The Psi Upsilon Lie

This is a two-part story. And it initially involves my car. But something happened regarding that car, something that threw me back to a horrible memory from my college years.

And if I don’t write it all down now … it’ll still eat at me like bacteria on flesh.

Last Sunday, I was out for a drive – enjoying the sunshine, taking photographs, all of that. I drove out to the Copeland Covered Bridge in Edinburg, adjacent to the Great Sacandaga Lake. A few dual photos with the Nikon Df double-shot, and I can add these images to a three-dimensional series. Great.

On the way home … I noticed an orange light on my dashboard.

That orange light was shaped like a car’s engine.

Fuck. That’s the Check Engine Light.

And immediately my mind started racing towards worst case scenario. Breakdown on the side of the road. $$$$$ repair bills. And who knows WHAT kind of damage I’m dealing with here?

The light remained steady – it wasn’t blinking. So at least I could get the car home, which I did.

Monday morning, I made a phone call to my local Chevrolet repair shop of choice. I spoke with the call center representative. I explained that I saw the CEL lit up on my dashboard, and that scared me.

“Don’t worry, sir, you’re in good hands. If the light is solid, you should still be able to drive the car without trouble. If the light starts blinking or flashing, you need to stop driving it.”

We then set up an appointment for the car to be evaluated. As we concluded the call, I was still putting the date into my phone’s calendar option – when I heard something odd.

“Oh my god, you should hear the fucking LOSER I just talked to. What a fucking crybaby. Here’s how he sounds, ‘Hi, my name is Chuck, and the check engine light came on, and I’m sca-a-a-a-ared.’ What a fucking crybaby.”

She thought the call was over. So she was telling her co-workers at the call center about me. And running me down like every bully I’ve ever experienced. I let her drone on for a few more seconds, and then said, “Hey, I’m still on the line and I can hear what you said!!”

<CLICK>

In a heartbeat, I went from “Okay, they’re going to take care of my car, everything will be fine,” to “What the fuck just happened?”

I immediately called back and left a voicemail with a service manager. That dealership has all their calls recorded “for training and customer service,” as the intro recording states. Somebody better hear that call.

An hour later, I received a call back from the manager. He apologized profusely. Up and down. Back and forth. He even asked me to bring the car into the dealership tomorrow and they’ll run a diagnostic through the car’s I/O port just to confirm if it’s safe to drive or not.

Eventually it was determined that the car has a failed oxygen sensor, and it will be replaced when I bring the car in for my repair appointment.

But still … even as I’m writing this blog post, I’m still furious over what happened.

And it also brought back a very painful and troubling memory from my college years.

In the 1980’s, college life included off-campus fraternities, and Hamilton College was no exception. There were nearly a dozen fraternities associated with Hamilton College in the 1980’s – fraternities that originally existed as study and educational societies, but who later evolved into their own gated and exclusive communities. You couldn’t join Alpha Delta Phi unless you were descended from a major donor or sponsor. You couldn’t join Chi Psi unless you were a pre-med or a pre-law. Delta Phi’s were preppies, Sigma Phi were Deadheads, Delta Upsilon were lacrosse players, and Delta Kappa Epsilon at the time were in and out of double secret probation.

Where did I fit in? A financially deprived full-scholarship socially awkward knucklehead 100 miles away from a toxic home life? I don’t know. All I knew was that if I didn’t find some sort of housing plan for my upcoming sophomore year, I might draw a poor number in the housing lottery and get stuck living in the Bristol Barracks. The Bristol Barracks were a series of rooms at the Bristol Campus Center that were used for visiting sports teams – and, on rare occasions, for students when there wasn’t enough on-campus housing.

So freshmen did whatever they could at the time to get suitable housing. If they couldn’t convince a rising junior or a rising senior to bring them into a multi-room suite, then the options were fraternity life or take your chance with the housing lottery.

So I tried my luck with fraternity life. And of all the frats that I could have joined, I looked at Psi Upsilon. Psi Upsilon’s reputation was that they were the football frat. I didn’t play football, but I figured I’d at least pledge and maybe they’d find room for me.

I talked to a couple of Psi U members and asked them about what it would take to join Psi U. And they told me, sure, why don’t you come to one of our parties, and we’ll talk.

And I did. I attended one of their parties. People seemed nice enough, and if nothing else, at least I wouldn’t have to suffer life in the Bristol Barracks.

A few days after one of the parties, I was eating in one of the dining halls. At that moment, I was more concerned about finishing off my lunch and getting to Silliamn Hall in time for Professor Janet Halley’s literature class. So while I was focused on my food, I heard something behind me. Two freshmen talking about Psi Upsilon.

“So are they letting you in?”

“Yeah. I wasn’t sure, because I heard a rumor they were going to let that crazy kid Chuck Miller in as well.”

“Oh, they’re not going to do that. No fraternity wants to deal with him. He doesn’t belong here. He’s not good enough for Psi U. Heck, he’s not good enough for Hamilton. Nobody would join the frat if HE was a member.”

“I heard he went to one of the house parties and acted like he thought they would accept him into the frat.”

“Yeah, right. Nobody wants him on campus. God, I wish he’d just transfer out and go to a community college or something where people like him belong. Forget college. He should go find a gas station and pump gas. That’s all he’s good for.”

I don’t think they even noticed I was two tables away. But I heard them as clear as crystal. And it took all my will power to keep from getting up from the table, grabbing a chair and swinging it like a tennis racket.

I just listened. And every word they said about me was coated with a serrated blade of agony. It was as if they were saying these things to my face WITHOUT knowing they were saying them to my face. Brutal honesty with an emphasis on brutal.

I never went back to Psi U. Not for a house party, not even to visit friends who pledged there. As far as I was concerned, they let me know – in no uncertain terms – that I was about as welcome as a bill collector on payday.

Now I did eventually join a fraternity on campus – the Emerson Literary Society – which at that time was populated by the theater majors and communications students. And although I was able to claim housing for sophomore year at ELS, I know it wasn’t because they really wanted me. ELS had two years of poor recruiting, and most of the members in the house were graduating seniors. They needed warm bodies in the house, and were willing to take anybody. Even me. So although I could say that ELS threw out a lifeline when Psi U tossed me an anchor, in the back of my mind I still believed that they only took me because ELS would lose their house to the college if they didn’t have enough pledged students living there. In other words, I was the equivalent of a mannequin with an ELS T-shirt.

And in fact, by junior year, ELS had a bumper crop of recruits and pledges – so many, in fact, that the house told me I should move back to campus housing so there would be enough rooms for the new pledges. Another way of saying, “You served your purpose, Miller, thanks, now get out.”

But that’s another story for another time.

Oh,and Psi U? I have to tell THIS story, because it’s a fitting coda.

In 1983 – what would have been the spring of my sophomore year on campus – Psi U was put on college probation. Seems some Psi U students thought it would be a FANTASTIC idea to grow marijuana in the building’s basement, and use sun lamps to make a hydroponic hemp farm. So I guess I dodged a bullet there.

But the big takeaway – from Psi U to the car dealership – is this. I have an incredible difficulty with trust. I’ve had people tell me one thing and do another. And when these things happen, it kills me inside. It makes me less willing to trust anybody. It makes me not want to socialize. It makes me rely more on inanimate entities that do exactly what you want and nothing more and nothing less. Cars. Cameras. Crafts.

I’m sure there’s a psychological or clinical diagnosis for this concept. There has to be. Because I hate to think that my only reason for living on this earth is to be the butt of jokes and the target of ridicule.

In 1982, Psi Upsilon confirmed that hypothesis.

And in 2023, a call center worker from a car dealership reinforced it.

Ugh.