Frats, p.1
Frats, page 1
WHAT READERS ARE SAYING …
"Dee Snider is a masterful storyteller, whether its song lyrics, movies, his autobiography or now his novel FRATS. Grab a comfy chair and enjoy a great read."
~ John Yonover, Tony Award Winning Broadway producer
"My friend, Dee Snider, wrote a book. I’ve always been a bit of a skeptic, but if Dee Snider can write a book I guess anything is possible. My friend, Dee Snider wrote a book. Hallelujah."
~ Penn Jillette
"FRATS is a gripping cautionary tale, one I was unable to put down. It’s filled with teen angst, young love and tremendous pain. Having been in a high school fraternity myself, l read FRATS with great interest. In many ways this was a mirror of my own life, having lived the high school fraternity experience, complete with all the hazing and hell night. As always, Mr. Snider excels in the storytelling. He is truly gifted."
~ Marty Callner, award winning video and TV director
“Dee is always writing. Everything I’ve known him to do as an artist is an extension of his writing. It makes perfect sense Dee has written a novel for us all to enjoy.”
~ Dave Bushnell
First time novelist Dee Snider has a winner on his hands with FRATS. Snider’s ability to create characters readers can both relate to and root for is the difference between simply reading a book, and truly enjoying that book. I finished the bulk of the book in just two sitting, and then did my very best to prolong those last several pages; not wanting the experience to end.
~ Mick Foley, best selling author/WWE Hall of Fame Wrestler
FRATS
Copyright © 2023 by D. Snider
All rights reserved
Published by Red Penguin Books
Bellerose Village, New York
ISBN
Print 978-1-63777-389-5 / 978-1-63777-390-1
Digital 978-1-63777-388-8
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
At this point, my Dee-hard followers (and I thank you for your dedication to my various artistic endeavors) may be starting to think I sound like a broken record. On virtually everything I’ve ever done, I’ve dedicated it to my wife and partner in life, Suzette. The fact is without her support and undying love (not to mention her belief in me), I would never have achieved and done all the things I have. Besides artistically helping and inspiring me creatively, she has always “held down the fort” with our family and home, allowing me to create and explore my creativity.
So, Suzette, this book is dedicated to you. Thank you for everything you have done and continue to do that allows me to do the things I love to do. I love you…forever.
(Those of you in the know may notice some similarities between the courtship of the fictional couple in this book and my own real-life one with Suzette. Hey, you gotta go with what you know!)
CHAPTER ONE
February 1999, Long Island, New York.
The morning rush.
This is my carpool’s daily grind. Back and forth from the suburbs to the city, five days a week—virtually every week of the year—year after year, with a few days off for holidays, vacations, and misadventures. Nothing worse than a wasted day off caused by some bug the kids brought home or from an embarrassing injury.
“I didn’t fall; my rollerblades got caught on a crack in the bike path.”
Humbling.
And no commute was more brutal than the one from the suburbs of Suffolk County to midtown Manhattan. The Long Island roadway system was a congested, ill-conceived joke.
The east/west running Northern State Parkway, built in 1933 by urban planner Robert Moses, included an unnatural dip in the road that took commuters two miles due south. Put in place to assuage a group of wealthy, North Shore landowners, for a mere $175,000 donation to the Long Island State Park Commission (and at an additional cost of $2.75 million for the execution of the diversion), ol’ Bob Moses routed the NSP around their posh Old Westbury estates instead of going through them. Even though their massive properties have long since been sold off and subdivided, that backroom deal added an average of an hour onto the daily trip to and from work, ultimately stealing more than a year of life from the everyday commuter over the course of his or her working career. So for myself and my other fellow forty-something voyagers—except for James, who at 28 had barely begun his life journey—we’ve still got a lot of living to lose.
And today it was raining.
It was my day to drive, so I couldn’t even catch a little shuteye like the others. I just sat there behind the wheel, barely inching along, serenaded by a low-volume news radio station playing in the background and the hypnotic sound of the windshield wipers doing their job.
Schwump – schwump – schwump – schwump.
At least they weren’t squeaking.
Long ago I had that life-affirming moment that puts everything into perspective and made even a bad day okay. It could be worse…it could be raining. Not the best catchphrase to reference considering that it was…but you get my drift. I learned to let the small stuff go…life was way too short.
This said, I couldn’t help but notice how faceless we all were. Just five corporate drones, riding in another four-door sedan, in an iceberg-slow sea of black, grey, brown, silver, and white. All blending perfectly with our dreary surroundings on a late winter’s day; so drab and devoid of color the world appears sepia.
Why didn’t I buy the red car? I really wanted the re–
Suddenly, the idiot in front of me stopped short, forcing me to jam on the brakes and narrowly avoiding a collision that would have made this terrible morning a lot worse.
Well, that woke up my fellow weary travelers.
I slammed the horn, using the surrogate to blare my anger at the offending vehicle in front of me.
The driver of the now fully-stopped car rolled down his window, stuck his arm out into the rain, and flicked me the international symbol of defiance for the ages: “The Bird.”
I started to roll down my window to respond with the obligatory, “Asshole!” when something caught my eye. The license plate on the guy’s car had only three letters: D G N…
“Follow me!” Brett yelled and, using his good arm, pulled me toward the house we were standing in front of.
“Where the hell are we going?!” I said, falling in behind him. “Do you know the people who live here!?”
“This way!” Brett commanded.
With the pack of Delta Gamma Nu members close behind, we headed into the backyard and literally ran for our lives.
The gang desperately tried to follow, but not knowing the lay of the land like Brett, they were stumbling, bumbling, and fumbling the entire way. As we climbed over fence after fence, running from yard to yard, they even mixed it up with a few dogs who, already agitated from not sinking their teeth into Brett and me, were extra aggressive when one of the Gamma Nu assholes leaped over. Woof.
By the time we exited the last yard on the block, we were on a cross street with a big lead.
“Come on!” Brett barked, and I followed.
We went back across Forest Avenue, then dove into the yards of houses fronting on Centennial Avenue. When we finally got to the dry stream-bed behind Brookside Avenue, we quickly tucked ourselves under the Centennial Avenue overpass and hid. Brett and I waited, breathing heavily, not saying a word, and listening for any sign of Delta Gamma Nu…
“Delta Gamma Nu,” I said absentmindedly. I hadn’t thought of them in years.
“What’s that, Robert?” asked Marie, sitting next to me, as she checked her makeup in the passenger visor mirror.
“The letters on that car’s license plate—DGN. They stand for Delta Gamma Nu.”
“What’s that, a college fraternity?” asked James, desperately trying to adjust his long legs for a bit more comfort as it was his turn to get stuck behind me this morning…and I’m not a little guy.
“A high school fraternity,” I clarified.
“They don’t have fraternities in high school…do they?” Tommy chimed in from the sweet seat behind petite Marie.
“I didn’t think they did either until my family moved to the south shore of Nassau County. There were a ton of them in the ‘70s.”
“So what were they, like a high school version of a college fraternity thing?” Alex asked, riding the hump in the netherworld of the middle back seat stuck between comfortable and cramped. “I pledged Gamma Lambda Phi in college.”
“They started out that way,” I replied. “The first one was founded in the late ‘30s at a high school in Brooklyn—Beta Lambda Rho—Blue and Gold were their colors. Only the elite young men of the school were allowed to join. You had to be one of the best students, best athletes, and best ci
“Is that true?” Marie demanded, indignant, as she was neither.
I had all of my associates’ full attention now.
“Sure was, but not for long. Over the next couple of decades all kinds of high school “frats” were created for pretty much every clique, but they soon turned into nothing more than glorified gangs. They practically ruled several towns on the South Shore…until they were finally banned in the early ‘80s for being too violent.”
“How do you know so much about them?” Tom asked.
“I was in one for a while.”
This last statement seemed to satisfy any further interest the riders had on the subject, each going back to their own private thoughts and reveries…but not me.
The conversation brought back more memories I had worked hard to forget. I couldn’t stop thinking about that dark period in my life. Maybe that was why my hand reached up to the hair covering my forehead and unconsciously brushed it away exposing a massive ugly scar.
Marie noticed immediately.
“Oh my God, Robert! What happened to your head!?”
Her horror got the attention of the fading trio in the back who leaned over to get a closer look.
“Holy shit, Kovac! That scar is nasty!” James exclaimed.
“It looks like the top of your head got torn off!” Alex practically shouted. “How the hell did you get that!?”
For a moment, I considered keeping my terrible secret a little longer, but as I looked around at the crawling traffic and the New York City skyline still barely visible in the distance, I decided to tell the truth I’d always wanted to tell—no, the truth I needed to tell. Besides, it was Y2K…this could be my last chance. The story had become a fast-fading memory that sometimes seemed more like a bad dream. But we should never forget our darkest, most life-changing secrets. Those awful memories keep us from letting them happen again.
“Well,” I began, “I grew up on Wright-Patterson Air Force base in Dayton, Ohio.”
“You were an Air Force brat?” Marie asks.
“It was a lot more normal than it sounds,” I say semi-defensively. “We had a pretty typical house, and my kid sister and I went to a normal school and hung out with friends—all that regular stuff—while my dad worked nine to five doing aircraft R&D.”
“R&D?” Alex asked.
“Research and Development,” I clarified.
“So, what kind of kid were you?” James probed
“At Wright-Patterson?” I answered. “Typical I guess, honor roll, good in sports, pretty popular.”
“Oh yeah, real typical,” Tom replied snarkily.
“You forgot handsome and class president,” Marie added with a laugh.
“I was never class president,” I said seriously. “But I was vice president.”
Now everybody laughed; I did, too.
“But that all changed with ‘The Move’,” I added, suddenly somber. “I had no idea I was heading into a nightmare that would completely change who I was...and almost kill me.”
That comment and the huge keloid scar on my head quickly sobered up my passengers. As I started the story they asked me to tell, I instinctively pulled my hair back over my scar.
CHAPTER TWO
In 1972, my father was offered a great job opportunity in the civilian sector at Grumman Aerospace in Bethpage, Long Island, so the family closed up shop in Dayton and headed east. No one ever asked me if I wanted to move; back then you didn’t consult your kids on something significant like that. Today? Today there would be a family meeting and a vote before any new employment would even be considered and any move made. I’m not sure if that’s better or worse. But this job was a step up for my family economically and away from the military for my dad, so it was a done deal; no questions asked.
And forget about the other life-changing aspects of the move: where and when? My father picked the date we would leave and the town and the house where we would be living. I don’t even think my mother had a say in it. My dad found a place he thought was suitable for the family, the movers were called, and on August 4th we moved into 33 Ardmore Road, Baldwin, Long Island. It was the summer of Watergate and the Vietnam Conflict with all the protests going on—important stuff—but I was going to be a high school senior. All I could think about was how I’d fit in at my new school.
I remember turning onto our block for the first time after a 10-hour, two-day drive from Dayton thinking, What kind of name is Ardmore? Then I saw a kid—no more than 12—with no hair; bald. A little farther down there was a young man with severe cerebral palsy being helped into a car, and I joked to myself, Oh, it’s Odd-more Road. I know that’s not a nice thing to say, but it was the ‘70s, and I was a stupid teenager. It’s not an excuse, but back then people thought and said insensitive things like that all the time. Anyway, it wouldn’t be too long before I would become an addition to the curiosities on my block.
Pulling up at our new house, I was suddenly overloaded with information. As my dad promised, it was a step up from where we lived at Wright-Patterson; but as I looked around, I was taken aback by how similar our new house looked to the one next door and across the street: two stories, attached one-car garage, small porch, picture window, decorative faux shutters on the windows, and two trees. This was the post-war suburban sprawl that I had heard about…and now I was living in it.
The massive moving truck was already there, and a squad of matching jumpsuit-wearing movers was already unloading our life. That’s right; movers used to wear matching uniforms with their names on them. My dad had barely stopped the car before my mother jumped out running and started barking orders at the annoyed movers. Just like a military wife. Shaking his head, my dad got out of the car and joined the fray, leaving my sister and me sitting in the back seat in shock. Suzy may have been only 11, but she was as devastated by what was happening as I was. We just sat there numb for almost five minutes watching the insanity and looking around at our new neighbors. Some stood in a group across the street openly pointing and assessing the kind of people we were by our furniture and the year, make, and model of our car. Ours was a recently purchased Buick Le Sabre complete with a yellowing window sticker showing all the options and the price my dad paid for the vehicle; a thankfully long-gone way of displaying social status. Other less obvious neighbors watched from the safety of their front porches. Some simply stared out of their picture window at “the new people.”
Eventually, Suzy and I got out of the car—mainly because with the car turned off and the windows rolled up, the interior had turned into an inferno in the August heat and humidity—and ventured cautiously toward the house. Being six years older than my sister, we never really had much in common; but at that moment, as we walked through that front door, we were never closer.
There were already some pieces of furniture, still covered with blankets, boxes, and packing materials, dropped haphazardly in the rooms the movers thought they were supposed to be in, but there was nothing that made either of us feel like we belonged. We climbed the stairs to what would be our bedrooms on the second floor. There were two identical dormer rooms on either side of the staircase with a little bathroom dead in the center; our feeling of disorientation grew.
“Which room is mine, Bobby?” Suzy asked, confused.
“There’s a difference?” I answered, knowing full well that there really wasn’t. “I don’t know, which do you want, the front or the back?”
“I guess I’ll take the front. I want to see what’s going on,” she said.
“That’s perfect because I don’t.”
I know it sounds like I was a spoiled teen, but being suddenly uprooted after spending your entire life in one place can really rock your world. I think I was understandably upset.
