Wasted Year: The Last Hippies of Ole Miss

by Douglas Gray

  She shakes her head. “The story’s not pornographic. I suppose some people would call it obscene, though it’s not really that, either. But it isn’t moral.”

  “What kind of crap is this, Amy? You’re the editor. You chose that story. You even bragged to me about how much it was going to shock everybody.”

  “I regret my earlier decision,” she says, a prim little frown of repentance tugging the corners of her mouth. “That was before I’d learned from Edward about the true moral purpose of literature.”

  “So this is really about Alcott, is it? We don’t wish to offend the delicate sensibilities of a hack novelist.”

  Amy turns stony cold. “Forget about the magazine,” she advises. “You and your friends can always get the money back by robbing a liquor store, or smuggling weapons, or white slavery, or whatever schemes you have going on. Just be happy as a failed writer, and leave literature to the talented, decent people of the world.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Wednesday, February 16

  “I remember the first time I set eyes on you,” Jenny reminisces. “Just a scared boy in a jail cell. I thought you were about the cutest thing I’d ever seen.”

  We’re in her tiny law office at Rural Legal Services, above Sneed’s Hardware.

  “The Mickey Mouse Brigade,” I agree. “Those were happy times.”

  “And now look at you – all grown up, with a lawsuit of your own. I couldn’t feel more proud!”

  “So you think you can help us with the magazine?”

  “I’ll file a complaint, but don’t expect anything to come of it. Dealing with the college is tough. Ole Miss administrators are ruthless. Worse than criminals. Worse than career politicians, if you can imagine that.”

  Over the Square the sky looms, darkening. A few drops of rain strike the window.

  “On the matter of Dr. Hirsch,” Jenny continues, “I have no advice to give, except maybe you should talk to the sheriff, if you’re friendly with him. I don’t know why Deputy Hacker would tell you what he did. It seems like an odd secret to divulge. But he’s not a terribly intelligent man.”

  “Garrett thinks the cops are over-confident because exhibitionism is a compulsion. They don’t care if Dr. Hirsch knows that they’re watching him, because he can’t stop himself from flashing coeds.”

  “I hope that Garrett is wrong. I’ve always liked Dr. Hirsch. He’s one of the few really decent people over there. And his restaurant serves the best fried wontons I’ve ever tasted. Have you eaten there yet?”

  “Haven’t been able to get in. The line’s always too long.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Thursday, February 17

  Dr. Giordano is insistent. There are two empty seats at his table. Andrew and I must join the discussion.

  At least Amy and Alcott aren’t here today. Blake is, though, and he appears to be drunk. Giordano and his students are debating Oswald Spengler’s typology of civilizations.

  Andrew seems amused by their passion. Blake yawns.

  A bearded graduate student with the greasiest hair at the table is especially loud. “Spengler’s concept of the Magian cultures is predicated on the Hellenistic misinterpretation of Zoroastrianism.”

  “Daniel, didn’t you say that’s the world’s funniest religion?” Andrew interjects. “Imagine, worshipping Zorro.”

  The philosophers fall silent, regarding Andrew with shock. Giordano turns to him with a look of rage.

  I suddenly realize that our sitting here is a terrible blunder.

  “You’re English,” Giordano says.

  “Yes. I’m from Bristol.”

  “The English are pigs.”

  Andrew blinks back in surprise. “We’re actually not, you know.”

  “I say you are. Barbarians. You may not paint your bodies blue anymore, but you’re still the tribe of savages my ancestors conquered twenty centuries ago.”

  “That’s not very polite,” Andrew objects. “Why would you say such a thing?”

  “He was held in a British prison camp during the war,” I mumble.

  “Well, I’m sorry for your misfortune. War is a terrible thing.”

  “A backward island of cruel, ignorant animals,” Giordano continues

  “Now, really.”

  “We should leave,” I suggest, shoving my chair back and rising from the table. “Before this gets ugly.”

  “I believe it’s already ugly.”

  “A nation of whores, cowards, cutthroats, perverts, syphilitics, arsonists, village idiots, homosexuals, lunatics, cretins, fumblers, pederasts, heretics, hemophiliacs, harlots, henotheists . . . .”

  “That doesn’t even make any sense.”

  “Mother rapers!” Blake adds, emerging from his stupor. “Father rapers! Father rapers sitting next to me on the Group W bench!”

  “. . . buggers, pissants, pyromaniacs, embezzlers, addicts, bastards, morons, cock-suckers, drunkards, churls, oafs, farts, buffoons, imbeciles, micturaters, bigots, bisexuals, assholes, scumbags, microphallic twits, ninnies, pantytappers, pansies, wankers . . . ,” Giordano pauses, running out of words. “And faggots!”

  “I do sleep with a woman, you know,” Andrew replies after a few seconds of silence at the table.

  “We should leave,” I repeat.

  Blake begins fumbling in the pocket of his overcoat and locates a flask, which he opens and lifts it in salute to Andrew. “Pay Dr. Giordano no mind, my man. That’s exactly what you’d expect a cuckold to say.”

  As the philosophers restrain Giordano, Andrew and I bundle Blake away from the table and through the cafeteria doors.

  “Hey, guys,” he objects. “I haven’t finished my lunch!”

  ~ ~ ~

  Friday, February 18

  The rain has fallen nonstop since Wednesday, and I’m standing out in it, soaked again. I’m also blinded by the flashlight beam somebody’s shining in my face.

  “What are you doing here, son?” a voice asks. It seems to be a familiar one.

  I block the glare with fingers over my eyes. The beam leaves my face, and a moment later I recognize Sheriff Claprood, in a slicker and hat. Rainwater pours from the brim, and his breath steams in the damp and the cold.

  I glance around to get my bearings and spot Kincannon Hall across the road. I’m on Jackson Avenue, a little west of the entrance to Rebel Drive. Claprood’s squad car is pulled onto the curb ten yards away, flashing its lights.

  “Why are you out on a night like this?” he asks.

  “I don’t know. I must have been sleepwalking again.”

  “Get in the car.”

  I walk ahead of him and stop at the back door, waiting for him to open it. Instead, Claprood passes by and climbs into the driver’s side. He glances back at me in confusion. “Front seat,” he says.

  “You’re not arresting me?”

  He shakes his head, sighs. “Being a nut case isn’t against the law, thank god. If it were, I’d have to lock up half this town.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Saturday, February 19

  James has fetched home a dozen or more cartons of food from the Rebel Buddha, by way of apology. His repentance seems heartfelt.

  “Everybody, give me a list of what that bastard Alfalfa took,” he says to us, “and I’ll make it up to you.”

  Alfalfa, it seems, has run off, stealing whatever he could fit in his backpack on his way out the door: Andrew’s watch, cash from Cindy, shirts and jeans from James, various bottles of pills from Garrett’s private stash. He rifled through my things, but apparently couldn’t find anything worth lifting.

  Clamor’s dropped by. Neither she nor I have been injured, but we’re still invited to share the bounty of James’ guilt over welcoming a thief into the house. Jenny was right – the Buddha’s wontons are excellent. Everything is. Ho may be insane, but she can really cook.

  James even remains downstairs to watch television, instead of his usual routine of listening to the numbers stations in his room. By 9:00, we’re all full, hi
gh, and mellow.

  “The Dr. Hunk show is on,” Cindy announces, changing the channel to ABC.

  “The what?”

  “The Sixth Sense,” Andrew explains. “About a psychic who solves crimes. Cindy is infatuated with the actor.”

  “Oh, my god,” Clamor says when she sees the star. “He’s gorgeous.”

  “That’s Gary Collins,” Garrett says. “He’s married to Mary Ann Mobley.”

  “Lucky Mary Ann,” Cindy purrs.

  “I’d do him anywhere,” Clamor agrees.

  “Ladies, please – a bit of decorum,” Andrew cautions.

  The goddamn telephone rings. James answers it. The rest of us, especially the girls, are glued to the set, but I still overhear James’ side of the conversation.

  “Hello? Ah, yeah. Sure. Wait a second – who is this?” He listens to the answer and passes the receiver to Garrett. “For you,” he says, and storms from the room. “Enjoy your mindless entertainment, everybody,” he calls over his shoulder.

  Garrett speaks a few sentences into the receiver. “Let me call back later,” he concludes, and hangs up.

  “What?” I ask.

  “That was Rose. She’s drunk, forgot that James is back.”

  “Oh, shit.”

  “Shit, indeed.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Sunday, February 20

  “I misjudged you,” Keith says.

  “Happens all the time,” I reassure him.

  Outside, the rain continues. I’ve spent most of today in the library, but it’s just closed, so I’ve stopped by the Grill for a microwaved cheeseburger from the vending machine, to fortify me for the wet trip home. This is where my path crosses with Becky’s self-appointed protector.

  “I believed you to be a man of honor. You have proven me wrong.”

  “This will come as a shock,” I say, “but my membership in the Federation of Young Southern Gentlemen lapsed some time ago.”

  “You’ve persuaded Rebecca that immorality is good if it claims to be art. Now she plans to help circulate a petition for the release of your obscene magazine. The family is most distraught. I, of course, will not allow her to do anything of the sort.”

  I can’t help laughing.

  “Do not misjudge me,” Keith answers. “I possess the means to stop you, if I must. You stand warned.”

  My cheeseburger has finally cooled sufficiently from the microwave that I can pick it up. “Okay, I stand warned. Now I mean to sit down.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Monday, February 21

  One item awaits me in campus mail when I arrive at the museum. It’s a one-sentence, handwritten note from Dr. French. “Report to my office immediately.”

  “I’m not going back out in that rain,” I say to Dr. Goodleigh. “Maybe tomorrow.”

  “What do you suppose French wants to see you about?”

  “He’s probably annoyed about the legal complaint I filed.”

  “What complaint?”

  “I haven’t mentioned it because I didn’t expect it to amount to anything.”

  “Tell me about it now.”

  So I fill her in about Barefoot and the trick we pulled on Mr. Patrick and the impounding of the magazine and the complaint that Jenny filed against the Lyceum, and when I’ve finished, she advises me to brave the rain.

  “Go see what Dr. French wants, and then come right back. In the meantime, I need to make a few calls.”

  When I arrive at the third floor of Bishop Hall, Mrs. Walcott, the English department secretary, gives me a baleful look and a nod of her head toward the chairman’s open office door.

  “Don’t take a seat,” Dr. French advises as I knock and enter. “You’re not going to be here that long. I understand that you’ve filed a legal action for the release of your student magazine.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You will withdraw that action, and write letters of apology to the Chancellor and to the Dean.”

  “Ah . . . .”

  “That’s an order, Medway. Do it, or I’ll cancel your assistantship.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. You can’t do that.”

  “I can, and I shall. You, of course, may appeal to our graduate committee, but they will support my decision.”

  “That’s not what I mean. I agree, you have the authority. You just don’t have authority over me.”

  French cocks an eyebrow in reply.

  “I’m not in your department,” I explain.

  “You’re not?”

  “No, sir.”

  “There must be some kind of mistake. I thought you were. What department are you in, then?”

  “Classics.”

  “And your chair is . . . ?”

  “Dr. Sutherland.”

  “Very well,” French concludes, returning his attention to the paperwork on his desk. “I’ll instruct Sutherland to fire you. That will be all.”

  Dr. Sutherland arrives at the Museum ten minutes after I’ve returned, in bad temper.

  “Do you know what that pompous prick French said?” he erupts, as Dr. Goodleigh closes the doors against the curious heads poking from doorways along the hall. “He ordered me – ordered me – to fire Medway. Somebody better explain what in the hell is going on.”

  So I explain, for the second time today.

  “The AAUP is interested, if Harold agrees to add his name as a plaintiff. And I’ve left a call with the ACLU office in Memphis,” Dr. Goodleigh adds, once I’m done.

  “I don’t mean to cause trouble. It’s not that big of a deal. If you want me to drop the suit, I will.”

  Sutherland wheels on me, flushed. “Drop it? Hell no, you’re not going to drop it! Sue that bastard!”

  ~ ~ ~

  Tuesday, February 22

  “Depressed?” Dr. Valencia asks. “Why are you depressed?”

  “Because it hasn’t stopped raining for a week,” I explain.

  “So? Are you a farmer? Do you have crops you need to plant?”

  “No.”

  “You must run a resort, then, and the rain is driving your customers away.”

  “No.”

  “You work outside, in construction?”

  “No.”

  “So, your livelihood, your work, your income, is not dependent on fair weather at all, is it? You’re a student. You read ancient Greek history and help run a museum. You don’t really have any reason to go outside at all.”

  “I suppose not.”

  “Then your depression is illogical. You have no rational basis for allowing external atmospheric conditions to affect your emotions, do you?”

  “But aren’t emotions supposed to be illogical?”

  “Tell me again about how you died.”

  “Again? Nice try. I never told you the first time.”

  We stare at each other. It’s what we seem to spend most of these sessions doing.

  “C’mon,” I finally say. “Just put me on the damn machine.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Wednesday, February 23

  Amy stumbles backward, disarranging a row of books with her elbow as she pulls away from me, while simultaneously pulling me back toward her with the other hand. I follow, and find her mouth again.

  We’re on the third floor of the library, in the modern British poetry section, two rows down from the ghost that always seems to be selecting a book from the Old English collection. We’ve encountered one another here by chance, Amy for once without her entourage. We’ve sparred, as always, over the magazine, over that idiot Alcott, over Clamor’s hopes for acquittal at next week’s trial.

  And then, suddenly . . . this.

  Amy’s body is so much warmer, and softer, than I ever imagined she could be. The kiss sends a jolt from my shoulders down my spine, into the small of my back. She makes a small cry in her throat, and pushes me back again, this time without pulling me back in.

  I slouch against the opposite bookshelf. Amy’s hands dance in front of her face, as if she’s planning to wipe her mouth bu
t too stunned to actually reach a decision to act. Her eyes are wide, wild. A blush flushes across her cheeks. All the wind has gone out of me. I’m having to pant to get it back. She stares at me in horror.

  “This never happened,” she warns, and flees down the central aisle toward the narrow stairway that leads to the circulation desk.

  The sky is pouring when I step outside, winds lashing the rain against the Lyceum. The storm sewers are overwhelmed. Half the campus is flooded again. I turn my steps back to Bondurant, weak-kneed, and try to navigate a dry course to the Museum.

  ~ ~ ~

  Thursday, February 24

  The “Acquit the Witches” rally, originally scheduled for noon in the Grove, has relocated – because of the rain – to the rotunda of Bryant Hall, at the invitation of the Art Department, whose faculty and chair have held firm in solidarity with Dr. Evans, and now with the witches.

  “Isn’t it interesting,” Blake remarks, as he, Joan and I stand in the gallery watching his former lover and her coven chant to drum below us, “how the whole campus seems to be dividing up between Cavaliers and Roundheads. Your department, Art, Physics, Sociology, Math and some others on the side of the Cavaliers. My department, English, Journalism, Modern Languages acting like Roundheads. It’s like the English Civil War, repeating itself.”

  “Ole Miss has always wanted to reenact the civil war. But I doubt that’s the one they have in mind.”

  The rotunda is thronged, supporters with signs calling for the witches’ acquittal, hecklers with posters of Bible verses (Exodus 22:18 being one of the favorites), and the usual batch of campus ministers trying to drown out the chanting and the drumming with their voices.

  In the midst of the crowd I spot one sign out of place, being heroically carried forward by a tiny blonde girl. It reads “Release Barefoot!”

  Becky. I watch her with a little stab of guilt over the memory of how sweet Amy tasted yesterday. That mustn’t happen again. But another figure is now muscling his way forward. Keith again. In less than half a minute, he’s standing directly behind her. He snatches the sign from her hands, rips it and dashes it to the floor.

  She wheels to confront him. Keith tries to intimidate her, looming above her like a bear, but she refuses to cower. They shout at each other, the words unclear over the din of the crowd. She turns to move even further toward the center and shakes his hand from her shoulder as he tries to restrain her.

  Joan has been watching, too. “Isn’t that your friend?” she asks. “She adorable. So fierce, like a little fyce dog.”