Wasted Year: The Last Hippies of Ole Miss

by Douglas Gray

  “I’m not easily shocked.”

  “Harold is sleeping with Dr. Giordano’s wife,” she hisses. “Mrs. Giordano.”

  “I take it back,” I admit. “I am easily shocked.”

  Amy rises, uncertainly, to her feet and moves toward the open door.

  “Where are you going?”

  “More pie,” she whispers. “Pot pie.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Sunday, September 26

  Garrett wakes me at 7:30. We walk together in silence to the Square to see what the mysterious Christian has left overnight.

  “Judges 8:29,” I read. “Riddle me that one, preacher boy.”

  Garrett thinks for a few moments. “’And Jerubbaal the son of Joash went and dwelt in his own house.’“

  “That’s the whole verse?”

  “Yep.”

  “Nothing more?”

  “Well, Jerubbaal buys a couple of six packs of Bud and invites everybody over to help him move his shit. God shows up with a bunch of cardboard boxes he fished from a supermarket dumpster, and they share a pizza.”

  “What a swell guy.”

  Garrett seems puzzled. “It’s an odd verse to cite. I wonder if our friend got the books confused. Maybe he meant Exodus 8:29.”

  “How does that one go?”

  “‘And Moses said, Behold, I go out from thee, and I will entreat the Lord that the swarms of flies may depart from Pharaoh, from his servants, and from his people, tomorrow: but let not Pharaoh deal deceitfully any more in not letting the people go to sacrifice to the Lord.’”

  “So he supplies moving services and pest control. Your god’s kind of blue collar.”

  “He’s very good with his hands,” Garrett agrees. “After all, he made Joan.”

  “Ah, yes. That was a masterpiece. I hope he took the rest of the day off after her made her.” I pause for a second. “She showed up in my room last night.”

  “You’re shitting me.”

  “I am not.”

  “What did she want?”

  “I never found out. Amy was already there, so Joan left.”

  “Now I know you’re shitting me. Amy would never visit a young man’s room without a chaperone.”

  “She was stoned on your pie. I rescued her from making a spectacle of herself downstairs. That was good pie, by the way.”

  “My grandmother’s recipe. I wonder what Joan wanted.”

  “We may never know.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Monday, September 27

  A sweet young coed is weeping hysterically as I walk past the Chemistry building, on my way to Linguistics. She’s weaving, unsteady on her feet, supported by two friends who are holding her by the arms. Campus cops in mirrored sunglasses are scurrying around the Loop, talking to each other on army surplus walkie-talkies.

  I ask a frat boy if he knows what’s going on. He laughs.

  “Some old guy showed her his dick. She’s probably never seen one before.”

  “Poor thing. She’ll be traumatized for months. Old dicks are disgusting.”

  “Old people are disgusting,” he agrees, and adds with a shudder, “Have you ever seen an old naked woman?”

  “Can’t say that I have.”

  “You’ve lived a charmed life, then.”

  “That’s what I keep hearing.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Tuesday, September 28

  “You need to talk with Dr. Sutherland,” Goodleigh advises. “He’s been asking about you. I’ll watch the Museum.”

  “Not today. Please.”

  “He’s chairman. You can’t spend the next two years avoiding him.”

  Sutherland’s office in Bishop Hall is dark when I arrive, but he’s in, staring out the window onto the roofs of Fraternity Row as he sits slumped in his swivel chair.

  “Medway, good of you to drop by.” His voice is flat. “As your primary academic adviser, I’m urging you to abandon this nonsense of an advanced degree in Classics. Do something useful with your life instead. Move to Baja. Buy an avocado farm. Marry some pretty Mexican girl who will keep your beers chilled and bear you strong sons.”

  I take the chair he gestures to, facing him across the desk and into the glare of the window. “Are you unhappy with my work?”

  “You haven’t done any work yet. I’m here to save you from wasting your time by starting.”

  “I gave it a lot of thought up at Virginia. This is really the career I want to follow.”

  “Then I hope the Lord will be merciful unto you. Teaching’s a terrible job, and universities are rotten to the core, all of them. The academic life looks like fun from the outside, but I assure you, it’s awful once you get stuck in it. Worse than an unhappy marriage. Just ask my ex-wife.”

  “I was sorry to hear about you and Mrs. Sutherland.”

  “Well, thank you. She sends her regards, and wants to know if you’re still house painting.”

  “Only interiors.”

  “That should be your career,” he pounces. “Something practical. The world doesn’t need another scholarly monograph on Virgil, but it can always use a fresh coat of paint.”

  “I’ve been thinking about a dissertation on Herodotus.”

  Sutherland presses the palms of his hands to his forehead, as if trying to battle off a severe headache. “No. No. No. Not Greek. For the love of God, if you insist on this foolishness, concentrate in Latin, not Greek.”

  “I know what you’re about to say.”

  “I’ll say it anyway. Greek’s a drug that rots the brain. Every Greek scholar eventually goes insane. Just look at me.”

  I complete his thought for him. “But you’ve never met a mad Latinist.”

  “Or one that didn’t live to be at least 90 years old. Facts are facts. Studying Latin is the path to a long and happy life.”

  “What if that’s not what I want?”

  “Then you’re an idiot, Medway.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Wednesday, September 29

  “Did you give me drugs Saturday night?” Amy demands.

  We’re in the Student Union. I’m simply here to buy a Milky Way from a vending machine in the Grill, to have for lunch in the Museum. She’s carrying a Styrofoam cup of coffee from the counter, on the way back to a table where her entourage of young professional southerners has gathered, when she spots me.

  Her voice is loud enough for them to hear, even over the din of conversation in the crowded room. Six sets of accusing eyes rest on me.

  “You helped yourself to two slices of marijuana apple pie, from an old family recipe. I didn’t feed them to you.”

  “What was I doing in your bedroom then?”

  “Lower your voice, please. Nothing happened.”

  “I know nothing happened, Daniel. Christ, I’m not stupid.”

  “We were just having a friendly conversation.”

  “Somebody else was there, though.”

  “Joan dropped by. After she left, you told me a secret.”

  “What secret?”

  “Concerning an assignation.”

  Her memory apparently returns. Amy’s eyes go wide. The anger drains from her face, along with some of the color.

  “I was drunk.”

  “You were stoned.”

  “Crap. You can’t repeat what I said. And you can’t let Harold know. For my sake.”

  “Of course not. We’re friends, aren’t we?”

  ~ ~ ~

  Thursday, September 30

  Garrett, Andrew and Cindy descend the steps in matching Colonel Rebel sweatshirts. They look ridiculous.

  “Off to church?” I ask.

  “Pep rally in the Grove. Big game against ‘Bama on Saturday. You should come along.”

  “No thanks. I’ve been to more than enough pep rallies.”

  “Ah,” Garrett says, “but I bet you’ve never been to one on mescaline. It’s a completely different experience.”

  He’s right. We’re here, I’m high, and the crowd is a cyclone of electric
energy illuminating the night. Everything is alive, even the park benches and the sidewalk. We’re all brothers and sisters united in tribal ecstasy, cheering for our team of brave lads setting out on their epic battle against Alabama.

  The cheerleaders are angels, each and every one. I’ve already shouted myself hoarse on “Hotty Toddy” and “Go Rebs” by the time this crush of humanity parts and the players rush through us like young gods, assembling on the stage where the Coach awaits, a towering lantern of heroic leadership.

  I love my team. I love my Rebels. I may weep for love.

  But hark! He speaks!

  The Coach speaks to the crowd! He speaks and he speaks and he speaks some more, and I don’t understand a word he says, and I wonder for a moment over this until I’m struck blind by the realization that the Coach is speaking in tongues.

  A miracle. It’s a miracle. The Holy Spirit has descended upon this pep rally and has touched the tongue of our Coach.

  It’s the Epiphany at Ole Miss, and now I do weep . . . for joy as well as for love. And in thanksgiving. I vow to turn my life over to the Lord.

  I grab Garrett by the shoulders. “Tell me about your Jesus,” I plead.

  But he doesn’t seem to hear me over his own shouting. “Fuck Alabama! Fuck them! Butcher their cattle! Burn their fields! God, I hate them so much! Goddamn them all to hell!”

  He appears to be raving. The crowd has cleared a space around him, backing away from the mad man.

  “Kill them all! Kill them all! Exterminate the brutes! Wipe Alabama off the face of the Earth!”

  A campus cop ambles into the open space and takes Garrett by the arm.

  “You’re getting a little too carried away there, boy,” he says, in a kind of amiable warning.

  “Take your stinking paws off me, you damned dirty ape!”

  Andrew steps forward, looking professorial with a pipe in his mouth. “I’ll see him home, officer. He’s a patient of mine.”

  Garrett collapses to his knees and pounds the grass with his fist. “You maniacs! You blew it up! Ah, damn you! God damn you all to hell!”

  “That was a swell pep rally,” Cindy remarks as we arrive home. “Can we go to the malt shop next?”

  “Anything your pretty heart desires,” Andrew replies.

  ~ ~ ~

  Friday, October 1

  I’m in the Jitney Jungle watching a roach crawl between two bags of Gold Medal flour. I’m also pushing a cart that contains the following items: a box of brown sugar and cinnamon Pop Tarts, three cans of cream of chicken soup, a six-pack of Coke, a tube of Maclean’s toothpaste, a kitchen sponge, and a package of hot dogs.

  There seems to be a problem. I can’t remember why I’m buying these things. I also can’t remember how I got here.

  And a glance out the front window tells me there’s a major thunderstorm in progress.

  I hope I brought the car.

  ~ ~ ~

  Saturday, October 2

  Dottie Carroll, Garrett and I are sitting on the waterbed in the Ohm, sharing a joint, when Jeb – the older of the Carroll brothers – ascends the back staircase from the appliance store showroom. He glowers at us from the doorway.

  “Mother, I’ve told you I don’t want you smoking that.”

  “Don’t be such an ass-wipe, Jeb.” She takes another toke.

  “I’ve come for the September accounts,” he says to Garrett.

  The shadow of a smile crosses Jeb’s face as he reviews the ledger Garrett gives him. The shop is doing well.

  “We have to stop stocking the Zig-Zags,” Jeb says.

  “They’re one of our biggest items.”

  “They might be considered paraphernalia. City attorney’s looking into it.”

  “Nonsense. Half the men of Lafayette County roll their own. You can buy papers at every gas station, same as condoms.”

  Jeb grimaces at the word and casts an anxious glance toward Dottie.

  “Yes, son, I know what a condom is,” Dottie assures him.

  “Who’s minding the Nickelodeon?”

  “I left Ho in charge.”

  “Mother, that woman is insane, and she can’t even speak English.”

  “She knows her way around a cash register.”

  Jeb gives an exasperated sigh. “Fine. Maybe while Ho is running the shop, I can get her to order some Conway Twitty albums.”

  She passes the joint to me and glares at Jeb. “Don’t you dare defile my store with your country music!”

  “That’s what people around here like! Country’s what people listen to, and buy!”

  “Then they can buy it at the five-and-dime. I have standards.”

  Jeb leaves.

  “I can’t believe I actually breast-fed that little piss ant,” Dottie confides. “He was always a thorn in my side.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Sunday, October 3

  “What the hell is this?” James demands.

  Garrett, Cindy and I are around the kitchen table eating Cap’n Crunch when he storms in, the latest handbill from the anonymous Christian in hand.

  “Deuteronomy 23:1,” Garrett reads. “He that is wounded in the stones, or hath his privy member cut off, shall not enter into the congregation of the Lord.”

  “My god won’t let you into church if you’re not wearing shoes or a shirt,” I point out.

  “These things are hanging all over the Square. Who’s behind this?”

  “No one knows. It’s been going on every Sunday morning, for weeks.”

  “Weeks? Why wasn’t I informed?” James is in a lather.

  “I wasn’t aware you needed to be informed, man. Some crazed evangelist is posting Bible verses on shop windows. No big deal.”

  “And that’s what you really think this is – some nut posting random quotes around the Square.”

  Garrett chews a solemn mouthful of Cap’n Crunch, considering the question. “Yep,” he finally replies. “That’s what I think we’re dealing with. But never mind me. What do you think is going on?”

  “I think it’s code. Somebody’s sending a message.”

  “Well, of course. That makes perfect sense.” Garrett returns to his Cap’n Crunch.

  “What did the other signs say?” James asks of me.

  “Oh, something about scaling a wall and insect plagues and some guy moving into a new house.”

  “Psalms 18:29,” Garrett says. “Judges 8:29. Hebrews 8:12.”

  James writes the books and numbers on the back of the page. “And now Deuteronomy 23:1. There’s got to be a pattern here. I’ll find it.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Monday, October 4

  I’m sitting zazen at Faulkner’s grave in the Oxford cemetery. Half an hour before sunset, and a hint of autumn in the air, the first time I’ve noticed it this year.

  The air is still, no breeze at all, but the leaves of a tall tree across the lawn are somehow managing to shudder, and the way the sunlight glints off them as they move makes the tree look like it’s clapping its hands, applauding for itself.

  Applause. Applause. Silent applause.

  Once again, I’m not alone here. Someone else – or something – is invisibly taking shape in the air, three or four feet to my right.

  “Citizen?” I ask silently, with my mind.

  No response. Then with a start that shakes me out of hara, I realize that I am truly not alone. Someone is watching me from the hill beside the grave. I let out a breath and turn to see who’s there.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  It’s a man, mid-30s, short sandy-colored hair, dressed in khakis. He descends the hill, to join me.

  “I’ve seen you around town,” he says, “meditating. It always looks very calming, very peaceful.”

  “Without it, I’d have to drink a lot more than I already do.”

  “Maybe you could teach me how to do it sometime.”

  “It’s not something you need to learn. You just do it.”

  He smiles and exte
nds a hand toward me. “Perry.”

  “Daniel.”

  “I know. Seen you around town. Listen, I have a message for you. Call it friendly advice. Get rid of anything you might be holding out there on Tyler Avenue. A big bust is on the way.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Tuesday, October 5

  When Dr. Hirsch stops by for the rent, he arrives with a surprise: dinner, packed in a dozen steaming cardboard containers that he sets out with open lids on the kitchen table.

  James’ girlfriend Rose lifts each container to her nose for a sniff. “Ling Mung Gai,” she says. “Ma Yi Shang Shu. Cheng Du Chicken. Kung Pao Chi Ting.”

  “You know your way around a Chinese menu,” Hirsch marvels.

  “I spent two years in Soho, trying to break into modeling. Chinese was what I could afford. I didn’t know you could get these dishes down here, though.”

  “You can’t yet, but you will by next year. At my new restaurant.”

  “So this is your big investment?” I ask. “A Chinese restaurant?”

  “Like nothing this town has ever seen. And not just an ordinary restaurant. A gourmet restaurant. Patrons will come all the way from Memphis to dine. Top quality, totally authentic oriental cuisine. I’ve hired a chef directly from China. Her name is Ho. You may have seen her around town.”

  “Tiger and Jimmy Woo’s sister?” Garrett asks.

  “Yes, they’re my partners. They were the ones who devised this plan.”

  “Do you know anything about Ho? Talk around town is that she’s unbalanced, and she lives in the Lyric theater projectionist booth.”

  “She has to live somewhere. The boys can’t keep her in their dorm room.”

  “And that Tiger and Jimmy kidnapped her. She’s got a husband and family back in China.”

  “Well, that can’t be true. They’re very nice boys.”

  “A Chinese restaurant in Oxford,” Garrett wonders after Hirsch has left.

  “A gourmet restaurant,” James amends.

  “Shit. Hirsch is going to lose his shirt. Then he’ll have to sell this place to the Baptists”

  ~ ~ ~

  Wednesday, October 6

  An insurance agent is sitting on Nick and Suzie’s couch, filling in a form perched atop a clipboard on his knees, when we arrive for dinner. Suzie’s in the kitchen, baking her famous vegan lasagna, heavenly aromas wafting from the back of the apartment. Nick sits on a beanbag chair facing the visitor, answering questions.

  “Do you smoke?” the agent – an old white-haired guy in a seersucker suit – asks.

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “He means cigarettes,” Andrew points out.

  “Oh. No, I never touch tobacco.”