Ian lived in a fraternity house on Milledge Avenue up the street from 3D. He was the expatriate of the foursome, a photographer among the natives. He had first met Travis when the two lived in the dorms together their freshman year. Nothing much had happened then in that first year, but in their sophomore year, the two figured out that they had a common thread: the criminal element. After a long discussion at a coffeehouse one night, they had decided that between the two of them, they could make fake drivers licenses at quite a profit—Travis doubly so because he could increase the number of people at his shows. A friendship was born. There was more at stake, of course. It wasn’t long before Travis as a musician came to know and appreciate the nuances of photography, and Ian came to know Travis’s music. Even as artists of different mediums, they both “got it.”

Rather than move in with Nick, John, and Travis, though, Ian had opted to live at his other brotherhood’s house: Tau Kappa Epsilon—the Tekes, as they were known. They had smart guys, big guys, little guys, fast guys; guys that weren’t geniuses but were good at heart, and guys that were brutish but clever. There were a few good ol’ boys thrown in—the kind that you can’t not like—to spice up the stew. The Tekes were anything but typical. They partied like all the other frats on the row, but they had a number of assets that set them apart. Ian was one of them—at least in the minds of John and Travis, who’d both been offered spots in the fraternity. Probably, they were asked to pledge for no other reason than they were at the house as much as some of the older brothers—hanging out with Ian, generally wasting time and graciously partaking of the fraternity’s alcohol supply. Both refused membership offers, pleading lacks of funds.

Walking in the back door of the house, John and Travis thread their way through an aftermath of some monstrous hive creature called a kegger. They shuffle past an empty ice machine and beer cans strewn across the floor, into the main television room, looking for occupants. Apparently no one was up yet. Despite the houses exterior, that of a southern antebellum plantation home, the late twentieth century had been the interior decorator, filling rooms with seventies deco furniture, televisions, a VCR and a pool table. Most of the house was as crumbling and peculiarly decorated as the vast majority of apartments in town. Travis and John make their way up the front steps, a staircase that at one time or another had probably been quite regal. Now the paint was peeling and the wide stairs made untwrusting squeaks. At the top of the stairs was a small foyer containing a couch and four entrances to bedrooms. They approach the back corner door and knocked hesitantly, Travis pushing the door open to peer inside.

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