He breathes like a 60-year-old with emphysema. His knees are plagued with arthritis at the young age of 19. He can kill a 30 rack faster than anyone you know. Women love him, and men want to be him (kinda). The party doesn’t start until he’s half a case and a point 2 of molly deep in his old world. Dripping in sweat, button down wide open, and beer always in hand. Your fraternity would never be the same without him, and no one would want it any other way. He’s the fat kid in your pledge class.
I first met Husky on bid night. Easily pushing 300 bills and addicted to Copenhagen like the best of them, he was almost intimidating at first. Half a bottle of pineapple Burnett’s later, I realized I could not have been more wrong in my assessment. Husky was no lightweight, but after a long week of rushing and an even longer bid night, he was starting to feel the gut rot-creating combination fomented by lack of a decent meal and half a bottle of grain liquor. Fight fire with fire he must’ve thought to himself, for before I could blink, the rest of his bottle was gone — along with his stomach pain — and he became the nicest and most social large man I had ever met. But Husky, as happy as he was, had no clue the rough first day pledging he had coming.
Gameday is usually cause for celebration. Food, booze, and women all intersect at a specific location for the enjoyment of those attending the finest sporting event in the country: a college football game. Unfortunately, that all goes right out the window when it’s your first day of pledging. After being ordered to walk the uphill (both ways) two-mile trek to the stadium just to open beers for brothers, Husky’s whole attitude about his decision to pledge changed. While the pack made its way up the mountain, slowly but surely he fell behind. At one point, we thought we’d lost him, but he made it to the tailgate right before kickoff with just enough time to drink a beer and pretend to head in. Turns out he turned right around after that, went to bed, and woke up just in time for his post-gameday pledge experience to begin. A sad showing for a pledge, but we loved him, so we didn’t care.
Husky made it through the first day and the next, each day completing these little bullshit tasks that were designed to torture him; having to walk a mile every day to Little Caesar’s, take a picture, and turn around was a personal favorite of mine. The terrain surrounding our school wasn’t exactly kind to him, as you can tell by this point in the story. Mountains and hills took a toll on the poor guy day in and day out. But Husky kept making it through pledging, and the rest of us were getting real sick of hearing, “If Husky can do it, you can do it.”
Initiation night could not come soon enough for him, and when it did, it was by far the drunkest I have ever seen him. After a night of heavy drinking, he disappeared. At this point we were all dropping like flies, but it wasn’t like Husky to pull an Irish exit; usually we have to carry the big guy home. We were later told that he was kicked out of a club for pissing off the upper level onto the crowded dance floor below — one of many times he would be removed from this club. They somehow still don’t deny him entry when he shows up every Thursday at 11 with a heavy buzz, ready to get kicked out once again. They know he means well.
Husky has a certain thing about him where it’s tough to get mad at him. When he shit himself on his 21st birthday and left a clear trail of poo from the shower to his room, no one batted an eye. He was caught fucking a girl on the same dance floor he pissed on months earlier. I watched him get dragged out by the back of his suit with his pants halfway down and the girl drunkenly following him. He somehow got that lucky girl into his room later that night where they continued, I assume, but this time in a bed. He was let back into the same club for a social the following night.
As I write this, I receive a text from Husky telling me he’s eating my leftovers — a classic and reoccurring Husky move. Living with him has its pros and cons, but a major pro is that he’s always willing to split a case. Everyone needs a pal willing to get hammered on a Monday. We both live in our fraternity house, and he was given a room nicknamed “the closet” mostly because of its small size (and because it used to be a closet). There’s just something funny about putting the fattest kid in your fraternity into the smallest possible living space. His scent (stench?) of beef and cheese is never really expected to come out of there even after he’s gone, and when he graduates theres a good chance that room becomes a closet once again… at least until the next fat kid moves in..
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