The Rebel

In the fall of 2003, my freshman year, Sunderland first floor, which was all boys, was called “LOOSE HOUSE”; because the girls were sluts and well—the boys liked that.

The campus rang with the wild call of the duck. The duck would sound loudest sometime around two or three in the morning, when it could be guaranteed that most of the campus was sleeping. If you stood at Schafer, you could amazingly, still hear the sounds of the duck, which came from the third story fire escape of Sunderland.

It was there, bridge-side that you could find Johnny Rebel, a legend of a man, blowing lovingly into his duck whistles.

Once someone stole Johnny’s duck whistles from his unlocked room. That sent him on a crazed, headlong investigation. Like any real man would do, Johnny posted dozens of Public Service Announcements all over Sunderland and the surrounding area. The announcements stated that he, Johnny Rebel, would buy a giant case of Pabst for anyone that returned his beloved duck calls.

The next night, at midnight, the wild call of the duck could be heard all across campus.

The only thing Johnny loved more than his duck calls was Pabst. Pabst was not only his beer of choice, but also his pet squirrel. Someone had found Pabst, nearly dead on the lawn of Sunderland and it was Johnny who had stepped forward to care for it. Johnny kept Pabst wrapped in a piece of cloth, warm in his inner coat pocket, to keep the cold out. Once, in the trash, a Recycling Crew member found one of Johnny Rebel’s written warnings from public safety. It seems that Johnny had been found in possession of 250 cans of beer and one squirrel.

It’s almost unnecessary to say that Johnny stole the show at the very first Bubba. Of course, all I can remember of the night was helping my friend carry an inebriated Johnny Rebel, supported by our shoulders, home to Sunderland from Dogwood. We didn’t think the night would ever end.

Johnny Rebel: he got blamed for many things that year, because he was an alcoholic, Republican redneck. Not the most popular combination on this campus. I like to think that he went out with a bang though… or rather a WHOOSH. One night, in a drunken stupor, Johnny used all of his pissed off might and kicked the water fountain on the first story floor of Sunderland. God—I wish I could have seen the expression on his face when the whole damn thing came off the wall and erupted like an opened fire hydrant. According to sources, the water surged out of the wall and into the lobby; it tumbled down the stairs, soaked the carpet and collapsed most of the basement ceiling.

Needless to say, Johnny didn’t get invited back the following year.

It’s now been three years since Johnny’s set foot on campus; and I often wonder what has happened to him. Sometimes, when the stars shine bright on the fields of Dogwood and the leaves rustle gently in the woods, I hear the cry of a lonesome duck and then I know… he’s probably doing just fine.