a few times. I don’t say anything about the twitching. I just figure if he wanted to he’d tell me. The sun, a tangerine slit on the horizon, looks like it’s being stretched on both sides. It spills over the small hills behind Lake Hartwell, casting long shadows, and everything seems to be exhaling. After a silence Will turns and looks at me.

  Do you think you can do this? he says. I don’t know what to say.

  Well, I say, I don’t know. I mean it’s hard.

  Really hard, he says, leaning back into the steps. School is hard enough without all this.

  Quit, I say suddenly, like it’s that easy. He finishes with the leaf and throws the bare stem down.

  I can’t quit, he says.

  Why?

  Because I just can’t. The same reasons you don’t quit.

  I don’t know why I don’t quit.

  Yes, you do. Everybody does. If you quit what’s left? Studying? All you are is that guy who couldn’t do it and everywhere you go that’s what people are gonna think.

  Not everybody.

  I know not everybody but everywhere you go they’re gonna be there. It’s unavoidable. You can’t go to a party without seeing them and besides, who wants to go to the parties that they’re not at?

  Lots of people.

  That’s bullshit and you know it, he says. People that don’t matter go to those parties. These guys matter around here. He bends down and pulls his socks up around his pale ankles. I mean what would I be without this? he says. It’s the first time girls have paid attention to me like they do, you know? I nod because I know exactly what he means. It’s not like I’ve never had girlfriends before, he says, but with this it’s different. I know it’s shallow but I don’t think I’d be much if I didn’t go all the way through, and anyway pledging’s only three months and after that you can do whatever you want.

  You’re right, I say and he is. Will stands up and brushes himself off.

  I gotta go, he says. I look up and squint against the fading light.

  Gotta study, he says, reaching out his hand. I clasp it firmly and it doesn’t twitch. He walks down the steps and disappears around the side of Tillman. I bend down and take the bare stem that fell near my feet. Put it in my right pocket and for a long time I sit on the steps and let the orange light warm my face.

  8

  I OPEN THE DOOR to the Kappa Sigma hall quietly. Press in the silver bar gently and push forward. The outside air rushing in behind me. My pledge brother Kevin Brehm is leaning along the doorway of Dixon’s jumbled room, arms crossed, skinny legs peeking through his frayed olive shorts. Dixon calls him a faggot. Says that he hates him. Kevin takes his words like gifts. Dixon tells him to get the fuck out of his doorway.

  Bother someone else, he says when I pass by, his right hand swatting the air. I try not to look, walk with my head down but I can’t help glancing up. Something in me wants to see what will happen but Dixon doesn’t even look at me. I move quickly like I’ve avoided an accident and my heart is pounding against my rib cage and each step is in slow motion. I keep telling myself to just breathe and walk.

  When I reach Brett’s room I look back down toward Kevin and he waves, smiles a toothy grin, and I nod back but it’s a short nod because I’m scared of the hall. I wonder how he’s so at ease here. All smiles. He looks like a clothes hanger with his skinny neck and wide shoulders.

  I can see Dave Reed hovering in the doorway of Ben Moore’s room asking for an interview. A pledge has to interview all the brothers by the end of pledge season. The interview consists of simple questions: Who is your favorite band? What is your favorite color? Most brothers use this to get pledges to do something, like clean their rooms or fold their clothes. Dave’s clutching his composition notebook tightly against his chest like he’s holding a baby. Ben tells Dave that he’s a faggot just like all his faggot pledge brothers but that he’s especially a faggot because his hair makes him look like a bitch and he is laughing and yelling that Dave is a fucking faggot faggot faggot. The truth is that Dave is a faggot with hair like a girl because Ben Moore says it’s so and we are pledges and there is nothing else.

  IN HIS ROOM Brett plays the Refreshments on his stereo and it’s good because it’s minor chords and girls and drinking and being lonely and because sometimes it’s good to be sad. Brett lights a cigarette, pulls on it hard, flicks red ash into a beer can and leans back into his burnt-red couch. Smoke fills the room. Filters into sunlight that streams through his grimy window, curls like thick fingers toward the ceiling. I reach for a tuft of smoke and it drips between my fingers.

  Brett looks at me like I’m crazy then turns back toward the cracked wall. He stares a lot. At walls. People. Anything. Something will catch his eye and he’ll just sit there with this look like it hurts and it’s not just his eyes but everything, his clenched mouth and hands, his c
urved back. I lean against his wardrobe.

  So, I say, looking around the room.

  So what? he says. Smoke leaks from his mouth.

  So how are you?

  Me? I’m okay. He doesn’t look okay but I don’t tell him. He lays his left hand flat on one leg and with his other hand starts tracing the grooves between his knuckles. We just sit there and everything is quiet except for the music and the hum of his air conditioner.

  I want to leave, he says, never looking up from his hands.

  Leave? Leave where? I say.

  Here. This place. I’m so bored with myself. With everything.

  But you can’t leave.

  He looks at me for a moment and then turns back toward his knuckles.

  I can, he says. Leans back and pulls from his cigarette, holds the smoke in his chest like he wants every bit. The look on his face scares me because I know that it’s the truth. I know he can leave if he wants.

  All right, motherfuckers, Dixon yells. I look around my brother’s doorway and then back at Brett hoping he’ll know what’s about to happen but he keeps staring at the wall and blowing smoke.

  Every one of you fuckers hiding needs to come out right now, he says. Dixon’s voice bouncing off the walls. I step out into the hall and see Dave lingering in Ben Moore’s doorway. I look at him like he needs to be out here with me but he just peeks around the corner and pulls back. Dave gets shoved out of the room, comes stumbling toward me. Drops his notebook and it makes a grinding sound skirting across the dirt in the hall. Dixon has Kevin by his skinny neck, one hand locked just below the ears, the other held straight up like he’s about to say something important and Kevin is still smiling.

  Line up, faggots, Dixon says. Ben Moore watches Dave bend to pick up his notebook. He knocks it from him again, and laughs, and this time it flies toward Dixon, who kicks it. The notebook opens in a flurry of white pages.