Wasted Year: The Last Hippies of Ole Miss

by Douglas Gray

  “Up yours,” Alcott replies.

  ~ ~ ~

  Saturday, January 15

  “I suppose she could have done that,” Clamor assures me, wiping a smudge of barbecue sauce from her cheek. “Melissa seemed pretty advanced, that night I talked to her.”

  I’ve just told her about seeing Melissa that night in my room. Clamor is sitting across from me at the window-side booth at Colemans.

  “It wasn’t an hallucination,” I say. “I’ve had enough of those to know the difference.”

  “Materialization during astral projection is possible only if there’s a pretty strong emotional connection between the projector and the receptor, though. Are you two that close?”

  “I can’t speak for the lady, but I’ve been in love with Melissa for five years.”

  “Medway, you’re such a hopeless romantic. How many different girls can you be in love with at the same time?”

  “How many guys can you be in love with?”

  “One at a time is all I can manage,” she answers.

  “James.”

  “Hopeless, I know. But I’d rather have one hopeless love than a half dozen competing fantasies. I can’t imagine how you get through a single day without losing your mind.”

  “But you’ll teach me astral projection,” I prompt her.

  “I’ve already promised to teach the sheriff. You might as well join us.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Sunday, January 16

  I wake with an awful pounding in my head. I stagger up from my pallet, search the floor for my jeans, and then discover that I’m already dressed. Good. I need an aspirin.

  I make a careful descent downstairs, step by step, holding onto the banister. Then a right turn into the kitchen, where I discover everyone around the table, at breakfast.

  Garrett is the first to glance up from his bowl of Cap’n Crunch, with a “Holy shit!”

  Joan follows with a “Jesus Christ,” Cindy with a “Goddamn,” and Suzie (uncharacteristically) with a “What the fuck?”

  They’re all out of the chairs, swarming around me, drawing me to back into the parlor and onto the couch. Cindy fetches ice cubes from the refrigerator and wraps them in a paper towel, placing it against my face.

  “Who did this to you?” Garrett demands. “Goddammit, I’ll kill him!”

  “Who did what?” I ask.

  Joan somehow produces a hand mirror out of thin air and holds it up to my eye – the good one, the one I can see out of. The other eye—the left one – is closed, puffed shut from a bruise that covers half of my face.

  “Daniel,” Cindy urges, touching my face tenderly with the ice cubes, “tell us what happened.”

  “I don’t know,” I admit.

  ~ ~ ~

  Monday, January 17

  “You don’t know?” Dr. Goodleigh repeats. “How in the world can you not know who did this to you?”

  Half of Bondurant has crowded into the Museum to witness the damage to my face. I spot Dr. Stevens in the assembly. During his semester away, the Sociology department moved his office up here to the second floor of Bondurant. I think to ask him about his trip to Turkey, but everyone else is too busy firing questions at me.

  “Maybe he had a concussion,” somebody suggests.

  “No,” I say. “Sheriff Claprood ran me over to the infirmary, and the doctor ruled that out. No sign of head trauma.”

  They blink down at me.

  “The thing is, see, I’ve been having these memory lapses. And I’ve been sleepwalking a lot, too. This must have happened during one of those episodes.”

  “Symptoms of a psychosis,” someone observes.

  “Drug deal gone bad,” another voice says.

  “Likely been pimping himself out,” a third spectator suggest. “Have you seen Midnight Cowboy?”

  Goodleigh claps her hands, a slap that echoes through the museum. “Everybody out. This isn’t a peep show.”

  She shoos them out, shuts the Museum door and turns back to me. “Could it have been a robbery?”

  “I doubt it. If it was, they didn’t get this,” I say and fish the wad of bills from my pocket.

  Goodleigh riffles through them, does a quick calculation. “There’s over $3100 here. Mr. Medway – you can’t walk around with so much money on you. Not even in Oxford.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Tuesday, January 18

  I spot Nick as soon as I enter the bank lobby. He’s at the last teller’s station at the right, with no line in front of his window, and I almost make it all the way across the room when I’m intercepted by one of the bank managers, apparently alarmed over what the meaning of my presence here might be.

  “Is there something I can do for you, son?” he inquires.

  “Yes, please. I need to leave some money with you.”

  “Do you have an account?”

  “An account of how I got the money?”

  “A savings account, or a checking account with the bank.”

  “No, sir.”

  He gestures me toward a desk in the corner of the lobby. I catch Nick’s eye as I’m led away, flash him a peace sign. He grins back, then looks down to avoid any more eye contact.

  Everyone is watching. This really is a sideshow attraction – a hippie in a bank is sort of like a rabbi at a hog-calling contest.

  “So, you wish to make a deposit,” the manager says, sinking in his swivel leather chair while I take the straight-backed one across the desk.

  “I have the money right here,” I say, trying to reassure him of my honorable intentions, and pull the wad of bills from my pocket.

  “Say, that’s quite a bit of cash. I don’t mean to be impolite, but may I ask what happened to your eye?”

  “Could have been a jealous husband. Or maybe I won this money in a fist fight. Either way, everybody’s telling me it’s not safe for me to carry so much cash around, so I was wondering if I could just, you know, leave it in your vault. Maybe in an envelope with my name on it.”

  “No, that wouldn’t be possible. You could rent a safe deposit box, for $6.00 a year. But that wouldn’t be a wise decision.”

  “It wouldn’t?”

  “You want your money to work for you.”

  “I do?”

  “Of course. If you established a savings account, you’d earn interest on your deposit. That way, instead of paying us for a safe deposit box, the bank would pay you for the use of your capital. Doesn’t that sound better?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Excellent. And you’re in luck, because this month we’re offering a choice of gifts for every new account. For a deposit of this size, you could choose from a complete set of Melmac dinnerware, a barbecue set, or a matched pair of girl’s and boy’s Big Wheels.”

  “Gosh, thanks, but I don’t really need anything like that.”

  “You have to choose. The gift comes with the account.”

  “Oh. What was the middle one?”

  “The barbecue set. It comes with an hibachi grill and a 6-piece tool set that includes knives, forks, tongs, a basting brush, skewers, a four-in-one spatula, and a matching glove and apron with the words ‘Come and Get It’ written out in hot dogs.”

  “Isn’t there an account I could open without having to accept a gift?”

  “You could have a checking account, but your deposit wouldn’t earn interest.”

  “Let’s do that.”

  “All right. What color checks do you prefer? They come in blue, green, yellow, tan, or pink.”

  “Blue.”

  “And what decorative series would you like? We have checks with Colonel Rebel on them – very popular with the students. Or you could choose a magnolia, Robert E. Lee, a mocking bird, a live oak, the Siege of Vicksburg, a wood duck, a white-tailed deer, a largemouth bass, the state capitol building, a steamboat, Jesus praying in the garden, Moses parting the Red Sea, or the ruins of the Windsor plantation.”

  My head has started to hurt again.

  “I
think I’ll just rent one of those boxes you mentioned.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Wednesday, January 19

  “Everybody knows he doesn’t have one lick of business sense,” Dottie is saying.

  “It’s true,” Dr. Hirsch agrees. “I don’t.”

  We’re having dinner at Colemans, with Tiger and Jimmy.

  “When I heard that my boys had given him that lease to the bridal shop, my head near exploded. I told them that space was too small for a restaurant. With the kind of kitchen they’d need, the dining room wouldn’t fit more than six people.”

  “Much more space on University,” Jimmy adds. “Big dining room.”

  “Why didn’t you just explain it to Dr. Hirsch, then? Were your sons not willing to cancel the deal?”

  “Oh, sure, they would have. They had other tenants waiting in line.”

  “Then why not do that? Why all this subterfuge?”

  “Garrett. He figured a way to make money from the problem.”

  “Everybody wins,” Jimmy adds.

  “How’d he figure to do that?”

  “Garrett tricked the Baptists into buying that building for almost half again what it’s worth. He manufactured such a panic over Communists moving onto the Square that the Baptist business league came to my boys begging for it. The boys made enough on the deal to offer Dr. Hirsch the other property rent-free for a full year.”

  “But why did you have to keep him in the dark about the plan?”

  “Oh, I was better off in the dark,” Hirsch says. “I’m terrible at keeping secrets.”

  “Wait a minute. Are you saying that Garrett was behind all the rumors, the letters to the Oxford Eagle, and the racist crap on the handbills?”

  “Like Sheriff Claprood said, none of the local bigots can write that well,” Dottie replies. “Who’d you suppose was behind those posters?”

  “I never supposed it was Garrett. He kept me in the dark, too. So what was his cut? How much does Garrett get to walk away with?”

  “Oh pshaw, he doesn’t make a penny. Garrett doesn’t care about money. He did this for the fun of messing with people’s heads – the same reason he always posting those Bible verses on the shop windows, to make folks feel paranoid.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Thursday, January 20

  I’m in the grill with my morning coffee when a boy takes the chair across from me. I glance up from reading Harrison’s Prolegomena and eye a frat pin on his shirtfront: a pair of lions poised spread-eagle on either side of a shield, with their tails strategically placed to cover their assholes.

  A member of my old fraternity. Oh, good.

  “You’re Medway,” he announces. It’s not a question, and it seems like more an accusation than a statement of fact. “You don’t know me. Keith Thompson. I’m Rebecca’s fiancé.”

  “Whose fiancé?”

  “Rebecca. Some people call her Becky.”

  “Oh, Becky. Sure.” I recognize him now – the boy who was steering her by the neck through the Union last week. “She never mentioned being engaged.”

  “We’ve known each other all our lives. There’s an understanding between her family and my own.” He pronounces “my” as “mah,” very old South. “I can also inform you that both our houses were most upset, over Christmas, to witness the changes that have come upon Rebecca in a course of a single semester. Most upset.”

  He sits ramrod-style in the chair, gaze fixed, hands clenched into balls on the tabletop, knuckles bulging.

  “She appears to have been deeply influenced by an unwholesome element up here, people who call themselves intellectuals. She’s been reading books – poetry books and novels – that have put inappropriate thoughts in her head. I read some of this so-called poetry myself, and found it deeply troubling. Deeply troubling,” he repeats, eyes drilling into me.

  “Her family prevailed upon me to transfer from Mississippi Southern this semester, to keep a watchful eye on her,” he continues. “Though I do consider Southern to be a superior institution, I am nonetheless willing to sacrifice for the good of the family.”

  “Well, that’s very . . . ,” searching for the right word, “noble,” I decide.

  “It is my understanding that your people are the Medways of Pass Christian. And you were once a member of my fraternity. Appearances to the contrary, you seem to possess the breeding of a gentleman. I’m sure you’ll not interfere in my efforts to keep Rebecca in the company of the righteous.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Friday, January 21

  The graduate student strike is falling apart. Only a few of us are out on the picket line this morning. Most teaching assistants have returned to their classes, under threat from their department chairmen. Dr. French has issued a clear ultimatum to the English strikers, to return to work by Monday or lose their assistantships.

  I’m wishing that Dr. Sutherland would give me an ultimatum, too. It’s cold out here. My shearling is warm enough, but I don’t have gloves or a scarf.

  “Still being Quixotic, Daniel?” Amy Madigan remarks to me on her way out of Bishop at 2:00, looking preternaturally professorial with a gaggle of undergraduates trailing behind her.

  “Just following orders. Classics is still standing by Dr. Evans.”

  “Harold is fine. He and his mistress are having a non-stop party at his house. I doubt they’re giving any of us a second thought. If you’re going to choose sides, then at least choose sides wisely.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Morality,” she answers, “is the future. Professor Alcott says so.”

  The students nod in unison and make approving humming noises at this statement.

  “Wow. The future sounds pretty boring, then. Hey, when does the magazine go to press?”

  Amy is already walking off with her entourage, but turns to glance back at me. “There is no magazine anymore. That was Harold’s project, and he’s fallen into disgrace.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Saturday, January 22

  We’re at the Beacon – Garrett, Cindy, Nick and me.

  “I haven’t had chicken livers since the last time I was in here,” I say.

  “They’re still as good as you remember,” Garrett reassures me. “Yeah, I’ll have the chicken livers, too.”

  Our waitress, Jaimie Lee, writes it down on her little pad. Cindy’s already ordered: minute steak. All eyes turn to Nick.

  “I’ll have the fried chicken, if you please. And a Dr. Pepper.”

  The Beacon is less crowded than usual for a Saturday night, probably because of the weather. Snow flurries gust past the lights of the parking lot outside, but the dining room is snug and the best aromas in creation are coming from the kitchen.

  I glance at the windy night and catch our reflection in the window, like figures in a mix-and-match game out of a kid’s magazine. Three hippies and a banker. One of these is not like the others. One of these does not belong.

  Nick flashes his old bashful smile, oddly disconcerting to discover on a face that’s been so transformed. “It’s really nice to see you guys again.”

  “You’ve been missed,” Cindy says. “We’d all like to have our old Nick back.”

  “How’s Suzie doing?”

  “She’s pregnant. She needs a husband.”

  Jaimie Lee returns to the table with our drinks on a tray – two Cokes, an iced tea, and the Dr. Pepper – and sets them on the table. Nick shifts uncomfortably, finally answering once she’s left. “That’s what I’m trying to do. Be a good husband, be a good provider.”

  “She married an artist, not a money-changer. You’re turning yourself into the kind of man she never would have fallen in love with.”

  “Cindy’s right, man,” Garrett agrees. “Suzie could have had any guy she wanted. You know that. She wanted you, not some wage slave.”

  Nick flushes, a rare show of anger. “A shave and a haircut. A white shirt. A tie. Is that how you define a person, then? Those are surface things. I’ve nev
er thought of you as shallow people, but that’s a really shallow way to judge somebody.”

  “You’re saying you’re the same person that you were before? Just dressed up?” Cindy says.

  “Yes.”

  “All right then. Tell Daniel and Garrett what you said to Suzie that night she decided to move out. I want them to hear it.”

  “The unforgivable remark?” Garrett asks.

  “Yeah. Go ahead, Nick. Repeat it for them.”

  “Well, that was just . . . I mean, we were talking and I just happened to say . . . .”

  “Speak up. We can’t hear you.”

  Nick straightens and looks us in the eye. “I said I’ll probably vote for Nixon in the next election. I think he’s doing a good job.”

  The silence that descends on our table lasts until Jaimie Lee brings our food to the table, only to be replaced by the sounds of knives and forks against our plates. We eat without further conversation. There’s nothing anyone can think to say.

  ~ ~ ~

  Sunday, January 23

  Blake – who’s arrived at the Tyler Avenue commune for a date with Joan – sits alone on the couch in the parlor as the rest of us stand or sit around him. Suzie crosses her arms, giving him a stern look. “Where do you plan to take her?”

  “The Holiday Inn,” Blake answers. “For dinner.”

  “Do you have a car?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is your car heated?” Garret asks. “It’s below freezing out tonight. We don’t want Joan to catch cold.”

  “Well, yes. It’s heated.”

  “I’m not sure about this. It’s a school night, you know,” Cindy volunteers.

  “That’s an excellent point. You’ll have to be back before her bedtime.”

  “Oh. Uh, what time is that?”

  “Right after Bonanza,” Garrett replies. “In fact, she should be home by the time the show starts. We always watch it as a family.”

  “And there better not be any alcohol involved,” Cindy cautions.

  “What are your prospects?” Garrett wants to know.

  “My prospects?”

  “Do you have a job?”

  “I’m a grad student in History.”

  “Ah, so you’re planning to become a pauper.”

  “What are you all doing?” Joan demands, looking ravishing in a starched, ruffled blouse and a pair of skin-tight black jeans as she joins us in the parlor. Blake appears relieved to see her.

  “Just trying to get to know your young man,” Garrett says.

  “They do make a cute couple,” Cindy says.