by Douglas Gray
So I head to Guyton Hall, where the infirmary nurse sticks a thermometer in my mouth, straps the cuff around my outstretched arm and checks my blood pressure. She watches the meter with routine boredom, then with a glimmer of curiosity.
The cuff deflates, and she pumps it back up to check a second time. Then a third. She takes the thermometer out of my mouth, reads it, and asks, “How long have you been unconscious?”
Dr. Michaels checks the infection, injects some antibiotic in my arm, and studies my chart.
“Do you suffer from dizziness?”
“Sometimes.”
“Blackouts?”
“Frequently.”
“I’m not surprised. Your blood pressure is only 60 over 40. From a medical perspective, you shouldn’t even be able to carry on this conversation we’re having right now.”
“Well, I’ve always thought you were very easy to talk to.”
“Have you … uh, have you considered psychotherapy?” he asks, delicately.
“The doctors in Charlottesville had me see one of the shrinks on the university staff.”
“How did that work?”
“She and I started sleeping together.”
Dr. Michaels lifts an eyebrow. “That’s highly unprofessional. She should be disbarred.”
“A very bad psychologist,” I agree. “But a lovely person, all the same.”
~ ~ ~
Tuesday, November 2
“Darvon?” Garrett asks.
“No, thanks. I’m going to make a sandwich instead.”
The refrigerator is stuffed with leftover loaves of Sunbeam bread that Cindy’s been bringing home from Grundy’s.
“What’s with all this damn bread?” I ask. “It looks like Jesus dropped in to fix lunch.”
Garrett lifts the prescription bottle from the kitchen table and shakes it to make a sound like a castanet.
“I meant: you scored Darvon?”
“Oh, that. I told Dr. Michaels that I was in severe pain from the cat scratches. I thought my roomy might like them.”
“Aww, you did that just for me?”
“I don’t like Darvon. The buzz sucks. They just make me sleepy and constipated. My choice of drugs has never included the ones that make it so I can’t wake up and I can’t crap.”
“Maybe, but watching television’s a trip on these things. Here’s a plan: I’ll ask Rose over to watch Hawaii Five-0 tonight. All those big waves. She’ll freak.”
“Is that show really still on the air?” I slather peanut butter on a slice of the most recently rescued bread and take my seat at the table facing Garrett.
“We have bananas,” Garrett mentions. “You could slice one up on that.”
“Peanut butter and bananas? That sounds disgusting.”
“It’s Elvis’ favorite sandwich.”
“You’ve been reading fan magazines again?”
“No. He told me.”
“Elvis told you he likes peanut butter and banana sandwiches?”
“Yeah, up at Skeeter’s Bar in Holly Springs. He likes to hang out there, incognito.”
“Elvis is in Las Vegas.”
“Uh-uh. Elvis retired from show business last year – he’s tired of all the fame and crap. Colonel Parker hired a bunch of impersonators to cover the Vegas shows. The real Elvis is back at Graceland, and he likes to hang around honky-tonks like Skeeter’s. He always wears an old Quaker State cap and pretends to be a trucker named Virgil. Everybody knows who he really is, of course, but they’re too polite to go up to him and say, ‘Hey, you’re Elvis!’”
“I find this very hard to believe.”
“Suit yourself. You should still slice a banana on that sandwich.”
“I might just do that.”
~ ~ ~
Wednesday, November 3
Dr. Sutherland has sent me a thick campus mail envelope stuffed with newspaper clippings and stapled handwritten notes explaining the significance of each one.
I take it into the Museum and lay the papers out on my work table. It’s an impressive bit of archiving, with stories that date all the way back to 1957 and that fall neatly into two distinct categories.
I arrange the happy stories to my right, and the tragedies to my left.
The right-hand pile includes stories of success: awards received, honors bestowed, grandchildren and great-grandchildren sired, academic dynasties founded and sustained, obituaries of octogenarians and nonagenarians whose lives abounded with joy and love. Sutherland’s notes clarify that all these fortunate people had been classicists who had devoted themselves to the sanity of Latin.
On the left are tragic stories of suicides, prolonged stays in mental institutions, arrests and convictions, drug addictions, kleptomania, money laundering, gambling debts, fetishes, pyromania, obsessions, incest, exhibitionism, bestiality, treason, and necrophilia, all committed by classicists who had chosen the wrong path, the insanity of Greek.
Sutherland has included a personal note, hand-written on a sheet of departmental stationery:
Mr. Medway
It’s still not too late to save your life.
W.S.
~ ~ ~
Thursday, November 4
Garrett is haggard but triumphant, mud-streaked, hair and beard sodden with rainwater. The fragrance of cow manure fills the kitchen from his dung-encrusted boots. He holds a hand-written list on a scrap of paper torn from a spiral notebook, and passes it to me.
“Shopping list,” he says. “It’s your turn to buy the groceries.”
Martha White flour, dry yeast, olive oil, mozzarella cheese, tomato sauce, sausage, olives, onions, dried oregano and parsley.
“Saturday night pizza party,” he explains.
“Where in the hell am I supposed to find olive oil? The Jitney doesn’t stock it.”
“Expand your possibilities. Take the car up to Krogers.”
“Last time I was there, the manager ordered me out. He doesn’t like freaks.”
“Disguise yourself, then. Put your hair under a cap and borrow one of Andrew’s dress shirts from his closet. This recipe needs olive oil. The party’s ruined without it.”
~ ~ ~
Friday, November 5
I run into Clamor, alone, eating a fish burger in the Grill. The place is all but empty. I have a roll of $5.00 bills bulging in my pocket from Mrs. Sutherland, my pay for the paint job.
“I’m on my way to Memphis for a winter coat and a bottle of olive oil,” I announce. “Care to join me?”
I find a secondhand coat that fits me – a shearling – in reasonably good repair, for $7.80 at a thrift shop a few blocks south of Overton Square, and a big $2.00 jar of olive oil for sale at Forty Carrots.
Clamor orders another fish burger at The Looking Glass, and I splurge on two shots of Jim Beam, neat.
Our waitress recognizes me. “Nice to see you again,” she says. “Where’s your friend?”
“What friend is that?”
“The pretty girl you were with last time.”
“I was with a girl? Really? Do you know who she was?”
The waitress gives me a look and leaves.
“When do you think James will be back?” Clamor asks.
“Don’t know. We haven’t heard a word from him. He hasn’t even called on that telephone he had installed. The damn thing just sits there staring at us. I don’t even like being in the same room with it.”
A raw wind whips up on our walk back to the car, and I’m grateful to have a coat at last. It’s dark brown suede reaching almost down to my knees, deep pockets, a high collar that flips up to shelter my ears.
“You look like a cowboy,” Clamor remarks. “You look like the Marlboro man.”
We take Highway 78 home, instead of the interstate, and finally arrive at the shop Clamor’s been waiting to reach since August. It turns out to be a mom-and-pop gas station and grocery on the city limits of Olive Branch.
Inside, Clamor buys a half-pound slice of cheddar fro
m a cheese wheel on display at the meat counter.
“That’s it?” I ask. “You wanted to go all this way for cheese? You could’ve gotten that any place. You could have bought it at the Jitney.”
“Maybe. But the other time, I bought it here, with Garret. Then I gave it to James, and he said he liked it. I wasn’t sure the Jitney’s would be the same.”
“You know that James is a son of a bitch, don’t you?”
“I know. But I can’t help myself.”
~ ~ ~
Saturday, November 6
“Don’t scrape off the mushrooms,” Garrett warns Dr. Hirsch, who’s started to poke and prod at the three narrow slices of pizza on his plate.
“I don’t really like mushrooms, though.”
“Rest assured, you’ll like these. The mushrooms are the whole point.”
“But only three little slices, Garrett?” Dottie objects. “I’ve got a bigger appetite than that.”
Garrett leans over to stage whisper in her ear, low enough not to alarm Dr. Hirsch. “Just enough to get you high without making you sick. They’re magic mushrooms. Psilocybin.”
“Garrett knows what he’s doing,” Nick agrees. “We’ve all learned from past mistakes. I’ll never forget the first time we tried this, with the mushroom tea. I never threw up so much in my life.” He grins at Tiger Woo, sitting on the other end of the couch with a plate balanced on his knees.
Tiger looks suspiciously at Nick. “You’re not eating. Why not?”
“I’m going to be a father.”
Tiger turns to Suzie. “You’re not eating.”
“I’m going to be a father’s wife.”
“Relax, brother. Eat!” Jimmy says, lifting a slice to his mouth with a grin that mirrors Nick’s.
Cindy and Ho emerge from the kitchen. Ho is waving one of the mushrooms with the delicate cap and the long, slender stalk in the air like a private part, and cackling in delight.
“In China, these grow in underbrush, in the forest,” Tiger says. “Where do they grow here?”
“In cow shit,” Garret says. “Don’t worry. I washed them.”
Ho is dancing a little kind of jig now. Waving the mushroom in a circle over her head, she suddenly comes to a stop in the doorway where I’m leaning against the wall. She lifts her middle finger in the air at me and says something in Chinese.
Tiger turns ashen. Jimmy wears a momentary stunned expression and then laughs so hard that pizza flies from his mouth.
“What did she say?” Rose asks Tiger.
He shakes his head. “No translation.”
Jimmy has collapsed on the floor in giggles.
“Why does she hate Daniel so much?”
“Yeah,” Cindy agrees, “ask her that. We’ve all wondered.”
Jimmy poses a question. Ho’s look turns malevolent. She replaces the middle finger with the index finger and raises it to my face. Her voice is low, threatening, and the words come slow. When she stops, we turn to Jimmy for an explanation.
“She says you are Death. You look like Death. You talk and walk like Death.”
“That’s interesting,” Cindy remarks, “because you really were dead once, weren’t you?”
“Never mind, man,” Garrett counsels. “People are so damn prejudiced. You die just one time, and they’ll never let you forget it.”
Being Death, oddly, doesn’t bother me at all. I find it quite interesting.
“Ocarina,” Dr. Hirsch calls out. “Ocarina vermillion.”
Garrett and I glance at his eyes. All pupil, no iris. “Looks like somebody’s on a trip,” Garrett announces. “Let’s move him over to the couch.”
The man’s expression is beatific, and he seems to float between us like a helium balloon as we lead him across the room by either arm.
“Happy trails, Dr. Hirsch,” Cindy says, patting him on the head before she retires to stretch across the fireplace hearth which, being marble, is as smooth and cool as she is suddenly blotchy and flushed.
Dottie and Ho are dancing together. Jimmy is on his back, staring at the ceiling with a rapturous smile, while Tiger – ever vigilant, it seems – remains seated on the edge of a chair with the now-empty plate still balanced on his knees.
Nick moves from one body to the next, watching us and tending us with a motherly grace. I watch him move about the room leaving trails of color behind him as he passes.
Suzie’s aura dazzles me, blinds me every time I try to look at her.
I’m having a conversation with the baby in her belly. It’s a boy. They’ll name him Samuel. At age 8 he’ll break his collar bone falling out of a tree. At 16 he’ll fall in love with a girl named Sally; they’ll be separated after high school, but will find each other and marry – his third marriage, her second – when they’re both in their 50s. It will be a happy life after that.
Samuel is aging before my eyes, kind of like Dave Bowman at the end of 2001. He’s now a withered old man in a pair of striped pajamas, smoking a cigar. He takes a drag and blows smoke into my face.
“Better try to look straight, my man,” he warns. “The sheriff’s here.”
And suddenly, there he is, the sandy-haired man I met last month at Faulkner’s grave: Paris Claprood.
I bolt up, adrenalin rush. I begin choking, and he pats my back.
“Hold on, son. Somebody’s had a little too much wine, I think. Here, let me help you up.”
The sheriff lifts me from what was apparently a prone position and sets me on my feet. Remarkably, my legs don’t buckle under me.
“You kids are having quite a party. Oh, and Mrs. Carroll. Pleasure to see you, ma’am.”
“Unexpected pleasure,” Dottie replies. “Is this another bust? Your department needs to stop picking on these sweet children.”
“No, ma’am. Just a friendly visit.” He circles the room, starts shaking hands with everyone. “Perry Claprood. Good to see you. Perry Claprood. Hope you’re doing well. Perry Claprood. Lovely evening.”
Samuel, still in pajamas and still smoking his cigar, follows Claprood around the gathering, mocking him with exaggerated glad-handing pantomimes.
When Claprood spots Clamor, though, he folds his hands and bows. “Namaste.”
Clamor rises, uncertainly but gravely, and returns the greeting.
“What can we do for you, sheriff?” I ask.
“Just wondering if I might have a word with Garrett.”
I glance around, can’t find him. Nick points a finger toward the second floor.
“Oh, I believe he’s already retired, sheriff. Please have a seat. I’ll be right back.” I climb the steps carefully, glance once behind me to see Claprood watching my progress with a sympathetic grin.
Samuel has turned back into a baby again. He’s dancing naked in the center of the room, but the sheriff can’t see him. Just as well.
I discover Garrett and Rose stretched out on his bed, naked. They seem to believe they’re making love, though they’re obviously too messed up to do it correctly.
I poke Garrett’s shoulder. “The sheriff’s downstairs. He wants to talk to you.”
I poke him again. And again. Garrett’s oblivious to everything except what he thinks he’s doing with Rose. I decide I can’t watch any more of this without getting sick.
“Garret, I’m afraid, is indisposed,” I say once I’ve managed to re-navigate the stairs.
“Could you and I step outside for a moment?” Claprood asks.
I follow him through the door. Samuel doesn’t accompany us, but out on the porch I discover a choir of garden lizards performing a barbershop quartet version of “You Can’t Always Get What You Want.”
Claprood hands me a business card. “In the morning, as soon as you can, give this to Garrett. Tell him it’s important. Tell him it’s about Tamburlaine.”
~ ~ ~
Sunday, November 7
Morning. Downstairs, Dr. Hirsch is still on the sofa, still wearing that smile. Still far far far away.
>
The others are gone, Cindy having made her way safely to bed. I hear her snoring softly as I cross to Garrett’s room. He wakes when the door opens, and drapes a sheet over Rose before answering my summons to join me in the hall.
“One of our best parties ever,” I report. “Even the sheriff dropped by.”
“No shit?” Garrett dons a pair of jockey shorts and tousles the hair out of his eyes as I pass the card to him.
“He wants to talk about Tamburlaine. You need to call him.”
Garrett gazes at the card, as if not comprehending its significance.
“Tamburlaine,” I repeat. “What aren’t you telling me?”
“I can’t tell you anything you don’t already know. Honest.”
~ ~ ~
Monday, November 8
The library is under lock-down when I arrive. The Flasher has struck again, exposing his sad, withered genitals to a sophomore on the third floor of the stacks.
Campus cops stand at every exit while others inside have joined the library staff in a floor-by-floor, room-by-room, aisle-by-aisle sweep of the building. This time, he can’t escape.
A group of us huddle on the front steps, in a chill rain, waiting to be admitted. I’m grateful for my coat. Eventually, the forlorn-looking circulation librarian unlocks the double glass doors, speaks a few words to the cops, and gestures for us to enter.
The Flasher has, indeed, somehow eluded them. I feel my spirits lift.
“The old pervert is certainly wily,” Dr. Goodleigh marvels after I deliver the news in her office.
“Would you like to hear my theory?” I ask.
“I would love to hear your theory.”
“He’s a ghost.”
“A ghost?”
“Think about it. He’s been spotted almost a dozen times since the semester began, but in every case he seems to vanish moments afterwards. Poof. Gone. Everybody was sure they had him trapped in the library this morning. But he wasn’t there. Who else but a ghost could keep escaping like that?”
Goodleigh cocks her head, giving the matter some thought, then calls out into the empty air.
“Dr. Linen? Are you listening? I have a message from the land of the living: if you’re going around showing your old thing to the girls, knock it off! Nobody’s impressed.”
The mail arrives, and with it a letter from Valerie, postmarked Presque Isle, Maine. Wherever in the hell that is. Inside, a single sheet of her stationery, with a single message scrawled across it.
LSD – oh, my god!
~ ~ ~
Tuesday, November 9
“I know a secret about you,” my new friend Little Becky says while we’re alone at a table in the English office, reviewing piles of undergraduate doggerel.
