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God’s Farm … A Story. Three.

22 Apr

 

God’s Farm … A Story.

Three.

The drive home at the end of the quarter was a time for reflection and self-castigation. Chandler remembered a skit performed during his time as a junior counselor at Camp Cheerio during the summer. Camper volunteers were selected to join The Secret Society, and were lined up in front of the camp in the dining hall. They were told once they figured out the significance of the secret chant, they were to whisper it in the ear of a counselor and could sit down.

“Here’s the sacred chant. Repeat it very slowly after me, with awe and reverence,” one of the counselors directed them. “O-wha …”

“Owha,” the campers repeated slowly.

“Tafoo …”

“Tafoo.”

“Liam.”

“Liam.”

“Now, say it again, only quicker.”

“Ohwha-tafoo-liam.”

“Quicker!”

“Ohwhatafooliam!”

And, one by one, the campers began to realize the significance of the chant, they whispered it into the ear of the counselor, beet red in the face as the rest of the camp began to titter and laugh aloud.

“Oh what a fool I am!”

That’s me, he thought. A big, fat-ass fool!

He groaned and shook his head with remorse during the entire trip as he recalled his parents’ expectations and his failure to measure up. How Hump Day, which first began on Fridays, gradually slipped back to Thursday, and then Wednesday. How the fraternity had become the hub of his existence, and school and studies an inconvenience that loomed on the periphery of his consciousness.

Gotta paper to write.

Have another beer!

Gotta important class early tomorrow morning.

Have another beer!

He vaguely remembered house-hopping one night in the middle of the week after a $2 all-u-can-drink keg party. What he couldn’t remember at the time was what was that phrase again? Beer after whiskey, mighty risky; whiskey after beer, never fear? Or was it the other way around?

Have another beer!

Someone poured him a large Dixie cup of straight vodka and dared him to drink it in one gulp. “Never dare a daredevil,” he replied. And to the cheer of blurry and bleary-eyed spectators, he drained it. Then someone handed him another Dixie cup.

Have another beer!

As he staggered up North Main Street towards the Delta Pi Zeta frat house (aka, Zeta Zoo), Chandler noticed a harvest moon rising in the black sky above, and tilted his head back and howled like a wolf. In his stupor, he imagined he was a werewolf, and his timing was incredible. Wednesday night services at the Main Street Baptist Church had just let out, and very prim and proper and perfect parishioners streamed out of the front door.

Ha-woooooo!” he wailed loudly, the eyes of every church member drawn to his direction.

Snarling, he leapt over a picket fence and ran though a yard to escape what he imagined was the angry mob chasing him. Dogs began barking as he caromed off bushes and sheds and clotheslines in his frantic efforts to find his way back to the fraternity house.

Owha ta foo liam, he muttered to himself at the memory.

Then there was the time he and Joe, a fraternity brother, were walking at night from the Zoo to another frat house. It was winter, and snow had fallen, and he and Joe reeled and slipped in laughter up the sidewalk.

“Watch this!” Joe said, and scooped a handful of snow which he packed into a perfect snowball. A sputtering Volkswagen bug was struggling up the hill, it’s rear wheels spinning in the snowy slush. A southpaw, Joe cocked his arm and let fly a perfect throw which smacked the driver’s side window. The bug’s breaklights glared as two huge men crawled out of the tiny car. Each wore a Virginia Tech football letter jacket, and as they approached, one angrily shouted,

“Who is the fuckin’ moron that threw that snowball, ass holes?”

Joe and Chandler looked at each other, then around. They were the only fuckin’ moron ass holes to be seen.

Chandler stepped forward. He wasn’t small, but he was nowhere nearly as big as the jocks bearing quickly down on them.

“It was me,” he confessed. “You guys know Rod Caughlin?”

“Who the hell is Rod Caughlin?” growled the bulky driver, his grizzly-sized paws balled into iron mallets.

“Rod’s a freshman who plays for the Hokies. He and I played football together in high school.” Chandler hoped the association would somehow get him and Joe a reprieve. As he remembered the scene, it struck him, along with his Dear Professor Calloway letter, he was in the habit of doing things like that.

“Don’t know no fuckin’ Rod!” the grizzly bear snapped, poised ready to knock somebody’s head off. His passenger, not quite as big, but no less imposing, grabbed the bear by the sleeve.

“Wait a minute, Larry! Let’s think this through.”

Chandler immediately liked the other guy.

“You know what Coach told you. Let it go. They’re punks.”

“Ass-holes,” Larry corrected.

“Ass-holes. We gotta party to get to.” Then he turned to us. “Let me advise you guys to leave the snow on the fuckin’ ground, and to quit while you still have your heads.”

Chandler was about to say, “Don’t you mean quit while you’re ahead?”, but thought better of it.

When he and Joe reached the other fraternity they began to boast about the snowball incident, including the fact that “Larry” had backed down because of his friend’s intervention. Someone in the know countered,

“That’s not why. That Larry is Larry Creekmore, a starting defensive lineman who got in trouble last week because he broke into a store on Main when he was drunk. Claiborne threatened to put him on the taxi squad if anything else happened. Otherwise, you would both now be bloody pulp.”

Owha tafoo liam.

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