Wasted Year: The Last Hippies of Ole Miss

by Douglas Gray

  “Or you could call Dr. French’s office, just to make sure we’re authorized.”

  “No, no. I suppose it’ll be all right,” Mr. Patrick decides. “I’d like to get that job off my desk.”

  She hands him an envelope from her purse. Patrick counts the money and nods.

  “Okay, then. Let’s see, today’s the 1st, right? Check back with me on the 15th. We’ll be able to give you a release date by then.” He starts to turn away.

  “Could we have a receipt, please?” Becky asks.

  “Oh, right. Sure thing, young lady. Say, you’re a pretty little thing, aren’t you?”

  “How did you manage to come up with over $300 for the magazine?” she asks me, once we’ve left the shop. “I thought you were poor.”

  “I am poor. I just happen to have some money tucked away that I vowed to use for a good cause.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Wednesday, February 2

  On our way to Dottie’s holiday sale at the Nickelodeon, Clamor, Joan and I spot five women drumming and chanting beside the Confederate statue on the Square. One of them is Raven Bright.

  “They were in the Grove this morning,” Joan says. “They’re Wiccans.”

  “Wiccan?”

  “Nature worshippers. Pagans. See the one in the middle?” Joan says. “She’s Blake’s old girlfriend, the one he’s so scared of.”

  “We've met. What are they doing?” I ask.

  “Celebrating Imbolc, the old Celtic feast of winter’s end,” Clamor says. “Also known as St. Brigid’s feast. Also known as Groundhog Day. Looks like fun.” Clamor crosses the street to join them.

  Joan and I amble on to the store, where Dottie is offering 25% off any artist or group named after an animal.

  “No Beatles?” I ask.

  “Insects aren’t animals.”

  But Dottie does have the Byrds, the Eagles, the Turtles, the Animals, the Monkees, the Yardbirds, T. Rex, Country Joe and the Fish, Buffalo Springfield, Steppenwolf, Three Dog Night, Howlin’ Wolf, Budgie, Joe Cocker, Cat Stevens, and a new group called Blue Oyster Cult.

  “Are mollusks animals?” Joan wonders.

  “Lord, I don’t know. I only know that insects aren’t. No Beatles. No Bee Gees. No Iron Butterfly.”

  “You missed one artist,” I point out.

  “Who?”

  “Buck Owens.”

  “No country, either, as you well know. You have to go to the five-and-dime if you want that kind of music.”

  The witches have attracted a small crowd by the time we leave the shop. They’ve found a spare drum for Clamor, who’s now thumping and chanting along with the others. Joan and I reach them in front of the courthouse at the same moment Deputy Hacker arrives to halt the celebration.

  “This is an unlawful assembly,” he announces. “You ladies are going to have to disperse.”

  “Unconstitutional abuse of power,” Raven Bright shouts. “This is a religious ceremony.”

  “This is a freak show,” Hacker replies.

  “If we were preaching the Gospel, or handing out Bibles, you wouldn’t interfere. Christian preachers hang out here all the time.”

  “That’s because this is a Christian town. If you want to act like pagans, you need to take it out to the woods. Don’t be bringing this crap into town, upsetting civilized folks.”

  Raven resumes her drumming, and the others join in. I wave to Clamor, try to catch her attention. Time to back away.

  Hacker stalks off to his squad car, contacts the station on his radio, and calls for back-up.

  “Not to worry,” I comment. “Claprood won’t let him do anything.”

  But the sheriff must be out of the office, because within a few minutes, two more squad cars have arrived, officers have seized the women and the drums, and all are forced into the back seats of the cars.

  Joan and I watch, helpless, as Clamor is hauled to jail with the witches.

  ~ ~ ~

  Thursday, February 3

  I’m at my desk in the Museum, reading Sheriff Claprood’s statement to the Oxford Eagle that yesterday’s arrests were appropriate, though unfortunate, and that the matter would now be settled by the court. Suddenly, Amy Madigan is standing before me, glowering.

  “I’ve come to remind you of your promise.”

  “Which promise is that?”

  “Never to mention that Claire Marie is related to me.”

  “Oh, that. I’d almost forgotten.”

  “The family is mortified. Imagine the scandal of having a relative with a criminal record. Unlawful assembly is a felony in this state, punishable up to two years in prison.”

  “Relax. This will all blow over, just like the Mickey Mouse Brigade.”

  “The what?”

  “Mickey Mouse Brigade. Don’t you remember? That time when a bunch of us got busted for hassling the Thursday afternoon ROTC practice, back in ’69?”

  “Of course. One of your finest hours. As I recall, you were lucky enough to have the case dismissed on a technicality, because the campus cops didn’t warn you to disperse before they arrested you. From what I’ve heard, Hacker gave them a chance to leave.”

  “Well, that’s true. That’s what he said. Still, this is the kind of case that makes the city look stupid. I can’t believe the sheriff and the mayor won’t find a way to dismiss the charges. Clamor’s bail was only $25, and she’s been given a lawyer by Rural Legal Services. Jenny Tyson. I know her. She’s good.”

  “Just remember your promise,” Amy reminds me on her way out.

  The Museum’s empty. Dr. Goodleigh is in class. I shut the doors after Amy leaves, sit zazen on my desk, locate my hara, and try to sense my etheric body, the way Clamor has been training me to do.

  At some indeterminate moment later, I sense another presence, and slowly draw my consciousness back and allow my eyes to open, expecting – hoping – to find Melissa beside me. Instead, I find an old man, bald head with a fringe of white hair hanging down, a brown suit, pale eyes blinking at me behind a pair of horn-rimmed glasses.

  “Dr. Linen, I presume,” I manage to say, before he vanishes.

  ~ ~ ~

  Friday, February 4

  Shops along the Square have their radios tuned to Memphis stations, keeping track of the approaching winter storm. Reports say we could get as much as a half a foot of snow overnight.

  I stop by Leslie’s Drugs for toothpaste, shampoo and soap, and find Cindy’s pretty friend Vicky at the register.

  “How’s the Tupperware business?” I ask.

  “I can scarcely keep up with the orders. It was my lucky day, meeting that man at your place. He’s put lots of his business associates in contact with me. They all place big orders, and they all pay cash. I just can’t imagine what they need so many Tupperware containers for.”

  The woman behind me in line interrupts our conversation. “Would you please hurry up? This is an emergency.”

  I step away from the counter and let her take my place. Her shopping basket is filled with aspirin, bandages, compresses, rubbing alcohol, antiseptics, Band Aids, tweezers. First aid supplies. She fidgets with exasperation as Vicky rings up each item.

  “Please hurry. I still have to get to the Jitney for canned food, candles and bottled water, and then to the gas station to fill up the car.”

  “Getting ready for the snowstorm, huh?” Vicky says. “Have you picked up your wolf repellent yet?”

  “Wolf repellent?” the customer asks, voice breaking.

  “Sure, hon. When it snows like this, those wolves come right down from the hills. Whole packs of ‘em. Been known to break into houses and eat the children.”

  “Lord have mercy!” she wails.

  “Christ have mercy,” I respond. Old reflex.

  “Where do I go for some?”

  “Right across the street, at Sneed’s Hardware. You tell the clerk you’re needing wolf repellent, and be sure to say I sent you.”

  We watch as the woman rushes out the door with
her emergency supplies.

  “That’ll give them a laugh,” Vicky says. “I hate it when customers try to rush me.”

  “Winter madness,” I say. “Happens in this town every year. Not a single snowflake has fallen yet, but four cars have already spun out of control on Jackson Avenue.”

  I pass the Nickelodeon on my way home and notice that Dottie is running a sale on Three Dog Night (again) and Edgar Winter.

  ~ ~ ~

  Saturday, February 5

  Just before the power goes out, we hear a radio report out of Memphis, where the airport has measured eight inches of snow. We seem to have gotten more than that here in Oxford. The ruler that we find among Andrew’s things measures a little over 10 inches in the front yard.

  Oxford is absolutely still. Every now and then, sounds of voices and chainsaws carry through the bright air from workers trying to clear downed tree limbs. But nobody is on the roads. The Square is deserted. Without electricity, nothing is open.

  The town is at a complete standstill, one that might last for days. But the Tyler Avenue group is a hardy band of adventurers. We trudge up and down North Lamar, admiring the snow on stately mansions, then take University Avenue all the way to campus. The Grove is thronged with students building snowmen, forming armies of snowball fighters, sledding on cardboard panels and trashcan lids.

  The boys on Fraternity Row are selling beer snow cones, vodka snow cones, whiskey snow cones, and gin snow cones. Bonfires are burning on the front lawns of every house. Artistically-inclined brothers have sculpted bare-breasted snow-women with magnificent, snowy thighs and buttocks.

  But the wind rises and begins to cut through our coats. And even though the sun is bright, our toes and our fingers are throbbing from the cold. We turn back to town, home to Tyler Avenue, with its gas space heaters and gas range and so many scented candles and Zig Zags that we’ve never taken an inventory.

  We heat cocoa on the stove, put a chicken in the oven, and as the sun goes down, we light candles and joints and settle, laughing, into an intimate darkness together, pillows and blankets brought down from upstairs rooms to fashion a warren for hippie hares. We talk, tell stories, get high, drink wine, eat our fill, and gradually drift off, one by one, each to his or her private dreams.

  Part 6. The Trial

  February 6 – 29, 1972

  Sunday, February 6

  “We found him out there a little after 4:00. He’d been working on it for hours. His fingers were nearly frostbitten.”

  Joan is whispering to me over coffee in the kitchen. Everyone else is still asleep, including our unexpected visitor – Nick, who’s now curled asleep beside Suzie near the fireplace in the parlor.

  From my vantage point at the kitchen table, I can see through the front windows into the yard, where Nick’s snow sculpture of Suzie with a child in her arms seems to glow faintly bluish in the shadow of the house.

  Nick had meant to build it and leave it as a surprise, but Cindy spotted him when she woke to use the bathroom. Suzie was awakened and went out to him. There in the yard they’d shared a hushed reunion and a sort of reconciliation, while the rest of us slept on.

  “He still loves her,” I say.

  “She still loves him,” Joan remarks. “But you have to wonder whether love’s enough between two people.”

  We are about to enter a philosophical consideration of love’s bitter mystery when we’re distracted by the sound of an engine outside, on the street that’s been hushed of all traffic for two days, the slamming of car doors, feet approaching on the walk.

  The door flies open without the knock we’d anticipated. James, in parka and scarf, stands framed in brightness, peering inside, with Andrew at his shoulder.

  The two step inside, dropping bundles of belongings and shaking off their winter wraps.

  “What the hell is going on here?” James demands, scanning the room of sleeping forms.

  Garrett sits up and stretches, shaking the sleep out of his hair. “We’ve set up a Salvation Army shelter. You can have a bowl of soup and a cot, but you have to listen to a sermon first.”

  Cindy wakes and leaps from the floor to hug Andrew. “How did you get here?” she asks, delight brimming in her voice. “All the roads are closed.”

  “Don’t I know it!” Andrew says. “We’ve been almost 20 hours on the way from Little Rock. James drove like a madman. I was certain we were all going to die at least five times.”

  “An unexpected pleasure to find you here,” James remarks to Joan.

  “I’ve been sleeping in your room since Christmas. I knew you wouldn’t mind.”

  “Who’s your friend?” I ask, spotting a young man who’s admiring Nick’s snow sculpture in the yard.

  “Bloke who helped us out of a jam in Wichita. We call him Alfalfa. He looks like the lad from the Little Rascals. He won’t tell us his real name. Says that people are after him, and we’re safer not knowing.”

  “People? Hell, he says the devil is after him,” James says.

  “That might indeed have been the devil we crossed paths with last night.” Andrew shrugs. “Who’s to say?”

  “Big rig jackknifed outside Senatobia,” James explains. “The driver flagged us down. We guessed he needed help. Then the motherfucker pulled a rifle on us! Alfalfa started shouting, ‘It’s him! It’s him!’ Grabbed the wheel from me, hit the accelerator, threw the car into a wild spin. Bastard had to jump out of the way to keep from getting flattened. We almost collided with the rig. It all happened so fast, I’m still not exactly sure how we escaped.”

  Cindy leads Andrew by the hand toward the kitchen. “Let’s find something for you to eat.”

  “I smell coffee,” Garrett says, signaling a general exodus to the kitchen.

  Joan squeezes my arm and flashes a look at me on her way out of the parlor. I stay behind, watching the newcomer in the front yard, who seems mesmerized by the sculpture of Suzie.

  ~ ~ ~

  Monday, February 7

  Power is being gradually restored to different sections of town and campus. The lights come up unexpectedly on Tyler late in the afternoon. I haven’t much missed electric lights, but it’s good to have music again.

  Everyone’s stereo is blaring, except for James’. He has the numbers station on the shortwave radio, with the weird Slavic-sounding woman repeating “6, 23, 17, 9, 11, 14” over and over again. Suzie has returned home with Nick, and Joan (alas) has joined them. No way for her to remain, with James back in town.

  That leaves us with Alfalfa, who’s bivouacked in the parlor for a visit of unspecified length. He’s watching a rerun of I Dream of Jeanie when I come downstairs after my shower. I attempt to engage him in conversation, out of politeness, but he’s a hard guy to talk to. He responds to friendly questions with serendipitous monologues of non-sequiturs and frequent uses of the expressions “heavy,” “far out,” and “woah, man!”

  The one thing that comes through clearly is that he’s terrified of the devil, who seems to be after him because Alfalfa knows the whereabouts of a certain object the devil wants. When I ask Alfalfa what that might be, his anxiety turns to palpable panic.

  I finally give up the effort, and turn my attention to today’s episode of Jeanie. It’s the one in which Jeanie gives her powers to Major Nelson but doesn’t tell him, with the result that everything Major Nelson says becomes literally true. He’s just turned Roger into a brick when James enters and casts his eyes around the room.

  “Where’s the goddamn phone?”

  “It ran away,” I tell him.

  “What?”

  “It was a warm day. Somebody accidentally left the door open, and when we came back, it was just gone. We called and called and called for it, and posted handbills all over the neighborhood. You know, lost phone, rotary dial, answers to the name of Blackie. Nobody could help. Really sad. Some nights I think I hear it ringing outside, but when I go to the door, the sound turns out to be all in my imagination.”

  “W
hat have you done, Medway?”

  “It was annoying me, so I threw it in a dumpster. We didn’t need it around here. Nobody really needs a phone. I mean, why do you need a machine just to talk to people?”

  “Yeah, man,” Alfalfa agrees, not advancing my cause, “why do you?”

  “I need that phone for business reasons. There will be consequences for what you’ve done.” James glowers at me. “I think you should start looking for a new place to crash,” he says, before storming back up the stairs.

  Alfalfa gives me a startled look. “Did he mean me?”

  “No,” I say. “me.”

  “Heavy!”

  ~ ~ ~

  Tuesday, February 8

  I’ve finally reached high ground, the east porch of the Lyceum, after a perilous crossing of the Loop, which like the Grove and various other spots around town and campus has been transformed into a shallow lake. I was able to manage only by taking my shoes and socks off, rolling my jeans up to my knees, and wading across barefoot. My teeth are chattering, my skin slightly bluish, by the time I arrive.

  Sometime during the night, the wind shifted to a southwesterly flow, pulling a warm front into the region and melting our 10-inch snow cover in less than six hours. With no place for so much water to go, Oxford’s been transformed to a post-glacial land of lakes.

  There may be three or four dozen of us marooned here. The doors to the Lyceum are locked, because the college is still officially closed, but a campus cop arrives to open the building, enabling us to pass through the west exit onto the less flooded ground around the library. From there, I’m able to reach Bondurant, where I find Dr. Goodleigh in the Museum, checking the safety of the Robinson collection.

  “Have you heard the news?” she asks as I come in. “The Flasher has already struck twice this morning.”

  “Neither snow nor sleet nor dark of night.”

  “You have to admire him,” she agrees. “He’s one intrepid little pervert. Speaking of intrepid, I hadn’t expected to see you here today.”

  “Cabin fever. I had to get out of the house. The walls were starting to close in.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Wednesday, February 9

  Ho inches the meat cleaver a centimeter closer to my jugular, threatening. Jimmy is appealing to her in impassioned Chinese, apparently striving to persuade her that even though I am just a worthless hippie, and my death would result in a general improvement to society at large, Sheriff Claprood would nevertheless feel obligated to pursue some kind of legal action if she were to murder me right here in the Rebel Buddha’s dining room.