Walking out of This World

Four

Two white columns rise up as if expressing a need to guard the wide oak door. They reach up to support a half circular overhang that protects the wood floor below from the weathering work of sun and rain. Thirty feet of snow white walls stand proudly two stories high. A peaked, rusty red, tile-shingled roof puts a topper on the tall white masonry structure. The walls proudly display elegantly framed windows. The warm September sun splashes off their slippery surfaces.

A sign above the door announces the fraternity's name.

Road House

We notice a small metal box hanging on the white wall to the right of the door. A copper-faced sign displays a message captured in shinny black lettering.

Push button.

Face camera.

Wait for directions.

After a shallow ring a voice asks, "Who is calling?"

It's John Foster and his dad, Roy Foster, "I reply."

"Just one minute."

After a short pause we hear a buzz and a click next to the door handle. Dad reaches out and pulls the door open and motions for me to enter first.

We are standing in a large entry space. An elegant birchwood stairway curves up to the second floor. It looks like the one that Mom always comments on when she asks us to watch Gone With The Wind for the umpteenth time.

A young man appears wearing a welcoming smile. His green eyes stand firmly beneath a pile of brown bushy hair. He's informally dressed in blue jeans and gray t-shirt. The words, Road House, are prominently displayed across his chest.

"Welcome! My name is Pete and I'll be your tour guide today."

We follow him into a spacious dinning room, lined with birchwood tables and matching chairs. A counter spreads down one wall holding warming pans and a soda machine like the one at Burger King.

Above the counter four large pictures hang like a group of drinking buddies. They are all dressed in blue jeans and gray t-shirts sporting black letters that spell out Road House.

"Who are these guys?" I ask.

"They are the founders of this house. They were quit the rebels in the 1950's. The story goes that their fathers were very wealthy alumni of the university. They paid to give their sons this house, which is not on fraternity row, because only Greek fraternities are allowed that privilege," Pete explains.

Tall windows on the opposite wall allow the afternoon sun to illuminate the room with sheets of fuzzy light that follow us out of the dinning room.

"That's the most important room in the house," Pete adds, leading us back into the foyer. "We'll take good care of your son,"Pete extends his right hand. "You can stop by the accountant's office on your way out to pay first semester fees, Mr. Foster. I'll take John up to his room. We only allow fraternity brothers in that part of the house for obvious security reasons."

"I wouldn't be so sure about that. Sh! Don't let the cat out of the bag just yet."

"Okay, Son. Give us a call when you get settled in," Dad says. He gives my arm a gentle pat and turns toward the accountant's office where a brother is surely happily waiting for a check's arrival.

At the top of the stairs we are met by a long expanse of narrow hallway. It is lined with doors on each side. I see a six on the door where we have abruptly stopped.

"This is your room," Pete announces while rapping on the dark oak surface.

"Come in."

He's sitting at a desk holding a position opposite a single bed.

"What can I do for you, Pete?"

"I want you to meet your new room mate," Pete replies.

He stands a couple of inches taller than me, yellow sandy hair, freckles dancing on his cheeks when his lips break into a smile. Muscular lines fill out his gray t-shirt giving me evidence that he likes to work out.

"I've been expecting you. My name is Warren." His words clatter out in a higher voice than his physique would indicate. He sticks out his right hand indicating a friendly gesture.

"I'm happy to meet you, Warren," I say, accepting his welcoming hand.

"Let me show you where to put your things."

I follow him around the wall that separates the two sides of the large room. There is a single bed positioned against the far wall opposite an identical desk and bookshelf. Narrow doors stand upright on either side of the desk.

Warren opens one of the doors. A chrome rod stretches across the narrow space like an arm pushing two wooden panels apart. At the bottom two large drawers wait for my fold-ables.

"There's plenty of room in these closets for all your gear," Warren comments. "Oh. And another thing. After dinner..." He looks at his watch. "...is initiation for all new freshman joining the house." He looks at his watch again. "In exactly two hours," he adds. "But in the meantime I want to introduce you to some of the new brothers."

We walk around and through the arched opening that separates the two halves of the room and out the door still hanging open.

I momentarily freeze when I see it resting on Warren's desk. It's a lamp. A copper tube stands up, holding bulb and lamp shade on top. But... But at its base, acting the part of a steady foundation for its operation... It's a pumpkin. An inner light illuminates a mouth twisting up at the corners, sharp teeth hanging down. Above the alarming mouth two triangular eyes point toward a nose, a small carrot shape pointing out at me.

"I see you've noticed my lamp." He reaches behind the pumpkin. His hand moves and that hideous laugh pierces the air. "Pretty scary, wouldn't you say?" He throws out the words like a proud parent.

"Yeah... scary," I reply, trying not to loose control of my jangling nerves.

"I call him Jack." Warren punctuates the word with a lingering hard "k" sound.

"That should make you feel right at home." The whisper resounds, ending in a wicked little chuckle. "And, initiation is coming down in...what'd he say? Two hours. Good luck, boy!"