Wasted Year: The Last Hippies of Ole Miss

by Douglas Gray

  It seems I’ve just crawled into my pallet and drifted to sleep when the damn phone starts ringing. I try to ignore is persistent, annoying alarm as it repeats over a dozen times. Finally, I hear footsteps padding down the stairs, followed by Garrett’s voice answering the line.

  Whoever it is, the conversation is brief. I listen to Garrett’s feet plodding back up the stairs. He opens my door, sticks his head in the room. “Get dressed, man. Something interesting is going down.”

  Our breath fogs the air as I drive us down South Lamar with the radio off. I park at the Shell station, closed for the night, beside the sheriff’s squad car, and walk to the overpass above Highway 6.

  Claprood is standing at the railing, watching a procession of military vehicles, headlights and taillights moving east to west for as far as we can see. A convoy.

  “I got a call from Sheriff Holland over in Tupelo that they were on the way,” Claprood tells us.

  “National Guard maneuvers?” Garrett asks.

  “Regular Army. As a rule, we’re supposed to be notified of troop movements through our jurisdictions. I’ve called, but couldn’t pin anybody down on a confirmation. Officially, what we’re looking at isn’t happening.”

  We watch the convoy snaking its way through the chill Mississippi night in silence.

  “Kind of makes you wonder,” Claprood finally remarks. “Men jumping out of planes. Rumors of Tamburlaine everywhere. And I, for one, would like to know what the Army is up to, sneaking through my town under cover of darkness. My hands are tied, though. Too bad I don’t know anyone who has contacts with the underground.” He claps Garrett on the shoulder. “Cold out here. I’m heading in. You boys have a good morning.”

  “Why did the sheriff call you out to see this?” I ask on our way back to the car.

  “I really couldn’t say,” Garrett replies.

  “Sometimes I get the feeling that you know a lot more than you’re telling.”

  We drive back to Tyler, with me looking forward to the comfort of my warm pallet. When we arrive, though, all the downstairs rooms are lit, and there’s a 68 Firebird parked in the street.

  James and Andrew have returned, and they’re toting a short-wave radio the size of a steamer trunk up the front steps.

  Part 4. Night Visitors

  November 27, 1971 – January 8, 1972

  Saturday, November 27

  James has returned to Oxford flush with cash. Since he’s paying for tonight’s meal, he’s decided to order for all of us, too.

  “Four New York strips,” he tells our waitress at the Holiday Inn restaurant. “Rare.”

  “What’ll you have to drink?”

  “A Michelob would be welcome,” Andrew says.

  “You boys know we can’t serve beer. Coffee, iced tea, cocktails, wine, soft drinks.”

  “How long has it been since you had a steak?” James asks me after she’s taken our orders – gin and tonic for Andrew, rum and Coke for Garrett, tequila for James, Jim Beam on the rocks for me.

  “Close to four years, I reckon.”

  “Enjoy this one,” James advises. “The revolution’s about to begin, and meat’s going to be hard to come by in a few months. Fresh food in general, for that matter. Best begin stockpiling canned goods.”

  The returning travelers recount their journey: From Oxford, they headed to Nashville first, then Lexington, Cleveland, Chicago, Detroit, Indianapolis, Wausau, St. Paul, Rapid City, Colorado Springs, Santa Fe, Clovis, Fort Worth, Fayetteville, and back to Oxford.

  “We thought about extending the trip to Christmas, but after what Tamburlaine did, I decided we’d best return to headquarters, so he’d know where to reach us.”

  “What Tamburlaine did?” I ask.

  “The hijacking in Oregon. Don’t tell me you haven’t heard.”

  “Tamburlaine did that? The newspapers said it was some middle-aged businessman.”

  “How cute – you actually believe what newspapers say. Of course it was Tamburlaine.”

  “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why would Tamburlaine hijack a plane?”

  “For the money, of course. You can’t launch a revolution without some kind of funding.”

  “You can’t?”

  “But I’d heard,” Garrett interrupts, “that Tamburlaine is immensely wealthy, that he’d inherited the fortune of some guy named . . . .” He grasps for the name, can’t produce it.

  “Cygnus,” James finally says. “The man who transformed him.”

  “Transformed him?” I ask. “Into what?”

  “Into a human being,” James replies.

  “Really? What was he before?”

  “A wolf,” James says. “You didn’t know? I can’t believe you haven’t heard the story.”

  “Not the story,” Garrett pleads. “Please, not the story.”

  James ignores him. “Shortly after the war, the people of Paris set about repairing the city zoo and restocking animals that had been lost during the Nazi occupation. One of their acquisitions was an orphaned wolf cub that had been rescued in Switzerland, near St. Moritz. They named him Timberline, after the wooded area where he’d been found.”

  “They should have named him Bullshit,” Garrett says.

  “An American industrialist named Cygnus arrived in Paris with his daughter to help with the Marshall Plan. The girl made daily visits to the zoo, fell in love with the young wolf and begged her indulgent father to make him her pet. Cygnus arranged to have the wolf stolen and transported to his chateau, where they spent many happy years together.”

  “The girl and a pet wolf,” I say, just to make certain I’m hearing this right.

  “The father, the girl and the wolf,” James says. “But when the time came for him to return to America, Cygnus realized that he couldn’t take Timberline with them. The girl was heartbroken over the loss of her best friend. Lacking other recourse, Cygnus turned Timberline into a boy, adopted him and brought him to America. Because of an error in translation, though, his passport identified him as Tamburlaine instead of Timberline.”

  “Do NOT ask how Cygnus transformed him,” Garrett warns me. “Please. For the love of all that is holy and good, don’t ask.”

  James orders another round of drinks for us and leaves for the men’s room. Andrew and Garrett break into a long-suppressed fit of giggles.

  “My god, he’s worse than when he left!” Garrett says.

  “His delusional tendencies are growing stronger,” Andrew agrees. “Have you wondered about the radio he’s brought back? James is convinced that Tamburlaine is sending him messages over shortwave frequencies.”

  We’ve barely managed to rein in our mirth when James returns to the table, glancing suspiciously at their expressions.

  “Did I miss something?”

  “Only the last six years,” Garrett says.

  “Garrett was just telling about the beer bust at the country club,” Andrew lies.

  ~ ~ ~

  Sunday, November 28

  Cindy returns from Thanksgiving break around 3:30 this afternoon, delighted to find that Andrew has returned. Ten minutes later, they’re celebrating the reunion in their room. The noise from their bedroom makes it impossible for me to study, so I descend the steps to find James and Garrett sharing a joint, with a football game on the television.

  “Who’s playing?” I ask.

  “Who cares?” Garrett answers.

  “The Jets versus the 49ers,” James says.

  “Who cares?” Garrett repeats.

  The feeble daylight of the overcast day begins to die. The room grows dark. The game ends. James rises from the couch, stretches, readjusts his belt over his hollow waist. He’s lost weight during this journey.

  “Think I’ll drive over to the sorority house, and check on Rose. She should be back by now.”

  The Wonderful World of Disney comes on. Garrett is too zoned out to change the station. It’s a boring enough show not to distract me. James is
back before it’s ended, looking pissed.

  “Did you find Rose?”

  “She’s started seeing somebody else. Bitch.”

  He pounds his feet on the way upstairs, passing Cindy and Andrew on the landing. They join us in front of the set, looking flushed and contented.

  “Uh-oh,” Andrew says. “Someone’s displeased.”

  “I told you that Garrett’s been a naughty boy,” Cindy replies.

  Garrett slowly places an index finger to his lips in a gesture of silence. He lights another joint and passes it along.

  “It’s half an hour till Bonanza starts,” he says. “Have you ever watched Dan Blocker stoned?”

  ~ ~ ~

  Monday, November 29

  “So we got out the bong and made a game of everybody taking a hit whenever Dan Blocker said ‘Dagnabbit.’”

  “It must be stimulating to live with such towering intellects,” Amy replies. This isn’t what she wants to hear, not what she dropped by the Museum to talk about. “Tell me what happened at the party.”

  “Not much to tell. Mrs. Giordano walked in. Then she and Dr. Evans left the room. I was scarcely paying attention. One of the cats was trying to rip a cornbread muffin out of my hand. Oh, somehow or other Dr. Sutherland has gotten mixed up with the CIA.”

  “Has Goodleigh said anything to you today? I heard that Mrs. Giordano is staying with her . . . to preserve appearances, you know.”

  “No. But I haven’t asked. But she’ll be back from class in about 15 minutes. You could wait here and pump her for information as soon as she comes in.”

  “Well, that would be rude.”

  “You’re right. I’m tactless. It’s much more polite to gossip about people behind their backs.”

  “I’m not gossiping. I’m concerned about Harold’s reputation. Don’t you realize what a scandal this is going to cause?”

  “Why? Who cares?”

  “Who cares?”

  “Yeah, why should anybody care about who’s screwing who?”

  “Who’s screwing whom. People care because in civilized societies we have an institution called marriage. Which is supposed to be sacred. I don’t know Mrs. Giordano. I’m sure she’s a lovely person in many ways. But she is an adulteress, and I hate to see Harold involved with a woman like that.”

  “She always speaks very highly of you, though.”

  Amy gathers her books and her purse. “I see now that coming here was a mistake. You never treat serious matters seriously. Maybe you should just go light another joint and destroy some more brain cells.”

  “Dagnabbit, Amy, I’m all out. Can I bum one from you?”

  ~ ~ ~

  Tuesday, November 30

  William Windom is the guest star on tonight’s rerun of Star Trek, playing a deranged Starfleet captain who lost his crew to a wandering doomsday machine and is now leading the Enterprise into a suicide mission against it.

  Cindy’s sitting cross-legged on the couch, eating grapes. I’m typing my research paper on the Aegean diaspora for my Greek history class, more listening to the television than watching it.

  Somebody knocks on the door. I glance through the window onto the porch and sigh. It’s a crew-cut narc looking ridiculous in a tie-dyed shirt and bell bottoms. I swing the door open in disgust.

  “What do you want? Because we don’t have any weed or diet pills. We don’t have any Yellow Jackets, Abbots, Rainbows, Black Beauties, or Red Devils.

  “We also don’t have any Darvon, Nembutal, Tuinal, Phenobarbital, Valium, LSD, bennies, cocaine, speed, heroin, morphine, nitro, laughing gas, children’s aspirin, Pepto-Bismol, Dr. Scholl’s, Midol, or Scope.

  “We’re not a pharmacy, for Chrissake. So what exactly do you want?”

  The narc smiles oddly at me, as if surprised by the greeting he’s just received.

  “I’d like to come in,” he replies in a soft, polite voice.

  This is a voice I seem to know. I look at this stranger more closely, trying to place him. Cindy comes to the door, yelps a startled cry and drops her bowl of grapes on the floor.

  “Oh, shit! Nick, what have you done?”

  It’s Nick, all right. I can see the resemblance now in his eyes, though nothing else about his face is familiar. The beard is gone. The moustache is gone. His head is practically shaved.

  “How do I look?” he asks, with a grin.

  “Oh, shit!” Cindy repeats. “Has Suzie seen you yet?”

  “No. Do you think she’ll be surprised?”

  “Oh, shit!”

  ~ ~ ~

  Wednesday, December 1

  “Where’s the brown shirt?” Mr. Duck asks, meaning Dr. Giordano, as we trudge through the cafeteria line. Another Mexican Meat Stick special day.

  “Lying low for a while, I’d imagine, licking his wounds. His wife left him for another professor. Big scandal. Everyone’s agog.”

  “Aw, he shouldn’t feel bad about that. I’ve had four wives leave me. That’s not counting the two I walked out on. The last one decided she liked country music. The day she came home with a Ferlin Husky record, I knew the marriage was over. The other one married me under false pretenses. Turned out she was smoking dope during our entire courtship, then went swore off after the ceremony. Now, there was a woman who should have kept on tokin’.”

  “Wow, six marriages. May I ask why the other four left?”

  “Oh, usual reasons. You know.”

  “Gambling, booze, other women?”

  “Not so much that. Let’s see, there was the one who walked out when I began to fancy myself a Kabbalist. She couldn’t put up with that. Now, my first wife – we broke up over an argument about T.S. Eliot. The objective correlative, of course. I reckon a lot of couples fight over that. Then the one wife who left during my Fauvism period. I admit I got carried away over André Derain.”

  “And the fourth?”

  A smile softens his face. “Ellie. My dear, sweet Ellie. She discovered one day that she was a Lesbian. Nearly broke my heart. I still love that woman.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Thursday, December 2

  Dr. Hirsch lies spread-eagle on the head shop’s water mattress, looking stunned, his face parchment pale. Garrett sits by the window, reading the latest handbill from the “Keep the Square American” group. Dottie, Tiger and Jimmy stand by the door in low conversation. I pick a copy from the cash register and read:

  Citizens of Oxford,

  You will soon be offered the opportunity to eat the food of a godless Communist regime.

  A Chinese restaurant is scheduled to open its doors here on the Square as early as next month. Soon, as you carry on your daily business, your nostrils will be assailed by the odors of foreign cooking from an agent of the Red Menace at our very doorstep.

  Chinese food is unhealthy, unsanitary and unfit for American bodies. Chinese thought is unfit for Christian minds, a threat to our children and to our way of life.

  Keep the Square American! Boycott the Chinese restaurant!

  Dr. Hirsch has lost his Ocarina Vermillion detachment. He moans. “Why are they so upset over a restaurant? They make it sound like I’m setting up an opium den.” He sits up with a sudden thought. “We should call the sheriff. Garrett, you know him, don’t you? Give him a call. See if you can get him over here.”

  “I don’t think we need Claprood for this.”

  “Please.”

  Garrett places the call, and Sheriff Claprood saunters in ten minutes later.

  “They really zinged you gentlemen, didn’t they?” he says cheerfully to Hirsch, Tiger and Jimmy, who respond with grave nods of the head. “Well, it’s a shame that honest citizens like yourselves can’t set up a business without this kind of harassment. There’s nothing the law can do about it, though.”

  “That’s what I told them,” Garrett adds.

  “Don’t let this upset you,” Claprood advises Dr. Hirsch. “You have a contract, don’t you? A lease?”

  “Yes,” Tiger says, “a
lease for two years.”

  “Nobody can stop you, then.” Claprood ambles to the cash register and reads a copy of the handbill on the counter. “Interesting piece of work,” he remarks. “I didn’t know we had any bigots in town who could write this well.”

  He claps Dr. Hirsch on the shoulder on his way out. “Don’t worry about a thing, sir. I suspect the angels are watching over you.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Friday, December 3

  I’m enjoying my morning coffee and re-reading the latest postcard from Valerie when Suzie finds me in the Grill. She looks worried.

  “Nick bought a wrist watch. Do you understand what I’m telling you, Daniel? He bought a wrist watch.”

  “Why would he want a wrist watch?” I wonder aloud.

  “To tell the time.”

  “Why would he want to tell the time?”

  “That’s my point! That’s exactly what I’m trying to get everyone to see. Nick’s changing, and it scares me. I don’t mind so much about a shave and a haircut. Hair grows back. But when he starts caring about what time it is, I get worried. Do you know what he asked me to do two nights ago?”

  “Not a kinky sex thing, I hope. He didn’t want you to pretend to be Tricia Nixon?”

  “He asked me to watch the evening news with him. The news!”

  I’m appalled. “Oh, man, that’s just . . . wrong.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Saturday, December 4

  “I like this movie,” Dr. Hirsch remarks during the commercial.

  We’re watching The Thing, an alien invasion epic from 1951. (RKO Radio Pictures. Directed by Christian Nyby and Howard Hawks. Starring Kenneth Toby, Ann Sheridan, and a young James Arness as the monster.). It looks to have been made on a $1000 budget, most of the action occurring in a claustrophobic set of corridors and labs in an Arctic research station. Hawks must have splurged most of the budget on the script, which is surprisingly clever.

  “Linguistically, I mean,” Hirsch continues. “I like the way everybody talks at once in the group scenes. That’s realistic speech behavior, but you don’t see it in most films.”

  “Like going to the bathroom,” Clamor adds. “People don’t do that in the movies, either.”

  “Nobody wishes to see that, though,” Andrew says. “I’m certainly not going to pay $2.00 to watch Michael Caine take a shit.”

  “Or making love,” Cindy observes.

  “They’re showing sex all the time, though,” Clamor counters. “Didn’t you see Carnal Knowledge?”

  “Movie sex is so fake. You know they’re not really doing it. Nobody in real life has sex like you see in movies.”