Wasted Year: The Last Hippies of Ole Miss

by Douglas Gray

  “They’d make lovely babies.”

  Joan draws Blake by the arm, leading him out of the parlor. “Pay no attention to my housemates. They suffer from defective social skills.”

  “Have her back in time for Bonanza,” Garrett calls after them.

  But she isn’t back for Bonanza. In fact, she’s out all night.

  ~ ~ ~

  Monday, January 24

  Fetching a Milky Way and a cup of coffee for lunch, I spot Clamor in the back room with a girl in a dashiki, ashen complexion and tangled black hair, wearing sunglasses even though it’s dimmer here in the Grill than the overcast winter day outside.

  “Daniel,” Clamor says, “I’d like you to meet my friend Raven Bright.”

  “Miss Bright,” I say.

  “Just Raven.”

  “Raven and her coven are looking for a place to live.”

  “Preferably someplace remote,” Raven adds. “Where we’d be entitled to some privacy.”

  “Let me think. Have you scouted north of town, outside the city limits? You might find an old farmhouse for rent off Highway 30. There are trailer parks out that way, too.”

  “No trailer parks,” she snaps. “Trailer parks are for inbreeds and male chauvinists.”

  “Her boyfriend lives in a trailer park,” Clamor explains.

  “Ex-boyfriend – a drunk, a coward and a liar. Good in bed, but a narrow-minded philistine to the core.”

  “You wouldn’t happen to be talking about Blake?” I suggest. “We met at Mr. Duck’s Christmas party. He seems convinced that you’re summoning actual demons to persecute him.”

  She sniffs. “A bit of white magic, and he shits himself out of fear.”

  “He’s afraid to sleep in his bedroom because of spirits tapping out Morse code behind the closet door.”

  “When we first met, I thought Blake was simply a good-looking happy drunk. Imagine my disillusionment when I discovered his true nature. By then it was too late, though. I was already hooked on him. Already left Plaquemines Parish and moved here to be with him, goddess save me.”

  “Read Daniel’s tarot,” Clamor says. “Let’s see what the future holds for him.”

  Raven reaches into the paisley cloth purse beside her and brings out a deck of cards. She shuffles, sets it on the table, and taps it once with an index finger. “Cut,” she says. “Use your left hand.”

  The deck is old, stained, threadbare, shuffled and reshuffled so many times that much of the ink has been rubbed off every card, making the various scenes and symbols indistinct, hard to identify without careful scrutiny. But she seems to know each one by touch.

  She lays out a simple three-card spread: 10 of swords (reversed), 4 of cups, 7 of wands.

  “You’re going to be deceived by a woman,” she says. “There’s a great battle ahead. Prepare yourself for it. I see a move in your future. Avoid Frenchmen.”

  “Anything else?” I ask.

  She studies the cards for a few seconds. “Yes. Your father’s not going to leave you alone until he gets what he wants.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Tuesday, January 25

  “Ah, our illustrious classicists,” Dr. Giordano calls from across the cafeteria, as Dr. Goodleigh and I exit the serving line.

  “Oh, lord,” Goodleigh mutters.

  But our fears are quickly put to rest. No room in his group for us today.

  “I’d ask you to join us, but as you can see, the table is already full.”

  I’m gratified to see that it is, but less pleased by some of the faces I spot there: Amy Madigan, for one, seated at the right hand of Edward Alcott.

  “A defection to enemy ranks,” Goodleigh comments about Amy, once we’ve found an empty table. “I thought she was Harold’s protégé.”

  “It would appear that she’s switched sides. She’s gotten what she can from Dr. Evans, including his position and his office for an entire semester. His suspension has been a real boost for Amy’s career.”

  “No one ever said she wasn’t cunning. And the English department’s taken a sharp turn to the right. From what I’m hearing, Alcott is shaking things up.”

  “Have you read any of his books?” I ask.

  “Just the one everybody knows – I Am Night, You Are Mourning. I was staying at a friend’s lake cabin in Michigan, with nothing to read except an assortment of old paperbacks people had left behind. It wasn’t my happiest experience, but I understand there’s a massive audience for machismo battlefield fiction.”

  A few minutes later, Clamor joins us, followed by Dr. Hirsch and Dr. Stevens, and we soon have our own little happy symposium going.

  “How were the Turks?” I ask Dr. Stevens.

  “Very Turkish. Amazingly Turkish. No one does Turkish better than the Turks. Did you ever find out who beat the crap out of you?”

  “I’m figuring it was a secret admirer.”

  “I’ll bet you have a lot of those,” he says.

  ~ ~ ~

  Wednesday, January 26

  “This is probably the most comfortable chair I’ve ever sat in,” I say.

  A collection of African masks stare down at me from Dr. Valencia’s office walls. Dr. Valencia is the campus shrink. He gazes at me with an impassive expression that he seems to have been copied from the masks.

  “I like my clients to feel at ease. I’ve read your file, but I want you to tell me – in your own words – why you’ve come to see me today.”

  I rattle on for about ten minutes, explaining the blackouts at the Jitney Jungle, the gas station, the Looking Glass, the recent beating, and the occasional sleepwalking episodes.

  “Lately I’ve started to play tricks on myself during the night. Yesterday, I woke up to find that I’d tied my jeans into four really tight knots. It took me half an hour to untie them, and I was late to class.”

  “I take it you sleep alone.”

  “When I must,” I answer.

  “Let’s set intimacy issues aside, for now. The good-hearted hoodlum who escorted you home that night in November was correct: the onset of adult sleepwalking is usually caused by stress. But this more recent behavior of self-sabotage fits in with a larger pattern that helps us understand the memory loss. The diagnosis is really extremely simple.”

  “Great! Lay it on me.”

  “Your mind is a festering boil of unresolved inner conflicts.”

  “Oh. Not so great, then.”

  “You’re suffering a classic case of dissociative amnesia. You play tricks on yourself at night in order to prevent yourself from leaving home in the morning. Why? Because the outside world is full of conflicts. When one of those outer conflicts triggers an inner conflict, the mind protects itself by dissociating from the stimulus, hence from reality itself. You ‘black out,’ as you put it.”

  “That can’t be right. In at least one of those cases, I know I was having a good time.”

  “Exactly. You were happy. Do you feel that you deserve to be happy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Another lie you tell yourself. You actually believe you ought to be punished. To put your dilemma in layman’s terms, you’re a train wreck.”

  “So, what can you do for me, doc?”

  “With traditional methods, I’d say that your case would require at least three years of weekly sessions, to unearth the roots of your conflicts. However, if you were open to an unconventional approach, your treatment might advance much more rapidly.”

  “A medical experiment,” I hazard.

  He shrugs. “If you prefer.”

  “Tell me more.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Thursday, January 27

  I spot Little Becky and her knight errant Keith a good minute before they see me among the noontime crowd in the Grill.

  Little Becky makes the introductions, referring to Keith as “my friend from home.” He and I shake hands and pretend that we haven’t met before.

  “Did you get any writing done over the break?” I ask Becky, just to annoy h
im.

  “I did,” she answers, “and I can’t wait for you to see it. But you’ve got to give me your honest opinion.”

  “I wrote a little bit, too. I was inspired by the book you gave me.”

  “You gave him a book?” Keith asks.

  “The Li Po collection. I showed you the copy I bought for myself.”

  Keith makes a sour face. “Oh, him. Look, I don’t see the point of reading poetry in the first place. But if you have to, why not read American poetry?”

  “You’ll have lots of American poetry to read once Barefoot is published, including my own, and I’ll expect you to read every page” Becky tells him, pertly. I detect a hint of annoyance in her voice.

  “Well, about that,” I say, “I’ve got some bad news. The department’s decided to cancel the magazine, because of Dr. Evans’ suspension. By order of the chair.”

  “Dr. French ordered that?” Becky asks.

  “Dr. French?” Keith says. “The chairman of the English department is named French?”

  “Which becomes even more ironic when you consider that he’s Canadian,” I add.

  “After all the work we put in,” Becky laments. “I’m so disappointed.”

  “Well, I think it’s a good thing,” Keith volunteers. “A college shouldn’t be wasting precious resources on creative writing. Mississippi Southern would never have a magazine.”

  Becky’s exasperation comes through. “I don’t understand why you didn’t just stay down at Southern, then. I mean, if you’re so damn miserable here.”

  He lifts a cautionary finger. “Rebecca! Your language.”

  “My language? I’m speaking English, Keith.” She turns back to me. “Isn’t there anything we can do?”

  Nothing occurs to me.

  ~ ~ ~

  Friday, January 28

  Cindy and I stop in the Nickelodeon to get the album by a new group called America. Ho’s at the cash register as we enter and launches into a stream of Chinese curses as soon as she sees me. Once she settles down, she begins wadding receipt forms into hard, tiny balls that she throws at my head.

  She has a wicked arm. I point this out to Dottie.

  “I’m going to miss the old girl when she leaves,” Dottie says.

  “Dr. Hirsch tells me they’ve planned a Valentines Day opening for the restaurant. What’s going to happen with the Lyric?” I asked.

  “The manager pleaded with Tiger and Jimmy to let Ho stay on. But weekends are going to be their busiest night at the restaurant. And this is what the boys kidnapped her for, after all. Cindy, dear,” Dottie adds, noticing her for the first time. “I can’t tell you how pleased everyone is that you two are a couple now.”

  Cindy seems to freeze in place with an expression of dismay. “We’re not a couple.”

  “No,” I agree, “Just friends. Housemates. You know that.”

  Dottie answers with a sweet expression. “All right, then, if that’s what you say. I’m just telling you what everybody’s thinking, though.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Saturday, January 29

  “Mr. Medway,” Dr. Evans says, “you look like you’re going to be sober again at any second. As your host, I can’t allow that to happen.”

  He adds two ice cubes and another splash of Jim Beam to my glass. The room is crowded, smoky. Miles Davis is on the stereo, and I’m sitting beside Dr. Goodleigh, who looks fantastic, as usual, demurely sipping a glass of red wine.

  I’ve spotted Dr. Sutherland in the room, an unexpected face in the crowd – kind of like Banquo’s ghost, surprising everybody who encounters him. Half of the English faculty is in attendance, mostly the younger set, and a scattering of loyal grad students.

  “And you all live together, both women and men, in that big house?” Mrs. Giordano is asking me. This is the first time I’ve seen her since the fateful Thanksgiving dinner. She’s looking much healthier, rested, her face filled with light instead of strain. “All you young people living together?”

  “Seven of us right now. Four guys and three girls, but two other guys have been away since before Christmas.”

  “How wonderful,” she says. “Like a big family. And you use drugs?”

  “Whenever we have them.”

  “Marijuana?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Could you get some for us? Harold,” she calls across the room, “could we buy some marijuana from this young man? I want to smoke some pot!”

  Dr. Evans approaches again with another offering of bourbon. “Wanton hedonist. What became of the innocent woman I used to know?”

  “I’ll score you a complimentary lid,” I offer. “Call it an engagement present.”

  “You’ll have to teach us how to roll it into cigarettes, too,” she says.

  “You can bake with it, if you’d rather not smoke. It’s good in brownies. My friend Garrett has an apple pot pie recipe I’m sure he’d be glad to share. Amy Madigan ate two slices at a party last September, not knowing it was laced, and got thoroughly stoned. You should have seen her.”

  The words are out in the air before I realize I shouldn’t have spoken them. Dr. Evans makes a face. Mrs. Giordano frowns.

  “Someone we don’t speak of often,” Dr. Evans says. “I understand she’s gotten in thick with French and Alcott. It was their decision to cut the magazine’s funding. I don’t suppose anyone’s bothered to contact the print shop, though.”

  “What?” I ask.

  “The finished typescript is at the print shop. They’re just waiting to get paid so they can start production. I handled the arrangements with them personally. Probably nobody’s thought to let them know about the change in plans.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Sunday, January 30

  I’m startled from my afternoon nap on the couch, cuddled up with Harrison’s Prolegomena, by an unexpected noise. An unwelcome, unwholesome noise.

  The goddamn telephone is ringing.

  It’s been silent so long, I’ve practically forgotten about its presence. It’s a squat, black thing, a cockroach screeching at me. A fat, greasy little Soviet commissar besieging me with regulations. An SS interrogator, barking questions at me. It thinks it knows how to make me talk.

  It’s the most loathsome machine in civilization, the demon spawn of insane American technology. And I can’t fathom why I’ve allowed it to stay in the house this long.

  It’s on its third ring now. Fourth. I give it a menacing look. I’m granting it one more chance to shut up.

  With the fifth ring, I pop the cord out of the wall with a single hard tug. A few sparks sizzle, and the damn thing falls silent in the middle of ring number six.

  I find my shoes, pull my shearing on, and carry the phone out into the chill afternoon air, down Tyler, and all the way to the dumpster behind Colemans, where I toss it in with the other rubbish.

  I return home to my nap, with a light heart, pleased to have one fewer thing in this world to answer to.

  ~ ~ ~

  Monday, January 31

  The Jitney Jungle is having a sale on Swanson tv dinners, $1.00 each. Cindy bought a stack of them – turkey, Salisbury steak, fried chicken – before realizing that there’s no space for them in our tiny freezer.

  “Let’s bake ‘em all and have a party,” Garrett suggests.

  Rose joins us. Everyone’s happy to see her again. Clamor drops by, checking again whether James has returned, and we offer a spare dinner to her as well.

  I discover an unopened gallon of Wild Irish Rose, likely left over from some party last fall. Tonight’s episode of Star Trek is the one in which Abraham Lincoln comes aboard the Enterprise.

  “Remember that night at the Lyric,” I say to Garrett, “during the cartoon when Daffy Duck dressed up like Abraham Lincoln and the audience booed?”

  “I love Daffy Duck,” Clamor says.

  “Typical Ole Miss audience. Half the cretins at the show must have left the theater thinking that Daffy Duck had burned down great-grandpa’s plantation
.”

  “I remember that night,” Joan says. “We went to see Easy Rider, and then to the Beacon for banana cream pie. Garrett and Daniel got into an argument about who has the funniest religion.”

  “Seventh Day Adventists,” Garrett says.

  “Manichees,” I counter.

  “Catholics.”

  “Anabaptists.”

  “Scientologists.”

  “Jains.”

  “Devotees of Mithras.”

  “Mormons.”

  “Christian Scientists.”

  “Ophites.”

  “Hoa Hao.”

  “Who?”

  “Zoroastrians.”

  “Ah, yes. Agreed, Zoroastrians.”

  “Well, boys, I’m glad that’s settled,” Rose says.

  “Somebody really worships Zorro?” Clamor asks.

  “Mexican cult,” Garrett tells her. “They believe Guy Williams is the reincarnation of Jesus. But there was a schism a few years ago when a group of heretics claimed he’s a prophet rather than god incarnate, and started worshiping Lost in Space.”

  “I love Lost in Space,” Clamor says. “And I wish James were here tonight.”

  No one has a supportive word to add to her last remark. I don’t want either James or Andrew back. The only difference between the two is that I don’t feel guilty about wishing James gone for good.

  “The commercial’s over,” Cindy observes, and we all turn our eyes back to the screen.

  ~ ~ ~

  Tuesday, February 1

  The presses are making a hell of a racket printing the latest edition of The Daily Mississippian when we enter the print shop.

  I’ve brought Becky along for a reason. The manager, Mr. Patrick, is a tattooed ex-Marine who despises hippies, but can’t resist a pretty coed. I see him almost every time I’m in the Grill, at his favorite table in the front with coffee and donuts, trying to make conversation with the girls who pass by.

  Mrs. Enger, his wizened chief typesetter, summons him from his office by phone, and he emerges looking put-upon for the interruption during one of the two hours that he actually works during the day. He gives me a sneer, Becky a smile.

  “We’re here,” Becky tells him, “to deliver payment for Barefoot. The student magazine. Do you remember?”

  “Yeah, I remember. Been wondering how long I was going to have to sit on that job. Do you have the fund transfer form?”

  “No,” I say. “We’re paying for in cash. Donation from a secret benefactor.”

  “Cash? That’s kind of unusual.”

  “We can get a transfer form would just take time,” Becky intervenes. “We have the money right here.”