“You Sir, Are a Chotch.”

by G.T.

It was after midnight and I was working. Stacking and restacking bricks, walking up and down ladders, stacking and restacking boxes. Very important corporate business, you see. The three people who received text poems today are fraternity brothers of mine, so I figured that all three would be awake after midnight, and decided to write a few poems in between brick stacking.

My fraternity is an interesting sort of house, and much different from the fraternities described to me by friends and guys who have joined other fraternities wherever else in the country. During my semester living there, one room belonged to a brother who was a devout Christian, and held bible studies every Friday night at our house. And three doors down from him, a gay athiest. So many different languages and ethnicities, opinions and egos. Really, I viewed Delta Tau Delta as more of a house of fifty-some guys, all from opposing worlds, living, eating, and drinking together, rather than simply, a social fraternity. Everything was represented in that house. Despite our differences, everybody shook hands in the end.

“Bobby” (815) – When I arrived at the fraternity, “Bobby” was a second year architecture student. I wasn’t as close to him as I was with other brothers in the house, but there are interesting memories that involve “Bobby”.
Once, the former chef of the fraternity, Laura was her name, placed a plastic horse’s head on “Bobby’s” bed, and squirted ketchup all over his sheets, and it turned out to be a wonderful prank. I have a photo of it, but unfortunately do not have any means to upload onto my computer. But it was funny, I assure you. At 12:39am.

“Years of bricks
drafted on paper.
Plastic horse’s head
and ketchup blood.
Exhibition visions.
Oh the good years
before the bricks
are laid and the
blood is real.”

“Bobby” didn’t respond. When I woke up at five o’clock this afternoon, and saw that there was no response by all three fraternity brothers, I decided to send a second poem to “Bobby”. I had just woken up and this is what entered my mind. At 4:50pm.

“Pool tables and
neon swirls
clove smoke
with the pungent
odor of pabst
in beer cans
that double
for ashtrays
a lick of rum
for me and you.”

5:16pm, “Bobby”: “You sir, are a chotch”

What the hell is a chotch? First I thought it was some hybrid of a chode and a crotch, but what is that supposed to mean? I’m not familiar with slang. So I decided to look up the meaning of chotch on Urban Dictionary. Of the five thousand definitions on that clusterfuck of a website, the general consensus is:

Chotch (n.) – Wannabe, poser, douchebag; someone who tries too hard, usually when attempting to receive sexual intercourse. Origin: Chachi, from ‘Happy Days’.

Writing poetry to people doesn’t strike me as being much of a pantydropper. Now if it was, I wouldn’t be complaining, however, I found his use of the word ‘chotch’ to be funny. I wonder if there’s a word on Urban Dictionary that defines “Bobby”. Remember that time a guy sucked your dick? I think I have a poem for that. At 6:34pm.

“Card tables turned
sideways, dried
lager in sticky red
cups. Images of
our night. Slurps
heard under the
door spoke of yours.
You sir, are

“Bobby” never responded.

Brad S. (773) – Brad is one of my many pledge brothers, that is, he joined the fraternity when I joined. I recall a day during our first week at school, Bid Night, which is when prospective pledges are asked if they want to become part of the fraternity. And since Rush Week is supposed to be dry, Bid Night is the first night of alcohol consumption and drunkeness.
On the afternoon before Bid Night, I spoke to Brad, and asked him whether he was going to accept his bid or not. He was unsure, and I encouraged him to accept. I’m not saying that I am the reason for Brad joining the fraternity, but it happens to be one of my first memories of him.
Living at the fraternity, I wanted to be a leading force at that house. Last year, Brad became the president of the house. I’m glad that somebody grew with the house in the way that I had once wanted. At 1:06am.

“Bright eyed virgins
is what we were.
Anticipated with
lack of knowing
or expecting.
Where I had
fallen you had
climbed, and I am
proud that you did.”

Brad never responded.

Brandon P. (630) – This is a fraternity brother who joined a year after I left. He has a job at a Staples, and whenever I visit the house and see Brandon, he’s always moping about the banality of his job, or is nervous about a mistake he made, and if his managers will find out. And I was working at my mundane, retail job at the hour I sent this poem. At 1:09am.

“Cheap ceilings is
their secret. We do
their bidding and give
the gold to the powers
that be. One day, these
ceilings will fall, and we
won’t be under them.”

Brandon never responded. When I woke up around five o’clock this afternoon, and noticed that nobody responded, I also sent Brandon another poem. This one actually involves Bernard, a phone number from yesterday. At a party in 2008, Bernard left with this girl, a girl that Brandon liked. He never made a move on her that night, but sat around and sulked about her leaving with Bernard. At 4:57pm.

“This pack of wolves
sees a different
alpha male every
weekend. Leaving
with their prey, a
pup like you will
have to learn or
become one with
wall décor.”

And Brandon never responded to this, either.

I told the few friends that I keep in touch with about this project. My friend, Roger, mentioned to me tonight that sending more than one poem to some people may be seen as me putting more time and effort into certain people. I understand where he is coming from, and I initially intended to send only one poem to every person. However, like Roger had also pointed out, this project is evolving everyday. Basically, I write a poem, and that person responds or doesn’t respond. One of my goals is to receive a response, and I guess that one of my strategies is to write another poem. I don’t consider two poems, or in today’s case, three poems, a display of putting more effort into somebody. I’m writing on the fly. While working, while writing something else, while going about my life. I’m just writing poems to people. And in the future, some of these people may receive more poems. Especially those who like them.
Writing “Bobby” that third poem was sobering tonight, because I realized that the content of the poem could’ve been interpreted as an attack. I don’t want to do that, but I’m not denying what I did, so I posted it. I don’t want to use these poems as a weapon. These poems may not be pleasant to some people, but I’m not trying to attack anyone.
Yes, this project is evolving, and it’s unearthing new perspectives and new ways to interact with this Contacts List in my cell phone. And it’s one hell of a creative exercise, too.