I Can't Believe That I Believed

One night I was standing at my station on the assembly line, attaching cradles to generators, poorly as usual, and I started feeling a little dizzy.  I shook it off and kept working.  It continued to come and go throughout the night.  The next night, it happened again and a little worse than the night before.  This pattern continued, night after night and the dizziness worsened and began to cause nausea.  I didn’t say anything to anyone.  But inside I was starting to get worried.  This was something weird.  Something I’d never really experienced.  I’d had the flu numerous times, but it always passed.  And I’d never gotten dizzy just standing up, working.  Could this be something bigger?  I started to really get paranoid. 

What I’m about to confess will not only in some ways make me look ridiculous but will reveal the ignorance and naivety of my age at the time, but also of the culture I’d been living in.  I started to worry that by having sex with Kori.  I had contracted AIDS.  That was the first place my mind jumped to.  After all, Kori and I had unprotected sex.  And she was not a virgin.  Neither was I of course, but that wasn’t relevant.  Her last time had been more recent.  It was very possible during our 30 seconds of intercourse that the AIDS virus had crawled its way from her vagina up my miniscule shaft.  Now I was surely dying.  I know, I know, that sounds flat out retarded.

 But before you decide I’m a complete loon and throw this book out as the ravings of a buffoon, consider some things. 

At my Christian high school, we were never taught about health and were certainly never allowed to even discuss HIV and AIDS in any of our classes.  Except in Bible class where it was more or less presented as God’s punishment on homosexuals.  I remember being a high school junior and learning that Magic Johnson announced he was HIV-positive.  The first words to leave my mouth were “but Magic’s not gay.” 

It wasn’t an insult to the gay community, intended or otherwise.  I sincerely still lived in a world that believed only gays got those diseases.  That was 1992.  It was still a couple years before it was widely told that anyone could get it.  I’d say most of what I understand about AIDS, I learned from The Real World: San Francisco.  Seeing Pedro Zamora, the spokesman of my generation for AIDS awareness, go through his struggle with strength and dignity and educating the whole world via this reality show was inspiring.  Many people of my generation were truly shaken when our friend Pedro died.  I remember that day, and the news promos Mtv ran all day between episodes of the show Pedro was known for.  I know how cheesy it sounds, but I really did learn a lot from that show and Pedro’s experience.  That’s who educated me as a teenager about the realities of AIDS.  I suppose it is a sign of my generation that we got our social information from basic cable.  Just as parents learned about sex in the halls of their schools, and just as it will be the internet that teaches today’s teens.  And God only knows the next generation will learn about sex from Playstation 12.

There was another reason that my imagination took such an unreasonable leap.  Just a few weeks before these dizzy spells began, I had driven down to spend a weekend with Stacy and company in Illinois.  It was Saturday afternoon and he and I had been driving around, looking for a CD he wanted and just sort of chatting.  Then, as we were  literally just circling the parking lot of a nearly empty shopping mall while killing time until we were to meet Brandy and some others, Stacy decided to redirect the conversation. 

“Do you have any big regrets?” he asked me. 

“What do you mean?”  I asked him.  Moments before I’m sure we’d been discussing U2’s latest album verses Rattle & Hum or something just as important. 

“I mean, is there anything you’ve done in your life that you really regret now?” he asked me. 

It’s funny now at this point today in my life, I have no issue discussing all the wrong turns I’ve made in life.  Hell this book is a chronicle of my personal follies.  I’m completely comfortable with sharing them with world.  But at 19 years old, I was insecure and not really open to baring the more tender wounds of my soul.  So I kind of hemmed and hawed and didn’t give him a real answer.  I think I just said something to the effect of yes; there were a number of things.  I then just asked why he would bring up the question.  He gave me a few shallow answers about just making conversation.  Then after a few awkward silent moments he hit with the thing that was apparently just eating away at his mind.

“Did you have sex with Kori?”

The questions didn’t shock me.  I actually knew he wanted to know for a long time, and it was something I’d never have just offered up.  Not to Stacy anyway.  He was many things, often a good friend was at least towards the top of the list, but he was also very judgmental.  He’d been raised to believe that if he kept his nose clean, lead a pure and holy life following the Ten Commandments, more or less literally, he was qualified and sanctified to sit on a throne of judgment over others.  He lorded his moral code over my head on numerous occasions when I implied I believed the key to life was often ambiguity, in many things.  So I didn’t rush to his room when I returned to campus from that fateful trip north with Kori and confess my carnal transgressions.  But he had often suspected.  And one thing Stacy valued was knowledge. 

Another way of saying that is Stacy was a gossip queen.  The man was oft tight-lipped about his own life, but he loved to know shit about everyone else.  In fact, if you knew something juicy and didn’t share it with him, he’d actually get pissed off at you.  You could see it in his face.  He’d get red and frustrated and begin to speak down to you. 

This was it though, I gathered.  He’d finally grown a set and come right out with the question.  I felt obligated to be honest.  It had been months and there was nothing he could say.  She and I had broken up long ago; otherwise I wouldn’t have put it past him to demand I put a stop to the relationship immediately.  Well, he wouldn’t demand it, but he’d give me an unsolicited list of no less than fifteen reasons why I had better call it off. 

“Yes,” I answered him.  “I did.” 

Stacy got the widest, self-satisfied grin I’d ever seen the guy smile.  It was that “Aha, I knew it” look.  He was so please with himself for a moment.  But then of course he reined it in and put on that youth pastor / Dr. Drew on Celebrity Rehab face.  The one that essentially says “yeah, it’s good that you admitted your weakness but we know it was wrong and what are we going to do to keep you on the straight and narrow?” 

He let out a long sigh. 

“I knew you had,” he said.  “I just sensed it when you broke up with her.” 

I hadn’t ever gotten around to sharing the phony pregnancy scare with him.  Yet good old Sherlock had put it together anyway.  Damn he was good!  I started to get annoyed with him.  There was this tone of disappointment in his voice as he spoke.  Like your dad does when he wants you to know you’ve let him down.  Stacy often spoke to me like he was my superior.  Someone at school actually once referred to me as his sidekick.  Which was really fucking offensive, but I laughed it off.  I get sidekick?  Why, because Stacy’s taller and in better shape and smarter?  Ok, maybe.  But truth be told, I guarantee as much as he let on that he was sad that I’d compromised my soul by engaging in sexual congress with a woman not my wife, the motherfucker was as jealous as Cain of Abel!

Stacy was 20 years old and despite his relative good looks and wit, he’d never had so much as a spit soaked hand on his member, aside from perhaps his own.  And I’m not even sure about.  We never did discuss our individual positions on masturbation.

I know it drove him nuts to picture swarthy ol’ me in bed with an attractive art major with a great body, making the beast with two backs.  And it drove him nuts not for the reasons he would purport.  He was jealous that I had that life experience on him, plus he knew Kori wasn’t my first.  I’m sure the fact I’d actually gotten laid in high school had always bugged him.  And I sensed now that my answer pissed him off even more.  I did no act of contrition.  Offered no remorse or apologetics. 

“Do you regret that?” he asked me. 

“I don’t know,” I answered.  “I probably shouldn’t have done it.  It just sort of happened.  I don’t regret it though, because it happened.  Can’t take it back.  If anything, I guess I regret that we did and then broke up shortly after.” 

Apparently what I was supposed to say was “Oh man, I am riddled with guilt over it.  Every night I fall to my knees and flog myself with a cat-o-nine tails.  I sob and beg for God’s forgiveness.”  This may have seemed a better answer, although eh would have only truly accepted it had I finished with “but most of all, I need your forgiveness Stacy.  Please, tell me you can forgive my transgression and be my friend again.” 

He’d asked me two questions, and both had been in very judgmental, accusatory tones.  I wasn’t really here for that.  And I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of saying I regretted having sex with her.  I didn’t.  It was fun.  Not my greatest performance, but it felt good.  There’s no such thing as a bad orgasm.  Only no orgasm.  All that other bullshit surrounding a relationship may be soured and really bringing you down, but those few seconds of rapture are never wrong and never bad. And as long as the act was consensual there should never be regret.  Yes, I realize what a male statement that was.  I have a penis, and for that I apologize. 

“I just feel bad that you crossed that line again,” he said.  “Like you said, you guys just ended up breaking up anyway.  And you know she’s been with other guys.  Did you even use protection?” 

I just responded again that it hadn’t been planned so he could probably guess the answer to that.  Again, he brought up that she had been with other guys.  It was like he was trying to scare me.  As if to imply she probably had something and I’d put my own health at risk.  At the time, I more or less just waived him off.  I said again that I knew it was a bad decision and in my next relationship I wasn’t going to let it happen again.  That pacified him enough to end the conversation. 

He really just wanted to get the juicy scoop as to whether Kori and I had slept together.  I’m sure he would tell someone later that night.  It had probably come up in conversation when I wasn’t around he vowed to get the answer.  But the way he asked was kind of sticking in my craw.  So I turned it around on him. 

“So what about you?” I asked.  “What do you regret in your life so far?” 

Stacy just stared out ahead as he drove.  Finally after struggling to come up with answer he through out some bullshit.  He told me he regretted that he hadn’t always been as nice to his sister as he should have.  I honestly just stared out the window rolling my eyes and trying not to laugh incredulously.  I mean, honestly?  You’re big regret is you were mean to your little sister?  What was this, Leave it to fucking Beaver?!?!  The sickest thing is, he wasn’t really bullshitting me.  That probably was his biggest regret in life.  After all, he hadn’t done shit in his life yet.  He’d been to New Orleans once, and they played poker for M&M’s.  That was living fast and loose for this guy.  That basically ended the conversation.  I think he realized he’d taken the weekend to a strange place.  Eventually we forgot about it and went back to having fun. 

But for some reason, standing on my platform in that ungodly hot factory, feeling like I was about to fall over like a felled tree, I suddenly began to hear that conversation again.  Kori had been with a couple other guys before me.  And we did have unprotected sex.  And she was an artist.  This was the train of thought that lead me to the conclusion that I had AIDS.  Or at least was in fact HIV positive.  I really got scared.  What would I do?  How could I tell people?  What would my family say?  Oh yeah, how long did I have until I was dead?!  As ridiculous as the notion really was, when you are sick from something, and the suggestion imbeds itself in your brain, you suddenly find yourself getting religion. 

I began to pray.  More honestly, I began to try striking a bargain with God.  What did I need to do for Him in order for me to be healthy?  What would persuade God to run his hand over my head and cleanse me of any lethal virus that might be stripping me of my T cells? 

Ask and ye shall receive.  While no angel descended and no bush burned, the answer did indeed come to me like a divine revelation.  God would indeed take this sickness away, whatever it might be if turned my life around and pursued a life and career in Youth Ministry.  That right, if I changed my major and became a youth pastor, the AIDS would miraculously go away before I ever had to tell anyone I had it.  I committed myself that night while bolting cradles to generators.  Surely there’s some correlation to the savior, as he had no cradle at his birth.  A bit too much of a stretch?  Yeah, probably.  At any rate, while let me not bury the lead here and say I make no correlation now, but the dizziness stopped almost immediately. 

Of course, I finally saw a doctor a few weeks later who said I had fluid in my inner ear.  He explained that very likely caused bouts of dizziness, especially when standing for prolonged periods of time.  My ears were flushed and I was sturdy as a statue again.  Still, as religion and science have often been at odds, I remained committed to by end of the deal.  I didn’t have a life threatening disease, so I had to go into the ministry.  That was the agreement, and you couldn’t really tell God you’d had your fingers crossed when you said it.  Lest ye be smote! 

When Your Day Is Long & The Night Is Yours Alone

I ended up going to work for a generator company in a big factory out in the middle of the country, about 20 minutes away.  There wasn’t much of an interview process.  You filled out the application; they told you get a pair of steel toed boots and show up the next day.  That was how it went.  It paid $9 bucks an hour which in 1994 was a decent wage for a young person.  It was still a few bucks less than I’d have made at the riverboat, of course.  And the hours sucked.  They were hiring for second shift, so I started at 4:00 PM, Monday through Friday and while we were scheduled to work until midnight, we never got done before 1:30 or 2:00 AM.  And yes there were at least two Saturdays a month we’d have to go in.  There were many nights as I was driving home down the quiet country road where I just barely managed to stay awake long enough to get to the driveway. 

The factory, as they often are, was hotter than hell, and it was summer.  I worked on an assembly line with a bunch of other college kids.  Well, the Patriarch of our line was a gangly guy in his early 40’s named Tom.  He was actually a really nice guy who was recently divorced and laid off, and was just trying to figure out the next chapter of his life.  We were more or less the screw up line. It was clear they’d stuck us together for a reason.  If any one of us was thrown to the pros on the other lines, it would have been mass chaos, and one of us (probably me) would get a power tool shoved someplace uncomfortable. 

Our line assembled portable gas generators much like many of you reading this might have in your garage in case the power gets knocked out.  They’re strong enough to keep a couple lights on and keep your meat and cheese from spoiling in the fridge.  My job was to put on the cradles.  There was no aptitude testing, no questions of what position we wanted on the line.  I was assigned to cradles.  That was it.  I had a big box of freshly painted red steel cradles behind my station that magically reappeared right before it ran out and my job was drop one over each engine as it rolled down to me.  I had a drill hanging from a pneumatic line in the ceiling that I’d grab, drill four holes in each cradle after it was over the engine, then send it on down.  The next guy popped in the four bolts.  If I fucked up, it fucked him up.  If I was backed up, he got backed up.  I was always backed up, and I was forever fucking up.  Plus my drill used a very specific bit, and I must have set a record for breaking the things that summer.  They didn’t even have enough in the factory.  There were many nights where we’d have to shut down our line as our foreman went running around looking for a new bit for my break.  I can only imagine what they said about me around that place.

I also had a habit of losing screws, etc, often inside the machine.  Each line ended up in a little room closed off to the rest of the room by windows.  It was the testing room.  Inside were a couple guys whose duty was to pour a little gas and a little oil into each new generator and give the chords a pull.  If it started up, they gave it the thumbs up and passed it onto another conveyor belt that led it up to packaging.  It was possibly the simplest job in the factory.  The two guys back there had both been with the company a long time and had earned this position.  It was something all the lifers apparently aspired to.  No more assembling.  Just take the finished product, fire it up, and pass it on.  The downside was the room was louder than fuck and they had to wear the same headsets you see at firing ranges, and they were inhaling gasoline all night long in a glass box with questionable air filtration.  Still, the job required just a little physical effort and barely any mental.  So I never quite understood why Pat, the guy who tested my side of the factory was such an angry little prick all the time. 

Pat looked like half the guys I went to junior high with.  He was in his late thirties, started there right out of high school.  Had helmet hair, a little round stud earring, a porno mustache, wore purple tank tops every day, and a homemade India ink tattoo of a heart on his arm.  He was always yelling out the window at us, and especially at me.  Apparently one night I broke off a drill bit and it lodged somewhere inside the engine of the unit I was working on.  When Pat gave the starter chord a manly pull and the engine fired to life, it launched the missing drill bit like a deadly weapon straight at Pat’s face.  He came charging out of the room that night and headed straight for me like he was going to yank me off my platform.  The guys on either side of me jumped down and stood around me, which made him rethink his attack.  Instead he just screamed at me for five minutes about how I could have killed him, should be more careful, blah blah blah.  I defy you to find anyone who worked in that factory that would have really cared if that bit had bored through his skull and left him twitching in a pool of his own excrement.        

Our foreman, however, a guy named Mike never said anything too abusive at all.  And God knows he could have.  He was actually one of the nicest guys I’ve ever met.  He was about five feet tall, had long seventies rocker hair, bleached blonde by the sun.  His face was rosy from drinking and he sported a scraggly red beard.  He literally looked like he’d gotten lost at a Foghat concert in ’79 and never quite found his way home.  Mike did three things.  He worked, he drank beer, and he flew airplanes.  He got up at least three times a week and took a rented Cessna up at the local airstrip.  Then he came to the factory, worked all night with us, and then went to this dive bar down the road.  That was his existence.  And it was a shame because he was a sweet guy, always supportive, and really damn funny.  It seemed like he could have done so much more.  But, he claimed to be happy.

Aside from Mike and the guys on my line, I hated that place.  Hated everything else about it.  Wished every day that an explosion would level it.  Yet I never considered quitting.  It didn’t seem like an option.  That was the kind of thing people who can make decision for themselves do.  And that was not me.  I did what my dad told me to, which was usually what my stepmother wanted.  The only thing cool about the job was that my dad was also working second shift that year.  His company switched their shifts around every year or so just to keep them guessing.  

 During the day we would hang out, go to movies, grab lunch, just generally fart around.  My stepmother was working then and wasn't around to tell us not to.  I liked it.  But every afternoon I dutifully put on a tank top, a pair of cutoff shorts, and my steel toed work boots and head out to work.  I know, it sounds like a gay men’s calendar layout but again, that fucking place was hotter than the ninth layer of Hell.  And since to me, the job was Hell, the temperature was only fitting.   

One night when I got home from work, both of my parents were uncharacteristically awake and downstairs with lights on, and I apparently had to face a little more heat. 

That afternoon, while I’d been at work, a letter had come to the mailbox.  It was a bank statement from First Chicago Bank that had been forwarded from my school mailbox to my next known address, theirs.  Remember that money my mom and stepdad had given me that I did not want to tell my dad about?  They suddenly knew.  And, as I had feared they would be, hence the reason I hadn’t told them, they were pissed off about it and felt entitled to take it.   

First of all, had I any balls back then I would have told them where to go for opening my mail.  My dad said that my stepmother had opened it by mistake, not even looking at the address and thinking it was just something for them.  I suppose the huge block lettering that said FIRST CHICAGO didn’t give her any pause.  That’s a common mistake when you’ve lived your entire life in Milwaukee!  But okay, I was living under their roof, and they had co-signed my student loans so that kept me from speaking up.  They gave me this sob-story about how they had taken care of me for the last five years and how tight money was yet they were sending me to this private school, etc.  By the end of it, I felt about two inches tall again and had agreed to write them a check for the balance in the account.  

Am I the douche bag or what?  In retrospect I should never have given them a dime.  First of all, they’d been alternately begging me and making me feel guilty about coming to live with them.  Now they wanted me to feel bad about being a financial burden.  And as for the expensive school.  Guess who got stuck with the lion’s share of that tab and those loans!  It took me years to pay off student loans for a degree I would never even earn.  And as I’ve mentioned before, that monthly stipend they’d promised me from day one when I went to school never ever materialized.  And now on top of it, they were demanding I hand them my money.  And too keep the peace, as well as please my dear father, I did.  I the end I believe I wrote them a check for $800 which they never said a word about.  It just disappeared off the kitchen counter and a few days later was no longer in my account.  I did keep literally like $300 for books and incidentals when I moved back to the dorm in the fall.  And if you’ve gone to college or sent a kid there, you know how far $300 bucks goes toward books and supplies.  Within the first week back at school, I would have about $70 bucks to my name. 

Lest we forget, I was also working 50 hours a week in a factory, for which I never saw a red cent.  Every two weeks I received a pay check and it was left on that same kitchen counter.  The next morning when I got up, the check was gone.  I suppose I just shrugged it off remembering what the J-bird himself had said.  Give to Caesar what is Caesar, and don’t fucking complain.        

 Two things got me through that summer without losing my mind.  The first was the crew on my line.  We were all college kids, plus Tom who was actually going back to college in his forties as well, so he counts. 

We had similar interests, i.e. beer and getting laid.  The guy to my right, Eric was a sophomore from the University of Wisconsin- Madison, one of the number one party schools in the world.  While separated by the shelves of our stations, we were positioned close enough that we could talk all night, which we did.  He had such great tales of keg parties, tailgating (this was just after the Wisconsin Badgers took the Rose Bowl), and most of all, hooking up with college chicks, everything that puts a smile on a young man’s face.  Eric was a high school football player and a frat boy, things that would usually make me avoid any conversation with him, but he turned out to be a great guy.  And he could always sense when I was on a ledge and make me laugh.  We only knew each other a couple months, and had never even socialized outside of that factory, but I really liked the guy and from time to time wonder what happened to him.  I tried running a Google search on him, but true to form based on the type of guy he was, Eric doesn’t seem to have an internet presence.  If you’re out there reading this one day, hit me up.  

 The second thing that helped me endure the long summer was that on a few occasions I was able to talk my parents into letting me take a car and drive back to school.  Stacy had once again scored a summer job in the area and was staying in his room.  His girlfriend at the time, Brandy was living on campus through the summer as well, along with a few other friends.  On those weekends, I would work until the usual 2 A.M. then get up early Saturday morning and make the 2 & 1/2 hour drive to Elgin.  We’d all hang out for a while then usually go see a movie or go out to dinner and just stay up late, waxing poetic about life, religion, music, movies, philosophy, and love.  Everything that came to mind.  We were starting to fancy ourselves those young Christian intellectuals we claimed to despise so much.  During those weekend visits, I never wanted to leave.  I belonged in that little community.  The campus was so different in the summer time.  Only a handful of students stayed behind, because you had to pay rent to live on campus during the summer.  Even though it was an eclectic mix, everyone was friendly and they’d have communal cookouts or all gather to watch movies in the lounge.  It was a great coming together of people who wouldn’t normally socialize during the regular school year.  It was just a fun, comfortable vibe.  It was much like what I imagine summer camp felt like, only even better because there were no counselors around. 

Speaking of summer camp, Brandy had a friend named Leah who worked at a summer camp during the week that summer, but would often spend weekends their on campus as well.  Leah was this tall, round faced blonde with big beautiful eyes and freckled white skin.  I was as excited to see her as I was Stacy when I’d drive down those weekends.  Nothing ever came of it, but boy I spent some summer nights pining away for that girl.  It started on one of those first weekend visits.  I guess I just got the idea there might be a vibe between us.  I'm told I misinterpreted, but to this day I'm not so sure.  When I was back in Wisconsin, I'd fall asleep every night thinking about her, even scribbling bad poetry about her.  It was a clear example of opposites attracting, because Leah was devoutly spiritual and wanted to not only marry a man in the ministry, she planned to be in some form of full-time ministry herself.  She could see I was clearly not on the road to the pulpit so she showed no interest whatsoever.  In her defense, sort of, she was really tall and did tell Brandy she wanted a man as tall as her or taller.  Leah had me by a good 2 & ½ inches or so.  Didn’t bother me, I’m always game for a climb.   But it was an issue for her.  

Even though my feelings went unrequited, the idea and the fantasy of her was what kept me going that miserable summer.  So in a way I should thank her.

For the record, Leah is currently still unmarried and works at Starbucks.  Just saying.                                 

Stand In The Place Where You Work

My freshman year at Euphegenia was at an end.  I had more or less bombed out, with exception of D.B.’s class.  But I had been having fun.  A year of freedom felt good.  I didn’t know what to do for the summer but didn’t want to leave my new friends and go back to Wisconsin.  Fortunately, my stepdad had connections at both of the two major riverboat casinos in the Chicago area.  He called me one evening and asked if I’d be interested in working on a boat for the summer and living with them.  Initially not much, but he went on to remind me these companies produced a lot of entertainment.  By the end of the conversation I was certain any entry-level position could lead to some good connections.  I hadn’t really ever considered working on a casino boat.  My only knowledge of casinos was based on the cruises I’d been on with my dad.  Otherwise my perception of casinos was that they were run by the mob and working in one would be dangerous. 
            I was taking an Art of Auditioning class that spring that was being taught by none other than my favorite admissions counselor, Tim “Ben” Timm.  Prior to becoming a college admissions counselor, Ben had been an actor and singer.  He and his wife still did some kind of cabaret act or something at the time. I’m not sure.  It was all kept very secretive.  Probably rightly so, considering if the inquisitors discovered he was moonlighting in some beer hall or gin joint it would likely cost him his day job.  During a break I told him about the call and the opportunity on the boat.  His eyes lit up and he told me to go for it.  Ben knew which I did not at 18 that this particular riverboat casino shared the name with a popular casino out in Las Vegas, the big dance.  He explained to me how many jobs there were for performers in Vegas.  And pointed out it was a short jump from Las Vegas, Nevada to a town called Hollywood, California.  Ben’s advice was essentially go to the interview, do what I had to do to get the job and network, network, network.  Even when I told him I probably wouldn’t be back in time for class that week, he said no problem. 

So I did.  My stepdad phoned in a favor and I got an interview.  Well, it wasn’t so much an interview as it was a cattle call they were holding that particular afternoon.  They were looking to fill a multitude of service positions, from street sweepers to food service.  But they were also hiring for the security department.  My stepdad sold them all their 2-way radios and other paraphernalia and had scored me a guaranteed interview for a security officer position over the summer.  If it worked out, I could continue to work there weekends when school started back up again.  I went in dressed in the best clothes I’d brought with me to school.  I met with the head of security and he mentioned a few times how much he liked my stepdad, i.e. that’s why he was even talking to me.  It was also very clear I was completely unqualified for the gig.  The only thing I had on my side was my size.  I was tallish, biggish, and swarthy looking enough that perhaps I could have some intimidation quality.  Although I actually told him I hoped to spin a position with the casino into a foothold in the entertainment business.  I seem to recall he didn’t even bother to turn his head away as he rolled his eyes.

Despite my total lack of any qualification, he asked me how soon I’d be available.  He basically said give him a call when school was over and he’d put me on the schedule.  He shook my hand and that was it.  Interview over.  I knew I’d likely be started off on a shitty schedule, working from late afternoon to the middle of the night or something, but the pay was great.  Especially for a 19 year old kid who’d never made anything above minimum wage.  This was the kind of money people with their own places and cars made.  I could definitely forgo any kind of social life for one summer to make this kind of scratch.  Most of which I could sock away all summer since I’d be living at my mom’s, using one of their cars, eating their food.  And who knew?  By the next summer I could be working in one of their lounges or something.  In a couple years, I could be out in Vegas.  Doing God knows what of course, but it didn’t matter.  It seemed like a great opportunity. 

And then, shortly before finals I was talking to my dad up in Wisconsin.  I was nervous to tell him about the job.  I knew since their church railed heavily against gambling and alcohol my only hope would be to lead with the money.  He’d have a hard time disapproving of me earning an income not that much less than his own.  After that I’d bring up how it could be beneficial to me eventually making a living at this already risky thing I wanted to do.  Surely he’d see the merit and give me his blessing.  So after a few minutes of bullshit banter, he asked me when he should come down and pick me up.  I took a deep breath and then boldly and confidently said, “Well, um . . . the thing is . . ..” 

I clumsily spit out the details as quickly as I could, hoping it would overwhelm him and he’d just say ok without really hearing.  He heard.  A man of many words and selfless understanding, he paused for a second, and then gave his typical “hmm.” 

That of course meant he was thinking of how to say no without being confrontational.  My father may be the one person in the world who hates confrontation more than me.  Well, he and my brother.  I waited desperately for him to say the logical thing, like how it made sense for me to take the job.  Instead his response and I still hear it clear as a bell because even though part of me knew it was coming, it still completely flabbergasted me, was:  “No, I don’t think we’re going to do that.”   

That was it.  His reaction, his answer, and his explanation all summed up in a cryptic statement.  He didn’t think we were going to do that.  We were going to do that?  I should have asked who the fuck he meant by we.  This was a great opportunity for me, not we.  But yes, it could actually benefit us since I could start paying back my school bill a little faster.  I might mention my dad and stepmom barely had a pot to piss in, despite how well they spent money.  And while he had worked for one company for over 30 years, they have also jerked him around most of that time.  He’s been laid off, rehired, had his job threatened, forced to move, a number of times.  So you would think me taking a bold step to ease some of that financial burden would be welcomed.  The effort should have at the very least been appreciated. 

It didn’t matter though.  Had I just said to him “Dad, my mom and stepdad are cutting me a check for twenty-million and you a check for ten, and all you need to do is walk across the street to get it” he would have said no. 

Actually scratch that.  He’d probably have walked over for his check.  He just would have told me he didn’t want me to take mine.  The reason?  It was something from my mom.  Or that my mom was the catalyst for the opportunity.  It was that same decade & a half old wound that started smarting again the minute I told him my mom and stepdad had hooked me up with this job.  Had the exact same situation been made possible by my stepmother’s brother or parents, they would have physically pushed me to the job. 

I didn’t even have a comeback.  I was so thrown off by his response.  If he’d had said “no way, you’re not working around gambling or all that drinking” I would have at least understood where he was coming from.  I might have even had a retort for such arguments.  But his answer, if you can call it that, was just plain dismissive.  My dad had dismissed me.  That was new, even for him.  The worst part is I just more or less accepted it.  Even at nearly 19 years old and after a year of freedom and getting by on my own, I still didn’t have to power to fight with my dad.  I didn’t want to upset him.  Isn’t that funny?  I didn’t want to risk having him be upset with me.  I think somewhere deep down inside, I was still afraid if I pissed him off, he’d just leave.  He’d bale on me, just as he did when I was 5 years-old.  I don’t remember the wording of the rest of the conversation, but I know it didn’t come up again.  We just made plans for him to come get me.  Of course, ironically, as soon as he did pick me up to take me back to Wisconsin, one of the first topics in the car was that I’d need to find a summer job. 

I should have been pissed.  I should have been livid.  And had I been a man, I should have challenged him.  I should have unloaded with a double-barrel flame thrower of pure honesty and just asked why the fuck he would deny me the chance to make money and maybe even get closer to a career?  I should have demanded he answer me or dared him to leave again.  I should have drawn a line in the sand and asked him if he could possibly answer me or just run away with his tail between his legs again because things were uncomfortable.  In retrospect, I think the idea of me making any money scared him.  It scared him and my stepmother.  They associated the ability to earn with a form of power.  They were afraid to give me any power.  I certainly know they were unwilling to. 

I should mention something.  Remember when I talked about them dropping me off at school, the promise was they were going to send me $100 a month while I was at school as “walking around money?”  Remember how excited that made me because having $25 a week in college to spend was like being Montgomery Brewster in Brewster’s Millions?  Yeah, that was a great story.  Sadly, I never saw a single check.  They never sent me any money while I was at school.  Not a dime.  They didn’t even mention it.  When I’d come visit, dad would hand me whatever cash he had in his pocket, usually a twenty before I left.  That was it.  And he did it without even a blush of embarrassment.  Essentially that $100 a month was lie.  For what purpose?  Your guess is as good as mine.  Again, maybe it was another psychological power thing.  But they never sent me the money they promised, that I never asked for by the way, and now they wouldn’t allow me to take a job I wanted.

Perhaps now it will make sense to you if I tell that shortly after I moved in to Euphegenia, my mom and stepdad did something really nice, and I never breathed a word of it to my dad.  Mom called and said they wanted to come up and take me to dinner and they had something for me.  So they drove up one evening and told me that when my brother had gone away to school they had opened up a bank account for him and deposited $1,500.00 for him his first year.  That was solely to be his spending money.  They had told him to use it wisely and not blow through it in a week.  Once it was gone it was gone.  I’m sure this was meant to be some experiment to teach him how to spend money responsibly.  In the case of my brother, that experiment didn’t just fail, it exploded in white hot fire destroying everything in the lab!  However, that not withstanding, they were going to do the same thing for me.  And guess what.  They actually did. 

My stepdad took me to what was then First Chicago Bank, which doesn’t exist any longer and we opened up my first checking account.  True to their word, he deposited $1,500.00 for me.  It was a big deal because my mom and stepdad didn’t contribute to my schooling at all.  They didn’t want me going to Euphegenia.  They didn’t even recognize it as a real college.  Boy, if only I’d heeded their advice.  It was a real surprise they were willing to give me this money.  And I was given the most amazing thing I’d ever held in my hands, an ATM card.  This was the early 90’s and debit cards weren’t as prevalent as they are today.  I know I sound like an old man when I say back in my day you had to have the money if you wanted to spend it. 

I heeded their advice/cautions and didn’t go crazy.  My biggest extravagance when I got back to school was to go buy a used Sega Genesis (the entertainment system of the day if you were any kind of Baller) and a couple games.  Aside from that, I was almost scared to spend that money.  I remember at one point a couple months after they’d given me the money, my stepdad called and asked how mush was left and I nervously told him it was around $1,200.00 and I was really afraid he’d be upset.  He was actually shocked in the other way.  He couldn’t believe I’d only spent $300 in that time period.  I guess I was just afraid to go out and blow it, knowing it had to last.  

That money from my folks really made a huge difference in my ability to have a life at school.    Perhaps some parents don’t put much stock in that idea.  But emotionally, that money saved my life.  It enabled me to go out, get to actually know people, get off campus now and then, and just decompress.  Admittedly, I could have really used more time in the books and less having fun, but really, which is more important? 

Either way, I did not tell my dad and stepmom that the money even existed.  They hadn’t been concerned enough to send me a nickel.  Yet I had this sneaking suspicion that, had they found out about the money, they’d want to get their hands on it.  Even though in the grand scheme of things, $1,500 isn’t a life altering sum, for anyone from college students to working class adults, it is a lot.  And while part of me thought my concern about telling my dad was simply paranoia, there was voice in my head saying if I told them about the money, they’d demand I write them a check for the entire balance.  I feared he and my stepmom would guilt me, as they had done before, and act as if they were entitled.  Sometimes, no matter how paranoid you tell yourself you’re acting, you should really heed that little voice.         

 When I got home, to make matters even stranger, I didn’t even recognize the house he took me to.  My dad and stepmother had sold the house I moved out of when I went to college, the house they lived in around Christmas time when I had sex with Kori in the spare room, and had bought a whole new house.  And they never once thought to even drop me a postcard that they were thinking of moving.  I had no idea.  My dad literally let me know about twenty minutes before we got there.  Of course I suppose that does beat them moving and not even coming to get me, or showing me where they’d gone.  Actually, in some ways, maybe it would have been better if they had done just that!  The house was fine, even nice actually.  Not big, but new.  But the moment I walked in, something didn’t feel right.  The house was comfortable, but I was not comfortable there.  I suppose I could say there was a chill in the air, and this was late May. 

Just as in the car, the conversations immediately turned to me finding a summer job.  I kick myself now for not standing up for myself.  I had a fucking job!  A good one at that, and it was just handed to me.  And because I was still a daddy’s boy and didn’t want to upset the apple cart, I walked away from it.  And by the way, without getting too deep into it, rest assured my stepdad was pissed when I told him as much.  He told me he’d never do another favor like that for me again. 

I can tell you now, as over the last 15 years our relationship has grown so much and so strong, I know he would, if I asked.  But back then, he meant it, and I don’t blame him.  He’d called in a favor, put his name and reputation on the line, and I just threw it back at him.  Not even.  I just snuck away, back to Wisconsin, sadly just like my father always did in his life.  And here I was being told by my father and stepmother who made me turn it down that I needed a job.  It’s really sadistic when you think about it.  I’d almost think they were intentionally trying to torture me, psychologically, if I thought they were smart enough to think of such a scheme. 

I applied a few places, here and there.  Stores at the mall, Musicland, Suncoast Video, and other fun places I liked that I figured I could tolerate for three months.  The downside was those places only paid minimum wage.  That was not good enough, not for my stepmother.  My stepmom, God love her, wears the pants in their marriage.  It’s the pattern she grew up with.  Her mom told her dad when to jump, how high, and if he could wipe his ass when he landed.  That poor man was a simple, quiet farm boy from Oklahoma who’d moved to Wisconsin and worked hard his whole life while his wife stayed home every damn day.  He came home every evening to orders and disapproval, and I daresay he worked harder on her weekend projects than he did at his job.  The man probably looked forward to Monday mornings.  She treated him like he was stupid, but he always took it with a nervous chuckle and did what he was told.  They’ll say I’m going to Hell for saying this, but it’s no wonder in his early 60’s he developed Alzheimer’s and checked out.  It’s the only reprieve, and the only revenge he could get.  And for the record, there is no Hell, but if there was I was already going long before I typed that sentence.

My stepmother isn’t quite so overbearing on my dad, but she gets pretty damn close.  And she has worked.  After all, that’s how they met . . . when he was married.  She hasn’t had a fulltime job that I know of for the last 15 years.  My father on the other hand is going to be working until the day he dies, literally with his fingers on the key board or checking a switch.  I hate that.  But, again, it’s due to choices he made, or more likely let himself be bullied into by his wife.  More to come later on that.  But you can see why he sat mostly quietly as my stepmother spelled out for me that working a minimum wage job that summer was not going to cut it.  She had already pulled an ad out of the paper for a factory not far from the house that was hiring college kids.  I was to go there the next day and apply, end of discussion.  And as the dutiful son that imagined myself to be, I did. 

You Said That Irony Was The Shackles of Youth!

One thing you’ll notice if you spend enough time with Evangelical Christians, especially the younger ones, if how much they love to talk about love.  Love is a big part of it.  In fact it’s really the crucial selling point of the whole package.  “For God so loved the world” and all that.  Christ loved us so much, He came to Earth to die for us.  Love your neighbor as yourself.  All you need is love . . . wait, never mind.  That guy was bigger than Jesus.  The point being, there is a great deal of talk about love, and Euphegenia was no exception.  Students were always proclaiming their love for the school, for each other, etc.  It was enough to make you feel all warm and gooey.  

The problem is that too was all bullshit.  I mean, yes, I believe a lot of great friendships and relationships are forged in those four years, just as they are on secular campuses.  Many probably are founded on love.  But there is such a high concentration of cruelty among Christians as well.  Also probably common in any school but again, these are people claiming to be different.  Claiming literally to be better.  Yet they can be downright evil to one another.  On a secular campus, if you’re an oddball or an outcast, you’ll probably find your group sooner or later.  Or at least you’ll figure out how to not stick out while still somehow sniffing out like-spirits.    In the smaller world of a Christian campus, there are so few hiding places.  And despite how spiritually elevated they claim to be, it’s still the pretty ones, male and female running the show.   Like so many other hierarchal settings, if you look right, talk right, and act right you will probably feel that love and acceptance.  If you’re different, or you’re not what they deem aesthetically pleasing, and that’s beyond shiny white teeth and well-coiffed hair, you’ll hope you’re only shunned.  Let me stop and say, before you think to yourself “clearly this is just sour grapes.  He must have been a weirdo that got picked on there.” 

No so.  I mean, yes, weirdo for sure and proud of it.  But I was actually never picked on at Euphegenia.  I dare say I was treated well by most of the students once they got to know me.  Sure there were some flannel-tucking frat boys (without a frat) who sneered at me behind my back.  And there were a few Barbies with Bibles to whom I was too dark and swarthy to fraternize with.  All in all, people talked to me.  I was often included, when I chose to be.  But I watched.  And the more I watched, the less I chose to participate.  On one occasion however, I had to participate only to alter the course of another student’s life. 

The practice of hazing, especially among fraternities and college athletic organizations dates back God knows how long.  Somewhere, at some point, a bunch of dudes (probably harboring some pretty dark inner-shit) were hanging out and decided they were going to let a new guy, probably named Todd enter their circle.  However, before Todd could be their friend, one of the others, probably named Troy decided it was only fair Todd suffer some pain and humiliation first, to prove how much he liked them.  For some reason when bullying (or worse) is committed in the name of college hazing it seems to get a pass.  The world has supposedly cracked down on it lately but I wonder if that’s the true story on today’s college campuses.  In the early-90’s it was still running rampant.  And while Euphegenia had no fraternities or sororities, I was told early on of a time honored tradition that I’d better beware of.  It was called “poling.” 

Not of course polling as in going out and measuring public opinion on a subject.  Believe me if you’d polled most of the freshman men, you’d get an overwhelmingly unfavorable response to the practice.  No, this was a much more insidious thing.  I found it quite an ironic name as well given that in 1990, a group of Christian students, not unlike those who participated in this annual poling event, started an event called “See You at the Pole.”   During this yearly happening, Christian students in secular schools would gather around the school’s flag pole to pray and read scriptures. 

Every spring at Euphegenia one freshman chosen by a committee of upper-classmen bullies was pulled from his bed in the night, dragged, violently if he resisted across campus to a light pole, and duct taped to it like a mummy.  Funny, right?  So now imagine a bunch of thugs wrapping exposed skin with duct tape.  Once he was secure, the group would begin to dump all manner of condiments, eggs, hair product, detergent, and any other disgusting sticky substance all over the victim.  And as I understand if the occasional errant punch or kick happened to land on the victim, hey . . . what would Jesus do?  Inevitably this happened in front of a large audience of assembled students.  Campus security would usually just stand and watch (and laugh) citing fear of the “assembled mob” overpowering them. 

From what I understand, they would also throw a selection of the polee’s personal possessions into the campus pond.  And so you know, a good number of those involved with this activity were Youth Ministry or Christian Religion and Philosophy (or CRaP) majors.  Makes you want to send your kids out to church, doesn’t it?  If you happen to be reading this and thinking that’s just a petty, harmless college prank, you’re an asshole.  Kill yourself now.  Once again, no I am not the bitter survivor of said hazing.  But yes, since there was no rhyme or reason to why they every picked their victim, I did from time to time worry I might be the chosen one. 

Stacy had been the first to tell me about the poling tradition.  When I expressed concern and disgust at the event, he went on to tell me the guy who’d been “poled” the year before I got there was a kid named Ben.  He apparently “could be a loud mouth” and “upset some people.”  In other words, even in conservative caring Stacy’s opinion, he deserved it.  I didn’t know Ben.  I couldn’t make such a judgment for myself, because Ben not surprisingly didn’t return to Euphegenia the following fall.  Go figure. 

Most every freshman male was aware of what lurked in the shadows of the spring.  We didn’t discuss it, but I would hear the occasional upper classman bring it up toward a group of freshman, as if a threat.  Our dorm had a rec room full of pool tables right across the hall from my room downstairs.  One night Artemis and I were in there screwing around playing pool, when an upperclassman named Woody wandered in with his constant, sidekick Todd.  Woody was actually Stacy’s former roommate and the manager of the radio station.  They were both twerps.  Todd was short and chunky and his eyes were perpetually squinting.  Woody was a thin-haired hayseed from Indiana that could be knocked out by a strong breeze.  For some reason they thought Artemis and a couple other guys who’d joined us, were being too cocky and loud.  They told him to tone it down, to which I think he smarted off in return.  I remember Woody saying “you won’t be so cocky when you’re hanging from that pole.”  And little Todd squinting and grinning “that’s right!” 

Ok, shall we break this down?  A.  They had essentially made an out and out threat.  B.  Two rednecks had just insinuated hanging a black student from a pole (do we really want to dive into the connotations of that one?)  C.  They were both heavily involved with spiritual leadership on campus. 

Yet there they were confident that, just by virtue of their grade level, they could threaten Artemis and really all of us.  And we knew they were right, more or less.  There had been a decree from on high early that spring that any one participating in poling a student would be expelled, but I wasn’t confident it would be enforced.  Even if it were, there were a few nut jobs that I didn’t think would consider it a deterrent.  Three of the ringleaders of last year’s poling lived in the room next door to Artemis and I, and they had on multiple occasions bitched about us being too loud.  Artemis and his damned Michael Jackson . . . 

I was certain we might at least be on a short list. 

Fortunately, those guys actually kind of liked me.  I was not, it turned out on the enemies list.  At least not on the night the big event was to take place.  After all, I’m sure it was an organic list, and when the committee met, each member probably had some other freshman in mind that pissed them off that day.  That year, there hadn’t even been a scheduled poling day.  Too much risk someone might leak it to the powers that be.  It more or less happened spontaneously.  I know, because I was standing there shell shocked when the group declared, expulsion be damned, someone was getting their ass taped to the light post.  A group of guys were just hanging out in the second floor lounge bullshitting around midnight.  Those neighbors I mentioned were among the throng.  Suddenly, the subject of to pole or not came up, and it started a fervor among them.  It was late, the year was coming to an end, and there was a strange energy in the air.  In a matter of seconds, it was on and it was happening!  I couldn’t believe my dumb luck.  I wasn’t going to be the victim, but I was at the very least an accomplice by association!  The question was who would be the target?       

Dylan was the sweetest guy you could ever meet.  He was a soft-spoken, good hearted man who always gave you a smile and nod.  He was always encouraging.  I never heard an unkind or judgmental word come out of his mouth.  If Danny had any private  malice toward any one, you never caught a hint of it.  Before I pull out another cliché to describe what a saint he seemed, I’ll just say I honestly believe he would have literally given you the shirt off his back, if that was really what you needed. 

Dylan was also older than most of the students in his graduating class.  The reason was Dylan’s slew of health problems.  I want to say the worst of which was Hodgkin’s but I’m not sure.  I just know he was in a great deal of pain a great deal of the time, and the source of which was something of a medical mystery.  In my time at Euphegenia there was a point where he left school to take a little trip to the Mayo Clinic. Even they were having difficulty pinpointing what the hell was wrong with him.  I often watched Dylan in chapel or in group settings.  He was an observer as well, and didn’t talk a lot or draw attention to himself.  Still waters run deep as they say.  But something tells me if he were brutally honest, at least back then, those waters were saying “I’m fucking dying and I don’t even know why!”

The point is, he had suffered hardships, he was dealing with hardship, and yet he never moped or complained.  He never snapped at anyone.  In fact there were numerous times I’d find myself having a conversation with Dylan where I was bitching about some problem or another.  He would smile, his eyes twinkling behind his glasses and offer sage advice, or just be an ear that heard.  It’s almost embarrassing to remember now.  But Dylan was literally a stand-up guy.  He was a role model.  And Dylan was a man of stoic faith, staggering on rejoicing as it were.  So imagine the way I felt when one of the guys shouted out “let’s get Dylan.  That guy annoys me.” 

That was it.  They all just shrugged and then decided yeah, he was as good a victim as anyone.  At this point the dogs smelled blood and they JUST wanted to sink their teeth into some meat.  They leapt to their feet and headed for the stairs toward Dylan’s room.  I knew I had to stop them.  Aside from how much he did not deserve this, I also worried about his health and the idea that these baboons could cause him more problems or even kill him.  In a panic I called out “wait guys, no!” 

They all stopped like in a teen movie and looked back at me with that look of “what?!?”  I explained that I knew he had health problems and they could really get in trouble if they go after him.  I even threw out the idea they could all get sued.  That seemed to work.  Till the ringleaders turned to me, still in that weird movie scene and demanded a new name.  It literally felt like they were saying either I give them an acceptable alternate or they go get Dylan, or they just take me.  I spit out the first name that came to mind.  I knew if they were going to get somebody, it had to be someone that could handle it, someone strong enough to bounce back from it, and as horrible as this is sounds, deserved it a little bit.  That’s right; I became the thing I hated.  I found a way to justify it.  But a sacrificial lamb had to be named in that moment. 

“What about Billy C?” 

“Who?” one of them asked.  That was a bad sign.

“You know,” I said, “the guy on the third floor always blaring his fucking stereo.  He’s a campus cop.  So is his older brother.” 

“Oh yeah,” someone said.  “Yeah, he is a prick.”

Billy wasn’t really a prick.  He was loud, cocky, and a bit boorish but he wasn’t a bad guy.  In fact he had been one of my first friends on campus, sort of.  Early on I took a shine to a girl name Celine (if you knew her real name, that would be so much funnier!) She was a little thick with a perfectly round butt, but had a sharp, sexy face.  I don’t know how more to explain that.  She had dark almond-shaped eyes that always belied a bit of mischief behind them.  And a sideways, almost patronizing grin.  I loved that.  I wouldn’t say I liked her, but I was definitely attracted to her.  She looked like if you could break down that moral wall a little bit, she would be a lot of fun.  It was also pretty apparent that wall wasn’t too sturdy to begin with.  You could probably penetrate it with a tiny stick, which was exactly what I fantasized about doing!   

It’s no secret, but a man’s attraction to a woman is not based entirely on looks.  There’s that intangible, something that just clicks in a very primeval place inside.  In other words, we look at a woman and can size up whether she would just lay there like a limp piece of meat, or she locks her knees together and takes charge.  Celine looked like a caged cat pacing back and forth, waiting for someone to let their guard down and forget to lock the door.  Once she pounced there’d be no stopping her until she left you quivering, oozing life, while she licked her paws purring.  At least, I liked to think so.  

I think I befriended Celine and her roommate Katie at lunch one day.  They lived in Volgmann hall, the same apartment-style dorm Kori lived in.  I haven’t mentioned this little nugget of information yet, but boys weren’t allowed to cross the threshold of any girl’s rooms.  And the policy was actually worded just like that.  The rooms opened directly to the outside, and tt was common to see guys leaning inside the doorways all across that building.  Before Kori and I got together, I spent many evenings hanging out in Celine and Katie’s doorway, keeping my toes right on the doorstop. 

Unbeknownst to me Billy C. had also noticed Celine, and being a little more confident, and maybe just a little too stupid to know better, he’d begun to make moves.  I remember discovering them having lunch together one afternoon after chapel.  And then he began appearing in her door as well.  He was cock-blocking me, but in his defense he had no idea.  In fact it turned out they thought I liked Katie.  Billy liked me and was always friendly, even if overbearing.  He invited me to sit with them at lunch.  He included me in the conversations when we’d both meet in the girls’ doorway.  Billy and Celine were engaged by Christmas.  Yes, that means only about 3 months after meeting.  And neither one even old enough to drink. 

That’s what a culture that outlaws premarital sex creates; a whole bunch of horny bastards who will desperately marry too young and too impulsively just to have sex.  Clearly that wild cat Celine needed it and she sank her claws in.  Of course, we all know a lioness in her prime doesn’t want some dumb deer with his dick out standing around waiting for it.  She wants worthy quarry.  I doubt she ever got it.    

Still, whether he denied me a chance to tangle with her or not, I couldn’t help but like the Indiana farm boy turned Public Safety officer.  His brother had indeed been on the campus security force and essentially gave Billy a spot.  He encouraged me to apply as well, saying it paid like a real job.  You just had to take pepper spray to the face as part of the interview process.  No thanks, I said.  I’d rather stick to my job where I farted around doing nothing (except actual farting) for two hours . . . when I even bothered showing up at all. 

My little job at the computer lab also required no recognizable Rent-A-Cop uniform to incur the hostility and ridicule of about 90% of the student body.  Just like Mall Cops, our security force, as I imagine most campuses discover, took their jobs a little too seriously.  Something about giving someone too young and unqualified a badge and a Billy club goes right to their head and turns them into an enormous cocksucker.  Sadly I watched it happen quickly to Billy.  One night I was out after curfew (yes freshman had a curfew.  We had to be signed in and inside the dorm by midnight Sunday through Thursday.)  Billy came upon me, just out walking and I gave him a friendly greeting.  He was alone, but you’d have thought his superiors were observing from the bushes as he proceeded to dress me down and threaten to report me if I didn’t get back to the dorm.  He informed me I was lucky we were friends or he wouldn’t even give me the warning.  You know, in hindsight, maybe his name flying out of my mouth that night wasn’t quite so unwarranted after all.              

Billy also lived in my old room on the third floor.  I knew they had put the bunk beds back together for more space, and that they were right next to the door.  I also knew, having a habit of forgetting keys that continues today, that the lock would give if you turned the handle to the right just hard and fast enough while pushing in.  I explained this as well.  This intel made Billy seem all the more desirable because they now had easy access to their prey.  It was enough to change their minds.  And that’s how it happened.  Dylan was spared.  Billy C was fucked.  And I was no longer an accomplice; I was the goddamn Offensive Coordinator of this assault.  I’m not proud of myself for any involvement, let alone the fact that it was me who threw Billy’s name out.  Once the die was cast, the pack was off.

They thundered up the stairs toBilly’s room and quietly gathered outside the door.  I followed a few feet behind, not sure what to do.  I wanted to somehow make it stop, without putting my own head on the block.  I watched as they whispered their big plan, so much as it was.  One of them would open the door in a swift motion and they would all fall in, grabbing Billy out of bed (bottom bunk – could he have made it any easier?) and dragging him down the hall, the stairs, and out the back door.  That was it.  A snatch and grab job.  His only saving grace was they hadn’t had time to get duct tape or anything to pour on him.  The bad news:  they were planning to simply toss him right into the pond.  And the pond was not a pleasant, crystalline body of water.  It was a disgusting murky brown cesspool covered with thick green algae.  The bottom was just muck and slime and old furniture and bicycles and God knew what else!  Going in that water was not an acceptable alternative by any stretch of the imagination.  The risks of getting that shit in your ear or God forbid swallowing a mouthful was frightening. 

In an instant (just as I’d informed them) the door opened with a forceful twist and in they bound.  Fortunately, they were about as quiet as a pack of incontinent gorillas and Billy woke up immediately.  He wasn’t going to go quietly.  He fought, and he yelled as he struggled.  His security training, so much as it was, probably helped.  It took a real effort and a few minutes just to get him from his bed to the hallway.  By that time, another Bill, the R.A. at the end of the hall had woken up and appeared in the hall.  As soon as he yelled, things went nuts as the group dropped Billy C. and ran like hell for the other staircase.  They remembered the maxim of expulsion for hazing and the beasts scattered, I with them.

One Bill had saved another.  No freshman would be hazed that spring of 1994.  But for a moment, I’m pretty sure one was scared shitless.  I felt like the biggest heal on campus.  I suppose that night is why I feel some degree of sympathy for Pontius Pilate.  He’s been demonized for nearly 2000 years, yet Pilate tried to turn the angry mob’s attention away from Jesus.  Pilate offered them Barabbas, a deserving target for the tree.  Sadly he failed in his redirection, while I succeeded.

I wasn’t sure if Billy had seen me in the crowd that night or not.  But I got my answer the following day.  I tried to pretend I hadn’t seen them as I carried my tray, but Celine waved me over.  She smiled but not the same friendly, inviting smile she usually gave me.  I sat down and we made small talk but then inevitably he brought up the events of a few hours before.  He wasn’t making accusations.  Just being very passive-aggressive.  I tried to get out in front of it and explain what had happened, how they wanted Dylan.  I downplayed the fact that I’d suggested Billy’s name.  After that, Billy more or less played it off as no big deal, nothing he couldn’t handle.  Celine couldn’t believe they would have attacked someone like Dylan.  It was almost as though she would have willingly let them toss her fiancé into the slime to avoid the alternative.  But it affected our friendship permanently.  I wasn’t invited to their wedding that summer.  And neither of them returned the following year. 

I think I apologized to Billy that day.  But now that I’ve given full-disclosure let me say again, sincerely, despite the reason why, I am truly sorry I threw Billy’s name out there.  I had no ill-will.  I honestly thought given the choice between Billy and Dylan, Billy could take it.  Dylan probably couldn’t.  Billy was strong.  Dylan wasn’t.  Doesn’t make it right.  I know that.  Maybe it wasn’t my call to make.  Maybe I should have let the animals go for Dylan.  Maybe I should have just run away from the situation.  I did not and would not have chosen to be in that position.  It is what is. 

Fortunately nothing happened, other than a few moments of fear and embarrassment.  That’s enough to make me feel terrible.  Billy didn’t deserve even that.  I’m sorry it happened.