The Squared Circle (2 page)

“Be my guest.”

“Woodson, get your ass up here,” ordered Skinner. Woodson got up from his chair to step forward.

“Fucking slugs, keep your eyes on the wall!” shouted Pinky. Paddles pounded on the floor for emphasis. Staring straight at the wall, Sonny still had Woodson and Skinner within his range of vision.

“Assume the position,” said Skinner.

“Yes sir.” Woodson bent over. His head was even with his knees. His right hand cupped his genitals, while his left hand gripped his left ankle.

Skinner drew the paddle back slowly, then drove it powerfully against Woodson's buttocks.
Crack!
Immediately after the blow landed, there was the exclamation point of paddles pounding on the floor.

With a scarlet face, Woodson stood up to face Skinner. “Thank you, sir, may I please have another?”

“We'll see. First, I want you to tell everybody how many classes you cut last week.”

“Eight, sir.”

Sonny could barely hear him.

“Louder!” commanded Skinner. “And keep your goddamn eyes on the wall!”

“I cut eight, sir.” Woodson answered, in a louder voice. “I cut eight classes.”

“Why, you lying bastard,” Harris interrupted. “You told me you went to all your classes. Assume the position.”

Woodson assumed the position, but Harris stepped back. Skinner administered another board with another loud report.

“Thank you, sir, may I please have another?”

“Hell no, you're not worth it. Go sit down, girlie man.”

Woodson resumed his seat at the other end of the row. Sonny's lower back was getting stiff, but he tried to hold his rigid position while staring at the wall. There was no breeze in the room, so he was beginning to sweat. He fought the urge to scratch, for fear that someone would notice him. The hope in a lineup was always that they would overlook you.

For Sonny, the hope ended as soon as Geisel, the house academic chairman, stepped to the front. “Youngblood! Youngblood, get up here.”

Sonny got out of his chair and stepped stiffly to the front. He stared at the wall. Harris stood on his left, while Geisel was at his right. Geisel was fat, but strong. He was as sarcastic as Harris, and he didn't attempt to hide his contempt for freshmen on athletic scholarships.

“Youngblood, did you think we were going to forget about you?”

“Not much, sir.”

“Louder!” shouted Grimes. “Speak up!”

“I didn't think about it much, sir,” said Sonny, louder this time. He felt ridiculous.

“You smart ass,” sneered Harris. “You lying bastard. You've been thinking about nothing else since you parked your ass in that chair. Am I right?”

“I guess so.”

“You guess so what?”

“I guess so, sir.”

“Are you going to make grades this semester?”

“I hope so, sir.”

“You hope so, sir,” Geisel mocked. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“I just mean I hope so, sir,” Sonny repeated. He had to stop to lick his lips. Sonny's marginal academic history wasn't any secret. He searched the room quickly with his eyes, looking for Burkhart. Burkhart was his pledge father, maybe he would stand up for him.

“Keep your goddamn eyes on the wall, slug!” Pinky exploded.

Sonny flinched and stared straight ahead.

Geisel repeated the question, which really didn't sound like a question at all: “You're not gonna make your grades, are you, Youngblood?”

“I hope so, sir.”

“Assume the position.”

“Yes sir.” Sonny bent over. The tile on the floor was alternate red and black squares. He could smell Geisel's beer breath and his body sweat.

The paddle slammed against his butt. The pain, which was shocking, licked its way like shooting flames down his legs. He stood up quickly, his face burning. “Thank you, sir, may I please have another?”

“We'll see.”

Sonny felt the ridicule of all the eyes watching him. He had the urge to turn on Geisel and give him a shot in his blubber gut. You couldn't do that here, though, because everything was stacked against you.
Where the hell is Burkhart
? Probably still upstairs reading Plato or some other shit.

Then Pinky, the drunkest of all, stumbled forward swinging his paddle. “I'll tell you something else. Youngblood spends most of his spare time hanging out with niggers.”

“Is that a fact?” asked Harris.

“Fucking-A. This stupid slug is a nigger lover. Niggers are his friends, right, Youngblood?”

“Some of them are going to be my teammates, sir. You usually make friends with your teammates, because you play a lot of pickup games with them.”

Geisel put his face right next to Sonny's ear. “You asshole, do you know anything at all about house loyalty?”

“I think so, sir.”

“Then why the hell aren't your own brothers good enough for you? What makes you think you need to spend your time with the niggers?”

“A friend is a friend, sir.”

“
A friend is a friend
,” sighed Geisel. “Isn't that special? I think I might wet my pants, I really do. Is there something wrong with your own brothers, for Christ sake?”

“No, sir, I like my brothers.”

“Then why the hell do you spend your time with the fuckin' niggers?” demanded Pinky. “If they were on fire, I wouldn't piss on 'em to put it out.” The actives pounded their paddles to show approval.

Sonny could feel his scalp burning. He said to Geisel, “There's a logical explanation.”

“There's a logical explanation WHAT?”

“There's a logical explanation, sir.”

“Goddamnit, Youngblood, keep your eyes on the wall!” Harris shouted.

Sonny focused quickly on the knothole. Geisel was giggling. “A logical explanation?” He turned to all the brothers: “Wouldn't y'all just love to hear the
logical explanation?
”

The furious pounding of the paddles signified yes.

“Go ahead, slug,” said Harris to Sonny. “We're all just dying to hear your logic. Just be sure you keep your goddamn eyes where they belong.”

Sonny swallowed first, and then he said, “I don't get much chance for free time. We have informal workouts every day and study table at night. I would be with the black guys a lot, even if I didn't want to be. That's how it is when you're on scholarship; other people decide how you spend your time.”

Harris whistled his scorn before he spoke in reverent tones: “Great god almighty, Youngblood, your logic is so airtight I'm about to suffocate. When basketball season is over, you'll probably be recruited for debate.”

Pinky faced the group to slur out his contempt: “
When you're on scholarship?
? Y'all hear this shit? Are we supposed to be impressed?”

Sonny had no idea the question was meant for him. Pinky wobbled closer. “I asked you a question, stupid slug. Are we supposed to be impressed because you're a high school all-American? You think you're the first big-time jock this house ever had?”

Sonny swallowed again. “No sir.”

“He's a high school all-American from Abydos, so we're supposed to kiss his ass!”

Geisel took over again. “You know what that all means here, Youngblood? You know what the all-American crap means on this campus? In this house? It means jackshit, that's what.”

“Yes sir.”

Geisel finished it off in his terse, even voice: “What you are here is a slug. What's a slug, Youngblood?”

“A slug is the lowest form of life, sir,” answered Sonny.

“Keep that in mind the next time you do your wraparound dribble. What you are is a goddamn slug.”

“Yes sir.”

“Assume the position, Youngblood,” said Pinky. “I'm gonna board your all-American ass.”

For what?
wondered Sonny. Puzzled, he turned to look at Pinky.

“You got some reason to be looking at me, slug? I told you to assume the position.”

“Yes sir.” Sonny assumed the position, but he was tense. He knew how drunk Pinky was.

When the blow came, it lashed across the back of both his thighs. It scalded him clear to his ankles. He stood up immediately, at least eight inches taller than his drunk tormentor, but powerless and humiliated nonetheless. “Thank you, sir, may I please have another?”

“Not now,” interrupted Harris. “It's time to settle my score with Robert Lee. Go sit down.”

Sonny returned to his seat.

“Robert Lee, front and center!”

Robert Lee jumped to his feet. Sonny used his sleeve to wipe his sweaty face before he got back into the required position in his chair. Feelings of anger and betrayal roiled inside, replacing the humiliation. Part of it came from his knowledge of Robert Lee's imminent ordeal.

“Did you think I was going to forget about it?” Harris asked Robert Lee quietly.

“No sir.”

“You bet your ass. Now just so everybody has a little background on this whole thing, I want you to tell the group what we had for supper last night.”

“Fried chicken, sir.” Robert Lee worked for his weekend meals by serving in the house dining room.

“Did you say fried chicken?”

“Yes sir.”

“Now then. In a voice loud enough for everybody to hear, tell us what you served me for supper.”

“I'd rather not say, sir.”

“You dumb shit, assume the position.”

Harris hit him hard, then Skinner did the same.

“Let's try again, okay?” said Harris. “Once more, what did you serve me for dinner?”

“An olive, sir.”

“Louder!”

“An olive, sir.”

“One olive, slug?”

“Yessir, one.”

Skinner came up close in a hurry. “An olive? You douche bag, you served Harris an olive for supper?”

“Yes sir.”

“Why the hell did you do that?”

“I thought it might show some hair, sir.”

“You thought it might show some hair? Robert Lee, stupid slug, what is an olive?”

“An olive is the lowest form of food, sir.”

“Why?”

“Because it's used in the olive race, sir.”

Harris asked him, “What is the olive race like, slug?”

“Sir, the pledges—”

“—the WHAT??”

“The slugs, sir.”

“That's better. Go ahead.”

“The slugs carry the olives in the cheeks of their ass from one block of dry ice to another. The losing team eats the olives, sir.”

“And you thought it would show some hair to serve me an olive?”

“I thought it might, sir.”

“Buster, you just lost the biggest olive race of your life. Assume the position.”

“Yes sir.”

Skinner boarded him a hard one, which was followed up immediately by the clatter of paddles pounding the tile. Robert Lee stood up. “Thank you, sir, may I please have another?”

“Keep your shirt on,” said Geisel, who had joined those in front. He was holding a one-quart Mason jar, full most of the way with green olives. “Do you know what this is, stupid slug?”

“I think it's a jar of olives, sir.”

“Do you know how many olives are in here?”

“No sir.”

“Let me tell you then. There are forty-eight. Each one of these olives has spent a little time in the asshole of one of the active members of this house. Are you starting to get the picture?”

“Yessir, I think so, sir.”

Then Harris took over. “You just lost the olive race, slug. You get to eat these. All of them.” He took the jar from Geisel.

“Open up, slug,” ordered Harris.

The room was so quiet. Sonny felt like he was watching an execution; it made his stomach turn. He resisted the urge to wipe the sweat that rivuleted its way down his face and neck. From the corner of his eye he could see Robert Lee.

When Robert Lee opened his mouth, Harris ordered: “Wider!” He opened wider.

“Now,” Harris instructed, inserting the first olive, “swallow only when I tell you to.” One by one, he put eight olives into Robert Lee's mouth. Then, and only then, did he say, “Okay, chew 'em up and swallow.”

It took Robert Lee a long time to chew up the eight olives and finally swallow. “Now assume the position,” said Harris.

As soon as Robert Lee bent over, Harris boarded him.

They repeated the procedure five more times. Each time, Harris pressed the eight-olive quota inside Robert Lee's mouth. Each time slower, Robert Lee chewed them up and swallowed. Then he caught a board. It was agony for Sonny just to watch, even worse than when he himself had been the victim.

Finally all 48 olives were gone; the jar was empty.

Harris spoke to Robert Lee one more time. “Now go and sit down. You think long and hard before you ever serve me an olive for dinner again.”

“Yes, sir,” said Robert Lee. He returned to his chair.

Before he dismissed them, Harris delivered a short speech on house loyalty, but Sonny didn't pay much attention. The breakup was a weary one without much conversation. Sonny went back upstairs to the study room, passing Burkhart's closed door on the way. From downstairs, he could hear several of the actives talking in loud voices about going out to do some more drinking.

There were three bathrooms on this floor. Sonny found the first one, went inside, and closed the door. It was too bright, but at least it was private. He pulled off his soggy shirt and T-shirt, then rolled them into a ball. He had to stoop down to look at his red face in the mirror. He scrubbed with tepid water from head to belt buckle, then toweled off with special effort to dry his wet hair.

When he was done, he put on his nylon UCLA windbreaker over his bare skin and zipped it up. He put the rolled-up shirts under his arm.

Back in the study room to retrieve his textbook, Sonny found Robert Lee prone on the couch, a wet washrag draped over his face. Sonny felt bad for him. “You okay, Robert Lee?”