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me with a grim expression on his face; gone was the big smile he had for the other rushees who got accepted into the pledge class.
    â€œStafford, please come with me.”
    I clenched my ass cheeks together, desperately trying not to fart as I walked along like a guy with each leg in a cast.
    I followed him like the others had, until we entered a nearly dark room that looked like a den. He closed the door and pointed to one of the two tan, leather chairs facing each other in front of an unlit gas fireplace. As I sat down, I noticed that we were alone. The only light was from a tiny, flickering candle that was on a table across the room.
    â€œThis is the Chapter Room,” he explained. “Ordinarily only for active members.”
    I was silent except for the pounding of my heartbeat that he probably heard. God somehow must’ve inserted Crazy Glue in my ass, temporarily keeping it silent.
    Christianson had a soft, almost preacher-like voice with a very slight southern accent. “This is unpleasant for me,” he said apologetically, looking down at my feet. “From your PLEDGE APPLICATION, I know you’re a legacy. That your grandfather was a Sig O at Columbia. Ordinarily we want to have all future generations as members.”
    He looked up at me. I was rigid and stayed silent. From both ends.
    â€œBut you must know,” he continued in the same tone of voice, “that you’ve been a big question mark here all week.”
    He was a little taller than me and about ten pounds heavier. Now he stared intently into my dark brown eyes, trying to check my reaction. He scratched his head which already had thebeginning of thinning blond hair.
    Whatever he was trying to tell me, I wasn’t going to make it easier by helping him pronounce my death sentence.
    â€œLook,” he said hesitantly, “it takes three guys to blackball any prospective pledge. You had three.”
    â€œFuck!”
    â€œWe voted four times and each time you got the same three blackballs.”
    He paused for effect. I almost threw up again but there was nothing left of the Big Mac and the fries that fertilized the rose bushes. And I could feel the Crazy Glue in my ass losing its strength. I was too drained to speak as more uncomfortable seconds of silence passed.
    â€œBut,” he finally said, probably figuring that I looked so weak that I’d faint any second, “one of the three guys who blackballed you is a gambler. In fact, he books sports bets for most of the school. He decided to give you a chance. Here’s what he’s willing to do.”
    Christianson stopped talking and walked over to the door and opened it. A tall, fat guy shaped like a bowling pin with light brown kinky hair and rimless glasses came in. He was wearing a green eyeshade that looked ridiculous, especially in this dark room.
    â€œStafford,” Christianson said, as both guys faced me. “This is Bookie.” We shook hands like robots and each nodded a little. “He’ll tell you the break he’s going to give you.”
    Bookie rubbed his nose and longingly sniffed whatever was on the pussy-finger of his left hand. Then he reached into the front pocket of his royal blue and turquoise CAS windbreaker, the same school jacket that most of the actives wore, and removed a silver dollar. He held it out to me.
    â€œFlip it. If it’s heads I vote to let you pledge. If it’s tails you’re blackballed out of here.”
    Before I could say anything he tried to hand it to me. I backed away like the coin was radioactive. I wiped the sweat off my forehead then I felt the back of my neck. It was wet too.
    â€œFlip it,” he ordered.
    I couldn’t fucking believe it! They were making me flip a coin for five million dollars! I just stood there dumbfounded and as motionless as a statue.
    â€œFlip it or I’ll say it’s tails and you’re out of here,” Bookie threatened.
    What could I do?