The code of buddyhood, p.1
The Code of Buddyhood, page 1
The Code of Buddyhood
William Bernhardt
Contents
Part I
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Part II
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by William Bernhardt
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, businesses, organizations, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
THE CODE OF BUDDYHOOD
Fourth Edition
ISBN eBook edition: 978-0-9993420-4-6
ISBN Print edition: 978-0-9893789-3-2
Copyright © 1992 William Bernhardt.
Renewed 2013 by William Bernhardt Writing Programs
Published by Babylon Books
All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author or publisher, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
“It is easier to forgive an enemy than to forgive a friend.”
William Blake (1757-1827)
Part One
The Buddy System Begins
One
It was a jungle out there—tall trees, twisting vines, bamboo, the smell of the earth, the call of exotic wildlife, and the oppressive, relentless heat. Bobby Beresford glanced over his shoulder and saw several young men his age in khaki fatigues, machine guns dangling from a strap across their shoulders. The armies of the night, patrolling the combat zone. Bobby tried to act naturally, to blend into the background. So far, no one suspected that he wasn’t supposed to be here, that he wasn’t who he seemed. At least, not as far as he could tell.
Two rickety wooden watchtowers, perhaps two stories tall, stood on opposite ends of the grassy plateau. Sentries paced back and forth between the towers. They were watching, ready. Bobby stayed on the opposite side of the plateau, careful to remain unobtrusive. They couldn’t place him if he didn’t give them a chance.
Bobby wiped his hand across his sweaty brow. Even now, long after sunset, it was intensely hot, stiflingly humid. I can’t believe this is happening, he thought. Especially here, now, with me. He had successfully infiltrated enemy lines and slipped inside without incident. But Bobby knew getting in was the easy part—staying in was the challenge. Keeping up the façade. The slightest mistake could betray him—an odd look, a foolish remark, an ill-chosen gesture. And the results of that betrayal could be tragic for all concerned. Especially him.
Bobby read the large white banner strung between the two watchtowers. MEKONG DELTA, it said, and beneath that, in smaller letters: HELL WEEK ’79. The front lawn of the Delta house was decorated with infantry pennants, barbed wire, and countless other combat icons. The band was dressed like a USO troupe and, in keeping with the theme, played only Sixties’ music, rock ‘n’ roll mostly, with the occasional social protest song performed with grins and a strong sense of irony. “We shall overcome!” the big guy to Bobby’s left shouted, as he hoisted a beer mug over his head and downed it in a single elongated chug.
The smell of beer was so thick Bobby could practically stick out his tongue and lap it up. The crowd jostled past him on both sides. The lawn was packed with college students, most of them in costume. The men favored khaki combat attire, while the women modeled domestic fashions of the Sixties: miniskirts, go-go boots, chain belts, headbands, and love beads. Many of the ersatz soldiers carried water guns that looked like the real thing.
Bobby surreptitiously checked himself out, trying to gauge how well he was blending in. Not very damn well, he realized. He was on the short side, on the thin side, on the pale side, with brown hair that hung like a mop around his head. He was wearing his usual faded blue jeans, small holes over both knees, and a black T-shirt commemorating a French cinema verite film festival. He had not known people would be in costume, not that he would have worn one even if he had. Bobby found the whole party concept thoroughly offensive. He wouldn’t have come here in a million years, if not for Mark.
He craned his neck and tried to locate his companion. No luck. Mark had abandoned him again. Why do I let him talk me into these things? Bobby asked himself for the kajillionth time. This is not why I came to OU. This is craziness, suicide. There must be easier ways to meet girls than crashing fraternity parties.
He sighed. Mark is either my best friend or my worst enemy, he thought. I forget which.
Drinks were being dispensed from a dozen different places—hurricanes, suicides, nukes—whatever you wanted, in tall, colorful glasses with little umbrellas. Everclear was discreetly dispensed under the table. Beer kegs were everywhere.
As Bobby walked toward the nearest beer line, a tall, leggy girl with an auburn ponytail bounced past him, giggling. She was wearing a peasant blouse and a short skirt, both in mod, garish colors. They made eye contact for a brief moment. She hesitated. Bobby started to speak, but he knew he would stutter, so he remained silent. After a moment she passed on through the crowd.
And so it goes. Another good point, Bobby thought—the kind of girl I’m looking for would not be at a fraternity party anyway. Especially not this one.
He frowned. Yeah, right. His ears were ringing, and his vision was beginning to blur. Too much loud music. And beer. Bobby really hated beer, but it seemed to be an essential element of successful social interaction. Beer and bucks, the zeitgeist of the Seventies.
Someone shouted in Bobby’s ear. “You think they can tell we’re not Greek?”
Bobby turned around. It was Mark. “No, I don’t think they can tell. What, you think we’ve both got DORM NERD branded on our foreheads?”
“No,” Mark replied. “Just you.”
Mark shuffled into the beer line and Bobby followed in his wake. At six feet, three inches, Mark was a good eight inches taller than Bobby. Mark was handsome and well-built, thick enough to avoid looking like a wimp, but not the least bit overweight. His hair was darker than Bobby’s, but still brown, and every strand was precisely positioned. Always.
“Where did you go?” Bobby asked, trying not to sound perturbed.
Mark grinned. “Just making the rounds, my boy. Making the rounds.”
“These Greeks have some sense of humor, huh? The Vietnam War as a party theme. Unbelievable.”
“Awww, loosen up. This isn’t a meeting of the Young Democrats.” Mark moved forward in the line. “Besides, it’s an irresistible play on words. Mekong Delta. It’s a Delta house party. Get it?”
“I got it,” Bobby murmured. “If only I had thought of that, I could die happy.”
Mark stepped up to the keg, grabbed a plastic cup, and pushed back the spigot. A burly young man with a Beta pin on his khakis stepped out of the sidelines and slapped Mark on the shoulder.
“Greg Johnson,” he said, thrusting his right hand forward. The smell of beer on his breath was impossible to overlook. “Don’t believe we’ve met.” Greg started to cover his mouth, but the belch came out before his hand arrived.
Mark took Greg’s hand and shook with equal vigor. “Mark Szasz,” he said, carefully pronouncing his surname: Sayz. “And this is my best buddy, Bobby Beresford.” He laughed. “Try to say that three times fast.”
Bobby smiled uneasily. Greg seemed to be scrutinizing them, trying to determine who they were and why they were here. Bobby would have favored an immediate exodus, but Mark, as usual, tried to bluff his way through.
“Hey, Greg,” Mark said amiably, “didn’t we chew the fat at that party last week?”
Greg shrugged his shoulders. “You mean the Fijis’ Beach House Ballbuster?”
“Yeah. That’s the one.”
“Could be,” Greg said. “My memory of that night is shaky. I’m sure you understand. Those Fijis really know how to party. They had three different hose bags pulling trains!” He winked conspiratorially. “I hear they ledged two of ‘em. You know, total suicide cases.”
He laughed heartily and downed half his beer. “I got a little piece of that action myself. I know I shouldn’t kiss and tell, but what the hell? We’re all good ol’ boys here. So what house are you men with?”
Bobby stared blankly at Mark. Mark stared back at Bobby.
“What house?”
“Yeah. You have to be in one of the houses.” Greg’s movements slowed. His eyes narrowed. “Aren’t you?”
Bobby froze. Sure, they could bluff the name of a frat house. But what if it was a house with which this bozo was intimately familiar? What if he wanted to quiz them about his buddies in that house? Bobby began scanning for the nearest escape hatch.
“Oh, I see,” Mark said. “You want to know what we’re doing here. I just didn’t understand—too damn much beer, you know how it is. I’m here with Mary Lou.”
Greg’s face relaxed. “Is that right? Lucky man. She’s a damn fine woman.” He slurped down the remainder of his beer and wandered off.
Bobby released his suspended breath, feeling his heart palpitating in his chest. “I am not enjoying this, Mark,” he said, speaking directly into Mark’s ear. “It’s too dangerous. There’s a couple hundred Greeks here who would love nothing better than to rearrange the faces of a couple of dormie party crashers. We should split.”
Mark waved him away. “You worry too much, Beresford. Besides, we came here to get laid. Have you been laid yet?”
“Hmmm. I’m not sure. Let me check.” Bobby took a physical inventory. “Nope. Not yet.”
“Well then.” Mark folded his arms across his chest, apparently satisfied he had scored his point.
“I don’t see why we need to risk bodily harm just to meet girls,” Bobby said. “I’ve been doing fine with the girls I’ve met in English lit classes.”
“Give me a break. English class is a good place to find chicks with sensitivity, zits, and myopia. If you want boobs and bucks, crash a frat party.”
“That’s ridiculous. Every pretty girl on campus is not in a sorority.”
“You weren’t listening,” Mark replied. “I said boobs and bucks. I need a well-heeled heiress who can support me during the hungry years, before I make the big time in the music biz.”
“Ah.” Bobby took a swallow of his beer, then winced. Mark said he would eventually get used to the taste. When? “Well, that’s better than your plan to support yourself as a gigolo, anyway.”
Bobby noticed a commotion about thirty feet away, on an embankment beside a pseudo-fortress where pseudo-prisoners of war were held captive till freed by a lascivious kiss—ten second minimum—from an amenable sorority girl. Several frat boys were standing on the embankment with their backs to the crowd.
“They aren’t preparing to do what I think they’re preparing to do, are they, Mark?” Bobby heard the unmistakable sound of zippers being unzipped, followed by a steady stream of fluid pattering against the earth.
“Never mind,” Bobby moaned. “I think they’ve answered my question.”
A group of girls standing beside Bobby covered their faces in exaggerated revulsion. One of them, a pleasant-looking blonde dressed like Nancy Sinatra, turned toward Bobby.
“Oh!” she said. “Aren’t they just awful!” She giggled.
Bobby stammered for a moment and stared at the ground. He took a deep breath. Come on, he told himself. You can do this. “Oh, y-you know,” he mumbled. “All that . . . b-beer and all.”
She smiled, revealing the braces on the bottom row of her teeth. “Well, I guess they’re just good ol’ boys,” she said.
Bobby’s head bobbed up and down. “Y-Yeah,” he said. “I guess so . . .”
There was an awkward pause. Bobby took another deep breath and tried to concentrate on pronouncing each word without a stutter. “C-Can I get you . . . oh, a b-beer or something”
“Oh, no thanks. I get high on air, y’know?”
Bobby nodded enthusiastically. “R-Right. There’s an Emily D-Dickinson poem about that. Kind of.”
“Oh,” she said. “Really. Mmm.”
There was another long pause. She began gazing from side to side. “Well . . .” she said, slapping her hands together. “TTFN.” She smiled and, after another moment of silence, walked away.
Mark slapped Bobby on the back, hard. “What is the matter with you? That was your big chance. She was interested!”
“I didn’t know what to say.”
“What to say? You should have smothered her face with wet hot kisses. That’s what you should have said.” He rolled his eyes skyward. “Emily Dickinson, for Christ’s sake! You’re a real case, Beresford. You didn’t even get her name!”
“It takes me a while to get warmed up, okay?” That was certainly true. Once he felt comfortable with a person, he didn’t tend to stutter, at least not as much.
“If you don’t start warming up a little earlier, Bobby, you’ll still be a virgin when you’re collecting Social Security.”
Bobby bit down on his lower lip. “Let’s just mingle, okay?”
The sound of shrieking females commanded Bobby’s attention. He strolled toward a picnic table where six partygoers, three girls and three boys, obviously couples, were seated. They were all speaking at once with varying degrees of coherency; the brunette sitting closest to Bobby was the only one he could understand clearly.
“Don’t do it, Bobo,” the brunette said. “You don’t have to prove anything to me.”
“Greg did it,” Bobo answered with a grunt. He jerked his thumb toward the guy sitting beside him. Bobby recognized Greg as the same Greg he and Mark had bluffed earlier at the beer keg. Greg had some kind of unattractive mess all over his mouth. “If Greg can do it,” Bobo said, “I can do it.”
The brunette covered her eyes. “I don’t believe this. I’ve had about all the male machismo posturing I can bear.”
“Don’t be such a goddamn whiner, Annie,” Bobo muttered. He picked up an empty beer glass, wrapped his lips around the edge, and bit off a large chunk of the glass.
Bobby stared at him in amazement. He stepped forward for a closer look. Yes, Bobo was crunching the glass in his mouth, chewing it up. Bobby felt goose pimples creep across his skin. The sound of glass against teeth and tongue was a hundred times worse than fingernails across the chalkboard.
Greg noticed Bobby staring. “You crunch it up with your teeth, not your tongue,” he volunteered, presumably speaking from experience. Now that Greg was leaning forward into the light, Bobby could identify the gunk around his mouth: slivers of glass and spots of blood. “Eventually, you’ll have tiny, easily digested morsels.” Greg smiled, then burped loudly, then smiled again. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, smearing the streaks of red.
The brunette—Annie, apparently—looked at them with undisguised disgust. “You guys are so drunk you wouldn’t feel it if someone stuck a sword through your groin.” She looked back at Bobo, who was still crunching away. “Oh, Bobo, don’t be an idiot. Spit it out.”
Through closed lips Bobo mumbled something that sounded roughly like “Dontellmewattadowoman.”
Annie sprang up from the table. “That’s it. That is the end. The absolute end.”
She turned and darted away, almost crashing into Bobby. “Can you believe these assholes?” she asked him.
Once she was directly in front of Bobby, he could see her more clearly. Her straight dark hair hung just above her shoulders. Her skin was a creamy white, except for a small birthmark in the center of her right cheek. She was not in costume; she was wearing a simple blue dress with a green lapel button that read: ERA—NOW. She was extremely attractive. She avoided the beauty parlor/styling mousse overkill of most of the girls at the party. She seemed . . . unaffected. Real.
Bobby suddenly realized she had been speaking to him while he conducted this minute scrutiny of her body. He hadn’t heard a word she’d said. He started to speak, but couldn’t decide what to say. He stammered, then laughed stupidly. Oh, God, he thought, I’m doing it again.
