Free American Fraternity Man by Nathan Holic

house, my brand-new career, my ability to save the world, all inside those steaming metal pans. And so I lifted the foil covers, curling them back on themselves to protect and keep warm as much of the meat as possible. Proud of the pulled pork. The baked beans. The roasted quarter-chickens. The mashed potatoes and macaroni and cheese! Cornbread! Green beans and almonds, sliced smoked ham, smoked sausages, dry-rub ribs! The entire menu of Old Smoky BBQ, ready to be consumed, ready to feed the appetites of all these parents, ready to assuage concerns, to give final confirmation that their sons had made the right choice when they’d joined this fraternity. Here it was!
    Except—
    “Serving spoons?” my father asked, and he had a sesame-seed bun opened on his plate. “Tongs?”
    “Sure,” I said. “Do you see a plastic bag around here anywhere?”
    I fumbled, hit my hand again.
    “I don’t see anything,” my father said, and behind him, other parents had formed a line, some grabbing plates and buns and napkins the same as he had , their moods and spirits high, men and women who were previously strangers now chatting and joking with one another, some holding full martini glasses, others with whiskey on the rocks. A woman in white pants was laughing so hard that it almost looked painful, and her husband was slapping her back. Another couple was clinking wine glasses, and Jenn stood at the bar with a group of her sorority sisters, girls who were dating Nikes; she topped off with a healthy pour of cranberry juice a set of glasses half-filled with vodka and ice. This was what a cocktail party was supposed to looked like. This was polished adulthood. Everything I’d wanted. But somehow I’d missed the smallest of details.
    “I can’t find any serving equipment,” I said, madly searching beneath the table, under the trash bags we’d hung to colle ct dirty paper plates. “Edwin? See them anywhere?”
    “I don’t see anything,” Edwin said from the bar. He was searching through cabinets as if—for whatever reason—the delivery man might have stashed a set of tongs up there.
    “Something wrong, Charles?” Jenn called out, finishing her final pour.
    “No, no!” I said. Crawling on the floor now, searching searching.
    “Charles,” my father said, and he looked back over his shoulder at the long line, where parents were taking notice of this situation. Standing in clumps of brand-new friends. Turning to one another, all of them asking the sa me questions. “What’s wrong?” “Why won’t he let us eat?” “What’s the hold-up?” “Who’s in charge, here?” The woman in the white pants had stopped laughing, face sucked of its humor.
    And now my mother was wedging herself into the line, grabbing a plate. Cocktail cup in hand. “What’s wrong?” she asked. “Charles, what are you doing?”
    “Nothing!” I said from beneath the table. “I’m sure it’s around!” Rising, banging my shoulder against the table again, nearly knocking over the cornbread.
    “Oh, you can’t find the spoons?” my mother asked.
    “Sometimes you have to ask to rent serving equipment,” my father said. “They don’t always just give it to you. Did you ask?”
    “Edwin,” I said. “Did they say anything about serving equipment?”
    And now Edwin was walking toward us empty-handed, disappointment etched into his face. “I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t remember them saying anything.”
    “Didn’t ask them many questions at all, did you, Charles?” my father asked.
    “The two-hour window…that wasn’t my fault.”
    “You’ve probably got something in your kitchen,” he said.
    “It’s locked, Dad. ”
    “Oh. Right.”
    But he knew. He knew.
    “Why is the kitchen locked?” my mother asked.
    “They pay a staff,” my father said. “They’re not allowed inside their own kitchen. Maybe next time I should bring my own utensils.”
    “That’s silly,” my mother said.
    “Hungry!” someone