American Fraternity Man (83 page)

“Illinois went through a re-org just
a few years ago,” I say. “Never recovered.”

“
It’s a risky proposition. Expensive. And in the end, the re-orgs can create zombie chapters. We might keep ten brothers, and expel fifty. At that point, those ‘keepers’ might not have much motivation to continue the fraternity, and so it becomes a lurching, living death.”

I scan the document, the lists of different punishments, the “questions to consider,” the copy/pasted
Sacred Laws giving the Director of Chapter Operations the authority to make any decisions he deems necessary, and finally I come to a section on the page that reads, “Chapters Scheduled For National Review.” And, of course, I see the words “New Mexico State University: Hazing Violations,” and I sink a bit in my seat, suck in my breath, cross my legs, uncross them. There are five or six other chapters listed (“Eastern Washington: Low Membership Numbers,” and “Baylor University: Continued Failure to Meet GPA Minimum”) before I finally see “Edison University: Hazing,” and then it is no longer mere discomfort: suddenly I cannot breathe. Brock, on the opposite side of the table, stares down at his sheet with squinted eyes, fingers stroking his chin. And Nick looks at LaFaber, not at the paper, with a look that says either “I don’t understand” or “I understand and am amused.”

“Edison University
?” Nick asks, eyes suddenly sad.

Blood filling my head, and is this
a joke? Is this retribution? Karma?
Edison University
?

And it’s twenty or thirty seconds before I can look back up, and LaFaber is staring at me as if he just asked a question and is now waiting for my response. He
still pinches his paper, still hasn’t changed his stolid expression. But no one says another word to me; no one mentions my home chapter or the circumstances that forced them onto the page.

“Each of you will be assigned a National Review,” LaFaber says. “Some of the reviews can be conducted via conference call
, and we simply have alumni volunteers take care of them. Eastern Washington, for instance. No need to fly all the way out there just to lecture them about low numbers. For others, we’ll book plane tickets this afternoon after our one-on-one meetings, and you’ll be leaving in the morning.”

I stare at the glass tabletop. “C. Anthony Croke,” reads the nameplate under my reflection.
Who the fuck
was
this guy? Would he want this boardroom, this nameplate, this table, these National Review sheets, this casual discussion amongst graduates of eliminating the fraternity chapters to which young men belong?

“I want the trouble-makers gone,” LaFaber says, “and gentlemen: it’s bad news that we’ve got to conduct these hearings, but I couldn’t be more delighted to know that
you’re on top of it, and that we’re gonna change the culture.”

Change the culture.
Right.

“Come on, say it,” LaFaber says. “I want to hear that you still believe.
Say it.”

*

Next up: my one-on-one meeting with Walter LaFaber.

And his
office is the sort of open and impersonal room befitting an ultra-successful guru at the top of his game. Dr. Vernon’s office at Bowling Green glimmered like an expensive symbol of professional achievement, but it was also warm despite its opulence. LaFaber’s office, on the other hand, is a cold beacon of modernity: a glass coffee table supported by a silver frame (
Fortune
and
Architectural Digest
magazines spread across the top, along with copies of
How to Win Friends and Influence People
, and
Band of Brothers
), two stiff black visitor chairs teetering on thin silver legs, a triangular throw-rug the color of arctic water, and a black wire-frame bookshelf lined with alumni magazines from dozens of schools, with long rows of psychology and leadership journals (all with the same blank white spine, a message to outsiders that there is dense text inside, that there will be no attempt to entertain the idiot masses with colors and photos). On the walls: only two metal-framed pictures, one of which is the
College Chronicle
depicting LaFaber on its front cover, and the other a photograph of LaFaber shaking hands with Dick Cheney at some gala or banquet. Otherwise, the walls are an untouched industrial gray, blinds pulled down over the single window on the far wall.

When I step inside and take a seat at one of the visitor’s chairs,
I squirm and try to get comfortable but find it impossible to do so.

“Good to see you this morning, Charles,” he says
, delighted by my discomfort. “Sleep well?”

“Not really
. But I’m used to bad sleep.”

“I always sleep well,” he says, “when I know I’ve worked hard.”

I smooth my pants, cough.

LaFaber’s desk is a sweeping L-shaped, glass-topped unit, a mesh steel wall attached to the front to shield visitors from viewing his legs. For some reason, it makes me feel like I’ve been detained.

“Is that what we’re here to talk about?” I ask. “Last night’s sleep?”

“You used to be so much friendlier
. Has road life has hardened you?” The scar on his forehead is shining brighter now, like the red “ready” light that blinks on when the oven has pre-heated. The scar tells me that he’s just getting started, that the past ten weeks on the road was nothing: today he’s got plans that will put all of that to shame. He knows what I want, too, doesn’t he? He knows that he’s got me in his pocket. “Down to brass tacks, then” LaFaber says, staring at me with a numb but patient expression. “You want to know why Edison University made the list.”

“It crossed my mind,” I say.

“Nobody knows about this,” LaFaber says. “Not your alumni, not your administrators. Not even Brock, and he’s set to visit Edison University in the Spring. The only people that know about this are the officers of your chapter, who have been told that they’ll receive a visit from a couple national representatives tomorrow.”

“So what happened?”

“I got a tip about some hazing activities,” he says, “and it doesn’t look good.”

“Hazing?
There’s no hazing at EU.”

“Hazing,” LaFaber says. “Your boys got carried away.”

“What was it? Blindfolds? Was it something…silly?”

“There’s a full packet I’ll give you,” he says and then folds his hands in his lap.
“Print-outs of Facebook photos. That’s the irony here, Charles. We never would’ve known about this had they not posted pictures on Facebook. And not just vague pictures where maybe it could be hazing, or maybe something else. It was an entire photo album dedicated to an event in a hotel room. The brothers yelling at pledges, kids doing push-ups, covered in vomit. Some really disturbing stuff. Captions, too, like ‘This is how you treat a scumbag pledge.’”

“They posted it
themselves
?”

“Your boys couldn’t just
…” He closes his eyes and runs his hands across the glass surface of the desk. “Couldn’t just
shut
their
fucking
mouths. And now this is something that we can’t ignore.”

I shake my head. He isn’t making this up; this is not something concocted simply to punish me; already I can tell that this is real, that this is something that LaFaber didn’t anticipate and didn’t want, not just some manipulation of national bylaws or Excel spreadsheets in order to make a point or to get what he wants.
What the hell had
Todd
done since I’d graduated?

“Charles,
” he says, “I need you to go to EU.”

“A National Review for my own chapter?
” The room is still cold, the metal shelves still icy and the world outside still dead, but suddenly I feel heat in my body. “That’s against procedure, Walter. Consultants aren’t supposed to go on formal visits to their own chapters, and they’re especially not supposed to conduct investigations or reviews—”

“
Procedure be damned,” he says. “This is critical. This isn’t some podunk Shippensburg or Las Cruces group. EU has been one of our best-performing chapters for more than a decade. That campus, that house…you know it by now, the places you’ve seen…that chapter is a dream come true. Never a problem, never a violation.” He stops, takes a moment to sit up straighter and to try to steady his breathing. “I need
you
to save that chapter. Strike the fear of God into them. Whip them back into shape. We cannot”—breathes heavy, scar bright as blood—“cannot let this become an issue, not there of all places.”

Here’s the deal, LaFaber says: Brock
and I will go to Florida, while LaFaber and Nick conduct the other reviews via telephone. LaFaber will take Nick to meet with the interest group at Illinois next week…Nick is perfect for the colonization, don’t you think? So dedicated to the personal growth of the men, so empathetic.
Perfect
. Anyway, if everything looks like a “go” at Illinois, then we move forward with a full-scale colonization for Spring.

“I chose to speak with
you
first,” LaFaber says, “because, well, Brock is a great consultant, very dedicated, but he’s a bit headstrong. A hot-head. I admire his determination, but I need someone who understands what it means to be flexible.”

“What does that mean?”

“I need you to save EU, Charles,” he says. “You understand what real problems look like. The mess at Shippensburg? The party at Illinois? And hell, those guys at Delaware and Central Michigan are just asking to be shut down. I don’t know how you got out of there alive. Edison University is a steady revenue stream with no expenses. You know what I’m talking about. You see it. We send a consultant to Florida once a year, as mandated by Sacred Law, and that’s it: not a peep from them. Always 80 or 100 men in that chapter, sparkling facilities, and they send—you sent, when you were president—sixteen men to Regional, another fifteen to National Convention. EU is…with the bullshit we deal with? New Mexico? EU is like an A+ student in a room full of delinquents.”

So
this
is who I am.
Flexible
.

I
t occurs to me that LaFaber has known me all along, that we three consultants were split up the way we were for a reason: Brock to the efficient chapters that just needed a kick in the ass, Nick to the well-performing schools where no one was needed, and me to the schools where…where a push-over consultant was needed, someone malleable, someone to look the other way if need be, or someone to take an action that values and good sense would prevent another man from taking. I was needed in places where the consultant could be controlled.

And that’s why I’m
going to Edison University. To look the other way. To give tips on how to hide the hazing, perhaps? With Brock to “strike the fear of God into their hearts,” but Charles Washington to make the final recommendation to the National Headquarters—something light and harmless to ensure the future prosperity of a profitable chapter.

“Okay,” I say. “I’ll do whatever you need.”

And LaFaber leans back and cracks his knuckles. Once again, he’s gotten exactly what he wanted. Once again, he’s seen into the very souls of the people around him, has figured them out so completely that—

“
But I need something from you, Walter. Two things, if I’m going to do this.”

“You need something from me?” Walter asks. His hands were behind his head in triumph, but now they’re sinking back to the desk surface. The scar was bright, but now it’s gone a chilly white, a smear of hardened glue across his forehead. “All right,” he says. “What can I do for you, Charles?”

“First,” I say, “I want you to call off the New Mexico State review.”

“That’s crazy,” he says. Shakes his head
, laughs. “The hazing is rampant, and it’s palpable. You wrote it in the reports, wrote it yourself. I could have shut that chapter down based solely on your reports. But the diversity angle…a review is going to happen.”

“No, it won’t,” I say.

Part of me wants to stop talking, to once again nod and give up and take direction: just delete the photos from my investigation, or write the fabricated report, or—hell—just cave under the chop-chop-chop noise of Helicopter Parents circling above. But not now. Not anymore. It terrifies me to speak this way, but I tell LaFaber: “This is what you’re going to do with New Mexico State. You’re going to give them a semester of probation. Let me work with them. Or Brock, or Nick. They’re good kids, and they can change. But that chapter’s going nowhere, and that’s non-negotiable.”

LaFaber smiles, snorts. “Or?”

“Or I call the Greek Advisor, call the campus newspaper, tell them that you made me falsify the report.”

“A campus newspaper? Please.”

“This isn’t 1998,” I say. “Medium doesn’t—”

“You’re lucky I don’t terminate you right here.
”

“Medium doesn’t matter,” I finish. “
Campus newspaper, blog, whatever. Story goes viral overnight.”

“
Weak threat,” he says. “You need to think long and hard about what you say next.”