Free Goat by Brad Land Page A

can I get a ride and the light turns green, all these horns blowing behind me, I say yeah get in, lean over and unlock the passenger side door. And I know I shouldn’t. I know it but there’s this part of me that wants to. This part of me that wants to be scared. Like I can fix everything if I do it. And he’s sitting there beside me. I don’t look over. I start to drive.
    The man asks if I can take him up the street.
    Sure, I say. Not far though. I have to be somewhere.
    Okay, he says and then I look over at him. His hair is black, greased, hands folded in his lap like he’s praying. Got dirt all in the nails.
    He tells me he’s a preacher and I say oh, yeah, I know about preachers, my dad’s a preacher and he says what church and I say Highland Park Methodist and he nods his head, oh, yeah, that’s a fine church, yeah, a fine church.
    So have you been washed? he says.
    Washed? I say.
    Cleansed. Blood of the lamb.
    Sure. I’ve been washed. We’ve gone a few miles, my hands shake and I know I shouldn’t have done this, it hasn’t fixed anything, and I don’t want to be scared anymore. I stop the car. Right there in the middle of the road. Cars blaring their horns at me. I keep my eyes straight. Hands on the wheel.
    Get out, I say. I don’t look at him.
    You’ll die, you know, he says. God just told me. You’ll die.
    Okay. Yeah. I’ll die. Get out. I don’t look at him.
    Fire. You’ll burn.
    Get out. I look over at him. Get out, I say. He starts to open the door.
    God punishes those who ignore his servants, he says. I’m his servant.
    Get out.
    You’ll burn. In a wreck. On the way home. I promise. You’ll end in fire. He gets out of the car. Keeps a hand on the door.
    Fuck you, I say. Dirty fuck.
    He leans back in, points a finger at me and I press the gas with him there holding on to the door. He falls. Crumples on the sidewalk.
    On the way home I’m shaking and thinking about what I just did and how I was right to be scared, how it didn’t help, how people are fucked everywhere, how I got lucky and how maybe it’s just a matter of time before my luck runs out.
       
    AFTER I TOLD Brett I definitely wanted to pledge Kappa Sig he seemed apprehensive, but he also seemed happy and thought it would be a good idea for me to be around some of his fraternity brothers before rush started.
    At a lake off campus the week before rush, we went to a rope swing and took turns showing how unafraid we were to swing to its highest point, forty feet above the lake, let go, flail our arms the entire way down, crash with a sharp split into the brown water. There was a tree stump buried directly below the point where we would naturally fall. Someone had tied an orange life jacket to its branches so we’d know where it was. So we had to swing and pitch ourselves out past this stump to avoid breaking our legs. This one brother went over the stump headfirst. Landed with a thud. Seven times. Rose each time smiling, hair pasted to his scalp, skin slapped red and shining.
    Sunday afternoon I’m at the first party of official rush after driving back from home early that morning. Brett standing a few feet away. Light from a small doorway falls in bright columns across his face and slight chest. His arms crossed, he is glowing and talking to a brother I recognize from the lake.
    Everyone wearing name tags. And later, if I get a bid, remembering brothers’ names becomes the most important thing. Not just first names. Last names. Majors. Hometowns. Everything.
       
    AT CLEMSON THERE are no on-campus fraternity houses, only dorms. The fraternity dorms are all grouped together in a quad. The sororities are together too but they don’t have a quad, just a bunch of buildings all beside each other, and this get-to-know-you thing on the Kappa Sigma hall just means we hang out on the side of our dorm where Kappa Sigmas live.
    The Kappa Sigs serve finger food of the worst kind, pimiento cheese, ham, and barbecue sandwiches, plain