This is another one from the vault, going back to my days at Mr. Jefferson’s University. Though vehemently against the greek system when I started there, by the spring I was pledging a small house with two other (remaining) fellows. This fraternity may or may not have engaged in the tradition of “hell week,” and this story may or may not have occurred during that very same week.

The drop. We knew it was coming - it’s a universal hell week ritual. We were told to empty our pockets and line up in the back yard facing the fence. After being searched, pillow cased were paced over our heads and we were shepherded into an SUV. We could tell that the driver was driving aimlessly - it’s no secret that the purpose of this event is to get you as lost as possible. They don’t want to you figure out where you are by where you’ve been. Thirty minutes later the car came to a stop, and we were led into a field. I won’t lie. I was nervous.

After being spun around long enough to make us unable to stand, we got our instructions. Stand in that field for 10 minutes, after which we were to take off the pillow cases and find our way back to the house. No cheating - no hitch hiking, no vehicles of any kind, no phones, no friends. They left, the sound of the car trailing into the distance, and there we were - three 19 year old kids standing in a field in the middle of nowhere with pillow cases on our heads. “Fuck this, I’m not standing here like an idiot for ten minutes,” my pledge brother barked. We were immediately tackled. There, of course, had been another car.

After a reprimand from the remaining group of brothers that had been standing their silently waiting to scare the living shit out of us, we were alone again. For real, this time. We removed our pillow cases and walked back to the road. Left or right? We chose right. Actually, we chose wrong.

We soon found ourselves walking by a golf course. It had to be either Birdwood or Farmington, right? Either way, we follow the course back the club house, and we’ll know where we are. We left the road and began traversing the golf course. It was very dark, but we could faintly see a structure several hundred yards way. Thinking that this might be the clubhouse, we started walking. That’s when the rumbling began. My pledge brother’s stomach rumbling, that is. Oh, did I forget to mention? Okay, rewind about 2 hours. For dinner we had eaten a delightful stew of cold chili from a can, oatmeal, and hot sauce, with a warm 40 oz. with which to wash it down. Oh yes, the hell week chefs would have made Emeril proud. Let’s kick it up a notch - Bam! - a bottle of hot sauce for your oatmeal. Suffice it to say, none of us were in great shape, but my pledge brother was worse off. He needed to make an immediate evacuation of the bowels. The relief on his face was priceless as he emerged from the woods. Who would have known this guy would eventually be an assistant district attorney for a very large American city.

The structure was not a club house - it was just a simple house. Walking to the other end of the course, we found another house. On yet another end, we found a vineyard. This golf course had no beginning and no end. We eventually gave up and walked back to the road, walking in the other direction this time. I never went back, but my only conclusion is that somewhere in Albemarle County lies a 5-hole private golf course that has previously been used as a toilet. After about 10 minutes of walking, we found ourselves in Ivy, a small village a few miles west of Charlottesville. We had only been 10 minutes from a main road the entire time. We had just wasted two hours.

Luckily, there was a pay phone. Even more luckily, one of the brothers had taken pity on us and slipped a quarter in Mr. District Attorney’s shoe. He called his roommate, who, after promises of cases of beer, agreed to pick us up. It was 2am. That’s when the sheriff’s deputy pulled up. “You boys all right?” he said staring at us quizzically. I guess he thought it was weird that three kids - one wearing a sombrero, one a inner tube around his waist, and another in bright green corduroy pants and a bike helmet - would be standing alone by a pay phone in Ivy at 2 o’clock in the morning. “Yes sir, our friend is coming to pick us up.” He nodded. “This is one of those fraternity things, isn’t it?” Nothing got by this guy. We, of course, had to deny it. But he got the message. “You boys be safe,” he said as he drove off.

Thirty minutes later we were back at said friend’s apartment. We were supposed to go straight to the house, but we were exhausted. We slept for 4 hours on the floor - the most sleep we had gotten yet - and returned to the house at 7am with a bold tale of walking home for the last 5 hours. No one bought it, but we didn’t care.