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  #1   Add to tortolis's Reputation   Report Post  
Old September 28th, 2008, 03:56 PM
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Chris Visits a Frat with Boot

Another episode. - tortolis

Chris and Boot Visit a Frat - 2a

When I arrived for my second night of work at Boston Charlie’s, I got the impression that Abe had already complained about me to Boot, because he came by at about twenty-five minutes after I arrived holding a large, flat package and with an air of Mr. Fix-It about him, like he was a plumber in the nick of time. He punched me in the arm with a grin — “hey, Chris!” — but kept walking over to Abe at the far end of the giant bar and they opened the package together. I heard him say “try” and “what do you want to bet.” Then they walked back over to me with what turned out to be an artistically lettered sign, antique-looking, that said “Please Don’t Feed the Bouncer.”

“Chris, my man,” said Boot. “What about talking to the customers a little bit?”

“I don’t mind,” I said. “It would pass the time.” But what the hell was I going to talk to them about? That I hope qualitative analysis won’t be too hard? As it happened, the job was much less boring on Monday, lots of joking around with older women and younger guys. When I got back to the dorm, Boot was there and said “Don’t mind Abe, he’s got the hots for you.”

“He said I did great tonight,” I said. He did, actually. “There was a lot more happening.”

“Any brawls?”

“God, no. Everybody behaving like scouts.”

“Well, don’t worry about it. You can quit anytime you want. I’ve got another proposition for you.”

“What’s that? Why would I want to quit? What’s your deal, Boot?” I cracked a smile in spite of myself.

“I bet this guy at the Lambda Phi fraternity that we could beat their three biggest guys at arm-wrestling. That is, you could.”

“And?”

“And, it’s all three of them at the same time against the one of you.”

“All at the same time? How would that work? You can’t fit three guys on one side of an arm-wrestle.”

“Leave that to me. I’ve got it all set up with them on one side of a table. They can do anything they want to try and push your arm down as long as you use regulation form and they just use their arms and hands, no winches or hoists.”

I thought it might serve Boot right if I lost. But we were already on our way to the frat house in his spiffy red convertible when it occurred to me that he had never really told me why we were doing this. “So, Boot, you never really told me. Why arm-wrestling?”

“Well, it’s rush week.”

“And?”

“Trust me,” he said. “They’ve got a great house right on the Lake.” What this meant to him or me or my job I had no idea.

When we got to the frat house it was actually Delta Lambda Phi, mainly gay men, some gayer than others. The guy who greeted us at the door was butch to the max, someone you might’ve expected to be a gay-basher, in fact. He eyed me up and down with his head bobbing in a really exaggerated motion and said “whoa, you a big mutha, ain’tcha?” His name was Brian and he said he was a vice-president of the frat, like everyone else there. They seemed to have no brother-members, just officers.

“Nice to meet you too,” I said.

Boot sat me down at a card table that was positioned so Brian and his henchmen could brace their feet against a wall behind them. They were almost as tall as I was and were going to take a lunging position against my arm without even sitting down. I decided not to let it bother me if I lost, but when Boot ceremoniously signaled the start of the match, I braced myself for some pushing that really didn’t wind up feeling like much. I just held my arm straight up from the elbow, immobile. Brian had his hand in mine in classic form; and the other two were pushing with both arms. They were laughing at first, but then got quiet and red in the face.

“Just tell me when you want to start,” I said.

“Say what?” said Brian. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Tell you what,” I said. “I think you guys need a handicap.” And I let my arm tilt about halfway back and held it there. Boot looked like the cat with one canary in his gullet and two in the bush while they struggling. It was as if he owned everybody in the room, but I was doing all the work. So I decided there was no reason I shouldn’t enjoy myself a little, too. “You know what, fellas?” I said. “I’ve had about enough of this.” And I snapped Brian’s hand down on the table through 130 or so degrees of arc, so it must have smarted quite a bit.

“That’s gotta be a trick,” said one of the guys.

“Trick, nothing,” said Brian. “White man strong like five, six bull!”

“What about the traditional victory flex?” said Boot, but I let that pass in the hubbub of generalized joking, and at a certain point Brian said “welcome to Lambda house.”

“Thanks a lot, guys,” I said, “but I like the dorm just fine. Was me living here part of your deal, Boot?”

“Not really,” he said. “They’re just going to get all their catering through Boot’s Pizza. Pledging Lambda house is entirely up to you. But you better believe I’ll make sure they roll out the red carpet.”

“Come on, guy,” said Brian. “We’ll give you a great room. We’ll create a special office for you — sergeant at arms. And when I say arms, I mean it.” There was more joking along those lines. One of the guys said he was going to faint and would need rescuing. And there was general agreement that I would be the party animal to end all party animals, that I was a pro bartender (which of course I’m not), that they’d pay me at the drop of a hat. All of which was neither here nor there. I’m not much of a party guy.

“The fact is,” said Boot, “you said this could be cheaper than living in the dorm, but it really isn’t. On the other hand, if you contracted out your entire kitchen operation to Boot’s Pizza, who knows?”

On the way back, Boot got quiet for a minute and took on a serious look. “You mad at me?” he said.

“Why would I be mad at you?”

“Well, there was nothing in it for you at Lambda house, and you think about it, I manipulated you into coming.”

“Forget about it,” I said. “I like my job. My ridiculous job. And I do owe you that much.”

“So, how about that victory flex?" asked Boot, still driving. He didn't take his eyes off the road, but with his right hand he clamped down on my left bi as I flexed it, and grinned as he drove. "Holy fucking shit, Chris," he said. "That job at Boston Charlie’s? Listen, if you ever want to quit, just let me know and I’ll match your pay on my staff.”

“Yeah? What would have to do?”

“Nothing. We’d think of something. We'd make it profitable, believe me.”

And that was my first taste of the Greek life in Madison, Wisconsin.





Last edited by tortolis; October 2nd, 2008 at 07:54 PM.
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  #2   Add to Lucas88's Reputation   Report Post  
Old September 28th, 2008, 05:48 PM
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I'm loving this series...I only have one question...what card table on the planet is going to withstand 3 bruisers and Chris arm wrestling???

Chris is just so laid back and Boot is such the schemer...great dynamic!

Lucas
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  #3   Add to Jaypat's Reputation   Report Post  
Old September 28th, 2008, 07:22 PM
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Fantastic

This really is great. It is so different from most of the stories on this board and yet very captivating.

I'd love to get a little back story on Chris. We know where Boot comes from--a wealthy family. He's been a wheeler dealer all his life, has it in his blood. But what about Chris? We know nothing about his family or background. What drove him to become so big, because as Boot mentioned, you really have to be driven to achieve the kind of size he has, and especially at his age. So, what is it that drives him?
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