by W. R. Bolen
“One of you was spotted leaving your dorm today,” he finally muttered.
The basement door opened again and three other actives entered carrying what looked like huge bags. Mr. Weston let out a huge belch and went on talking like he knew they were coming.
“You’re an embarrassment to this fraternity, and you’re a fucking stain on my reputation as pledgemaster. I’m going to watch you do bows and toes on fucking lava rocks until one of you fesses up. If you confess, then the rest of your pledge brothers will stop suffering. We’ll sit here all fucking night if we have to!”
Mr. Weston flicked on the lights and the safety of darkness could no longer hide the fear in our eyes. Mr. Harris, Mr. Stevens, and Mr. Brewster were walking up and down the line dumping lava rocks at our feet.
“Does anyone want to confess?” asked Mr. Weston. Nobody said a word.
“Then get the fuck down!”
I dropped to the ground and tried to grind my arms through the layers of lava rocks to find the comfort of dirt, but there were too many. I felt the calluses on my elbows tear immediately. Mr. Weston guzzled down more whiskey from his handle as he stomped to the front of the line with the paddle at his side.
“You’re supposed to go straight to class and come straight back!” he yelled. “You’re just not getting it! I’m going to have to make you understand. Adams, do you confess?”
Adams, the first in our pledge class alphabetically, didn’t have an answer.
“I said do you fucking confess!” said Mr. Weston. “No? Then stand the fuck up, pull down your jeans, bend over, and grab your nuts.”
“Be sure and pull those little raisins forward,” said Mr. Harris.
I looked up from the floor to see Adams bent over at the waist with his hands gripping his balls as Mr. Weston reared back with the paddle and then swung it forward with the weight of his entire body behind it. The crack of wood against bare ass flesh sent chills up my already aching spine. Adams jolted forward but managed to stay on his feet.
“Get the fuck back down on your elbows!” Mr. Weston yelled. “Who’s next?”
One by one he asked for a confession and delivered a powerful stroke of thick wooden justice to the backside of each member of my pledge class.
It felt like we were on bows and toes for an eternity, and my legs started violently shaking with fatigue. Twice I had to quickly drop my knees to the ground for a momentary breather. By the time it was my turn to face the paddle I decided there was no reason to wait for Mr. Weston’s question, stood to my feet, and felt blood drip down my left forearm as I pulled down my jeans to expose my cheeks.
“Looks like someone has a guilty conscience,” said Mr. Weston. “It was you, wasn’t it, Prescott?”
“Sir no sir,” I responded firmly as I pulled my nuts forward to keep them from getting clipped.
I closed my eyes as he loaded back in his stance.
“You think you can sleep in your dorm while the rest of your pledge brothers suffer?” he asked.
“Sir no sir!”
The power of the wood colliding with my ass sent a shockwave of pain through my hamstrings and lower back. I grunted in agony, but held in my screams like my pledge brothers before me.
“Was it you, Prescott?” Mr. Stevens yelled in my face.
“Sir no sir!”
Mr. Weston swung again and the paddle landed flush against my left cheek. It went numb as I stumbled forward.
“My arms are getting tired!” he yelled. “Will you take one more paddle to save the asses of the eight pieces of shit in line behind you?”
“Sir yes sir!” I said without hesitation.
“Then assume the fucking position!”
For the grand finale he stepped back three feet and crow-hopped into his swing to make sure he got his money’s worth. I couldn’t hold in my pain and yelped like an injured dog on impact as the strength of the blow broke the paddle in half on my ass, along with my skin. I immediately lost feeling in both of my legs from the knees up. The top half of the fragmented paddle hit the ground behind me as excruciating pain shot up through my backbone and sent me toppling over face first into the dirt.
“WOOOOH!” Mr. Weston howled. “That’s what I’m fucking talking about!”
He stood above me like a hunter over his kill as I held my hands behind my back, covering my battered cheeks.
“Everybody on your feet! Pledge Prescott’s ass just earned you thirty minutes to figure out which one of you is the traitor while I go find another paddle. When I come back I want some fucking answers.”
I refused to uncover my ass as Rogers and Parsells pulled me to my knees and Mr. Weston stomped up the stairs with his handle of liquor turned upright. The others followed him, and when they shut the door I pulled my jeans back up slowly.
Mr. Weston returned thirty minutes later with a paddle twice as thick as the one he’d broken over my backside, and he only had to ask once.
“Who the fuck went to their dorm?”
All thirty-nine of us answered as one.
“SIR, I DID, SIR!”
He smiled, set the paddle down on the table, turned, and started back up the stairs, stopping on the top step to turn around and address us.
“You pieces of shit are finally starting to see how things work around here,” he said. “I might even let you get some sleep tonight.”
That last part was a lie. We were left alone for no more than ten minutes before the first group of three actives came in and lined us up. They drank the entire time as they quizzed us on the lives of actives in the fraternity, made us recite the Greek alphabet, and punished the entire pledge class every time someone got an answer wrong. We did bows and toes, wall sits, bear crawls, push-ups, tuned the TV, and endured an endless verbal assault. They left when they’d had their fill, and just when we got comfortable being alone again another group of three came through the door and the madness started all over again. That vicious cycle continued all night, and we were still being hazed when Mr. Weston came in and announced that it was 7:50 a.m.
On Day 3 almost everyone was “going to class,” but actually going back to their dorms, power napping and eating in solitude. We had learned that no matter what we did the hazing would continue, so why not get some fucking food in our stomachs and a few winks of sleep? We couldn’t shower, of course; that would be too obvious.
That afternoon I borrowed Monte’s key and got a flawless hour and a half of shuteye during my two-hour block of classes. I dreamt that I was back at home, swimming in my parents’ pool without a worry in the world, but when my alarm went off the rest of Hell Week was still waiting for me. I took the back exit from Manor to make sure I wasn’t seen leaving.
After a few more hours of bitch work, on our third night we were separated into four groups. We learned more about the founding fathers, memorized sacred passages, and took turns reciting parts of the pledge handbook. We were tested repeatedly, and anytime one of us forgot an answer we were punished while a team of actives screamed in our faces until we remembered correctly, as usual.
That was the easy part.
Around 2 a.m. Mr. Weston lined us up in the main hallway of the first floor.
“You are beginning a three-night test of character that will show if you have the qualities required to be my brother,” he said. “Tonight you will experience the Alpha Funhouse. Get down to the fucking basement!”
We ran toward the basement in unison, maintaining our alphabetical order like a well-trained military platoon. It was a cloudy night, so very little moonlight made its way inside our dungeon, and I bounced off a few guys before making my way between Parsells and Rogers up against the back wall. Then the door at the top of the stairs slammed shut and I could barely make out my hand as I held it out in front of me.
“Fuck,” I heard Trendall whisper. His anxiety had worsened with his lack of sleep.
I stared into the abyss as my eyes adjusted, listening to the panting of my pledge brothers and waiting for
the actives to come screaming into the room, when suddenly I felt something crawling up my leg. I reached down and slapped it off. Then I heard Rogers gasp.
“What the fuck was that?” he whispered.
My brain caught up with my ears and I realized the room was chirping. The fucking basement was crawling with crickets.
The sound system turned on and “Hip to Be Square” blared through the speakers. I brushed another cricket off my shoulder and cupped my hand over Rogers’s ear.
“This fucking song is going to play all night!”
“No shit!” he yelled back.
It was psychological warfare. The song restarted five times before I finally began to snap. When the beat kicked back on for the sixth time I felt my right eye twitching with tension. Every few seconds another cricket jumped onto me, and eventually I stopped caring enough to shake them off. They must have bought thousands from a pet store and released them while we were learning upstairs. I started stomping aimlessly at the ground below me, hoping that I’d kill some in the process.
After an hour or so I felt Parsells slump back into the wall and sink to the ground. I leaned over to him.
“What the fuck are you doing? Mr. Weston could come down here any second.”
“He’s not coming,” he yelled back. “I’m not standing up all fucking night for nothing.”
He was probably right, and if one of us was sitting we might as well all sit. I went to the front of the line and one by one told the guys it was okay to take a breather. Some protested, but they caved when they saw the guys to their left and right sitting down.
After a while madness began to take hold, and Rogers and Parsells sang along with Huey Lewis and the News on either side of me. I joined in and heard someone to my left scream out in annoyance, his voice barely carrying over the blasting music. The song played exactly fifteen times an hour for five straight hours while crickets crawled all over us. Seventy-five straight plays. It was pure hell.
When morning came and the music finally shut off, I heard Mr. Weston’s megaphone booming through the door.
“It’s 7:50, kids, time to get to your eight o’clock classes. The rest of you, get back to work.”
Throughout the entire day, both in class and while I worked back at the house, “Hip to Be Square” was stuck in my head.
When Night 4 came I could tell something was different. Mr. Brewster even asked me how I was holding up.
“Sir?” I responded.
“I said, how you are feeling?”
I just nodded, because my brain was unable to compute what was happening. He shook his head, looked at me like I was crazy, and walked away.
That night we were locked in the entertainment room and forced to watch The Shining at maximum volume while smells from the actives working in the kitchen next door seeped through the walls. We knew exactly what was coming, but none of us dared to bring it up.
Eventually Mr. Harris came in shouting.
“Let’s go, motherfuckers! All work and no play makes Jack a fucking pledge! Down to the basement! Go! Go! Go! Go!”
We jogged out, and on my way past the kitchen the foul smell of their cooking raped my nostrils. We headed downstairs and I saw that another large wooden table had been set up with two thirty-two-gallon trash cans on either side of it. Mr. Weston was standing between the two tables in a chef’s hat and a red apron that had KISS THE COOK printed across the chest in red letters.
“Gentlemen!” he said. “Your reservation for thirty-nine at the Alpha Cafeteria is ready.”
Panic didn’t set in. My stomach didn’t even churn. The receptors in my brain were too tired to communicate emotion. The fight-or-flight reaction had been shut off. I simply filed into my spot, stared up at the ceiling, and awaited my fate.
Actives filed into the room until it was packed, and some spectators were forced to position themselves on the staircase. Mr. Stevens and Mr. Brewster entered wearing medical masks and carrying a giant cauldron that was still giving off steam. They placed it down onto one of the tables as Mr. Atwater and Mr. Harris followed behind them with another huge pot, also wearing masks that covered their mouths and noses.
“I have twenty trays here,” Mr. Weston said as he handed them out. “Two of you per tray, and Rumsen will have his own tray because he looks hungry.”
Parsells and I were paired up, and we glanced at each other as we each grabbed one end of what would serve as our plate for the night.
“We have prepared a lovely five-course meal for you, and you’re going to eat every fucking bite of it.”
The actives laughed and clapped together, sipping beers, cracking jokes, and smoking cigarettes as they looked on. Mr. Weston rang a dinner bell to quiet the room and get everyone’s attention.
“For your appetizer I’ve prepared a rare delicatessen,” he said.
He picked up a large Tupperware container from under one of the tables, walked down the line, and placed two small round mystery treats on each tray. I stared down at the white ball that appeared to be sprinkled with some kind of seasoning.
“Dig in,” said Mr. Weston. The roar of the actives filled the room with the stench of terrible inevitability.
I figured I might as well get it over with, so I grabbed the ball and put it in my mouth whole. It was much harder than I expected, with a horribly spicy taste. I crunched my teeth down through it and chewed as fast as I could, praying that my taste buds would malfunction as every muscle in my face tightened.
“Swallow those balls!” someone yelled. “Let them slide deep down into your throat.”
“What you’re enjoying is a ball of ginger sprinkled with Copenhagen snuff,” said Mr. Weston. “I hope you like it, because that’s the best fucking thing you’re going to taste all night.”
It was fucking disgusting. Rogers gagged next to me as I forced myself to swallow the last remaining bit.
“Look at this!” said Mr. Weston, carrying a gallon milk jug filled with brown liquid. “I was kind enough to make you all a smoothie to wash it down. It had better be completely fucking empty by the time it gets to Washington.”
Adams took his swig and started coughing as he passed the jug. A few seconds later I heard the first splatter of throw-up hit the dirt.
“Don’t you dare throw up on my beautiful basement floor!” said Mr. Stevens. “You throw up in the goddamn trash cans. That’s why we brought them down here, you fucking retard.”
Adams stumbled toward the closest trash can, supported himself with his hands on either side, and spewed a brown river through the air into the bin. The room filled with the same resounding “ohhhhh” that you hear during the goriest scene in a horror film.
By the time the jug got to me it was a little under halfway empty, and there were only eight guys to go. I was going to have to take a huge hit. Adams was the only one who had barfed, and I figured he had just mentally psyched himself out, so I held my nose and took a gulp.
“Chug that shit down, Prescott!” yelled Mr. Harris.
It was the worst taste I had ever experienced in my life, and I caught a burp in my mouth to keep from vomiting. The actives rooted me on.
“Don’t fuck your pledge brothers!”
I took another deep breath, pressed the plastic to my lips, and opened my throat. After I’d taken as much as I could I quickly passed the jug on to Rogers and put both hands on the top of my head, taking slow breaths to calm my gag reflex. Luckily, when the jug reached Washington at the end of the line he only had to take a few sips to polish it off.
“I hope you enjoyed that refreshment,” said Mr. Weston. “That was two days’ worth of my dip spit mixed with milk, some pubes, and one clump of my dog’s shit.”
Trendall lunged toward the trash can and puked while several actives huddled around him and informed him that he had the stomach of a prepubescent girl.
“It’s time for the second course,” announced Mr. Weston. He grabbed two brown grocery bags from under the other table and started p
assing out sandwiches.
It looked totally normal from the outside, and there was no fucking way I was going to open it for an examination, so I took a huge bite out of the middle and immediately spit it back onto our tray.
“You eat that shit off of your tray, Prescott!” yelled Mr. Brewster. “Every single fucking bite! If you spit it out, you eat it back up!”
The sandwich was packed with cigarettes and sprinkled with some kind of incredibly slimy pepper dressing. Dry tobacco sucked the moisture from my mouth, and chewing was damn-near impossible. I begged my body to create more saliva as I tried to swallow another bite.
“That’s an entire pack of Marlboros between two delicious slices of wheat bread, accompanied by a light sauce made up of green jalapeño Tabasco and vinegar,” said Mr. Weston.
I fought to get another bite down, and it slowly scraped its way through my throat to my grumbling stomach. Rogers nudged me in the arm as he stumbled forward and threw up all over his own boots before he could reach the trash can.
“In the fucking trash can!” Mr. Stevens yelled, pushing Rogers in the back.
Rogers stumbled closer, but the next blast came flying out of his gullet too soon, and he painted the side of the trash can with yack. That caused a chain reaction. Monte rushed over to the other trash can and launched his insides into it, and Trendall followed behind him, holding his stomach as he ran. The actives cheered victoriously every time another one of our stomachs rejected the Hell Week cuisine.
Parsells was dry-heaving between every bite as we battled to finish off the cig sandwiches, but Mr. Weston was ready to move on.
“It’s time for the main course!”
He motioned to Mr. Harris and Mr. Brewster, and they picked up the giant cauldron while Mr. Weston wielded a ladle.
“Who’s ready for some enchiladas?” Mr. Weston yelled as he started serving. “Eat it with your fucking hands. You don’t deserve spoons.”
The cauldron wasn’t even halfway to me when Adams headed to the trash can again. Christopher, who was third in line, couldn’t hold it down either and followed behind, unloading the contents of his stomach all over Adams’s back. I watched as Adams’s face turned green.