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He persisted. “Then you lost the flip, didn't you?”

I nodded. “Yeah. I guess so.”

“Fucking-A,” the guy with the bandana said angrily. “Then you're out of here. We thought you won until you admitted it. You dumb shit!”

Oh fuck! Now what? I could feel a nuclear fart coming on so I sat down on one of the chairs to try to silence the explosive bomb that was almost ready to be launched. My body felt paralyzed sitting there. My vision was glazed. I started gasping.

“Jesus Christ, he's passing out!” the guy with the bandana yelled, grabbing hold of my right arm and yanking me out of the chair. He shoved the beer cup to my lips. “Drink this! Don't have a goddamn stroke! Not here! I want to graduate!”

“Just what we need,” Christianson muttered. “Another pledge casualty.”

Maybe from the putrid smell of the guy's cologne, my strength returned a little. And my hazy vision slowly began clearing up.

The guy with the bandana asked, “You OK?”

I nodded. “Yeah. I guess so.”

He smiled a little and held out his right hand. “Gyp Adams. The Pledge Father.”

I didn't move. I looked at his outstretched right hand for a second like he expected a free palm reading. Finally he lowered it. “So what?” I asked.

“So you've already been voted in as a pledge. The last one. And you've got nineteen pledge brothers.”

I flinched like I got shocked by a jolt of electricity. “No shit?” I still didn't believe him.

“Yeah. No shit.”

“What about the coin flip?”

Adams smiled. “Bookie gave the guys in the other room 2-1 odds that we'd convince you to quit before telling you that you made it.”

“Well, he lost,” I said, feeling the world's biggest smile on my face.

Christianson held a green pledge pin and pinned it over my heart onto my blue Diesel shirt.

It was a totally new feeling to be wanted and accepted by any group. I didn't know how to react. I never had any close friends before. The only other organization I ever belonged to was the Little League before I got thrown out for smoking dope in the dugout.

“Some pledge ground rules now,” Christianson said in a friendly voice that he must've saved in the past for other people. “You know that a pledge is just a probationary member?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“And the duties of a pledge are to follow the orders of the active members called actives?”

“Yeah.”

“You know, you're a special problem because of your age. You said you were twenty-six. You know you'll be taking a lot of shit from guys much younger. You understand that?”

“Yeah.” But anything would be easier than Marine boot camp. “But,” I continued, “on the other hand, my maturity and judgment will add a lot to the pledge class.”

Adams nodded to Christianson. “He's probably right.”

Christianson continued, “Now pledging lasts the entire semester. Until mid-January. About four months away. And the last week of pledging is called Hell Week. If you last that long, if you don't quit or get thrown out first—and then if you survive the cutoff vote of The Rule of Eleven—you'll be voted into the fraternity as a full active member.”

“You understand?”

I nodded. “Yeah.”

“Do you know what The Rule of Eleven is?”

“No.”

Instantly, his face lost its friendliness. “It means of the twenty guys who are now pledges—no matter what—no more than eleven pledges can be made actives.”

I was silent as I fully digested this for the first time.

“Remember, sometimes less than eleven guys get voted in as actives. But never more than eleven.” He paused and looked at me. “You understand?”

I nodded. “Yeah.”

“Tell him the other thing,” Adams said.

“Yeah.” Christianson continued, with the sternest look yet. “You know Bookie doesn't think much of you.”

“Yeah.”

“Except maybe your slight-of-hand trick with the coin.”

I didn't answer. I was trying too hard not to smile.

“But the other guys who blackballed you don't like you at all.”

“You know why?” Adams asked.

“No.”

“I can't tell you who they are, but both guys are Jewish even though they don't look it or act it.”

“So?”

“They said that all during Rush Week they overheard you making anti-Semitic comments, calling people kikes and yids.”

The eyes of both guys riveted into mine.

“They're wrong,” I lied.

“But if they're right, it hardly follows our goal of promoting fellowship, does it?”

“No. But I never made those comments.”

“Well, we're warning you to be careful. Even if Bookie votes you in as an active, if both the other two guys blackball you, you're out. Two blackballs and a pledge is gone. Pledges only have a margin of one blackball. Understand?”

“Yeah.”

“Last thing. You're taking at least twelve units, aren't you?”

“Yeah.”

“What classes you taking?”

“Man and Civilization, Sociology, English, and Economics.”

“Good. That's a requirement from National. Nobody can get sworn in unless they're carrying at least twelve units with a minimum 2.0, C grade average. Understand?”

“Yeah.”

“And don't forget,” Adams piped up, “you've got to have good moral character too.”

“Don't worry. I got that for sure.”

“We're Christians, at least mostly,” Adams continued, “so naturally, we don't want no faggots here. If we hear from anybody that a pledge has any kind of gay sex, or anything to do with any guy who's had gay sex, that pledge is history.”

“Fine with me,” I answered. “I don't want no faggots here either.”

Christianson was smiling. “A few years ago some pledge named Ziggie stuck his dick though a glory hole in the toilet stall in the bathroom of the Grauman's Chinese Theatre in Hollywood. Said it was a joke. Anyway, the guy in the next stall who was taking a crap was a cop. When the cop saw Ziggie's dick slide in through the glory hole, he arrested Ziggie for morals charges. He said Ziggie kept yelling, ‘Suck it. Suck it.' Ziggie denied everything but we kicked him out anyway.”

“Last warning,” Adams said to me grimly. “We don't want no faggots here or nobody that has anything to do with faggots.”

I nodded mechanically.

“Like I said,” Christianson added, “we're Christians. We can forgive a lot of shit in the name of Jesus, even lying or stealing depending on the circumstances. But we got zero tolerance for any faggot shit of any kind.”

“No matter what it is,” Adams hissed.

Christianson looked at me sharply. “You got that?”

“Yeah,” I mumbled.

“One last thing,” Christianson added. “Just to prevent any pledges from trying to get other pledges kicked out so they got
a better chance to beat The Rule of Eleven and make the fraternity, the last night of pledging is called Pledge Elimination Night. That's where each pledge votes for the guy he wants out. Whoever gets the most votes is gone. Like on
Survivor
.”

“You understand?” Christianson asked.

I nodded. “Yeah.”

Christianson got friendly again. “Good.” He put his right arm around my shoulders. “Remember, you're now in a group. We don't want no dissenters. Your loyalty is to the fraternity, not to any particular individual. The Sig O's have an eighty-four year history of tradition; this chapter at CAS was founded when the college began twenty-nine years ago and we want to keep the fraternity here forever.” He paused. “You understand?”

“Yeah. Loyalty is my middle name.”

“Now let's go in the other room and meet your new pledge brothers. By next January at least nine of them will be history.”

“Bookie's already made an odds chart on which pledges will make it,” Adams said. “He's taking bets now.”

Christianson pointed to me. “What's Stafford's odds?”

“100-1.”

_____

While most of the actives were congratulating the new pledges and the pledges were introducing themselves to each other, I spotted Lyman talking to some skinny creep wearing a pledge pin and headed over to them. While the beanpole was in the middle of a sentence, I hurriedly I grabbed Lyman's right forearm and almost yanked him into the corner where we were alone.

“Listen you asshole,” I hissed softly. “We both know the rules to get the money: anything goes to win. But keep your mouth shut about the will to these guys.”

“Why?”

“Because if they know about one of us getting the five million, these fucking blue-collar bastards will start blackmailing us for part of the money by threatening to kick us out if we don't pay them. They'll play both of us against the other and
probably get most of the will money from either one of us.”

He was silent for a few seconds, scratching the side of his nose, looking lost in thought. “Maybe you're right,” he mumbled.

I nodded. “I am.”

“But still, anything goes to win.”

Monday, September 9

10:00
P.M
.

A
TINNY, HOLLOW, METALLIC VOICE CAME FROM
a battery-powered megaphone in the dark side of the dining room where me and the other pledges were lined up side-by-side facing a bunch of flashlights that kept shining in our faces.

“Asshole pledges! When your name is called, take one step forward! When the next name is called, immediately get back into line! We want to know who you are! Pledge President first! Grossberg! Why you at this shit-ass school?”

Not only was he the only Jew in the pledge class but he was dumb enough to be the only volunteer for the stupid job.

He shrugged his broad shoulders and smiled sheepishly. “Heard it was easy work, lots of fun, lots of pussy.”

A big cheer went up.

“Froggy from Quebec! Why come this far to college?”

The guy with a dark, shaggy Beatles haircut took a step forward. He burped loudly before answering, “Beach Boys song.
California Girls
.”

“Stafford!” somebody yelled out. “What's your favorite sex act?”

“Shaving a pussy, then giving her anal.”

The place roared with laughter followed by enthusiastic applause.

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-six.”

“Aren't you a little old for college and to pledge a fraternity?”

“It took me a while but I finally realized the importance of an education. And I want to be part of a group of guys who know how to have fun.”

“Hymen breaker! Is Stafford really your cousin?”

My asshole cousin Lyman, with his 3.92 high school grade point average, must've correctly figured that Lyman rhymed with Hymen, and took a timid step forward.

“Yeah.”

“You really admitted to Stanford and Berkeley?”

“Yeah.”

“Then why're you here?”

“Doctor told me to take a year off. Too much stress and anxiety from trying to be the class valedictorian. Then the depression I had from only being fifth in the class.”

“So why're you here instead of going to the beach for a year?”

“To keep active. I heard the work here's barely high school level. Besides there's a Sig O chapter at Berkeley and Stanford that I can transfer into next year.”

“Hey, you! Stafford!” came a gruff voice from somebody I couldn't see.

A big guy with muscles coming out of muscles and a snarling expression on his scarred, ugly face made his way from the back of the room and staggered up to me, stinking of liquor. He was wearing a camouflaged baseball cap with the black letters USMC under the globe and anchor.

“Since high school ‘till now, you ever been in the military?”

“Fuck no,” I said too quickly, pissing off this Hercules-size idiot even more.

He inched closer to me, considerately letting me smell his rancid, alcohol breath from a closer distance. “My name's Parker. Stafford, I never liked you from the second I met you. You know why?”

I shook my head a little and stood there silently.

“Because you got an attitude! You think you're better and smarter than anybody here!” He paused for a second. I stayed silent. “I guarantee you right now, you'll never get voted in this fraternity!”

I still didn't answer, knowing that if I got kicked out, none of the rest of these assholes would be here either.

This burly lunatic gripped the bill on the cap, yanked it off his head and slapped it on top of my head. “You'll wear this cap every time you're in the house! You understand?”

I adjusted the cap so it fit better and nodded. “Yeah.”

Bookie's voice yelled out, “Odds on Stafford making the fraternity are now 150-1.”

The thick smoke in the room from the pot, cigarettes, and twisted, wooden-tipped, flavored cigars would have set off every fire sprinkler within a mile if there were any.

The bullhorn was passed around again since a different guy's voice spoke.

“Denning, you're now called Dung!”

This slob twitched forward a little. He was about five-two and must've weighed two hundred, with light apricot hair and fading pimples like in a connect-the-dot book.

Nobody asked him a question yet but he blurted out unevenly, “My, my father's a surgeon at the Mayo Clinic.”

“Licks the bedpans clean, don't he?” some guy with a New York accent yelled out.

“No.”

“What?”

“Uh, I mean, I guess so, yeah.”

“Higgins!”

He took an awkward step forward, making his left club foot obvious. His blond wavy hair was brushed straight back and with a dimple in each cheek, he looked a lot like James Dean.