Wasted Year: The Last Hippies of Ole Miss

by Douglas Gray

  The agent glances up from his form, fuzzy white eyebrows arched, before writing a checkmark in the appropriate box, with a sigh.

  “Alcohol consumption?”

  “Nothing stronger than ginseng tea.”

  “Nick’s a saint,” Cindy vouches. “He lives a very clean life. Not like the rest of us.”

  He arches his eyebrows again to glance at her, then takes a little plastic cup with a lid from his briefcase and hands it to Nick.

  “I need a urine sample.”

  Nick answers with a confused expression.

  “Pee in it,” Andrew says.

  Nick now looks even more perplexed, but rises to his feet and begins to unbutton his fly.

  “Not here,” the agent says, exasperated. “Take it in the bathroom.” He turns to us as Nick leaves the room. “Any of you kids thought about life insurance?”

  “My father tried to get a policy on me when my draft notice came in,” I reply, “but the company turned me down. I was going to be too much of a liability serving my country over in Vietnam. I think it was Mutual of Omaha.”

  “You were drafted?” Andrew asks. “Then why aren’t you in the army now?”

  “Because I’d died in the meantime. I showed up for induction when I was supposed to, but the draft center’s records showed that I was deceased. So they didn’t want me anymore, and I left. I wasn’t inclined to argue the point with them.”

  Suzie enters the room, spatula in hand, and glares at the old man on her couch.

  “What’s Nick up to, buying life insurance?” Cindy asks.

  Suzie rolls her eyes. “He’s going to be a father. He’s a family man now, with a wife and a child to support. Did I get your sales pitch right?” she asks the agent.

  “Your husband loves you very much. You’re a lucky woman.”

  “Yes, I am. Because, you see, without insurance, if something happened to Nick, the baby and I wouldn’t be able to continue living this palatial life-style.” She gestures at the four walls of the cramped room. “So on the day of Nick’s funeral, this gentleman will meet us at the graveside with a check for $15,000.”

  Nick returns with the tiny cup now filled and sets it gingerly on the floor, beside his left foot. A few more questions are asked, followed by answers. The agent passes the clipboard to him, tapping the point of his pen on various points of the form.

  “I’ll need your initials here and here, and your signature at the bottom.”

  As Nick rises to take the clipboard, his large foot bumps the little cup on its side.

  “Uh-oh,” Andrew says. “Nick just did a number one on the floor!”

  “I’ll clean it up,” Suzie says, ducking into the bathroom for a roll of toilet paper.

  “I’m sorry,” Nick apologizes.

  “Do you think you can give me another?” the agent asks.

  “I really don’t think so, not right now. Not till after dinner. Say, would you like to join us? We’re having lasagna. Suzie, could we . . . ?”

  “I’ll set another place,” she sighs, running a hand through his hair. “We’ve got plenty.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Thursday, October 7

  Over the noise of water in the shower, I hear a knock at the door and Cindy’s voice asking to come in. Probably needs to brush her teeth. I yell that it’s okay.

  The bathroom door opens and closes, followed by the shower curtain parting and Cindy stepping into the tub beside me.

  “Big rush. I have an 8:30 interview. Can’t be late.”

  “Interview for what?” I manage to ask, as I step aside to let her into the spray.

  She raises her freckled profile into the water, along with both hands and douses her tangle of hair under the shower head. Her entire body undulates. Blood rushes from my brain. I might faint.

  “Waitress at Grundy’s. What else can I do with a degree in Sociology, right?”

  I’m willing myself not to get hard, but not successfully. If she notices, she doesn’t seem to care.

  “My god, you are skinny. Haven’t you gained any weight since you got back? Girls don’t like to sleep with skeletons, you know. Tell you what – if I get this job, I can bring restaurant food back for all of us sometimes. Meat plus three, Grundy’s specialty.”

  She graces me with a half grin, then reaches for the shampoo.

  I exit soundlessly, wrap a towel around my waist and step into the hall, hoping that nobody else, especially Andrew, is around to witness my condition.

  ~ ~ ~

  Friday, October 8

  It’s noon. I’m crossing the quad with Dr. Goodleigh, on our way to the cafeteria. She’s wearing her hair loose today, the black and gray streaks all the way to her waist. Suede vest over a peasant blouse. High black boots, ankle-length maroon skirt, granny glasses, and her infamous IUD earrings.

  I’m once more struck by love, as fresh as that first day I saw her, my freshman year, descending the steps of the Library on Good Friday afternoon.

  I don’t care about the 23 years that separate us. If I thought Dr. Goodleigh would have me, I’d go down on one knee before her at this very moment, and declare my love, amid the gawking of undergraduates rushing from building to building during class changes.

  Instead, we walk on, my heart aching, through the cafeteria line (stuffed peppers and fried chicken today’s entrees), to be beckoned, as expected, to Dr. Giordano’s round table in the corner.

  “What’s your button say?” he asks Dr. Goodleigh.

  She pulls a corner of her vest aside so he can read it, yellow letters on an indigo background: “Uppity Women Unite!”

  Giordano sneers. “Ah, femminista. A crime against western civilization.”

  “What would il Duce say?” she wonders.

  He ponders, decides to ignore the bait. “Unnatural,” he says. “Unnatural for a woman to be without a man.”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that. No more unnatural than some of the pairings I’ve seen around here.”

  Now he does take offense. “For an older man to take a girl for his bride is not unnatural.”

  “Lighten up, Aldo. I wasn’t referring to you.”

  “I know people talk. Small-minded people. A simple, innocent girl from Livorno, 17 years old, but with her family’s blessing. They knew I could give her a better life.”

  “Well that’s just bull,” Dr. Goodleigh comments, once we’ve returned to the Museum. “He takes a girl from Tuscany, one of the most beautiful places on earth, and moves her to north Mississippi? How’s that an improvement in her life? What can she possibly have here that she couldn’t have had at home?”

  “Chitlins,” I suggest.

  Dr. Goodleigh nods. “Fire ants,” she adds.

  “Poison sumac. Kudzu.”

  “Grits.”

  “Conway Twitty.”

  “Every girl’s dream.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Saturday, October 9

  At last, someone with information on Melissa.

  “She visited from time to time until Bill finally went into the hospital,” Mrs. Sutherland tells me.

  Mrs. Sutherland and I are at her kitchen table sorting through swatches to choose colors for her remodeled dining room. She’s hired me to paint once the dry walling is finished.

  “Her father suffered from clinical depression,” I say. “Melissa’s always had a big heart when it comes to that kind of problem.”

  “She was one of the few people who could actually cheer him up. She had such a way with Bill. I kept telling her that she ought to consider a career as a counselor. She used to sit right where you are today,” Mrs. Sutherland adds. “We’d chat for hours.”

  I am shameless enough to ask the obvious question: “Did she ever mention me?”

  “Now and again. She felt sorry about leaving you for that actor boy and running off to New York. What was his name?”

  “Paul.”

  “Paul, yes. So handsome. Well, I guess you heard how that romance ended badly, why she c
ame back to Oxford. But then – poof – she vanished again. I miss her. There was more to her than I’d ever imagined. She’d always struck me as a flighty little thing whose clothes were never quite able to stay on.”

  “One of Melissa’s more endearing qualities,” I sigh, recalling her. “Garrett used to call her the Deciduous Girl.”

  “Some of the faculty wives called her a little tramp. Not me, of course. ‘Goodness,’ I’d say to them, ‘if I were twenty years old again and had a figure like hers, I’d be getting out of my clothes every chance I get. Wouldn’t you?’”

  We continue sorting through paint samples.

  “You know, Bill is very concerned for you,” she ventures. “He thinks you’re wasting your time, coming back here.”

  “Can you imagine a better employment for a young man without ambitions and obligations than wasting some time?” Then, to change the subject, “When do you want me to start the job?”

  “The contractor’s still trying to get the insulation right around the sky light, so that my dry wall man can come finish the ceiling. I can’t wait for you to meet him. A very interesting man. His name is Mr. Duck. Some kind of a genius, I think.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Sunday, October 10

  “Cindy did that to me, too,” Garrett acknowledges when I report the shower incident. “It’s her idea of a joke.”

  We’re strolling up Van Buren toward the Square. The sky is dark blue, the air cool, not quite crisp, but the leaves are starting to change color, a hint – every here and there – of yellow and orange.

  “What did you do?” I ask.

  “Hell, I played along. I took the longest shower of my life and thanked the Lord for every second of it. Beautiful women don’t jump into the tub with me that often, you know.”

  I let loose a sigh of regret. “I wish I’d had your presence of mind.”

  “Presence of mind is what I’m famous for. That, and phenomenal control over my manhood.”

  “Meaning you didn’t get a hard-on.”

  “I told him to mind his manners. After all, he didn’t wish to terrify the young lady with his gargantuan proportions.”

  “Impossible.”

  “You simply don’t understand, because you’re not as advanced as I am.”

  We turn the corner to discover the Square festooned with handbills bearing the words, “Matthew 10:14.” James has arrived before us, with Andrew in tow. Our resident mathematician is scribbling on one of his spiral notepads.

  “The verse is . . .” Stewart begins, but James stops him.

  “I don’t care what it says. What it says is irrelevant. Don’t you understand? The message is in the numbers!”

  Andrew looks up from his notebook and shakes his head. “I don’t detect any meaningful pattern, James.”

  “Maybe it’s not the numbers,” I offer. “Maybe it’s the letters. Don’t they have abbreviations for all the books in the Bible? Maybe those letters spell something.”

  Andrew cocks an eyebrow. “Perhaps it’s an alpha-numeric code. Or perhaps the letters themselves have a numeric value.”

  “What is Tamburlaine up to?” James wonders.

  Deputy Hacker chooses this moment to emerge from the courthouse. He struts across the street to join us. “You boys responsible for this littering?”

  Andrew steps up as spokesman of the group, our most upright member. “Certainly not, officer. My understanding is that this has been going on for weeks. These lads have played no part.”

  Hacker spits on the sidewalk, shakes his head. “Well, I’ll get to the bottom of it, don’t you worry. The sheriff has put me in charge of the case.”

  “Really? I imagine he’d wish to lead the investigation himself.”

  “No, he’s got bigger things to do.” Hacker gives us a malicious wink. “Like busting dirty hippie drug rings.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Monday, October 11

  Dinner with Dr. Hirsch at Colemans. He’s never tasted barbecued pork before. After his first sandwich, he steps up the counter to order a second, then a third.

  His face is covered in sauce, and bits of pork fly from his lips as he proclaims, “Delicious! I can’t believe this restaurant has been here so long and I never knew about it.”

  “For dessert,” I suggest, “you might want to a Hostess Fruit Pie. Lemon is my favorite. You can ask the cook to warm it in the microwave.”

  Dr. Hirsch’ face breaks into an expression of ecstasy with his first bite of the pie. “I’m going to have seconds,” he announces, between mouthfuls.

  “This is good,” I advise. “You should be taking a professional interest in your competition.”

  “Oh, news on that front, my boy. Tiger, Jimmy and I have almost closed a deal for a storefront right on the Square.”

  “Really? Which one?”

  “There’s a bridal store there now.”

  “Sure, I know the place.”

  “It’s going out of business. I suppose people aren’t getting married anymore.”

  “Why would anyone want to?”

  “We may be able to open before Christmas.”

  “Great news.” I raise my Coke bottle in toast, and Hirsch clinks it with his own.

  At this moment, he seems to get distracted by something through Colemans plate glass window, on the sidewalk.

  “Look,” he says. “It’s that very strange young man again.”

  I turn in the booth and crane my neck to see. It’s Clamor, hands buried in the pockets of her jacket, walking alone toward the Square.

  “Clamor is a girl, Dr. Hirsch.”

  “Really? Are you sure?”

  “No. Actually, I’m not.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Tuesday, October 12

  The Nickelodeon is having a Columbus Day sale, 25% off any artist born in the New World.

  The shop is crowded. Dottie is attending customers, dressed in a ruffled smock, a pirate’s hat and a fake hook hand. That is, Dottie’s wearing an outfit – not the customers.

  Ho is at the cash register with a bandana on her head and a patch over her left eye. She curses at me and turns around in her stool, refusing to check me out when I approach the counter with Teaser and the Firecat. Dottie takes care of me instead.

  “I don’t think Columbus was a pirate,” I observe.

  She just laughs. “If the history books are right, he was one dumb, lucky racist bastard. I never saw any point to Columbus Day myself. But a market opportunity is a market opportunity.”

  The coed in line behind me overhears and gets upset. “I don’t think that’s a very patriotic attitude,” she complains. “Christopher Columbus was a fine Christian man, and a great American.”

  “Step forward, honey,” Dottie coos, “let me see what you have in your hand.”

  I move out of line as the girl passes her albums to Dottie, who sorts through the stack slowly. She has copies of After the Gold Rush, Who’s Next, and L.A. Woman.

  “You know, honey,” Dottie says, “I don’t think you’re smart enough to understand this music. Why don’t you step across the street to the five-and-dime and get some Carpenters instead?”

  The coed’s face smolders into a sudden blush. “Cunt,” she spits.

  “Columbus was an Italian, you stupid bitch,” Dottie calls to her back as the girl storms through the door.

  “You’re not doing anything for Columbus Day,” I remark, popping in on Garrett at the Ohm.

  He and Rose are lying on the water bed, finishing a joint.

  “I don’t know why you’d say something like that,” Garrett answers. “I celebrate in my own special way. Later, I’m going to find some Indians and infect them with smallpox.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Wednesday, October 13

  Andrew and I are peeling the foil away from a container of Jiffy Pop when somebody knocks on the front door.

  It’s a stranger, holding a three-ring notebook and a Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary. In his 30s, but trying to look young
er. Black trousers, white dress shirt with an open collar, bit of chest hair peeking out, five-o’clock shadow, Brylcreamed hair slicked down to a part.

  Narc.

  Andrew opens the wooden door, but leaves the screen closed.

  “Hi, guys,” says the narc. “I’m a student. Lots of studying to do. Just wondering if you fellows have any diet pills I could buy.”

  “I’m sorry,” Andrew replies, pleasantly, “but I believe you’ve confused us with a branch of Weight Watchers.”

  The door closes, the narc looking crestfallen.

  ~ ~ ~

  Thursday, October 14

  The second floor lounge in Bishop is packed with undergraduate English majors dreaming of literary greatness. All of them Amy Madigan devotees.

  I enter unobtrusively, and find a seat near the back. Dr. Evans is addressing the group. He nods to me in acknowledgement of my presence as I skulk in.

  “Ole Miss hasn’t had a literary magazine since 1962, when the campus was occupied by federal troops, and the department felt it wise to limit student outlets for self-expression. So when Miss Madigan,” here he gestures to Amy, in the front, “approached the faculty with her idea to launch a new magazine, we were very enthusiastic.”

  Amy rises, addresses her disciples about the magazine’s mission and philosophy, and proclaims herself editor-in-chief. “My assistant editor,” she adds, “is someone most of you don’t know. He recently returned to campus, and is in the Classics department.” She pretends to peer, myopically, into the audience, though I know she’s already spotted me. “Did Daniel make it today? Oh, yes, there he is. Stand so everyone can see you.”

  I stand. Heads turn and necks crane to behold me. I sit down.

  “One of your first jobs,” Dr. Evans adds, “will be to decide on a name for the magazine. We’ve had several suggestions, but none has seemed quite right. Daniel?”

  I hadn’t expected to be called on a second time. I hadn’t even expected to be called on a first time.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Didn’t you have a creative team working on a new title? What did they come up with?”

  I rise from my seat. Heads turn again. “Yes, the Tyler Avenue brain trust labored for several days on this question, with copious consumption of Wild Irish Rose, moon pies and grass. And we finally agreed on the one name we’re sure everybody here will be really proud of: Interstate Orgasm.”

  The room is still.

  “I like it,” Dr. Evans replies. “But I’m afraid it won’t work for the Baptists.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Friday, October 15

  James and Andrew have left on another road trip. I learn this from Garrett upon my return from another long day in the Museum. “I suspect Hacker kind of spooked them with that talk about a bust. James was pretending to act cool, but I think he decided to clear out till the heat lifts.”