‘I’m doing fine,’ Clearly Drunk, Non-Winning Mr. Whitman Candidate Reports into a Banana Peel

Matt Raymond

Illustration by Asa Mease
Illustration by Asa Mease

Every November, Whitman College puts on one of its most widely-attended campus events––a not-so-real beauty pageant, known fondly as Mr. Whitman, in which eight senior men celebrate the completion of a three month-long fundraising drive for a charity chosen by a Whitman student. The eight contestants are judged on a combination of their fundraising successes and their performances in the formal, swimsuit and talent portions of the show. As with all beauty pageants, there must be a winner––and of course, as with all beauty pageants, there must be the grim, devastating consequences of losing––the pain associated with realizing that nobody ever remembers the runner-up.

Raymond Fatthew is a just-barely-living testament to the agony of defeat. The unshaven, filthy senior was discovered in the outdoor hallway of Olin East, known around Whitman as the outdoor hallway of Olin East, wearing a torn sweater and bright orange yoga pants. Passers-by seemed to think Fatthew was taking philosophy classes, oblivious to the several hairs that had sprouted on his chin and the spinach leaves scattered around him. A clearly scared first-year student, Jacquie Hardcastle, revealed through sobs that she recognized the despondent, stinky vagabond with the soiled orange pants.

“He…” she stammered moistly, “had a … jar of peanut b-butter with him … he looked right up at me with those dead, little eyes and … he, he asked, ‘is there any more room for me … in those sandwich?’  Like he didn’t know … Mr. Whitman was two m-months ago.  Then … he said he ‘caught the ball’ for some reason.”

Hardcastle acknowledged that she too had forgotten that Mr. Whitman was over three months ago.

The Pioneer caught up with Fatthew shortly thereafter, as he was trying to take nude pictures of a D-Slip. Clearly intoxicated, Fatthew teetered into the stairwell and began to stage an imaginary interview with himself. “Just gotta get this calendar done by last September!” Fatthew said, concerning his ideas for fundraising initiatives. “Larson! Get me a zucchini,” he yelled down the corridor, interrupting the imaginary journalist trying to ask him about his “Justin Timberlake quesadilla auction” idea.

A real-life journalist from The Pioneer finally stepped in and asked Fatthew if he needed anything. Pulling a banana peel from his pants and speaking into it, ostensibly thinking it was a microphone, he replied “I’m good, man. It’s good not being on duty tonight, man. Get to focus on the community a little. Barbecuing today.” When asked what he had barbecued last October, Fatthew responded with a very slurred “my talent’s gonna be soooo good!” and tried beatboxing into the banana peel.

A friend of Fatthew’s, Matthew Lelands, told The Pio that he had “seen Raymond around the TKE house a couple times” and had “always expected he was just living in the closet next to the TV room.” In actuality, Fatthew’s fate is even worse––though nobody remembers who he is, he will be followed always by the fact that he lost Mr. Whitman. (The other six non-winning contestants in the November pageant could not be contacted, except for Harry Raggyvan, who was last seen wearing a barbecue-sauce-stained white shirt, trying to teach Styx how to dance like Beyoncé.)