www.morgypoo.com

Tale of college humor

At last, college was here. After twenty years of strict rules and watchful eyes, I was about to enter uninhibited youthful chaos. Surely this would rock. College meant freedom, college meant fun, college meant never having to say when you were coming home at night. I could barely wait to taste the college parties and live the college humor. And yet I was pretty nervous as I rode the Greyhound bus into this tiny college town. College meant a whole new way of life, a whole new world where I was just a tiny tadpole in a massive pond of frogs. Suddenly I was but one of ten thousand students living within a three mile radius. This could be awesome, these could be the best years of my life. Or they could be a drag.

Socially, these guys all had a five month jump on me. Starting college in January meant coming to the dance after people had already paired up. Cliques were closed and friendship quotas filled, so at best I was a side-kick, tagging along and laughing at everyone else's jokes. I was a twenty year old Ed McMahon. Being shy didn’t help either. I was way too introverted to make this scene. Socially, I felt like I was driving a farm tractor down the expressway of life, with hot rods and Porsches flying by at 90 miles per hour, some forward, some in reverse, and some upside down. These people had abandoned convention and learned to embrace craziness, to chase laughs without fear. They knew how to do college. They knew the college lingo, the college attitude, the college humor.

"Disco" was the most insane, and consequently, the most admired floor member. His was a reckless pursuit of fun. A wild city boy, Disco only felt alive when he was breaking the rules with complete boldness, usually stopping just short of jailable offenses.

Disco’s shark impression was always a riveting sight. I remember the first time I saw the act. I watched with great interest as Disco’s eyes went into a happy trance, locking onto a young lady in tight faded jeans across the bar. He placed one hand over his head like a dorsal fin, then began "swimming" through the crowd, circling his foxy prey a couple times. The rest of the guys added mood music, humming the theme from Jaws. The unsuspecting girl giggled, then jumped with a shriek as Disco sank his teeth into denim. Another tush attack, the sixth one this tavern had seen in the last month. Biting girls’ butts was more than just a hobby for Disco, it was pure self expression. It didn’t lead to many meaningful relationships, but it sure entertained his pals.

Disco had another daring hobby that he called Tombstone Derby, a late night sport that involved a high degree of skill and courage. He liked to involve innocent parties in the game, usually women. After the bars closed, Disco would offer young ladies a ride home, inevitably taking a short cut through the cemetery, driving serpentines around tombstones. The closer he could come to each slab, the more hysterical his lady passengers would get. "It's a turn-on for them," he claimed. And the funny thing is, he was right. Girls loved those rides with Disco. And naturally, I couldn't help but look to him as a role model.

Hoss was more of a laid back college student, happy to watch life unfold around him as the accumulation of beers gradually increased the quiet smile on his face each evening. I suppose his name came from his size, tipping the scales at well over 300 pounds. He insisted on eating a large cheese and sausage pizza every night after returning from the bars, claiming it was part of his religion. And the man never used beer glasses. Said they were for sissies. So he did all of his consuming straight out of the pitcher, again one of his religious rites. You couldn't find a more devout man in all of Macomb.

Big Hoss was the designated keg lifter for our floor. But he wouldn’t lead off; he liked to bat clean up. The drill began with two skinny guys grunting, groaning and turning purple as they struggled to sneak a half barrel up the stairs and onto our floor. After they lost their grip a couple times, Big Hoss would smirk just a little bit as he said to let him give it a try. He heaved the keg up onto his shoulder, then smiled as he said, "Mind getting the door?" Every floor should have one Hoss.

Lance Romance was only wild or crazy for a change of pace. His normal mode was that of a sophisticated lady hunter. But not in a Disco sort of way. Rather than biting a girl’s butt as a means of starting conversation, Lance attacked subtly. His opening move might be just a suave "hi," but it was far more deadly than Disco’s hardest chomp. Girls fell for this guy. Big time. I guess you can chalk that up to handsome looks and strong, quiet confidence. Half the time, he got them to make the first move. I tried copying his approach, but somehow girls failed to trip over each other in lining up for me.

For Lance Romance, a college campus was a smorgasbord, an endless variety of babes waiting to be sampled. With such a wide selection, he didn’t dare fill up on just one item. The key was to keep a rotation going. His roommate called it a parade, a procession of girls falling for Lance’s charms. Good for Lance, bad for his roommate who got kicked out of bed on a regular basis.

Clepto was probably my favorite floor mate, because he didn't seem as superficial as the rest of these guys. As his name implied, Clepto had sticky fingers. Other people's things wound up in his possession, be it money or beers or what have you. And yet, no one got real mad about his vocation. It's like his name was his excuse, and if you left something unattended with him around, well, it was your own dumb fault.

Clepto's biggest claim to fame was his "perfect" attendance record. Never missed a class? Wrong. Try never attended a class. Not once. He had never set foot inside a college classroom. He was just here for the parties, and he wasn’t afraid to admit it. Obviously the man had no aspirations of becoming a sophomore.

Beer was the bus that dropped these guys off in the fun zone. Afternoon happy hours, night-time bar hopping, and late night frat parties with twenty kegs, it was all about the buzz. Guys were only fun, and only funny, after they had pounded down a dozen beers. And they didn’t get hysterical until you had consumed a few, yourself. College humor only began to make sense after a certain blood alcohol level. The problem was, I couldn’t compete on the same level as these guys. I was barely capable of putting away a six pack, a far cry from the accomplishments of these collegiate champions. Nope, I wasn't even in the same league as these crazy bums. I blame it on the failing academic system: Junior College hardly prepared me for this demanding kind of life style. But I resolved to find a way, somehow I would assimilate into this new and quirky culture.

First, I was obviously going to need a cool nickname. I quickly realized that only the geekiest of men go through college with their real names. Unfortunately, most of the good nick names were already taken, studly ones like Sarge and Bull. And besides, you’re not allowed to give yourself a nickname. It has to come from someone else. And you don’t get any say in the voting; whatever sticks, that’s your label until graduation do us part, my roommate Bob Fleming explained. Flem should know.

Finally I got my handle, a truncation of my last name. "Morgy!" a buddy shouted down the hall one day, and a name was born. Of course, variations and spin offs are allowed. Morg, Morgy, Morgazol, Morg Man. I answered to any of them. Such names wouldn't exactly get me lots of dates, but it would do for the guys.

The nickname worked, to some extent. "The Morg!" guys would shout as I entered the room, giving me the acceptance due my name. But that only carried me for the first ten seconds. Then my shy and quiet nature began costing me. I would gradually become a part of the woodwork, while more confident and outgoing guys soaked up the limelight.

I just wasn't as good as these guys, I wasn't as quick witted. I wasn't as crazy. So now you can see why I was having such a hard time fitting in: these guys were nuts, and I couldn't begin to keep up with the talent around me. I was tool slow and too serious. But Americans don’t give up. One day I would fit in to the scene of wildness and college humor. No, one day I would redefine the bounds of college humor.

At least I had one floor mate who was pretty calm: Dicky Jay. He might hit the bars once a week, drink five or six beers, then head home by midnight. Most evenings were spent studying at the library, or quietly doing homework in his room. No one understood that sort of behavior. Some of the guys made fun of him, but the compassionate ones tried to get him to see a beer counselor. No one could figure out what would possess a college student to get sidetracked with academics. Guys had theories, though. "I think he comes from a dysfunctional family," Lance Romance supposed, his eyes filled with compassion, as we sat around a keg one evening.

"He's in denial," was Clepto's prognosis. "He’s getting high off of studying so he doesn’t have to face himself." It’s amazing how Clepto could pick up on that without ever having touched a college text book.

Disco wasn't so sympathetic. "Dicky Jay’s just boring, man. It’s all genetics. We got the fun genes, he got the boring genes."

The truth is, Dicky Jay was just normal. He was a nice guy, and he wasn’t out to impress anyone. If I'm honest about it, I suppose I admit that he was probably the one mature person on our floor. But I quickly learned that "mature" was seen as a character flaw by these crazies around me, the equivalent of social leprosy. I liked Dicky Jay, though. He was the one guy you could talk to about feelings and stuff. He was real, and that was a rare commodity on a college campus. You don't talk to the Disco’s and Clepto’s of this world about your deepest hurts and most intimate thoughts. Doesn't happen. How many beers in a keg, that's what you discuss with Hoss. Did Miss February have implants, that's a Disco question. And if you wanted to be a really sensitive guy, you read the bio on this month's Playmate, her turn-ons and turn-offs. But that was optional.

It's not that these other guys had nothing heavy to share, eau contraire. Clepto fancied himself a fine bathroom poet, and Lance Romance read Cosmo religiously. But these guys reserved their heavy stuff for the ladies they brought home from the college bars at night.

So I had a choice to make: I could hang out with Dicky Jay (and study), or I could hang out with the likes of Lance Romance, Clepto and Disco (and meet girls). Sounds like a no brainer, I know, but it was actually a tough call. I felt as though I betrayed my own self when I chose to be one of the crazies. But I had to go for it, I simply had to be somebody, even if it meant being a wastoid in training. As shy and introverted as I was, I sought the same thing as every freshman or J.C. transfer: a season of running wild and free, part of the pack, like lions on the loose. I had to chase the fun.

So I started tagging along with my rowdy college floor mates, hitting the campus bars and frat parties, playing the sidekick and paying my dues. Sometimes I would feel like it was really starting to happen, like I was one of the gang, like I had some sort of purpose in life. But then there were times when I felt like the invisible man. I would watch my buddies as they made girls laugh hysterically, and yet I couldn't get past a hello. As much as I wanted to just let loose and socialize, I was shut up tighter than a clam. I would stick around for two, maybe three hours, watching others play the game, then I would have to go off into the night so I could be alone--where it wasn't so lonely. I didn't know how to play this game that everyone else was so adept at. And trying to play the game was like forcing down bad food. It took every ounce of will power I could muster.

What most bummed my hide was the lack of progress in making lady friends. Two months into the semester, and I don't think a single girl on campus knew my name. For some reason, I thought college would be different than this. I was expecting a reckless intermingling of the sexes, a clashing and thrashing of men and women without discretion, sheet to sheet travel, coeds in heat, all that stuff you see in movies. And where were the Women In Underwear? That’s what W.I.U. was supposed to stand for. But that was hardly the case; I was lucky to meet a fully clothed woman, never mind the scantily clad version. Every girl had her guard up, carefully avoiding all but the choicest of men. This is not what I signed up for. I wondered if it was too late to get my tuition money back.

Guys don’t relate like women do. Women can sit and talk, with absolutely no agenda, and no stated reason for being together. Not guys. We need an excuse to talk, a stated activity that we can focus on together. It can be golfing, watching a game, or fixing a car, but we’ve got to have an excuse. For me, that excuse became foosball. Big Hoss had a foosball table that he kept in the study lounge, and a dozen guys would gather around the table each afternoon, watching and waiting their turn as they played, two against two. It was sort of a soccer table, with men on rods that the players controlled. Speed was the name of the game, and that was my way in. I became a pretty good goalie, fast enough to stop most anyone. Friday nights, we took our talents to town and squared off against Macomb's best foosers at the campus bars. That was a ball, and it sure made it easier to pass the time. Now I hung out at the bars for a reason. I belonged there.

I actually became more a part of the gang as that semester wore on. Guys talked to me, they laughed at my jokes, and school wasn't so intimidating any more. And the crazies didn't seem so crazy as they used to seem. They seemed more like regular guys now, guys who always talked about the crazy stunts they'd pulled, and only occasionally walked the talk. But that was okay by me. They weren't so big now, and I wasn't so tiny.

Classes were the easiest part of college. Psych 101, Marketing 101, Piece of Cake 101. This stuff was all common sense. I didn’t even need to read the books or study; I could just show up for class most the time, and the tests were easy. Only an idiot could flunk out of this school.

The hardest part of college was walking into the cafeteria. It wasn’t just the fear of bad food; it was walking into a room full of a thousand strangers--alone. They weren’t alone; they had their gangs to sit with them. And on days when I tagged along with my floor mates, lunch and dinner were fun. But on Tuesdays and Thursdays, I didn’t break until after noon, when my buddies were done lunching. I hated walking into that giant place alone. And I really hated looking around for a place to sit. "Hi, I don’t have any friends," is what that dumbfounded look on my face said. I felt so stinking self conscious.

Eventually I got to know enough guys on my floor, and I had lunch buddies every day. What a difference that made. Now I’d say lunch and dinner were the highlights of my day. We lined up, seven or eight guys with their backs to the window for optimal babe watching. Two or three guys who arrived last would get stuck with the dreary view of the campus. Girls knew we were scoping. But it still made me feel awkward whenever Disco pulled out his binoculars. The guy just didn’t care what people thought.

I’ll never forget one tiny little episode in the cafeteria. I was scooping some ice cream into my bowl, when Disco began to serenade me to the tune of Mister Grinch. "You’re a mean one, Mister Morg. You really are a heel. You’re as cuddly as a cactus, as slippery as an eel, Mister Morg." He bellowed it out, and he nailed the ending. People applauded. My eyes teared up as I laughed. I remember being amazed that someone could be so loose, so bold and goofy in front of hundreds of strangers. It wasn’t even alcohol induced. I resolved right then: some day, I’ll be fearless too.

Lance Romance was the first one to make contact with the girls of fifth floor. Prior to that time, we had to meet girls at the bars or classes, and neither place was very fertile ground. Being the only all-male floor in our dorm, we didn’t have a sister wing to party with us. It was FYOB: Find Your Own Babes. But we gradually adopted a sister floor, thanks to the efforts of our local Romeo. Lance spotted her as a pack of ladies entered McCabe’s bar that evening. "Precious," the guys called her, an incredibly gorgeous girl, the kind that everyone stares at. Of course men stared with desire, but women stared even longer, eyeing their competition, the standard to which they were all being held. She didn’t seem very friendly or approachable, to put it mildly. Off limits is more like it, a goddess that wanted only to be left alone. That’s why I couldn’t understand her careful attention to her looks, her perfect hair, her fine clothes, her well maintained tan. Everything said notice me, except her demeanor, which clearly said back off. We learned not to approach her or speak to her. It wasn’t done. That would be a breach of the whole caste system.

Occasionally, when a guy would try to strike up a conversation with Precious, we would all watch and count off the seconds. It was kind of like a rodeo ride: could he stay on the bull for a complete ten seconds before getting thrown off? Or in her case, could he keep her engaged in conversation for more than ten seconds before being blatantly brushed off? So far, no one had lasted two breaths. But that didn’t stop Lance. He left the safety of our pack one evening and wandered over to her table near the dance floor. This ought to be good: Mister Charmer versus Miss Uncharmable. Disco began counting. One, Two, Three. And that quickly, he was escorting her to the dance floor. "Lance is dancing with Precious!" Disco shouted to the rest of the gang. This feat would surely enhance Lance’s rep big time. But Lance wasn’t thinking about his rep; he was strictly in it for the prize.

Lance would settle for just a dance that evening, but his brief encounter with such beauty left him driven for more. Somehow he had to see her again. Accidentally, of course. "Follow me," was all he said after happy hour the next evening, and five of us guys marched down the hall, squirt guns in hand.

"Who are we going to hit?" Hoss asked, ready for anything.

"You’ll see," Lance answered, not tipping his hand. He led us down to the fifth floor, onto the chicks’ wing, and walked nonchalantly past several young ladies. We must have looked like adolescent hit men. Then he spotted her coming out of the ladies’ room, a dripping wet Precious, adorned in only a bath towel. "Don’t shoot," he warned us, like he was protecting her. She smiled just a little, probably embarrassed at being caught walking past an armed militia of men in limited attire. Lance let us guys pass, then he doubled back to talk to his lady friend whom he just happened to bump into. A couple hours passed before he returned to our floor. Despite the barrage of questioning from well meaning buddies, he wouldn’t say a word about how things went. Unlike most the other guys around this college town, Lance was painfully quiet about his encounters with women. It was no one’s business but his.

Disco didn’t understand Lance’s low key nature and lack of braggadocio. For a cocky city guy like Disco, half the fun of romancing chicks was the bragging rights, the notch in his belt. And a woman like Precious could build a guy’s rep for life. Every episode in Disco’s life was geared at adding to his reputation. He was only as big as his last score. So to keep quiet about connecting with a babe like Precious was unthinkable, even sacrilegious, in Disco’s world.

Soon Lance and Precious were a regular thing, hanging out at the bars together. And reluctantly I think, Lance started introducing Precious and her friends to us guys. He knew the risk he was taking. He would have to baby sit us relentlessly, so as to not turn off his girl friend with his goof ball buddies and their childish antics. You should see the look that Lance gave to Disco when he began his shark maneuvers around Precious. "Don’t even think about it," Lance chided, and Disco immediately removed his dorsal fin. Disco smiled and finned once more, just pretending he might bite Precious’ butt, and Lance shook his head no in utter seriousness. Disco laughed heartily, loving the reaction he got from his love struck buddy.

The rest of the gang would "settle for sloppy seconds," as Clepto phrased it, meeting Precious’ friends and seeing who liked whom. Shelly and Linda were the friendliest ones. Linda was a tall, thin girl, always smiling at the bars, always in pursuit of fun. And Shelly was always at her side, carefully perusing the turn out. These two were hunk hunters, scouting the college bars for handsome men. Not that they were looking to actually meet the men or get involved; looking was enough for them. They were window shoppers. "That one’s nice," Shelly would say.

Linda would smile and voice her agreement with a satisfying grunt, as though she were tasting a fine chocolate, before responding with, "Have you tried this one over here?" And they would look at each other and nod in complete agreement. Life was one big male model fashion show for women to enjoy. Everything else was just the boring stuff in between. Ninety percent of the fun in hunk hunting was the window shopping. They didn’t have to connect to enjoy. The view was enough. Each view was a satisfying gourmet meal, best shared with a friend who loved the same fine cuisine. What surprised me was that they didn’t hide their appetites. Even when us guys were around, they made no excuse of their endeavors.

They had a third hunter who sometimes tagged along, an attractive young lady named Donna. She wasn’t as friendly or down to earth as Linda and Shelly. She seemed more preoccupied with herself, and how she came across to men. She was like a fashion model, always monitoring how she looked, her posture, her clothes, her hair. And she seemed more interested in her ability to attract men than the actual men themselves. The bar was her runway, each dance was her talent exhibition for the judges surrounding the floor. Being attractive wasn’t a means to an end, like for most women. Being attractive was the only goal, as if that alone elevated her above her peers.

Disco could read Donna like a book, and he knew what buttons to push. "Have you gained a little weight?" he would ask, just for fun. And any time she changed her hair: "I think I liked your hair better the other way." That one drove her nuts. And whenever we were heading out to the bars as a group, he’d give her the confidence shattering question: "Is that what you’re wearing tonight?" It planted just enough doubt in her appearance that the entire evening would be ruined. The truth was that she looked fabulous, but as long as she wasn’t sure of it, Disco had done his service to humanity.

One evening after the bars closed, I headed back to my dorm room for some peace and quiet, and a much needed break from socializing. But, to my dismay, I found that my roommate Flem was hosting another in a series of Let's Make a Dope Deal transactions. He moved enough narcotics to fund his college education, as long as he didn’t get caught. On this particular night, three of Flem’s most loyal buyers were sampling some of the "bitching" merchandise at point of sale, their eyes getting cheesier by the joint.

I wasn't into dope, but I did enjoy watching its effects on Flem's buyers. These guys were real goofballs, three guys right out of Wayne's World. When I first sat down, all they wanted to talk about was Miss April, and whether or not those pictures had been touched up, or if perhaps she had "silly conies" (Doper Lingo for implants.) But as their buzzes advanced, their conversation became more philosophical in nature. "Check it out, man," the long-hair said, his eyes half shut. "I'm reading this book about the end of the world, man, you know, all bible prophecy stuff, and it's got some crazy shit in it, man." I knew it: religious freaks. He went on to describe what terrible things will happen in the great battle of Armageddon: "Their flesh is gonna melt off of their bodies, and like, their eyes are gonna melt right out of their sockets, all before their bones can hit the ground."

"Coolness!" answered his buddy with a gleam in his eyes. "That happened to me once. Man, I was tripping out."

"That stuff sounds like thermo nuclear war, man," said the third freak.

"Oh, no doubt. And this stuff was written like 3000 years ago, dude, before they even had Ouzi's."

As goofy as these guys sounded, the prophecies themselves fascinated me. So I went out the next day and bought myself a bible so I could read about this stuff. I didn't really believe in God, but my curiosity was piqued. So I started with the last book in the bible, Revelations, and it was actually wilder than the longhair had described: A seven headed dragon with ten horns, a beast with the head of a lion and the feet of an eagle, giant flying locusts with iron breastplates raining fire down on man, weirdness all the way. Sounded like the author was one of Flem's buyers.

Then I got to the stuff about the antichrist and the devil's number 666--which creeped me out totally. So I flipped back to other parts of the bible, just browsing through it. I suppose I was hoping to find something in that bible, something to give my life some meaning, as long as I didn't read anything that would tell me I had to change. The last thing I wanted was guilt stuff. And rules. Not when I finally had a chance to live without rules.

So cautiously I decided to read it from the beginning. God made Adam, then decided he needed a woman. I couldn't have agreed more. So He created Eve, and the happy couple dug each other. They dug each other, that is, until they blew it by eating from the "Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil." Then they were suddenly hiding from God and blaming each other for things. So that's where this Mating Game got so messed up and difficult.

When that story got boring, I flipped over to the gospels and read some pretty cool stuff: Jesus said I could have anything I asked for. So I tried it: "Jesus, You said whoever asks will receive, so I'm asking for a girlfriend, a really good woman."

I wasn't sure how long that would take. Usually they say to allow, what, four to six weeks for delivery? That would be okay, I guess. I'd been waiting twenty years as it was.

In the meantime, I read on. I was fascinated by all the things that Jesus said, His teachings, His parables, and the way He healed people just by touching them. Most of all, it was His teachings about life that I got into. The stuff was all new to me, even though I'd gone to church most my life. Somehow I never heard this stuff before, and I couldn't get enough now. So I blew off a complete day of classes and laid around reading the gospel of Matthew, feeling like I was changing inside just from reading it.

Hanging out at the bars sure was different that evening. I felt totally full of life, but I wasn't so sure I belonged in this place. The party life looked different somehow; I felt like I was looking in on it from the outside, like I was seeing the vanity and emptiness of it all. But I managed to move beyond that with a few brewski's.

Darwin was the floor bully, a shot putter with a titan’s physique: massive arms and legs, a tree trunk for a neck, and a strong belief in survival of the fittest, thus his nick name. He wouldn’t engage in the arena of the smartest or the wittiest, where he was only average. He would only relate in an I-can-beat-you-up kind of way. Physical threats were necessary to keep his kingdom in line, but threats were intrinsically fun, too. Darwin fed off of the power of intimidation. "It’s good to be king," was his motto. He drank in the power of being bigger and tougher than everyone else. Except he wasn’t tougher than everyone, he was only second toughest. Tom, the linebacker of our school’s football team, was the toughest, the baddest, and he didn’t need to prove it to anyone, except to Darwin.

As a floor, we threw a huge celebration the day that Darwin got his butt kicked. For us, it was like Christmas come early. It started over a simple stereo dispute. You see, Darwin considered himself the floor dee-jay. It was his duty to provide music to the entire floor, his way of saying thanks for his state-of-the-art sound system, fully funded by college loans. On this particular day, Darwin was in a Supertramp mood. He had probably played the same stinking song, Bloody Well Right, sixty times that day. Pure torture, but we endured it, until someone had the nerve to go and slam his door shut, mercifully muffling the hideous noise. This did not sit well with Darwin. If you let one person challenge your authority, pretty soon everyone will walk all over you. So with abject disdain, he stepped out into the hall and shouted, "Who in the hell closed my door? I’ll kick your ass!"

Bodies scurried into their rooms until Darwin stood alone in the hallway. Then Tom the Linebacker emerged from his room, unimpressed, and said, "I closed your door, Mother ______." Immediately the hallway filled up again, as guys vied for ringside seats at a heavyweight bout. Darwin had issued the challenge, and Tom had answered. I could see the fear rising in Darwin, the "oh crap" look replacing his usual tough guy look. He wanted no part of Tom. But if he backed down now, the entire floor would know that he was chicken. Darwin’s entire identity was built around being fearless and unbeatable. But if even one man was bigger and tougher, then Darwin would be proven mortal, and the whole façade would come crashing down on him.

Darwin tried verbal intimidation, issuing threats and challenges that he clearly didn’t want to back up. Then the fists flew, the mightier man prevailed, and Darwin slumped to the floor, a big, muscular, athletic pile of beaten man. Without a word, Tom shut off the obnoxious stereo and returned to his room for some quiet studying. The rest of us stared at the battered and bleeding bully, feeling 90% elated and maybe, just maybe, 10% sympathetic for the fallen man. He slowly returned to his room, leaving a trail of blood and a hall full of silent witnesses.

Darwin never walked as tall or as proud after that show down. He didn’t puff out his chest quite as much, he was a little slower to issue threats, and as long as his black eyes and swollen lip endured, he looked no one in the eye.

For his part, Tom didn’t seem to drink in the glory of his victory. He didn’t need to brag or strut his stuff afterwards. A cocky mouth had been silenced, and that’s all that mattered to Tom.

It’s funny how competition plays out in college. It’s totally different for men than women. With women, competition is much more vague. It’s difficult to know who is "better." Because better means prettier, nicer, more together socially. Women can spar in the arena of looks and social graces for months, each thinking they have outshined their opponent. No one really knows who’s winning, unless you take a vote. But with men, there are seldom such muddy lines. It becomes very clear who can kick whose butt. Either they duke it out and it’s settled, or one backs down, in which case it’s more than settled. Darwin had pitched himself as the baddest guy on campus, and his bubble was forever burst when Tom the linebacker entered the scene and told him to chill.

Tom was the modest floor hero after bringing Darwin down a few notches. Everyone said hi to him, guys gave him beers, all manners of kindness were extended. You could feel the love. People respected him. It wasn’t just that he was a tough dude, or even that he had done us all a huge favor; it was his quiet humility following the skirmish that spoke volumes about him. Most guys would have milked that one for months, but not Tom. He wouldn’t act tough. He refused to be another Darwin.

That doesn’t mean we didn’t watch our step around the man. That’s why peace prevailed when a mild uprising took place on the floor between black and white. It started when the five black guys, Tom included, decided to create their own fraternity. They called themselves the Mo Phi Bo. They got some cool looking T-shirts and made up their own special rap song. And to commemorate their induction into their frat, they "pennied" all of the white guys on the floor into their rooms. That means they wedged a stack of pennies between each door and door frame, so that the door was impossible to open from the inside. It wasn’t a hate thing. It wasn’t meant to start trouble. Being outnumbered 5 to 1 on our floor, they weren’t trying to start anything. It was just an act of bravado, a "We ain’t afraid of you guys" thing. Everyone took it as a humorous prank, except for Darwin. He wanted to kick some butts. Problem was, one of those butts was Tom’s. As always, Darwin had to shut his mouth and chill out once Tom spoke up. That took care of that. Go, Mo Phi Bo.

Turn to Chapter 2: Clean Up On Aisle 12… www.morgypoo.com/ch2.html