The Ivory Whistle
The eternal stickiness of the floors was what James decided he hated the most. Something about the combination of “what the fuck is that shit that’s so sticky”, “I just cleaned that part of the floor two goddamn hours ago” and having to literally get on his hands and knees in front of the “fratstars” whose dues to the Phi Delta Theta fraternity made this interminable job possible.
James was a cook. He worked in the private kitchen, a luxury even by rich kid standards, of the Syracuse chapter of Phi Delta Theta, or as it was known around Greek row: Phi Delt. This was his third semester working at the basement kitchen, having originally got the job after Dolores, a 70 something house marm from a different century, slipped and broke her hip. “Probably on the same filthy sticky floor tile I’m standing on now,” James thought to himself.
Breakfast was, of course, the worst meal of the day to be a cook. Between having to make endless amounts of eggs, each order having to be to the exact standards of whomever was demanding them; The sleepiness that refused to disappear until nine or ten AM; the unwelcome temperature of central New York mornings, and his own disdain for his inability to figure out how to keep cooked eggs warm without being dry. Of course, this morning was beginning of a day that was to change James’ life forever.
From where he sat on the collegiate social totem pole: as close to the bottom as anyone could be. James categorized the guys who were into fraternities into three major food groups. First, there are the kids who don’t give a shit, the don’t care about their grades, jobs, money, power, anything; they just hung out because that’s where the good times were being had. These kids were generally easy-going and not really looking to give anyone a hard time, so long as there was decent weed to smoke and the chance that girls would be coming over to watch them and their friends play beer pong.
Then came the kids who needed fraternities to either tell them who they were, or where they stood in the world. These guys joined fraternities after being losers in high school, and after getting out of that rut, late-bloomer-ing; whatever you want to call it. They needed the social life that fraternities provided because they couldn’t muster up the individuality to create one for themselves, or not give to much of a shit like the guys in the first group.
Last, and certainly not least, came the heavies. These were the guys who had one of three things: Money, power, or simply put: big dick energy. They knew they were hot shit and had the effortless confidence of people who know that their life is going to be about judging others by how much everyone else gets out of their way. These were the real pernicious, occasionally truly vile, scumbags.
James could tolerate the first two fine, boys either not looking for a leader, or boys looking for one and not finding one are no real threat. But once the third group gets involved god only knows what’s going to happen and who might get hurt.
On this particular day, as James was making eggs for another rush he looked out through the 2′ by 4′ slit that showed whoever happened to be in the kitchen what was going on in the dining area, “any larger and they might have to afford me some common empathy,” James would joke to himself. It was a bit slower today than usual, and James wasn’t above thanking heaven for small favors.
As he was musing to himself James watched Mattie Stewart, a walking stereotype of a uselessly cruel, uncaring rich kid, walk in with one of the guys who relied on him for a personality: Tate Campos. Normally James would avoid these two as interactions between the two ranged from snide remarks and casual insults to “rough-housing” as they called it. Unfortunately for James, his duties included cleaning the dining area as the given meal was coming to a close.
James grabbed a broom and began sweeping the perimeter of the room, he told himself it was because of efficiency, but really it boiled down to not wanting to get too close to the pair sitting on the couches by the center of the room. As it was the end of breakfast for the day, the room had cleared out to the point where it was just Stewart and Campos talking, and James sweeping away.
James, cursed with terrible eyesight, did seem blessed with good ears, not that the way they stuck out made it seem like that. James normally wouldn’t care to hear a word of what those two were talking about, except for the especially conspiratorial way they seemed to look at one another. As James’ protestant work ethic forced him to move away from the same spot he had been sweeping for the last two minutes to avoid alerting the two to his presence, he moved all the way to the back wall and hoped they wouldn’t spare the energy to turn around and accost him.
Luckily for James on this day of all days, the desire all rich people share to not acknowledge the presence and work being done by members of the lower classes came in very handy. He was able to overhear some of what these two were talking about so secretly.
“I only exposed the whistle to you on half power so you would believe me and only be moderately affected.” James heard Mattie say. “Yes sir, thank you sir for showing me that incredible device.” That was Tate’s voice, but what the hell was that tone? James, having to interact with these people knew there was a social hierarchy even within the fraternity, but “yes sir”? Pledges don’t even say that, and Tate wasn’t a pledge!
Immediately James’ interest was piqued, like almost all people without means, he might talk a big game about disdain for the wealthy, but he was no stranger to envy. As James sidled over, careful to sweep just enough to look busy, but not so much as to attract undue attention from the noise, he caught more of the conversation. “Fuck my dad and his stupid rules, when lunchtime rolls around I’m gonna bring out the whistle and use it on every goddamn member of the frat.”
That was Mattie for sure, “but what whistle?”, James thought to himself. “Yes sir, that is an excellent plan sir. How can I help?” Now this is weird, Tate might be born to be a lackey but no self-respecting fratboy acts the way he is acting towards Mattie.
James was running through several scenarios in his head, but none seemed to make any sense at all until he heard Mattie say something that made his blood run cold, “once the guys are in the room all together I’m gonna blow that whistle and the minute I do I will have 70 willing and eager slaves for the rest of my life. I could start my own hedge fund with that kind of manpower!” Immediately James’ priorities shifted from overhearing a conversation that went from strange to terrifying in the span of 90 seconds, to getting the fuck out of the dining hall and maybe out of dodge entirely. James knew if he was caught overhearing this conversation these two guys would more than likely beat the piss out of him, if he was lucky. If he got unlucky, who knows, maybe he’d be talking like Tate in ten minutes.
As surreptitiously and discretely as possible he slipped in his offbrand Bluetooth earbuds, making it look like he couldn’t have heard what the two were discussing. He then almost literally backtracked out of his corner of the dining hall, making as much effort to sweep and look unconcerned as possible. As puny ass he was, he managed to bump his leg against one of the radiators a building of this age has all over the place. However, when Mattie and his new follower looked up all they saw was “jimmy the mouse” as they called him. They might have spent more time thinking about his presence had Mattie not fixated on the non-airpods earbuds in his ears, sneering at him as he walked away.
James made a beeline for the kitchen knowing almost exactly what to do. This wasn’t the first time Mattie and some of his friends stayed late into the mid-morning shooting the shit, and Mattie always like to make things difficult on James by asking for a second helping of eggs right as he was closing the kitchen down and getting ready for the lunch rush. James smoked some weed, and probably would have partaken more, had he ever been invited to a party in his life. This meant though, that he didn’t have the kinds of drugs he needed to incapacitate a 22 year old man. What he did have was Benadryl. Dolores the old lunch lady kept it in case of allergic reactions to her cooking.
James, hoping not to tip his hand, went around the kitchen, put on his best supplicant voice, and called out “last call for some eggs guys, any takers?” Mattie, always needing to exert authority lazily replied, “ill tell be letting you know when its last call, but as it happens im hungry now and ill take a couple—extra cheese on em”. James nodded and headed back into the kitchen, but not before overhearing Mattie say to Tate, “Pretty soon all the boys around here will be doing everything for me, just like that loser”.
Heading back into the kitchen, James got to work. He immediately opened and crushed up as many Benadryl packets as he could get his hands on, brute force was going win the day here he decided. He mixed up the heavy helping of Benadryl powder into the eggs and after throwing the mozzarella in, he was pleased with the taste. Serving up the eggs on a plate large enough to be a platter for the two of them still at the table, James knew this was the make or break moment for him. Would Mattie or Tate notice? Would the Benadryl even work in time?
This was out of his hands now, all he could do was act as normal as possible and if need be get the hell out of the frathouse before lunchtime in a few hours. James found cleaning to be relaxing on some level, so to calm his nerves, he cleaned. For half an hour he did dishes and mopped up the still-sticky-spot. But when he looked up he noticed something: James and Tate sound asleep on the couches at the back of the dining hall!
James had to move fast. He went to the couches where the two sleeping Machiavells were and made some noise and even shook them a bit to see how asleep they were. They were out cold. James fished the key to mattie’s dorm room out of Mattie’s front pocket and headed for the third floor.
Once he got in the room, it was immediately obvious what the “whistle” they were talking about was. On top of what seemed like an especially ornate puzzle, sat an ivory whistle, almost exactly like what you might find around the neck of your average gym teacher. James smart enough to know that this was clearly an object to be respected if nothing else. Carefully, James, took it, and delicately put it in his pocket. He got ready to leave and turned around, only to find Tate groggily staring at him. A slow look of recognition rolled over Tate and with a hoarse voice began to yell.
“Master! Master! Master!”
James, panicking, immediately pulled the whistle out of his pocket and blew. The sound was like nothing he had ever heard. It was alien but also comforting, terrifying while being cozy. Made his hair stand on end, not out of adrenaline but the way James felt when he heard Fleetwood Mac. The effect was immediate. Tate’s eyes went white, completely white, after about 10 seconds they returned to normal but not before Tate’s jaw dropped open and his stance changed to that of a broken puppet.
“I have been fully converted master”
James, astonished by what he had seen, was speechless. Summoning as much composure as he could, James said, “What do you mean ‘converted’? who is your ‘master’?”
“You are master. Matthew only blew the whistle at half strength to show the power and instill submission, but the way you blew the whistle was strong enough to provide the full effect.” Tate responded, in a tone that could only be described as “programmatic”
“what do you mean by full effect?” Was all James could muster.
“The way Matt described it to me master, the whistle was carved using special techniques that allow it to produce a sound that auditory nerves are unable to process, that in turn forces the brain of whoever hears it into a sort of low brain function, where they cannot achieve higher reasoning or personality or anything that makes humans human.”
“So what you’re saying is that you understand me, remember who I am, but am completely under my control?” James asked, stunned.
“Yes Master, my brain has been repurposed by that whistle, first by matt and now more fully by you.”
James decided he needed an incontrovertible test, not the half-measures he saw on hypnosis programs on television. In a moment of great foresight, James realized that there could be no half measures, either total commitment or total abandonment. James, having been born without religion or any other external motivator towards “morality” felt nothing about using this device as ruthlessly as the people he stole it from.
“Shit!” James swore, he didn’t steal it from Tate Campos, lackey extraordinaire, it was Mattie Stewarts, who may or may not still be passed out on the couches in the dining hall. James had to act fast. First he had to make sure beyond a shadow of a doubt that this whistle worked as the shell of Tate says it did. Mattie Stewart, being a wannabe soldier had more than a few knives in his dorm room. James handed Tate one of the biggest he could find
“Drive this into your foot as deep as it can go”
Tate didn’t hesitate. The knife went clean through and anchored the foot to the wooden floorboards. James, trying to understand the brutality he had just inflicted, realized he didn’t believe such an instrument of power could have fallen into his lap so easily. Not interested in crying over spilled blood, James closed the door and headed out to the dining hall to find Mattie.
James had never breathed a heavier sigh of relief than when he saw Mattie sleeping like a shitty baby right where he had left him. Grabbing an extension cord James bound up his feet and hands, and then dumped a glass of cold water over Mattie.
“WHAT THE FUCK!”
Mattie screamed as he tried to get his bearings. James needing silence held up another one of Mattie’s knives, along with the Ivory whistle. The minute Mattie saw the whistle, his skin turned whiter even than ivory.
“I take it you recognize this little guy”
James said, hoping to replicate the exact sneer with which Mattie addressed him at all times.
“Jesus fucking Christ where is Tate” Mattie said looking around for any allies who might be able to incapacitate his former cook. The laugh that came out of James was all Mattie needed to know what the score was.
“you have about one more minute of free will left, any last words, before you become my happy slave?”
“Fuck you! you worthless shitstain!”
James blew the whistle. All the confidence in the world didn’t save Mattie, who, after 2 seconds of hearing the note, became as eager to obey his new master as Tate. James untied him, noting Mattie’s complete disinterest in killing him. James ushered him back into his own room where Tate was calmly standing in a pool of his own blood. James sat Mattie down and had him explain everything.
The whistle was a family heirloom passed down from when Mattie’s family came over on the Mayflower and it was given to his family by Native American’s who they had treated with respect, rare and surprising given Mattie’s family now. The whistle can turn anyone, man or woman into a blank slate, and that blank slate can then be turned into eager loving happy slaves who know nothing but wanting to serve the only master who can command them. The person who blew the whistle. Mattie handed James the box that the whistle was stored in; inscribed on the insides were more detailed instructions that James resolved to study later.
Right now, James had to clean up loose ends. Mattie had only ever lived with his father, his mother passing when he was a boy, and he must have inherited the whistle when his father passed last year in a heli-skiing accident. “that must have been when the whistle was passed to Mattie.” Mused James.
James realized he was holding the solution to his problem. He ordered Tate to pull the knife out of his foot and handed Mattie the knife he used to threaten him before the whistle’s power was certain.
“you two are going to sit on the bed for thirty minutes and once thirty minutes has gone by, you will stab each other to death”
“Yes Sir!” They both said happily and in unison.
Thirty minutes would be enough time for James to be caught by the security cameras at several buildings around campus, giving him an ironclad alibi for any nosey law enforcement officers looking to build a case.
“Not that a brutal knife fight between two former friends is out of the realm of possibility, it certainly sounds more plausible than a magic whistle.” James thought to himself as he walked out of the Frathouse for the last time. Once James had turned two or three of the hottest girls on compus into his excited sexpets, he was gonna empty their bank accounts and flee the country.
Or so he thought; the universe, it seems, had much larger plans for James the “loser”.