1962

1962 was promising to be an abysmal year for Nic. He espied his favorite watering hole and wondered in to drone out his complaints to his favorite barkeep. Nic threw his backpack on the glossy surface of the bar, before easing his weary frame onto a barstool. Racking his hand over his face, he held up two fingers and pounded the counter twice. The bartender drew a tankard for the college student.

“Rough day?”

Nic nodded, “Understatement. We lost our national affiliation. If we keep it local, we have to – I don’t even want to think about it.”

“What did you do? To lose your frat, that is?”

“We brought in a couple of minority members and lost it. Hey, can we hold meetings here, you know, to get organized and stuff?”

“Sure. That’ll be a kick. A bunch of Dartmouth frat boys hanging out at Bones Gate Tavern for meetings. Somebody might believe that. Sure they will.”

Nic promised, “We’ll name our frat after this. How’s that?”

Joe gave his courtesy chuckle. “Sure you will. You gotta work faster than you are if you want to be ready for Green Key Weekend. Who thought of that stupid chariot race anyway?”

Nic corrected, “Hey, it’s better than the wetdown. Besides we had all the best runners and wanted to rub the Deltas' nose in it.”

The bartender nodded agreement. “I still can’t figure out why you boys want to run through the streets dragging those wagons and have people throwing stuff at you. For college kids, you all sure do dumb things.”

“Hey, we just wanted to race. We had no part in those chicks throwing eggs and water balloons at the Deltas.”

Joe nodded again. “Okay. That’ll hold up. Sure it will.”

[word count: 293]