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About Oregon daily emerald. (Eugene, Or.) 1920-2012 | View Entire Issue (June 7, 1977)
Potential Greek gets classic rush I’ve got to do it I kept telling my self. If I move from the dorms to an apartment I won’t have any social life, 1 won’t make any new friends, so I’ve got to do it. And there was another reason for my going through formal rush. Sheila Jablonski, the light of my life, my earth angel whose crucifix ear rings had been my guiding stars, had pledged Quad-Delt, and since that time I had found myself trans formed from Principal Male Interest to GDI pariah. The incestuous romantic guidelines set forth in un written Greek laws prohibited extra-tribell coupling, and though Sheila admitted during secret mid night trysts in her room that I was still her Main Interest, our romance was taboo and doomed to fail as long as I stood outside the shining ivory gates of Greekdom. But even so, I approached the whole thing hesitantly. The purpose of rush, the rush chairman had exp lained at the orientation meeting, was to give us “rushees” a chance to check out all the houses on cam pus, but I knew that the real pur pose was just the opposite — the houses would be checking us out Normally, the idea wouldn’t have bothered me, but sitting there at that meeting, surrounded by tall, athletic youths with burnished tans, bulging biceps, blonde hair coifed with calculated carelessness and Ryan O’Neal faces framing enough gleeming white teeth to make a “Jaws” sequel, my self-confidence began to wane. Who was I to mar ket myself among such choice and tender cuts of pledge material as these? Shuffling up the sidewalk in front of Helta Skelta Delta I eyed myself critically in the reflection of a Stingray window; the hair—Christ, much too long, short hair was back and everyone seemed to have got ten the message but me; the khaki jacket bearing the silkscreen like ness of Mr. Spock — unspeakably gauche; the logging pants with the roadrunner patch — inexcusable; and the hobnail boots smeared with 12 coats of pungent mink oil — well, at least they went with the rest of the outfit It couldn’t be helped. I told myself resignedly as I strolled past a string of Mach l’s, Firebirds hand in a grip that said, ‘I could crush your puny fingers to jelly if file mood struck me.’ My name’s Julius, senior, business, member, St. Maria’s of the Lake, Portland. You?” I told him my name, adding, “Sophomore, philosophy, rushee, MF Union, Milton-Freewater.” “No kidding, Milton-Freewater? Hey, you must know Shei-” He caught himself and threw a furtive glance over his shoulder. “Well, let’s take a look around, shall we?” “Wait a minute, what’s wrong? Were you going to say Sheila Jab lonski? Always wears crucifix ear rings and a blue bandana? Sure, 1 know her, we’re...well, that is, she’s a friend. Do you know her?” “Uh, well, yeah, you could say that I guess. Come on, let’s look at the upstairs.” He wrapped a brawny arm around my shoulders and guided me upstairs to a dim hall filled with the odors of Aqua Velva, football leather and sweatsocks. “One of the big advantages of fraternity life is that anyone can de corate his room to suit his own taste.” As if to prove his point, he pulled me into a nearby doorway. The “Taste” of this room’s owner apparently extended no further than hops and barley. The floor was papered with Budweiser labels, the bedspread was a giant copy of a Coors advertisement, the desk was a board set across two kegs, the wastebasket was a pop-art Blitz can, the walls were covered with thousands of painstakingly stacked Miller’s stubbies and the ceiling was plastered with whirring, clicking buzzing beer signs that de picted everything from frosted mugs orbiting the globe to a neon outline of Ed McMahon kissing a Clydesdale. “Looks like whoever owns this room likes beer,” I pointed out sagely. “What kind of a comment is that?’’ Julius demanded. “Of course he likes beer. Everybody likes beer. You like beer, don’t you?” It was more of a command than a question. “Oh, sure, love it,” I said quickly. “Well then,” Julius harrumphed, “Let’s look at another room.” A Graphic by Sieve Sendarom tailed etching of the Kama Sutra I had ever encountered, dong with more diagrams illustrating couples locked into positions that seemed at least illegal, if not impossible. The ceiling and the other three walls were covered with flawless, polished mirrors, so that I had the impression of standing in an endless chamber, and every movement 1 made was duplicated by thousands of evenly spaced twins of myself until they were lost in the vast dis tance. At the far wall was a leather cushioned bar with enough shining bottles to make any drink conceiv able, and at its side was a teak coat rack with a dozen hangars. But the dominant fixture was the bed. Bed, in fact, hardly seemed an appropriate word. Calling it a bed was like calling San Simeon a house, or King Kong a monkey — technically correct, yet missing the point entirely. It was a water bed, ostensibly, but closer inspection revealed that the mattress was filled with something “. .faces framing enough teeth to make a ‘Jaws’ sequel...” and 240Zs. These were the best clothes I had. I clicked my spiked boots across the cement porch, which was emb lazoned with slogans like “Give us back our underwear, you crazy, lovable kooks,” “Go for it!” “Go around it!” and “Go under it!” and knocked on the great oak door. It swung open slowly and I found myself confronted by a god — a Greek god, to be precise. His skin was a brilliant, polished white, stretched tight over mammoth muscles laced with a roadmap of high-relief veins. The eyes were blue and piercing, the nose was straight and thin as only 20th gen eration Anglo-Saxon noses can be, and the chin jutted nobly into next week. Only a vague hint of weari ness in the skin around the jowls and the merest trace of a beer paunch marred the picture of mas culinity in full flower. “Hey, how’s it going, good to see you pal,” he said, wrapping my He led me down the dingy hall through a maze of basketballs, ten nis rackets, lumber, and dirty un derwear. We halted in front of another open room from which a freshman rushee emerged, his eyes as big as his nametag. “I’ll join,” he murmured, “Omygod, I’ll join, omygod, where do I sign, omygod, Til join...” “Wow,” I said, “what brought that on?” “I suppose,” Julius said, grinning slyly, “he was impressed by our ‘facilities.’ You see, this room doesn’t belong to anyone — it was built as a cooperative venture and all the members are entitled to use it It has,” he winked and elbowed me in the ribs, “everything.” I went inside and gasped. It had everything, all right. The floor was covered by a satinwrapped wrestling mat, upon which rested a huge fluffy bearskin rug. One wall was of polished mahogany, hung with the most de quite apart from water, for when I pushed down on it, it began to writhe and wriggle and caress my hand beneath the crimson satin sheets with tiny, undulating ripples. Julius explained that it was the latest thing from Denmark’s biology labs — a jelly-like organic substance which, if kept properly fed, re sponded with uncanny sensitivity to human touch. Surrounding the “bed” was a “headboard” — again, an inade quate term. Built into it were four speakers flanking a shock-insulated turntable and amplifier, a record rack with nothing but Barry White albums, a mini-bar, a bank of light switches with labels like moon glow madness” and “Purple pas sion,” an amphetamine dispenser and an electronic variable speed metronome. “And that button over there rolls down the trapeze,” Julius beamed. “Huh? Oh, yeah,” 1 said ab sently. Something was wrong. I bent down for a closer look. “You guys get a lot of use out of this room?” Julius’ smile flickered, then gleamed whitely. “Hey, this is a fraternity! Chicks, parties — 1 guess 1 don’t have to tell you, you can figure it out.” He was right, I could. There was a thick layer of dust on the sheets We stepp>ed back into the hall. “Lots more rooms to see, we’ve opened them all. We can take a look at Hoyt’s collection of bronzed brassieres, or the catapult Mad Dog made out of surgical tubing and gir dle straps — he can get a dumpling through Crazy Elizabeth’s window at Sigma Phi Nothing on a clear night — or there’s...” “Omygod, I’ll join, omygod, where do 1 sign, omygod...” We turned to see another freshman rushee — different from the first one we had seen, because the cleft in this one’s chin was slightly deeper — stagger numbly from a room be hind us, with the whirr of some kind of machinery following him out from the dark interior. It was, 1 noted, the only room in the hall with a closed door. “Uh, what’s in there? I think I’d like to look at that one next ” “Huh? Oh, uh, nothing, that’s.. .that’s for members only." “But that guy who just came out was only a...” “Forget it. Come on,” Julius smiled. “Let’s talk pledge. Whad dya say, you want to be a ‘bro?’ ” “Well...what’s involved?” “First,” he recited, “there’s the pledge fee. Then there’s the social fee, which you can p>ay along with your violation of rules fee, and then after two terms there’s the initiation fee. After the initiation — which is no big deal — you’re a ‘bro’ ” “But what is initiation exactly?” “I can’t tell you the whole thing,” Julius said casually, “but the days of hazing are over, believe me. Initia tion nowadays is more... well, academic. It’s a test, made up of 100 questions. If you answer the questions correctly, everything’s okay, and if you don’t there’s a...punishment.” “What sort of punishment?” “Oh, if s nothing to worry about, almost everyone recovers.” “What about the questions?” “Well...we might, for example, ask you if you think women are human beings.” “Huh? Well, sure, of course they are.” Julius shook his head sadly. "No, that would be a ‘wrong' answer Try again. Suppose we asked you ‘Which is a more useful tool: a Jaguar XKE with wire wheels or a combine to harvest wheat for hun gry children.” “It would be the combine, wouldn’t it?” Julius shook his head again. “No, that would be a ‘wrong’ answer too. Let’s see.. suppose we asked you if God loved the Ducks more than the Beav. ‘‘Hey, Julius,” cut in the voice of another member. It was a deep, rumbling voice, like Julius’, the sort of voice that changed at age nine, coming from a throat that had been shaved daily since junior high “They’re stacked up out here. Come out and get another one.” “Well,” Julius said, taking my hand again in that veiled-threat grip. “Will we see you again?" “I’ll think about it,” I promised, and he trotted away. My emotions were jumbled. It had all been so strange — the weird rooms, the bizarre test, and that enigmatic closed door. I stood mo tionless, in a fog, until... “Hey, how’s it going, good to see you, pal. My name’s Lance, busi ness, member, Sacred Spleen, Roseburg You been shown around?” “Why, ye-. Uh, no, as a matter of fact I haven’t.” “Terrific!” Lance bubbled. “Get keyed, get psyched!” He led me down the hall to the closed door. “Now, he said, winking furiously, ‘ ‘you’ 11 see what being in a fraternity is all about. We’ve got a few “can did shots” of Greek life that should prove very educational.” He opened the door, giving vent to hoots and catcalls and that same mysterious whirring of machinery that I had heard before. Once inside I saw that the sound came from a projector splashing a color picture of an oddly familiar scene against a wall. It showed a room—a sorority room, with two lovers in it, locked in a torrid embrace. A soft-core porno flick, I chuckled softly to myself. It had elements of comedy too, I noticed, and I laughed softly to my self as the woman dropped her ear ring, while the man struggled with his big, clumsy boots, and tried to free himself from his ridiculous jac ket with... A silkscreen likeness of Mr. Spock.
