plumbing situation here or inside.”
Corinne pursed her lips and stepped out. Jerilyn stood in the doorway, sort of curious. Now the smell of sewage was everywhere. “I’m gagging,” Corinne said, her neck pulsing. “God, how could you guys do this to us? We’re trying to convince thirty young ladies to call this house home and every day they have to walk through this torn-up front yard and the smell of septic tanks and shit everywhere! I thought this was going to be done two weeks ago!”
“Miss, you need everything replaced,” the man said somberly.
“Oh what a fucking shakedown. You dig everything up and now we have to pay big money to get our yard back to normal.”
“I’m telling you what every plumber in town would tell you. You have got blockages in three pipes and the septic is not breaking down the waste matter.”
“For God’s sake, just fix it, fix it already!”
“You have to…” The man, who could be anybody’s grandfather, looked concerned, perhaps for the plumbing, not so much for the girls. “You have to … You have to chew your food, miss. Get the girls to digest their food. You can’t just swallow it for a little while and throw it up into the toilet. It—”
“Look, we’ll do in our toilets whatever we want to do in our toilets—they’re our toilets!”
“Just telling you what the problem is, miss.”
“Fix it, whatever the bill is, then give it to me, and I promise you, Mister … Mister Old Plumber Guy, that the Greeks in Chapel Hill will boycott you and I will see to it that you will never have another bit of business from any sorority in this town.”
Corinne stormed away, pushing past Jerilyn.
The man returned to his van and Jerilyn stood out on the porch for a moment and gazed across the street to Thetahouse, having some kind of do tonight. A small limousine pulled up in front and six men and six women got out, all dressed in formal wear, beautiful. Jerilyn watched a man in a dinner jacket put an arm around the lower back of his date, and escort her lovingly up the walk. Jerilyn was already feeling chilly in her skintight jeans and bikini top.
Layla appeared beside her on the porch. “They think they can see my tits through this top but they can’t … see?” Layla was exhibiting herself under the porchlight. Her gauzy Kleenex-thin skirt barely made it over her privates. She had Carolina Blue pumps that added three inches to her height. “Want to feel good?” she asked, and Jerilyn understood there was more coke to be sniffed on some surface somewhere inside.
“I like feeling good,” she said, following her friend.
* * *
Five of the pledges, wearing only a jockstrap, were marched into the television room, all dark except for the TV, tuned to a static channel and muted.
Cory and Kevin bade them stand at attention against the wall. The boy christened Smegma (their pledge names were written on their foreheads in permanent marker) was shivering. “The Pledgemaster will be here shortly,” Cory said gravely.
Kevin added, “You must do as he says or you’ll never be a Zipperman.”
The pledge christened Scrotum mumbled, “Better not be any gay stuff…” There were frats that filmed their hazing rituals—unending hours of nudity and homoerotic dares and things inserted places—and then sold the videos to hazehim.com—again, for a bit of spring break money.
“You’ll do whatever the Pledgemaster demands!” Cory barked.
There was noise and the sound of, maybe, a chair being overturned, some muffled cursing … Then Skip was present, holding one end of a dog leash, lingering in the shadows. Kevin and Cory stood on either side of the doorway, affecting dire solemnity. Joey D slowly, as if marching in a funeral cortege, stepped into the TV room with his long black robe with its Death cowl, a costume rented and never returned for a Halloween some years ago.
“Within the brotherhood of Zeta Pi,” Joey D intoned, “there is a more
Corinne pursed her lips and stepped out. Jerilyn stood in the doorway, sort of curious. Now the smell of sewage was everywhere. “I’m gagging,” Corinne said, her neck pulsing. “God, how could you guys do this to us? We’re trying to convince thirty young ladies to call this house home and every day they have to walk through this torn-up front yard and the smell of septic tanks and shit everywhere! I thought this was going to be done two weeks ago!”
“Miss, you need everything replaced,” the man said somberly.
“Oh what a fucking shakedown. You dig everything up and now we have to pay big money to get our yard back to normal.”
“I’m telling you what every plumber in town would tell you. You have got blockages in three pipes and the septic is not breaking down the waste matter.”
“For God’s sake, just fix it, fix it already!”
“You have to…” The man, who could be anybody’s grandfather, looked concerned, perhaps for the plumbing, not so much for the girls. “You have to … You have to chew your food, miss. Get the girls to digest their food. You can’t just swallow it for a little while and throw it up into the toilet. It—”
“Look, we’ll do in our toilets whatever we want to do in our toilets—they’re our toilets!”
“Just telling you what the problem is, miss.”
“Fix it, whatever the bill is, then give it to me, and I promise you, Mister … Mister Old Plumber Guy, that the Greeks in Chapel Hill will boycott you and I will see to it that you will never have another bit of business from any sorority in this town.”
Corinne stormed away, pushing past Jerilyn.
The man returned to his van and Jerilyn stood out on the porch for a moment and gazed across the street to Thetahouse, having some kind of do tonight. A small limousine pulled up in front and six men and six women got out, all dressed in formal wear, beautiful. Jerilyn watched a man in a dinner jacket put an arm around the lower back of his date, and escort her lovingly up the walk. Jerilyn was already feeling chilly in her skintight jeans and bikini top.
Layla appeared beside her on the porch. “They think they can see my tits through this top but they can’t … see?” Layla was exhibiting herself under the porchlight. Her gauzy Kleenex-thin skirt barely made it over her privates. She had Carolina Blue pumps that added three inches to her height. “Want to feel good?” she asked, and Jerilyn understood there was more coke to be sniffed on some surface somewhere inside.
“I like feeling good,” she said, following her friend.
* * *
Five of the pledges, wearing only a jockstrap, were marched into the television room, all dark except for the TV, tuned to a static channel and muted.
Cory and Kevin bade them stand at attention against the wall. The boy christened Smegma (their pledge names were written on their foreheads in permanent marker) was shivering. “The Pledgemaster will be here shortly,” Cory said gravely.
Kevin added, “You must do as he says or you’ll never be a Zipperman.”
The pledge christened Scrotum mumbled, “Better not be any gay stuff…” There were frats that filmed their hazing rituals—unending hours of nudity and homoerotic dares and things inserted places—and then sold the videos to hazehim.com—again, for a bit of spring break money.
“You’ll do whatever the Pledgemaster demands!” Cory barked.
There was noise and the sound of, maybe, a chair being overturned, some muffled cursing … Then Skip was present, holding one end of a dog leash, lingering in the shadows. Kevin and Cory stood on either side of the doorway, affecting dire solemnity. Joey D slowly, as if marching in a funeral cortege, stepped into the TV room with his long black robe with its Death cowl, a costume rented and never returned for a Halloween some years ago.
“Within the brotherhood of Zeta Pi,” Joey D intoned, “there is a more
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