Fubar

by Ron Carpol

  “Now the bad news: After I burn down your shop, I’m going to your trailer on Stewart Street, space 425 and burn down that fucking trailer too. And you know when?”

  She shook her head weakly.

  “When you’re sound asleep on your futon, you dirty blackmailing cunt!”

  32

  A Dead Man’s Hand

  8:00 P.M.

  ADAMS WAS SMILING, STANDING THERE IN THE PLEDGE DORM, looking down at all of us seated on the cold floor. He looked directly at me.

  “So far, Bookie’s got a lot of tips, but nothing solid. A woman called half an hour ago claiming that the person in the photo is her son and she’s bringing him here sometime tonight.”

  I didn’t answer as Adams looked over at Batman and Vysell who sat there silently.

  “Anyway,” he continued, “tonight’s Pledge Elimination Night, the worst night for the pledges because you guys are going to vote out one of your own pledge brothers.”

  Everybody was wearing their regular clothes except me. For some reason when I got here tonight Parker made me change into the same Marine Corps camouflage uniform that they made me wear on Costume Night.

  I kept trying to sneak looks at Rawlings for some kind of sign to see what side he was on. He didn’t know it but he held the fate of my five million in his forty-five IQ brain. It was unfair as hell. And Grossberg was a big question mark, too. He couldn’t ride the fence forever either.

  Grossberg looked real concerned about something. “What if we don’t vote anybody out?” he asked Adams. “What then?”

  Adams took another drag from his cigarette. He was holding it as usual, like he was cupping a joint. He exhaled slowly, looking directly into Grossberg’s eyes. “It happened once, about two years ago.”

  “So what’d you do?”

  “We passed a rule that if a pledge doesn’t vote anybody out, he’s the pledge that gets voted out.”

  “Shit,” Grossberg muttered, looking away. “That’s not fair.”

  “Yeah, well, look who’s in the White House.”

  Adams reached into the front pocket of his red plaid shirt and removed some playing cards held together with a rubber band. “I’ll call out everybody’s name and when I do, take the card I hand you.”

  He reached into his other shirt pocket and took out a small sheet of paper. One-by-one he called out each guy’s name and handed each of us a card face down. Mine was the eight of clubs.

  He held up the white sheet of paper for an instant. “We got a list of what pledge got what card so we can see how each of you voted. But keep the vote secret among each other.”

  From the back pocket of his khakis, he removed a bunch of black felt tip pens also held together with a rubber band. He passed them out too.

  “I’m leaving now. Meanwhile, each of you guys write on the top of the card the pledge’s name that you want kicked out. I’ll be back in a few minutes to pick them up. Then we’ll start Daisies and The Ritual.” He left the room and closed the door behind him.

  The tension in the room was electric. Both factions were divided by an invisible line on the floor with Rawlings as the pivotal vote, too dumb to know it, and with Grossberg still a big question mark.

  Grossberg stood up facing everybody. “They’re testing us. I’m sure of it.”

  “But what if they’re not?” Rickshaw Boy asked. “You willing to get booted to find out?”

  Grossberg bit his lip as he looked around. “We’ve come a long way together. I really like all you guys. I’m not voting anybody out. The hell with that. I’ll take my chances.”

  “Me too,” Dung squeaked. “I love all you guys. I’m not voting nobody out either.”

  “Me either,” I said, mimicking Dung. Then one-at-a-time, I looked at the group that hated me. “I love all you guys.”

  “I agree with Grossberg,” Castle said. “They’re bluffing.”

  “So what do we do?” Batman asked.

  “Let’s each guy write nobody on the card,” I suggested, looking around. “They’ll never kick everybody out; especially Grossberg. He held the whole pledge class together all semester.”

  Adams walked back in before anybody said anything else. “Give me the cards,” he said, reaching his outstretched hand toward Castle who was next to him.

  “We didn’t vote yet,” Grossberg said. “We were just about to.”

  Adams looked impatient. “Everybody do it now. Spread out a little so nobody sees what anybody else writes. When you’re done, leave the card face-down on the floor. I’ll pick them up. Remember: voting out nobody means that it’s your ass that goes.”

  We made a good showing of moving away from everybody else and wrote the victim’s name on the card, turning it face-down afterward. Adams bent over, picking up each card carefully so as not to show us what was written on it.

  As soon as he collected them, he put them into his shirt pocket. “Everybody go downstairs and stop at the bottom.”

  When we got to the bottom landing, Adams said, “Grossberg, you get in the front of the line. Everybody else behind him single-file.”

  I was about in the middle of the line, behind Batman and in front of Lyman.

  As soon as we formed a line, Adams said, “Left hand on the left shoulder of the guy in front of you.” As soon as we did that, he stood in front of Grossberg, who put his left hand on Adams’ left shoulder. “Here’s the directions: as you walk up the stairs, you chant in unison: Pushing up the daisies, pushing up the daisies, where will I be in a hundred years from now? Let’s try it.”

  We slowly walked up the stairs saying that stupid chant.

  “When we get to the top of the stairs,” Adams called out, still leading the march, “stay in line, slowly turn around and go to the bottom. Then you turn around and start over again. And remember, all the time you march, you keep the chant going too.”

  We made one continuous round trip. “Stop,” Adams directed. As soon as we stopped, he asked, “Any questions?”

  “How long we got to do this?” Castle asked. “I’m tired already.”

  “Until the last guy’s Ritual is finished.”

  “What’s a Ritual?” Dung asked.

  “Where the actives question each pledge individually before the final vote.”

  “What if we get too tired to keep marching and chanting?” Castle-the-idiot, persisted.

  “Then you can stop and sit down and rest, then get a beer and then get the fuck out of here. Anyway, at least one guy’s getting kicked out tonight anyhow. Maybe more. Who knows?”

  Right when I almost forgot about Jody and his mother, Bookie came walking in from the Chapter Room smirking. He looked at all of us but at me the longest.

  “Lady who said she’s the faggot’s mother called again a few minutes ago. For the four grand reward, she’s driving all the way here from San Diego. Said she’s got some naked pictures of her son that somebody posted on the Internet. Christianson said that’s proof enough.”

  Fuck!

  _____

  It seemed like we’d been marching and chanting for a couple of hours already.

  “Time, Castle,” Grossberg called out.

  “Ten-twenty,” Castle answered from the back of the line.

  Adams came out of the Chapter Room and walked over to us. Naturally we stopped everything.

  “We’re starting the Ritual now.” He looked at Dung. “Come with me. You’re first.”

  As they were about to enter the Chapter Room, Adams looked over at us. “Keep marching and chanting.”

  Our movement was less than slow-motion and our voices were nothing but exhausted, mumbled whispers.

  _____

  Finally, Dung came out of the Chapter Room and closed the door behind him.

  “Time, Castle,” Grossberg called out again.

  “A little after ten-fifty.”

  Dung’s eyes were red and bloodshot. It was obvious he’d been crying. He walked slowly over to us, head down, like he was about to mount
the gallows steps.

  Our sound and movement now completely died. “What’d they ask?” everybody asked anxiously.

  He shook his head. “I’m out of here if I tell you anything.” He choked and swallowed before tears dripped down both cheeks. “I’m probably out of here anyway.”

  Adams came out again. “Dung, we told you to tell Hymen to get in here.”

  Lyman seemed glad to get off the stairs and almost too happy as he hurried toward the Chapter Room.

  “Keep it going!” Adams barked at us.

  While Lyman was still in the open doorway, he twisted his neck around, looked directly at me on the stairs and blew me a kiss! Then he followed Adams inside the Chapter Room and the door closed.

  That slit-eyed motherfucker made no secret that he was still out to destroy me!

  “On the stairs everybody,” rah-rah Grossberg called out, going to the front of the line. “Let’s march and chant some more.”

  We stopped at the upstairs landing and stomped on the floor a little to make it seem like we were marching. Everybody turned to Dung.

  “So what’d they ask you?” Rickshaw Boy demanded.

  “A lot of personal shit. Who’d I like best in the pledge class? Who’d I liked worst? What actives did I like best? And who I like worst? Shit like that.”

  “So, what’d you say?” Grossberg persisted. “Spit it out already.”

  “That I liked all the pledges and all the actives except Janus.”

  “What’d they say to that?” Vysell asked.

  Dung shrugged his shoulders. “Nothing, except they laughed. They laughed at everything. It was humiliating.”

  “What else they ask?” Castle demanded.

  “Was Jackie D the only girl I ever fucked?”

  “What’d you say?” Holmes piped up.

  Dung’s chin dropped to his chest. “Uh, yeah. But that wasn’t the worst question.”

  “What was?”

  “Did I ever have gay sex?”

  “What’d you say?” Rainey asked quickly.

  “I asked them if they meant in high school or college.”

  “What’d they say?” Rickshaw Boy asked, shaking his head a little, snickering.

  “Either one.”

  “How’d you answer the question?”

  “I told them the truth. I had to. Otherwise they said they’d kick me out.”

  “So what’d you tell them already?” Grossberg pressed.

  “I said, ‘Not in college but that I let a few guys suck me in high school. And I jacked-off a couple of guys there too. But that’s all,’” he said quickly, as if his stupid explanation was sufficient. “‘And nothing since college.’”

  “Fucking faggot,” I answered.

  “Fucking idiot,” Rawlings muttered.

  The rest of us looked at each other, shaking our heads, snickering, looking dumbfounded that Dung did what he did and then admitted it.

  “They ask you anything else?” Rainey asked.

  Dung breathed heavily, taking uneven breaths before he looked directly at me. “They asked me a bunch of questions about Stafford.”

  “Like what?” I demanded.

  He smiled a little. “Like what dirt does anybody have on you that they can use to kick you out.”

  “What’d you tell them?”

  “Only that I heard a rumor, that’s all.”

  “What?” I challenged.

  “A big surprise is coming. But I don’t know what.”

  “Who’d you hear it from?” I demanded.

  He shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know. Can’t remember if I overheard some actives or pledges talking about it.”

  _____

  For the next few hours we struggled up and down the stairs and mumbled the chant so softly it was almost impossible to hear. Meanwhile one guy after another took their turn in the Chapter Room. Consensus was that Dung was right; the actives were asking one stupid question after another, just trying to get humiliating answers like he gave. And most of the questions for everybody were nearly the same. Like they were reading from a script.

  Rickshaw Boy was in there now. I was being saved for last.

  Finally he came out, looking pale and exhausted. “They want you now Stafford,” he said in a hoarse whisper.

  _____

  The Chapter Room was almost completely dark as I walked in and closed the door. The only light was from the tiny flickering candle on a table in the corner.

  “Pledge attention!” Bookie’s voice barked out from the chair facing me.

  I got in that stupid position, standing on my tiptoes with my elbows back as far as possible while holding my palms upward, chest high, parallel to the floor. There was a small table in front of Bookie with another chair opposite Bookie’s. Resting on the table was a purple gooseneck lamp that was turned off.

  “Who’re you?” he yelled. “Sound off!”

  He didn’t have to fake anger. He had twenty thousand goddamn good reasons to be angry.

  “Kurt Stafford.”

  “Kurt Stafford, sir!” he screamed like a psycho.

  “Kurt Stafford, sir,” I answered matter-of-factly.

  My elbows were getting sore holding them so far back so I eased up a little and lowered my palms as much as possible without being obvious. I stood there in the nearly-dark room forcing a bland look on my face. No matter what, these guys weren’t going to get me riled up so I’d quit.

  “You know that at least one pledge is getting thrown out tonight?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Think that’s fair?”

  “Yeah. We knew the rules when we started.”

  “Who’s name did you write down on the card?”

  “Lyman’s.”

  “Your cousin?”

  “Yeah, but that Flipper’s adopted.”

  “Some family,” he snorted. “Now sit the fuck down.”

  As soon as I was seated, somebody turned on the purple lamp with the bright bulb facing me, making it almost impossible to see more than forms beyond the light.

  Like he was beginning a game of solitaire, Bookie laid out eleven cards side-by-side, face-down on the table.

  “Whoever gets more votes on these cards is kicked out tonight. You understand?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Turn over the first card on the left,” he ordered.

  I turned it over slowly. It was my card, the eight of clubs. Lyman’s name, in my handwriting, was on the card in black ink. Somebody wrote my name in red at the bottom of the card.

  “Hyman, one vote,” he said. “Now you announce the name of the pledge written on each card as you turn it over and tell us what pledge’s name, written in red at the bottom, voted that guy out.”

  I turned the next card over. “Holmes votes me out.”

  Bookie was his cocky self again. “It’s one to one. Keep going hotshot.”

  I twitched like somebody jabbed a pin in my gut as I turned over the next card.

  “Rickshaw Boy votes me out.”

  “All-right,” Bookie said, clapping his hands enthusiastically. “Two for Stafford, one for Hyman. Keep going, buddy. You’re doing great.”

  The voting began as predicted.

  “Vysell votes Lyman out.”

  “Two for Stafford, two for Hyman. Continue.”

  “Lyman votes me out,” I said slowly as my right knee started bouncing again. I tried to stop it but I couldn’t.

  Cheering and clapping began.

  “You’re winning Stafford,” Bookie needlessly reminded me, “3-2.”

  I refused to be suckered into answering.

  “Next card,” he snapped impatiently.

  “Grossberg’s card says nobody.”

  “But you’re still winning,” Bones said.

  This was one election I desperately had to lose. I was so goddamn nervous that I had trouble picking up the next card. Finally I turned it over.

  “Batman votes Lyman out.”

  “Tie again,” B
ones said. “Stafford, three, Hyman, three, one abstention with four more votes to go. Next card.”

  “Castle votes me out.”

  Bones’ loud and obnoxious clapping continued except that he was joined by a bunch of other drunk hecklers.

  “All-right!” Bones cried out again, “Stafford’s still winning, 4-3.” He looked at me. “You’re ahead champ,” he sneered.

  My familiar double-time heartbeat was picking up speed as I sat there motionless and rigid.

  “Turn the next one over!” Teddy Sinclair demanded, laughing.

  “Rainey votes Lyman out.”

  “Four to four!” Stovepipe screamed, walking over to Bookie.

  My breathing was coming in spurts. My throat was so dry I could hardly speak. There were only two cards left: Rawlings’ and Dung’s. Dung was predictable but maybe Rawlings took the thousand dollar bait I dangled in front of him this afternoon.

  I turned over the next card. “Dung votes me out.”

  “Five to four, Stafford,” Stovepipe announced excitedly, laughing through his puffy lips again. “You’re on your way out of here! Might as well quit now!”

  My fate rested with that thick-necked, moron, Rawlings. I felt the beginning of paralysis in my right arm. My fingers were so taut it was almost impossible to bend them to pick up the last card. Like if I had rheumatoid arthritis.

  “Keep going!” Christianson ordered. By now, my right hand felt useless so I gingerly picked up the last card with the fingers of my left hand. But I was in no hurry to turn it over.

  Bookie got up and walked around the table and stood over me. His breath smelled like he just eaten sweet-and-sour chicken. “Bet you the twenty grand back that you can’t tell me what pledge’s name is on this card.”

  I was too nervous to speak. Instead I shook my head.

  “Then turn it over,” Bookie demanded.

  I could feel the sweat on the back of my neck. Then I could feel sweat forming on my forehead and down the side of my temples.

  “Look at his forehead,” Stovepipe said laughing. He lifted up the lamp and stuck it right in front of my face. “He’s got good reason to sweat!”

  He put the lamp back on the table and pointed to the last face-down card again. “TURN IT OVER, YOU SON-OF-A-BITCH!” his voice thundered.

  I felt like I was announcing my own death sentence. Unless this card had Lyman’s name on it — anybody else’s name didn’t matter — unless Lyman’s name was on the card, I was fucking history! And after all I did for these ungrateful guys!