Wasted Year: The Last Hippies of Ole Miss

by Douglas Gray

  The movie ends. Andrew and Cindy retire to their room, presumably so she can demonstrate what she learned tonight from Cosmo. Garrett leaves for an after-curfew meeting with Rose. I stay below for another hour. On my way up the stairs, I hear James’ shortwave playing a music box version of “Blue Danube” followed by a woman’s voice repeating the numbers “1, 28, 16, 19, 5, 12.”

  I linger outside his room for a minute, listening to the pattern repeat and repeat, and finally peek in through a crack he’s left in the door. James is sitting in the dark room, smoking a joint by himself and staring at the lighted dials of the radio. A portrait of obsession.

  ~ ~ ~

  Sunday, December 12

  The day is cold and blustery, and the Square is strewn with handbills that have blown from the shop windows.

  It’s no surprise that the verses from the Anonymous Christian match the numbers on James’ radio. I’m more alarmed at the broadside from the Keep the Square American folks, whose latest propaganda hints at dog meat, salmonella, and radioactively contaminated seafood.

  “Isn’t there anything you can do about this?” I appeal to Sheriff Claprood, who’s walked uptown from his office on North Lamar to survey the scene. “It’s slander.”

  He squints at me, quizzically. “That’s an odd thing for you to ask.”

  “I believe I’ve broken the code,” Andrew is telling James as I step through the front door at Tyler. “I suspect it’s a single repeated word of six letters. I knew it was an alpha-numeric sequence, but its meaning eluded me until this morning, when I thought of plugging in the Jakarta constant. I’ll need a third set to guarantee that I’m correct. But I believe the word is ‘Denver.’”

  ~ ~ ~

  Monday, December 13

  I’ve just finished typing the mimeograph of Dr. Goodleigh’s final exam for her mythology class when she returns to the office.

  “I don’t suppose you can type a letter without reading it?”

  “I’m not that gifted.”

  “I’ve got urgent AAUP business. The Administration is considering a sanction against one of our faculty. Someone we all know. The union needs to send a formal response.”

  She passes me a handwritten letter to the Chancellor. I roll a sheet of departmental stationery into the platen and begin to type. She watches my expression as I work, waiting for my reaction when I reach the essence of the message.

  “Dr. Evans has been accused of moral turpitude?” I ask.

  “Adultery. Aldo Giordano is playing the outraged husband. The role of public cuckold has been tough on his Mediterranean pride.”

  “Don’t tell me tenured professors can be fired for falling in love.”

  “Not fired. Suspended. Technically, yes. Adultery would be grounds, though it’s not been used here since sometime just after the Civil War. Aldo’s filing a nuisance complaint. But the union has to treat it seriously.”

  I promise to keep the charges under my hat, but discover that they’re already the topic of conversation at Amy Madigan’s table in the Grill at lunchtime.

  I’m delighted to find Becky alone in the back room. She’s wearing a knitted newsboy cap that makes her look even cuter than usual.

  “Everybody’s talking about poor Dr. Evans,” she says.

  “Trumped-up charges,” I grouse. “If he were a dentist, they’d accuse him of oral turpitude.”

  “If he were an Eskimo, it would be auroral turpitude,” she replies. “Or, if he were an ichthyologist, it’d be dorsal turpitude.”

  “If he sold potato chips, they’d accuse him of morsel turpitude.”

  “If he’d slept with the instructor of an etiquette course, he’d be on the carpet for cordial turpitude.”

  “If there had been a death in the family, he might have committed mournful turpitude.”

  “I cheated on a psych exam once, got accused of abnormal turpitude.”

  “I know how you feel. I stole a red horse once, and the posse tried to hang me for sorrel turpitude.”

  “I’ve got nothing else,” she says, after a long pause.

  “Me neither. It’s probably for the best.”

  We fall into a comfortable silence. She opens a World History text. I dig into my grilled cheese, watch little Becky sip a Coca Cola through the straw between her pretty little lips, and suddenly feel thirteen again, suffering my first crush.

  ~ ~ ~

  Tuesday, December 14

  I drop in on Mr. Duck in what used to be the Bishop Hall study lounge, now a maze of partitions for a soon-to-be warren of separate offices.

  “I’ll trade you lunch for a dry walling lesson,” I offer.

  “Looking to expand your skill set, are you?”

  “I’ve only had the one painting job since getting back. Yeah, I could do with more work.”

  Mr. Duck demonstrates his technique with the mud and the tape, the speed and coordination of getting it on quick and smooth. I try to imitate his moves.

  “Not bad, for a first-timer,” he says. “You want to be my apprentice on this job?”

  “What’s happened to Rusty?”

  “He’s run off to become a Trappist monk, if you can believe that. Damn fool.”

  The cafeteria is relatively deserted, but I spot Andrew and Cindy at a table in the corner, and motion Mr. Duck in their direction. His eyes brighten as they take Cindy in. She does, in fact, look especially fetching in her scoop-neck, red sweater and a tiny denim skirt that would hardly seem to offer any protection against today’s cold.

  “So you and James are off to Denver,” I say to Andrew. “Why there?”

  “The numbers, of course. The pattern became clear, as I was telling James, once I plugged in the Jakarta constant.”

  “The what?” Mr. Duck asks.

  “The Jakarta constant. It’s a . . . .”

  “I know what a constant is, son. I’ve dabbled in math off and on for the past 30 years. But I’ve never heard of the Jakarta constant. Are you sure you didn’t just pull that one out of your ass?”

  Andrew is lifting a forkful of cherry pie to his mouth, but pauses, sets it back on his plate, and grins.

  “You did?” I ask.

  “I had to tell James something plausible.”

  “But what about the numbers?”

  Andrew shrugs. “Completely random.”

  “So why did you tell him they spelled ‘Denver’?”

  “Because I’ve never been there. Neither has Garrett.”

  I consider their duplicity for a moment. “You know, I don’t particularly like James. But I think I’m still a better friend to him than either of you guys.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Wednesday, December 15

  “We’re holding an all-night vigil Saturday, to find out who’s posting the verses,” Garrett reports. “Are you in?”

  He’s sitting cross-legged on the Ohm’s waterbed, eating another nude candy bar from California. I haven’t brought myself to the point of actually biting into one – a little too close to cannibalism. I’ve never even felt right about eating chocolate bunnies at Easter.

  Besides, I’m sure I know that girl.

  The Nitty Gritty Dirt Band’s Uncle Charlie album is playing on the stereo, and while Garrett hasn’t made any effort to decorate the shop for Christmas, he is wearing a sweatshirt with Santa in bell bottoms, sunglasses and tie-dyed bandana, flashing a peace sign.

  I agree to take the 12:30 to 2:00 a.m. watch.

  “Denver was actually my second choice,” he says when I ask him about the trip. “Originally, Rose invited me to spend the break with her and a bunch of her rich east coast friends. But they’ve decided on two weeks in Bermuda. Even if I could afford it, I seriously doubt that anyone’s going to issue me a passport. Which reminds me,” he adds, leaping from the bed to retrieve something in his coat pocket.

  It’s a letter.

  “Apparently, this came for you back in October. General delivery. Miss Field, the postmistress, seems to have heard that w
e’re housemates, so she gave it to me, to give to you, when I was fetching the shop mail this morning.”

  I glance at the post office stamp – Pass Christian, 39571 – then tear the envelope into eight parts and deposit the scraps in the shop’s trash can.

  “I figured you’d do that,” Garrett grins. “Almost didn’t give it to you.”

  “Wish you hadn’t,” I admit.

  “But that would have involved tampering with the U.S. mail, and you know how law-abiding I am.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Thursday, December 16

  “You’re originally from Ohio? Really? Are you sure?” I ask.

  Dr. Goodleigh is wearing her thigh-high leather boots, macramé shawl and granny glasses today. Her hair is loose, spilling over the back of her office chair in a black and graying riot. She looks stunning.

  “Yes,” she admits with a sad sigh, “it’s true. I was born in Lancaster, Ohio. Home town of William Tecumseh Sherman, no less. My mother and my sisters still live there. I visit them every Christmas.”

  “Ohio,” I wonder. “Wow.”

  “Why is that so strange?”

  “Ohio,” I repeat, turning the word around in my mouth. “It’s so . . . I don’t know . . . Midwestern. I never imagined somebody cool could be from there.”

  “We can’t help where we’re born, Mr. Medway. Thank you for the compliment, but I think you’re trying to steer the conversation away from the favor I’m about to ask you for.”

  I give her a blank look.

  “I think you know what it is, and that you’re not going to like it: I need you to take care of the cats while I’m away.”

  This is what I’d expected. This is what I’d dreaded.

  “It’s an easy job,” Dr. Goodleigh hastens to add. “Just give them fresh water and load the bowls with dry food once a day. No litter box. They’ve got the cat door, and if the weather’s nice, they’ll spend most of their time in the ravine, anyway. You may not even see them.”

  She pauses for a reply, then adds, “It would really mean a lot to me.”

  I know I’ll agree, because I’m head over heels for this woman, and if she asked me to paint a tiger’s toenails, I’d probably do it.

  ~ ~ ~

  Friday, December 17

  “Some people say he’s going to be the next Dylan,” Dottie says, handing me the jacket of a new album by some guy named John Prine. “It would make a perfect gift for some little girl friend of yours. Cindy, for example.”

  A cut from the record is playing on the speakers. “Your Flag Decal Won’t Get You into Heaven Anymore.” The Nickelodeon is decorated with miniature Christmas trees, foil snowflakes, tinsel, strings of flashing tree lights, and reindeer statuettes. She has all the marketing sense that Garrett lacks, even offering free gift wrapping with every purchase, and extended evening hours.

  “Cindy is Andrew’s girl,” I remind her.

  “You two make a much cuter couple, though. And besides, what kind of boy leaves his girl behind for months on end, sometimes, chasing after somebody who probably doesn’t even exist?”

  I help her close down the shop. It’s almost 6:30 as we leave, well past dark, but a milder night than most we’ve had so far this month, temperatures somewhere in the low 50s, probably, perfect weather for the long line of movie-goers on the sidewalk outside, queued up for tonight’s feature at the Lyric.

  The marquee reads Diamonds Are Forever, but it’s certain the audience won’t be seeing much of James Bond.

  “Now there’s a cultural phenomenon that’s about to end,” I remark. “Ho’s weekend movie experiences. She’ll be cooking nights, instead of getting high with the projectionist. When the restaurant opens, I mean.”

  I wait for a response that doesn’t come.

  “The restaurant is going to open, isn’t it?”

  “Oh, you needn’t worry about that,” Dottie says. “I have a feeling that everything’s going to work out just fine.”

  “And by ‘just fine,’ you mean . . . ?”

  “I mean that everybody’s going to win.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Saturday, December 18

  “It’s even worse than I’d imagined,” Cindy sighs as we spy on Nick and Suzie around the corner of the breakfast cereal aisle in Jitney Jungle.

  We’ve been sent to buy chicken and Wild Irish Rose for tonight’s supper, our last before everyone scatters for the Christmas break.

  Suzie is pushing her shopping cart several yards ahead of Nick, who’s dawdling to study the label on a jar of Tasters Choice coffee. Suzie glances once over her shoulder, sees that she’s losing him, and pushes the cart farther along, with a grim expression, trying to pretend she doesn’t know him.

  “Look at those shoes,” Cindy remarks of Nick’s wardrobe. “Wing tips. And they’re polished. And what’s going on with his shirt?”

  “Buttons,” I report. “It’s a button-down collar. Oxford cloth. A dress shirt, for stock brokers.”

  We complete our own shopping in silence, and have loaded two bags into the back seat of my car in the parking lot before Cindy finally speaks again.

  “I’m scared.” Her voice sounds mournful, coming from the dark of the passenger’s seat as I turn left onto North Lamar.

  “Of what?”

  “What’s happening to Nick and Suzie,” she says. “They’re changing. I don’t think she loves him anymore. That’s a terrible thing, because they’ve been in love forever, you know?”

  “I know.”

  “And if love can’t last for them, what hope do the rest of us have?”

  ~ ~ ~

  Sunday, December 19

  Tonight’s our vigil to capture the Anonymous Christian. I set my alarm and try to grab a few hours of sleep before I have to report to the Square and relieve Andrew’s watch. I’m lucky that the temperate nights have continued through the weekend, so I’m able to sit on the bench beside the Confederate statue and suck slow on a Coke, counting on the caffeine to sustain me through this lonely vigil.

  The time passes more quickly than I’d imagined it would. I spot Garrett shuffling up Van Buren, hands in his coat pockets, appearing and disappearing through the wells of the street lights, to take my place.

  “Nothing going on,” I report before returning to Tyler Avenue and to my pallet.

  Sooner than expected, again, I wake to the noise of voices downstairs. I rise, descend the steps and find Garrett backing out of a confrontation with James.

  “I was tired, man,” Garrett is saying. “But I couldn’t have been asleep more than a few minutes, I swear. The bastard must have moved like lightning.”

  A new handbill is on the table. I lift it and read: Mark 13:27.

  “And then he will send out the angels and gather his elect from the four winds, from the ends of the earth to the ends of heaven,” Garrett supplies, before turning back to James. “Which I think is a pretty clear, don’t you? You were looking for a message.”

  “I was looking for the messenger,” James complains. “You lost him.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Monday, December 20

  I’m grading the objective questions of Dr. Goodleigh’s final exam for her Classical Art class when someone raps hesitantly at the open door to the Museum. I look up from the tests to discover Little Becky standing there, with a wrapped package in hand.

  “I’m glad you’re here. I thought I was going to have to leave this with your boss.” She practically skips across the room and presents the package to me. “For you.”

  I start to unwrap it. “I’m sorry – I don’t have anything for you.”

  “Oh, that’s not important. It’s just a silly thing. I saw it in the bookstore and thought you’d enjoy.”

  It’s selected poems of Li Po.

  “Joyeux Noël, Daniel,” Becky says, and stands on tiptoes to kiss my cheek. “No mistletoe, but that’s okay. Oops, now you have lipstick on you. Get a Kleenex before anybody notices. I’ll miss you,” she says, already on her w
ay out the door. “See you next year!”

  I stand by my table, touching the lipsticky spot on my cheek, awestruck. Little Becky just kissed me. So lost in astonishment am I that it takes me a minute to notice Dr. Goodleigh in the doorway, leaning against the frame with her arms folded.

  “Mr. Medway,” she says, “if you let that girl slip through your fingers, I’ll never look at you the same.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Tuesday, December 21

  I stop at the Jitney for a bottle of Mateus to celebrate my acing of the final exam in German and return to Tyler Avenue to discover Cindy alone, watching Star Trek. Spock is losing his mind because of the seven-year Vulcan mating urge, pon farr.

  None of the guys are around. I ask about them.

  “They left for Denver,” she reports. “Sometime in the afternoon, while I was still at work. Andrew left me a note.”

  “Well, that means more wine for us, doesn’t it?”

  Cindy seems bummed, and the Mateus doesn’t noticeably cheer her up.

  Kirk disobeys Star Fleet orders and takes the Enterprise to the Vulcan home world. He gets tricked into challenging Spock – now completely insane – in a battle to the death over Spock’s treacherous bride. Spock kills Kirk, regains his sanity, feels remorse and is prepared to surrender himself to Star Fleet for the murder of his captain. But Kirk’s alive and well back on the ship, because Dr. McCoy’s slipped him a drug that just made him look dead. Wisecracks are exchanged, the episode ends, and Laugh In comes on.

  “When are you leaving?” I ask Cindy. I know her family is in Little Rock.

  “I’d planned on Friday. But with the boys gone, I guess it would be pointless to stick around.”

  She’s brought home leftovers from Grundy’s, enough meat plus three for everyone. We pick at our supper, not especially hungry. I put the remainders in the fridge, knowing they’ll last me for at least a few more days. Cindy is halfway up the stairs when I return from the kitchen.

  “Good night,” she says, over her shoulder, voice sullen.

  Much later, just shy of midnight, I’m on my pallet reading Herodotus, when I hear a tap on my door. Cindy comes in, barefoot, wearing a flannel nightgown.

  “I miss Andrew,” she says. “I don’t want to sleep alone tonight.”

  A moment later, she’s under the blanket with me.

  “I thought girls don’t like to sleep on the floor,” I say and reach for the light switch.