Wasted Year: The Last Hippies of Ole Miss

by Douglas Gray

  She smiles. We hold hands. I bow my head, close my eyes, and – for the first time since 1967 – pray.

  ~ ~ ~

  Wednesday, March 15

  “So you believe this man – Skoll – broke in to gather information on you, to carry back to your father,” Dr. Valencia says. “Is that right?”

  “It sounds paranoid,” I admit.

  “You and your father haven’t spoken or communicated directly in over four years. Why would he suddenly take an interest in your business now?”

  “His current wife is expecting,” I report.

  “Your step-mother.”

  “Actually, she’s only a few years older than me. A former Miss Hattiesburg. The old man’s took a fancy to her. He came, he saw, he conquered. And now he’s knocked her up.”

  “I don’t see the relevance to Skoll breaking into your house.”

  “The old man wants something from me.”

  “What?”

  “He wants my name. If the new child is a boy, he’ll want to name the little bastard after himself, like he was foolish enough to do with me. He can’t have his way unless I agree to change my name, legally.”

  “I don’t understand. Why?”

  “You’re not from around here,” I say to Dr. Valencia. “I’m not just Daniel Medway. I’m Jason Daniel Medway, the fifth. My real first name is ‘Jason,’ after my father, but I stopped using it the day I left Pass Christian. I’m victim of this idiotic southern tradition of passing names on from generation to generation, forced to be the fifth in a line of sons of bitches.

  “My revenge has been to disgrace my forebears by becoming a hippie. My father wants to redeem the family honor by siring a worthier male heir. He’s already offered me – through Skoll – $20,000 to change my name legally. I turned that down. So, if money won’t work, Skoll is hoping to find something from my private life to use as leverage.”

  “But you’re committed to holding onto your name.”

  “Hell, no. Who cares? It’s a stupid name anyway. But if my father wants me to surrender it, I’ll hold onto it for dear life.”

  Valencia thinks he has me pegged this time. Maybe he has.

  “Has it occurred to you that all of your various conflicts stem from father issues? Rebellion against male authority figures may be the defining component of your personality. Without it, you’d be a very different person.”

  “How so?”

  “You’d never become a hippie. You just said so yourself. I believe you’d be a Young Republican. I can see it clearly: you with a crew cut, narrow tie, polished wingtips, young debutante wife that you take to Baptist services every Sunday morning and Wednesday evening, Nixon bumper sticker on your Buick saying ‘Four More Years.’ At heart, you’re really a very traditional, conservative young man.”

  “That’s the most depressing thing I’ve ever heard,” I say.

  ~ ~ ~

  Thursday, March 16

  It’s almost 11:15, and Blake has decided to knock off for the night. He sloshes three more fingers of vodka into his favorite Flintstones glass and sets side 2 of Disraeli Gears on the stereo as I type out the last pages of my research paper on Herodotus’ treatment of the Scythians.

  Cream is part way through “Outside Woman” by the time I’m done. Blake has the volume set all the way up. I’m fixing myself a night cap of Jim Beam as “Mother’s Lament” begins, and think I hear somebody knocking at the door. Likely Duck or the Widow, come to complain about the noise.

  But as the last cut of the album ends and the automatic arm lifts the needle from the disk, I realize in the sudden silence that the knocking is coming from the back of the trailer, in Blake’s room, and not from the front door.

  “Shit,” Blake says. “Not again.”

  I follow him down the hallway to his bedroom and the source of the sound.

  “TAP. TAP. TAP TAP TAP. TAP. TAP TAP TAP TAP. TAP. TAP.”

  It’s coming from his closet, something rapping against the door from inside.

  “What do you have in there?” I ask.

  “Open it,” Blake offers. “See for yourself.”

  I hesitate. Who knows what’s going to jump out at me. A raccoon, maybe, accidentally trapped in there. When I don’t move, Blake shrugs and slides the door open, quick. I jump back, a reflex.

  But there’s nothing inside. Just a couple of pairs of shoes on the floor, and a row of Blake’s shirts and slacks draped on metal hangers.

  “What the hell?” I say.

  Blake lets me gape for a few seconds, then smoothly rolls the door shut again. “Wait,” he says.

  I do, for maybe a full minute or longer. The sound returns.

  “TAP TAP TAP. TAP. TAP.”

  “The witch?” I ask.

  “I’ve been telling everybody about her sending demons to harass me,” Blake complains. “Now maybe you’ll start to believe me. No point in trying to get any sleep tonight,” he goes on as he leads me back to the kitchen. “She can keep this up for hours.”

  But another surprise awaits as we exit the hallway. There at the kitchen table, all of the work we’ve accomplished this evening — my Herodotus report, and Blake’s latest chapter of his dissertation — have been picked up and scattered across the room by some unseen hand. It’s a mess.

  “Goddamn it,” Blake says as we begin to pick them up and sort them back into order, “that’s just mean. She’s really pushing me now, messing with my work. I . . . .” He halts, mid-word, having spotted something else amiss. “My drink!” he cries. “Bitch stole my drink!”

  I notice that mine’s untouched, and that the bottle of Stolichnaya is still sitting on the counter.

  I attempt to console him. “You can always pour another.”

  But Blake turns to me with a tragic expression. “You don’t understand,” he moans. “It’s not about the vodka. It’s the glass. My Flintstones glass. I love that glass, and she knows it. Now it’s gone for good!”

  ~ ~ ~

  Friday, March 17

  “I couldn’t think of a single good sales promotion for St. Patrick’s Day,” Dottie laments, accepting a refill on her Screwdriver from Mrs. Giordano. “I’m lost without Ho. She always had such clever ideas.”

  “Ho?” I politely shake my head when offered another shot of Jim Beam.

  “A marketing genius. She ought to be working on Madison Avenue.”

  “It’s a mystery to me how you ever managed to communicate with her.”

  “Sisters under the skin,” Dottie says. “Language was never a barrier, though it surprised me to feel such an affinity for a poor heathen.”

  Dr. Evans’ home is packed tonight. It’s more than a St. Patrick’s party. Dr. Giordano has reportedly agreed to a settlement. The divorce is underway, lifting the cloud of disgrace from the adulterous couple, who now will soon be returned to the ranks of polite society.

  Not that Dr. Evans or his soon-to-be bride cares about any of that, but quite a few of the guests tonight seem to. I spot faces in the crowd who wouldn’t have entered this household of sin even a month ago.

  Including, I’m surprised to discover, Amy Madigan. She’s leaning against a cupboard in the narrow pantry between Evans’ kitchen and dining room, drinking alone, somehow detached from the crowd around her.

  I manage to sidle beside her, through the crush of cigarette smoke and liquored breath. “Lieutenant!” I say. “You’ve managed to slip behind enemy lines. Is Dr. French waiting for a full report?”

  She gives me her patented look of exasperated condescension. “I was invited. It would have been impolite to decline. Despite our current differences, Harold and I are fast friends. He’s fundamentally a decent, principled man.” Her eyes narrow to tiny dark points. “You, on the other hand, are an unruly child.”

  She cocks her head, and stumbles slightly against the cupboard. I realize she’s drunk. Not a little drunk, either. Very drunk.

  “A failed poet,” she continues. “A drug addict. A beanpole prete
nding to be human. An urchin who ought to be shining shoes for pennies on the Square. An ectomorphic clown. You’re no kind of man at all.”

  She glances at the glass in her hand, scowls to discover it empty, and turns away from me.

  “And I’m ashamed of myself for ever having wanted you,” she adds, in a mutter I just barely catch over the babble of conversation around us. She shambles off into the kitchen.

  I start to follow, but halt upon feeling somebody’s stern gaze burrowing into the back of my head. I turn about and find Dr. Goodleigh.

  “You should ask that cute little hand puppet out,” she advises. “Or not. It’s your own business. But whatever you do, stay away from that one.” She nods into the space that Amy just vacated. “She’s nothing but trouble.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Saturday, March 18

  Garrett’s VW bus has almost no shocks left, and Highway 55 is even worse than I remember it. It’s a bumpy ride down to Jackson, and rain pours the whole way, but we’re snug and happy enough inside, despite the occasional teeth-grinding thud whenever Garrett can’t avoid a pot hole.

  Clamor’s tagged along and packed a few joints for the road, one of which she’s just lit and offered to Becky, who’s sitting behind her in the back. I start to object – no use introducing her to our bad habits – but Becky’s already accepted it and taken a toke like an expert before I can say anything.

  She must notice my surprise. “What?” she says. “I’ve had grass before. I smoked all the time in high school. I’m not as innocent as I look, you know.”

  “Nobody could be as innocent as you look!” Clamor says.

  “Welcome to the most depressing city in the south,” Garrett announces as we pass a road sign marking the Jackson city limits.

  “Besides Montgomery,” I say.

  “Besides Birmingham,” Clamor says.

  “Besides Shreveport,” Becky says.

  Highway 55 dumps us off at State Street, just north of Millsaps College. Our rendezvous is in a run-down house on Pine, where the writers for Uncle Bedford have set up their own commune.

  Jim Ratliff, Don Pendergast and Jane Acton greet the four of us at the door and usher us into a shabby living room. Once inside, we suddenly turn shy, tongue-tied – even Garrett. After all, it’s not every day you get to meet three living legends of the Revolution, the persecuted founders and editors of Mississippi’s one and only underground newspaper.

  Ratliff is the most outgoing of the group. Pendergast is notoriously aloof. And Jane Acton is the most unlikely southern belle Natchez has ever produced.

  Ratliff focuses his entire attention on Garrett. “I’ve always wanted to meet you, man. I’m your biggest fan. I mean it. The shit you got away with at the Daily Mississippian was inspirational.”

  “Too bad it couldn’t last,” Clamor says.

  “We’re all living on borrowed time, sister,” Ratliff answers. “Every issue of Uncle Bedford we manage to publish threatens to be the final one. After the arrest, and with all the hassles from the mayor, we’ve had to cut production to four times a year, and we’re already two months behind on the last one.”

  “You were arrested?” Becky asks, apparently unaware of the back story here.

  “The boys were,” Acton says, “for selling the newspaper at Murrah, the high school just down the street. The charge was peddling obscene materials.”

  “We sued the mayor and the police chief for false arrest and violation of free speech. We lost, naturally, and had to pay the court costs, but the Fifth Circuit overturned the ruling last spring,” Ratliff explains.

  “Our case wasn’t so different from yours,” Acton says, “except that you haven’t been arrested.”

  “Yet,” Garrett adds.

  “A bunch of us got arrested for witchcraft,” Clamor volunteers. “But we were acquitted.”

  “Lucky you were in Oxford,” Acton says. “It’s got a higher IQ than Jackson. Our mayor would have staged an auto de fe on the steps of the Old Capitol.”

  Garrett has brought a gift bag of Rebel Red – some of the last of his stock – to share, and lays out our plan while we enjoy it together. “One option would be to reprint the magazine, circumvent the Lyceum altogether and release it on campus, along with copies to local media.”

  “I have a contact at the Commercial Appeal,” Acton says.

  “You’d need a press,” Ratliff points out.

  “We were hoping to use yours.”

  At this, Pendergast finally speaks up. “Not possible. Our contacts at Jackson State are the last group in a 300-mile radius still willing to stick their necks out for Uncle Bedford. Without them, we’re out of business. They wouldn’t be willing to go to war with your Chancellor, and we’re not willing to put ourselves in jeopardy just to poke a stick in the eye of the Ole Miss administration.”

  “Much as we’d love to do that,” Ratliff adds.

  “Much as we’d love to,” Pendergast agrees.

  “What about just printing the actual story in your magazine?” Garrett asks.

  “We already have a backlog of articles for the next three editions, if we even survive that long,” Acton says.

  “From a strategic point of view,” Ratliff concludes, “your best option is to wait and let the court proceedings take their course. It’s not as satisfying in the short term, but if you’re willing to be patient. . . .”

  “Bottom line is,” Pendergast says, “that, much as we’d like to help you guys, we’re struggling here ourselves.”

  “Is there anything we can do for you?” Garrett asks on our way out, after coffee and another joint.

  “Yeah,” Ratliff says, speaking directly to Garrett. “Write something of your own for us.”

  It’s almost 9:00, and still drizzling, by the time we return to campus. My car is parked outside Bondurant, so I offer to see Becky back to her dorm on my way home.

  The moment we step through the front door of her women’s residence, Keith emerges from the dorm’s sitting room for gentlemen callers, and looms above us, breathing heavy.

  “Where have you been?” He grabs Becky’s left arm just above the elbow and pushes her against a wall. She vanishes from view behind his body.

  I take Keith by the shoulders and try to move him aside, to free her, but he’s too strong for me and flips me aside.

  “Where have you been?” he demands again.

  “Nowhere. Jackson.” Becky sounds frightened.

  “Who said you could go to Jackson?”

  I grab Keith’s arm and manage, this time, to get the advantage. He twists away from Becky, now faces me, and raises a fist. I duck, and bend to tackle him around the waist.

  By the time we’ve hit the floor, other gentlemen callers have emerged from the sitting room to join the fray, and pull us apart. Becky stands pressed against the wall, looking dazed. I manage to catch her eye and nod toward the doorway into the women’s private quarters where Keith – or any other man – is forbidden to follow. “Go!”

  The gentlemen callers lead Keith and me out the door, onto the front porch, where a small crowd of coeds and their boyfriends have already assembled to watch the fight. But Keith seems to be in no mood for one, at least now.

  He draws himself up, shoulders back and chin high. “It is unseemly to brawl with an inferior in public,” he announces. “However, let it be known to all that you and I, sir, are on a collision course. Mark my words. A collision course.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Sunday, March 19

  I suppose Holly Springs is as good a place as any to pass a rainy Sunday afternoon. Blake woke around 3:00 from a 15-hour binge, and offered to let me drive him to his honky-tonk for his hangover treatment – two cheeseburgers with fries, four aspirin, and one Hair of the Dog, which turns out to be a mix of gin, lemon juice and Tabasco.

  Even drunk, he’s managed to finish another chapter of his dissertation, this one about the death of Louis Joseph. He’s been telling me about it for the past fifteen minut
es. I finally have to stop him to admit I don’t know who Louis Joseph is.

  “The Dauphin,” Blake answers, taken aback by my ignorance. “Son of Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette. It’s part of my dissertation on the Tennis Coat Oath.”

  “The Tennis Court Oath is about French Revolution? Wow. I thought it was some kind of sporting event.”

  I order another Coke. Blake decides he’s been sober long enough and orders a pitcher of Bud. The joint is getting crowded, neon lights have come up, and the windows are darkening with the arrival of night. A band has just started setting up on a small stage at the back when a sudden hush falls over the place. A tall, dark, heavily-built man in a Quaker State cap enters. The crowd parts to let him pass, and he sits at the bar.

  Blake, still going on about Louis Joseph, halts in mid-sentence and holds up a warning hand to me. “Don’t stare,” he warns.

  “Why?” I ask. “What’s happening?”

  He bends toward me over the table, nearly touching my forehead with his own. “Elvis is in the building,” he whispers.

  ~ ~ ~

  Monday, March 20

  Garret has summoned me to Tyler Avenue to deliver some serious news, and to make an outrageous demand on me. He wants me to make a phone call.

  “No. Absolutely not. I told you when you brought that goddamn phone into the house that I’d never use it,” I protest.

  The parlor is crowded, everyone drawn here by the news of James’ arrest in North Carolina. Andrew, Dr. Hirsch, Rose, Clamor, a gaggle of Tamburlaine’s true believers. Even Joan is present, standing against the wall, arms crossed, fingers picking nervously on the fabric of her shirt sleeves.

  “Just call your friend,” Garrett urges, forcing the handset into my hand. “Do it, man. This is an emergency.”

  It feels slithery against my fingers. I start to dial the number, but my hand shakes too hard to manage the little holes. I pass the matchbook with the number written inside it to Cindy.

  Cindy dials the number, passes the handset back to me. I lift it to my ear. The phone at the other end rings five times. I’m hoping nobody’s there, but on the sixth somebody answers.

  “Hello?” It’s Tatyana’s voice, unmistakable.

  “Hi,” I say. My own voice is unsteady, the pitch all wrong, too high. I clear my throat. “It’s Daniel.”

  “Daniel? Good lord! Why are you using a phone? Are you okay?”

  “I’m okay. I’m in Oxford. But a friend of mine . . . we’ve heard that he may have been busted for selling to an undercover cop in Chapel Hill last night. It might just be a rumor, but I was wondering if you could check it out.”