Wasted Year: The Last Hippies of Ole Miss

by Douglas Gray

  Besides which, news of the carnage would be bad for business.

  It’s probably the latter argument that sways her. Ho brandishes the meat cleaver, slicing the air with a cackle before lowering it and returning to the kitchen.

  “Woah, man,” Alfalfa says. “Heavy.”

  Preparations for the Buddha’s grand opening are coming along nicely. Eight tables and three booths in the dining room, seating for up to 40 customers on comfortable chairs upholstered in deep red fabric on the seats and backs, dark wood and subdued lighting. Chinese ideograms for “hope” and “joy” and other pleasantries decorate the walls. And in the immaculate kitchen, dazzling with new enamel and stainless steel equipment, the restaurant’s secret to a profitable future: the drive-through window, retained from the building’s previous use as a savings and loan.

  “The real reason we chose this spot,” Jimmy affirms. “Students, cheap food, carryouts. Everybody wins.”

  A haze has been hanging over the town all day, brought on by the snow melt, the flooding, and a stalled warm front. We leave the restaurant a little after 9:00, discovering outside that the cooler night air has produced a fog with the consistency of watery grits. We stumble along the sidewalk down University Avenue, not able to see more than a yard or so in front of us.

  Alfalfa is trying to talk about something that happened with James and Andrew on the road. It begins with an unattended van filled with Hostess Twinkies, moves on to a woman in a bar with a tattoo of the Liberty Bell on her left bicep, then jumps to a Thanksgiving dinner he remembers from when he was eight and living on a farm in Minnesota, the siege of Leningrad, the break up of the Beatles, the bouncing ball on the old Sing Along with Mitch show, and a box of animal crackers he ate once while walking – “actually walking, man, can you believe it?” – down Duvall Street in Key West, from the coast of the Atlantic Ocean to the coast of the Gulf of Mexico. “That was so far out. I mean it, man.”

  Between trying to concentrate on Alfalfa’s rambling narrative and navigate my footing through the fog, I don’t notice the sound of an engine idling along S. 5th Street, nor do I spot the curb and the end of the sidewalk before I’ve stepped into the middle of the street itself.

  I’m suddenly blinded by the headlights of a car that lunges forward with a squeal of rubber and spins me down onto the pavement as it grazes my legs on its way past, taking a right onto University and vanishing back into the fog.

  Alfalfa is quick enough tug me by the collar of my jacket as I stumble out of the car’s path, which likely prevents me from suffering a more painful fall, but not much else. But he’s pleased by his heroics.

  “Man, I like saved your life! Didn’t I?”

  “Did you get a good look at it?”

  “Not too good. Big car. Maybe a Caddy.”

  “Yeah, I figured.”

  “It was a blonde chick behind the wheel, man. I could see her, because she had the inside light turned on. Almost like she wanted to be seen, you know, man?”

  “A woman?”

  “Yeah, but a really ugly one.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Thursday, February 10

  Bishop Hall Auditorium is already packed by the time Dr. Goodleigh and I arrive for Edward Alcott’s first public lecture as writer-in-residence. An undergrad, out of courtesy, offers his seat to Dr. Goodleigh, but I remain standing in the west aisle, and from this vantage I spot various acquaintances, including Amy Madigan in the front row. She’s fidgeting in her chair as if this were another pep rally, and she eager for the cheering to commence.

  I’ve just spotted Little Becky with her perpetual escort Keith when Blake enters and blinks in apparent confusion over the crowded room. He seems to be unsteady on his feet as he climbs the aisle steps and slouches against the wall alongside me, with a somewhat sickly grin of greeting. I catch a whiff of the alcohol cloud enveloping him just as Alcott steps onto the stage with Dr. French

  French minces his way through a pedantic introduction and retires shyly offstage as Alcott takes the podium to wild applause. His lecture, titled “The Failure of Morality in Modern Literature,” lasts a little over half an hour but manages, in that modest space of time, to convey his loathing of almost every other living writer -- including Vonnegut, Nabokov, Pynchon, Gass, Barth, Coover and Brautigan, among a half dozen others -- for their failure to depict characters and behavior worthy of emulation by the common reader.

  After being whipped into an anti-intellectual frenzy, the audience erupts in a Philistine orgasm as he finishes. Amy is the first to leap to her feet in standing ovation.

  Dr. French returns to the stage to dampen the spirits of the crowd, as only he can, and opens the floor to questions. Mr. Duck is the first to be recognized. He’s dressed up for the occasion. Wearing a natty tweed suit coat and a bow tie, he could easily be mistaken for an old professor.

  “You seem to be suggesting that all the moral authors are dead,” Mr. Duck says. “Can you name a living writer you admire?”

  “Alexander Solzhenitsyn,” Alcott replies.

  “Sure, I’ve read him. There’s no doubt Solzhenitsyn’s a terrific propagandist. But do you really call his books great literature?”

  “He received last year’s Nobel Prize.”

  “Which is a political award,” Mr. Duck replies.

  Alcott flushes. “Would you say your own William Faulkner received the Nobel simply because of his politics? Or because his novels ennoble the human spirit with their ideals of morality?”

  “No, no,” Mr. Duck demurs. “Faulkner was a true artist. Unlike Solzhenitsyn. But he certainly wrote better than he lived. Quite a few of us here in this room had personal dealings with the man. A paragon of morality he was not.”

  Dr. French seizes the microphone to silence this heresy, and manages to navigate the next ten minutes through a series of fawning questions from select graduate students, before committing the stunning blunder of recognizing Blake, who’s been waving his arm frantically.

  “Yes, the young man in the back, up in the aisle. Yes, you,” French says, pointing in our direction.

  The audience hushes as Blake steps forward. He stumbles momentarily, but I take his arm to steady him. “Sir, could you explain how your own novels – especially your works on World War II and Korea – ‘ennoble the human spirit’?”

  Alcott puffs up like a pair of sleeves on a debutante’s ball gown at this question. It’s an easy one. “My novels are written to extol the classic virtues of manliness, patriotism, sacrifice, loyalty to a cause greater than the self. In short, the true essence of American character in the past century, which has been betrayed by the shallow cynicism and relativism of the past two decades.”

  “Or,” Blake interjects, raising a finger in the air in a gesture of erudition, “one might say that your books extol the virtues of imperialism, jingoism, blind obedience to corrupt authority, and the exploitation of human lives in the service of capitalism. That’s the conspiracy of the American ruling class, which your novels glorify.”

  Blake is drowned out by howls of protest, booing and catcalls, with a few pockets of applause from the freaks in the room.

  Alcott subdues the protests eventually by repeating “If I may respond…. If I may respond…,” in the microphone. “You, sir,” he intones, once he’s called for quiet, “are an arrogant little twit.”

  Applause, applause, applause, applause.

  Blake faces the derision calmly, refusing to slink away in the face of so much animosity. The crowd grows uneasily silent as he holds his position, still prepared to speak.

  “You, sir,” Blake replies, clearly and distinctly across the auditorium, “are an asshole.”

  With that, I grab Blake by the arm and lead him as quick as I can down the steps and out the side door. I steer him across the second-floor lobby and out the glass doors, into the cold and down the steps, back toward Bondurant.

  Blake is laughing the whole way. He tugs on my sleeve. “Hey, man, let’s go find someth
ing to drink!”

  ~ ~ ~

  Friday, February 11

  “What do you mean, you don’t want to talk about it?” Dr. Valencia asks.

  “I mean, I don’t want to talk about it.”

  He taps the capped end of his fountain tip pen against his note pad. “You don’t seem to grasp the purpose of therapy. You’re here to talk. I ask questions, and you answer them. You can’t refuse to answer.”

  “I can. I’m not going to talk about that.”

  “The fact that you refuse to discuss it means that we must discuss it. It might be the key to your inner conflict.”

  “It isn’t. Believe me.”

  “I don’t believe you. How can the fact that you died last year not be an issue?”

  We stare at each other.

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” I repeat.

  We stare some more.

  “Look,” I finally say, “why don’t you just go ahead and put me on your Commie brain-zapping machine, man? You know you want to.”

  “Let me remind you that I’m the doctor here. I’m in charge, and we’re going to talk about it.”

  “We’re not,” I assure him.

  ~ ~ ~

  Saturday, February 12

  Crowded as Grundy’s normally is on a Saturday market day, Clamor and I manage to find seats at the table with Joan and Blake. The Nickelodeon is commemorating Lincoln’s birthday with a 25% off sale on all artists with beards. Clamor has a copy of Fleetwood Mac’s latest. She’s reading the liner notes while she eats her fried chicken.

  “How are you holding up now that the boys have returned?” Joan asks.

  “I knew they’d come back eventually,” I answer.

  “I know you and Cindy say you’re just friends. But you must miss sleeping with her. I know I would, if I were a man.”

  Blake is fiddling with his plate, stabbing random pieces of Salisbury steak with a knife, seeming to be still a little drunk, though considerably more sober than when I last saw him Thursday, on the downward slope of a bender. But Clamor picks up her ears at Joan’s remark.

  “You did it with Cindy?”

  I put a finger to my lips. “Please, no rumors. We don’t want Andrew to know.”

  “Why not? It’s his fault for leaving her, months at a time. A girl’s got to get it when and where she can. I, for one, am angling to get laid a time or two before the court ships me off to prison.”

  “Nobody’s going to prison,” I say. “Jenny says you have an easy case.”

  “I’ll thank you for not spreading that information around. If everybody knows, you’ll ruin my perfectly good pickup line. ‘Honey, I’m going to prison tomorrow. This will be my last chance.’ Guys have been using it for centuries.”

  “When is the trial?” Joan asks.

  “The 29th. Leap Day.”

  “Get to the court early,” I advise. “Jenny says it’s going to be a circus.”

  “Jenny says. Jenny says. How is it that you know my lawyer so well?”

  “We dated a little, back in ’69.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Sunday, February 13

  “I see you’ve gotten another phone,” I say to James. He’s in his room, alone, with the numbers station on in the background. Everyone else is downstairs watching Bonanza.

  “You owe me $75,” he replies. “I lied to the phone company, reported it as stolen. That’s the charge for replacing equipment.”

  “Put it on my bill, right beside all the credits I’ve chalked up from getting hassled by your associates while you were away.”

  James gives me a cold stare in answer.

  “I didn’t come here to talk about that. Something happened while you were on the road, something you should know about.”

  “What?”

  “Tamburlaine came by to see you.”

  “Very funny.” James turns away, to adjust the tuning on his shortwave.

  “It’s not a joke. He was here. He wants you to stop looking for him. He’s not what you think. He’s not what any of you think. He’s nobody special, just a guy that a lot of rumors got attached to. Now everybody’s looking for him – the FBI and the CIA and the NSA, and the Weathermen, and the Black Panthers, and god knows who else. The Vatican, maybe. He’s constantly having to run away from all of them. He just wants to be left alone. Do you know who he really is? Just a theater student up at Macalester who made a speech one night in ’68 . . . .”

  “Shut up!” James barks. Loud. I can smell his breath, faintly fishy from anchovies on tonight’s pizza.

  “What?”

  James is on his feet, fists shaking. “Shut your goddamn mouth. Now! I’m warning you.”

  “I’m just trying . . . .”

  “Shut up! Who the fuck do you think you are, telling me about Tamburlaine?”

  “I’m just trying to explain . . . .”

  “No, I’m going to explain! You’re going to shut your goddamn mouth and listen. Everybody’s heard the Macalester story, and it’s a goddamn lie. Everybody knows it’s a lie. While I’m away, some FBI stooge shows up and repeats it, claiming to be Tamburlaine himself, and has you spreading the lie even further. You’re so goddamn dense, so goddamn stupid, you don’t deserve to live. Get out of my room! Get out of my house!”

  I stumble into Alfalfa in the dark hall on my way out. What’s he doing here?

  “Couldn’t help overhearing, man,” he says. “Heavy!”

  ~ ~ ~

  Monday, February 14

  “What did you think was going to happen?” Garrett asks me.

  I’m helping him close shop after Ohm’s Valentine Day sale, mostly candy and flavored papers for that special someone in every hippie’s life.

  “Did you really think James was going to thank you for disabusing him of his most cherished belief? He lives for Tamburlaine. It’s what gives his life purpose.”

  “I thought he’d be glad to hear the truth.”

  “James is right: you truly are too dumb to live. Nobody wants to hear the truth. Not even you or me, though we fancy ourselves tough enough to handle it. Here,” he adds, passing me a Déesse bar. “On the house. We have plenty.”

  “No thanks. I have trouble eating chocolate bunnies at Easter. I’m not going to take a bite into some girl I’m pretty sure I know. Are you on your way to see Rose?”

  “Nothing says loving like a dime bag,” Garrett answers, flashing the baggie from his coat pocket. “She wants to get the house high, give the girls a Valentines Day they’ll never forget – or probably definitely will forget.”

  I hitch a ride with him back to campus. “Someday, you’re going to have to tell me how you got this thing,” I say, clambering into the VW bus.

  “Someday, I definitely won’t. Let’s swing by the Buddha on the way. I’ll bet Dr. Hirsch will be glad for some business tonight.”

  But as we approach the stop light at the intersection of Lamar and University, we discover lines of cars idling at all four corners. A genuine Oxford traffic jam, something that happens only on football Saturdays. Cops with flashlights are wandering through the exhaust fumes, trying to unsnarl the mess.

  “Jump out, and see if you can tell what’s happening,” Garrett directs.

  I find Deputy Hacker at the corner, exchange a few words with him, and return to the bus.

  “It’s the restaurant’s opening,” I report. “There’s a line of 100 people waiting to get in. This is just the backup from the drive-through lane.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned!” Garrett slaps the wheel, delighted. “Success! Hirsch’s restaurant is a success! What’s wrong, man? You don’t look happy.”

  “Hacker told me something else,” I report. “Something not so good.”

  “What?”

  “He said we should enjoy it while we can, before Hirsch goes to jail.”

  “To jail? What for?”

  “He wouldn’t say, but claimed I should already know.”

  Garrett and I exchange a glance throu
gh the headlight beams shining through the VW’s windows. We’re confronting something neither of us wishes to admit.

  “Hirsch is the Flasher,” Garrett finally says.

  “I know.”

  “Shit.”

  “Shit indeed.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Tuesday, February 15

  “You can’t have it,” Mr. Patrick tells me.

  We’ve arrived, on schedule, at the print shop to pick up Barefoot.

  “You said it would be ready today,” Becky says.

  “Oh, it’s ready, Miss. But you can’t have it. That magazine’s been impounded. Order of the administration. The college doesn’t allow us to publish pornography.”

  “What?” I say. “There’s no pornography in it.”

  “Tell that to Mrs. Enger. Poor thing nearly fainted while she was setting the type. I had to send her home for the afternoon.”

  “You’re really not going to release it?”

  “I can’t. Nothing personal, boy. The Dean himself gave the order.”

  “All right, then. We’ll take it off campus. Just give me back the typescripts and the money.”

  “Can’t do that, either. All the materials have been impounded.”

  “But I paid you $322. You need to refund that money, or give me the magazine.”

  “You’re not grasping the situation,” Mr. Patrick says, annoyed. “The money’s been spent printing the magazine. The magazine’s been impounded. You get nothing. You need to complain to somebody else.”

  “Do you know what he’s talking about?” I ask Becky as we leave the shop. (My heavens, she looks cute today, in a pink sweater, with her hair loose around her shoulders. It’s grown since we first met.)

  “It’s probably that story by Jerome Baker.”

  “What story?”

  “You know, the science fiction piece he wrote.”

  “I didn’t review any of the stories. That was Amy’s territory.”

  “You should have read that one.”

  “Is it really pornographic?”

  “I’m not really familiar with pornography,” she says, a hint of a blush on her cheek matching her sweater. “You’d need to read it for yourself.”

  I turn my steps to Bishop Hall and find Amy holding office hours at Dr. Evans’ desk. “You need a pipe,” I suggest, “to complete the effect.”

  Amy glares at me. “What have you done?” she accuses.

  “I paid to have Barefoot printed, with my own cash. I had no idea you’d included a pornographic short story. Weren’t you worried about getting busted for moral turpitude?”