Wasted Year: The Last Hippies of Ole Miss

by Douglas Gray

  Someone’s spiked the fruit punch with vodka. I take one sip and leave my cup on a nearby table. Becky nurses hers as we go from one display to the next, politely observing the decorum of cultured art lovers, despite the hubbub around us. This involves stopping before each piece, gazing in appreciation, and exchanging learned remarks on its aesthetic properties.

  Being confronted with a long succession of breasts, bottoms, backs and elegant, sensuous limbs, we’re quickly running short of new remarks. We’re standing at what should be an appropriate distance from each other for this kind of event, but when I feel Becky’s breath on my face as she’s speaking, and note how many times we touch, I realize our innocent little date is taking on the appearance of a seduction – a seduction which Becky, already a little tipsy from the vodka, seems willing to cooperate with.

  A savior, of sorts, appears at my elbow as we approach an odalisque in ceramic tiles. Clamor separates herself from one of the knots of loud Bohemians and joins us, wearing a drunken grin and her camouflage jacket. I’m relieved to see her.

  “Are any of these pieces yours?” Becky asks.

  She shrugs. “No. I didn’t make the cut this semester. The judges were assholes. I posed for some of them, though.”

  “Posed?”

  “I was the model.”

  “Which ones?” Becky wishes to know.

  “Oh, Daniel here should be able to point them out,” she says, giving my ass a playful slap as she departs to rejoin her comrades.

  Becky blinks upward at me, her look teasing. “What does she mean by that?”

  “Nothing. She’s just yanking my chain.”

  Becky links her arm in mine, and draws me on to the odalisque. “Okay. If you say so.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Monday, April 17

  “Front page of the Mid-South section, Mr. Medway,” Dr. Goodleigh informs me when I arrive in her office. She shows me the Commercial Appeal headline: “Student Writers Sue Ole Miss in Censorship Dispute.” Byline: Nina Fairchild.

  I open the Museum and read the story at my little table.

  It’s a tightly-written 300-word piece, solid on all the facts and chronology of the case, with two quotes from Dr. Evans and one from Jenny Tyson. “Our request for an interview with a University official were declined,” she says in the closing line.

  Just as I finish reading, I find the strange little sepulchral old man once more staring at me from behind the bust of Vitellius.

  I retire to Goodleigh’s office. “Dr. Linen is pestering me again,” I complain.

  “You can work in here,” she offers. “I have typing for you anyway.”

  It’s the third draft of the article she’s writing for Archeology, on the depictions of Hades’ abduction of Persephone in Attic red-figure ware.

  “How was your date with the lovely Miss Becky?” she asks, as I roll a fresh sheet of paper around the paten.

  “Uncomfortable. An entire show of nudes. Sort of like that day when you gave that slide show lecture about sex in Greek art. Remember that? Remember how none of the guys in the class dared leave the room until about five minutes after the bell rang?”

  She barks another of her patented laughs that echoes down the hall of Bondurant and likely causes heads to appear in office doorways, wondering what the ruckus is about.

  “Ha! I give that lecture every year, always the session before Thanksgiving break. A little holiday treat for the boys. I’m a wicked old maid!”

  ~ ~ ~

  Tuesday, April 18

  Clamor starts singing:

  Sweet talkin’ guy

  Talkin’ sweet kind of lies

  Don’t you believe in him

  If you do, he’ll make you cry

  Her voice is a tart soprano, like a ripened berry, all the vowels deeper and more southern when she’s singing than when she talks.

  We’re walking together across the Loop during the noon class change. The song seems to sparkle in the cool air, to drift upward into the boughs of newly-green trees, to shimmer among the branches.

  She puts me in mind of Wallace Stevens’ seaward singer on the beach at Key West. Then I think of the night Melissa and I dropped acid on her back porch, another April sometime back, her singing “Deep Purple,” with me on harmonica. Then I think of Valerie, and Ashley, and Cindy. Somehow, even Amy comes jostling into my reverie, unbidden, as Clamor sings on:

  He’ll bring you flowers

  And paint the town with another girl

  He’s a sweet-talkin’, sweet-talkin’, sweet-talkin’ guy!

  All the foot traffic on the Loop seems to slow and then to halt, as students and professors pause to listen to the unusual girl with the honeyed voice warbling a sweet old song from a decade of past innocence. For a moment, the Ole Miss campus is all smiles and harmony, and I feel like we’re in a scene from a movie, a musical, and in any second we’ll all break into song. Or into blossom.

  Instead, there’s the roar of a crowd, someplace nearby. A siren wails, three campus squad cars squeal around the Loop, and cops start running toward the library, shouting into walkie-talkies.

  “Flasher again?” Clamor wonders aloud.

  “Let’s go see.”

  The cops are already dispersing the crowd by the time we reach the east lawn of the Library. The show is over, apparently, having lasted no more than 15 seconds. But in that brief time, the Flasher has managed to expose himself to dozens, maybe even hundreds, of pedestrians below from the roof of the Library building itself. His most audacious feat so far.

  Among the bystanders, I spot Little Becky, being led from the scene on the arm of her faithful squire Keith. He’s flushed, wearing an expression of outrage. Becky, however, appears to be convulsed with mirth.

  It’s Becky’s opinion that the Flasher is the funniest thing she’s ever seen. Keith is not inclined to agree.

  “I find nothing humorous in perversion,” he objects. “That man is sick at heart and a menace to society. He should be locked away for the good of the ladies and the children of this town.”

  “Leave the guy alone,” Clamor replies. “He’s not doing anybody harm.”

  Keith fixes her with a glare. “I have not had the honor of making your acquaintance, sir,” he says, “but I most vehemently object to your permissive attitude toward indecent conduct.”

  He stops speaking and glances from Clamor to Becky to me, then back to Becky, sensing that he’s made some kind of blunder.

  “Keith,” Becky says, “I’d like you to meet my friend Claire Marie.”

  Dumbstruck for no more than half a second, Keith manages to recover. “My honor, miss. I apologize for my confusion. It was, I believe, simply the jacket and the haircut that momentarily confused me.”

  Clamor extends her hand for a shake. “And the fact that I’m an Amazon, right?”

  “Why no . . . not at all.”

  As Keith offers his own hand to shake, Clamor seizes it fast and pulls him off balance, so that he trips forward and into her. “Girl – feel?” she asks.

  Keith rights himself, straightens, takes two steps back. “I do beg your pardon,” he says. “Rebecca,” he says, “allow me to escort you to your Sociology class. I believe you’re already late.”

  He strides away with a backward glance at me. “Mr. Medway, we will meet again, I’m certain.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Wednesday, April 19

  The Widow motions us into her trailer like a pair of foolhardy adventurers. It’s true that the dog packs don’t generally go roaming in a downpour like the one that’s going on tonight, but they’ve been known to venture out in bad weather from time to time.

  The only weapon Joan and I managed to find by way of self-protection is an old tennis racquet in Blake’s closet. I was the one who volunteered to enter his bedroom to retrieve it, while all the demon voices gibbered at me in some unknown tongue. Somehow the dogs don’t feel quite as threatening after that experience.

  “Blake’s missing?” she asks
, as we explain the cause of our visit. “Since yesterday morning?”

  “He was typing at the kitchen table when I left for work,” I explain. “Gone when I came back last evening.”

  “He took one of his neckties with him,” Joan adds, “and his good shoes.”

  “I didn’t know he owns a good pair of shoes,” the Widow says.

  “You were around yesterday,” Joan prompts. “We’re wondering if you saw him leave.”

  She ponders for a moment, trying to remember. “I didn’t,” she decides, with a shake of the head.

  “We should ask Mr. Duck, and the others,” Joan says.

  “Hold on, you two,” the Widow says as we start to leave. “I’m not going to let you leave here without protection.”

  She turns and vanishes down the hall. I suppose she’s going to find a more substantial weapon for us, maybe a cane or a baseball bat. Instead she returns with a poncho and a shotgun. She dons the poncho, loads both chambers of the shotgun, and says, “All right. Let’s go. We’re none of us getting any younger.”

  As we turn back to the door, the Widow adds, sotto voce, “Damn fool kids. I wouldn’t be going out on a night like this if it weren’t the Christian thing to do.”

  I open the door, and the three of us step out into the rain, looking for Blake.

  ~ ~ ~

  Thursday, April 20

  Midnight in Oxford, but everybody in town – not just me, for a change – seems to be awake.

  Pedestrians fill the sidewalks of the Square. The usual troupes of old-timers play checkers under the lamp posts around the Courthouse. The Rebel Buddha has kept its doors and its kitchen open, and the dining room is three-quarters full with customers eating plates of Moo Goo Gai Pan, sweet and sour pork, pepper steak, and egg rolls.

  My feet take me west on University Avenue, past the old Earth, past St. Marys church, past the Education Building, over the bridge, and into the Grove, a fair but dark field of folk. This collective insomnia has seized the campus as well.

  I stroll past couples lying together in the grass, solitary musicians with guitars, circles of students sharing joints and laughter, and poets finding halos of lamplight to scribble in notebooks. In the center of the Grove I find the Ranger entertaining a dozen or more sleepless boys and coeds with rabbit tricks.

  He has ten rabbits following him tonight. He whistles to them, points a finger and traces an imaginary circle, counter-clockwise. The rabbits dance a little jig, leaping in choreographed precision as he points to one after another. He whistles again, makes a rolling motion with his hand, and the rabbits fall to the ground and roll over and over, back and forth across the ground. He whistles again, makes an upward slicing movement in the air. The rabbits form a straight line and begin playing leap frog, the second in line leaping over the first, the fourth over the third, the sixth over the fifth, and so on.

  Everyone applauds. The Ranger doffs his old, weathered Pittsburgh Pirates baseball cap to the crowd, and then passes it among us for donations.

  This is my first up-close look at him. He’s a wild man. A hermit. Barefooted, frayed jeans that are too short for his inhumanly long legs, a pair of suspenders looped over his gaunt shoulders, an open-necked dun-colored cotton shirt exposing an emaciated chest. Impossible to tell his age. He might be as young as me, or as old as the hills. Skinny, long-faced, leather-skinned, arachnodactyliac. Kind eyes. Soft, deep voice.

  I dig two dollars bills from my pocket when the cap comes around to me, the last in the circle, and hand it back to the Ranger. He catches my eye then, just as I catch sight of an old friend waiting nearby, in the shadows.

  It’s Citizen. I go down on one knee and click my tongue to call him. Citizen steps out and approaches, tail wagging.

  “So, you can see that dog, can you? Not everybody can.” The Ranger bends down beside me, both of us now patting Citizen, ruffling his fur, stroking his head. He’s enjoying the attention.

  “Sounds like you’re old friends,” I say.

  “Been seeing this dog every time I’ve passed through Oxford,” the Ranger says. “That’s been 25, maybe 30, years back.”

  “Can’t have been the same dog,” I say. “He’s not that old.”

  The Ranger straightens, stands, continuing to pat Citizen’s head. The rabbits have scattered into a wide circle, nibbling grass in the moonlight, but they hop to attention and line up when the Ranger whistles again.

  “Same dog all right,” he says. “Some things in nature aren’t subject to time, that’s all.” Suddenly there’s a cane in his hand. “Work to do. Come on, rabbits.”

  He turns and walks off into the night. The rabbits follow. Citizen follows, too.

  ~ ~ ~

  Friday, April 21

  I don’t see the point to this office call, but Joan is insistent that I accompany her. Somehow she’s gotten the idea in her head that Claprood and I are bosom buddies, and that he’ll launch an investigation into Blake’s disappearance because of our friendship.

  My presence in the office does, at least, gain us an interview with the sheriff himself, though I suspect Joan’s looks alone would have probably accomplished the same end. Every cop in the place drops what he’s doing as we enter, stopping to crane and gawk at the goddess on their doorstep.

  Sheriff Claprood is polite, empathetic, professional. He asks questions, jots notes, and tries to reassure Joan that the likelihood of Blake’s being the victim of foul play is small.

  “Still,” he says, “we have a description of your friend, along with the make and model and license plate number of the car. My men will keep an eye out, and I’ll alert some other jurisdictions. If he shows up in the meantime – which I’m sure he will – just give me a call, okay?”

  We assume the interview has ended and start to rise. Claprood remains at his desk, and gestures for us to resume sitting.

  “I have news that might interest you. I’ve been on the phone with the sheriff’s office over in Chapel Hill, and have persuaded them to shorten your friend’s sentence. He may be back in town as early as next week.”

  “You mean my ex-husband,” Joan says.

  “You were married to James McKenna?” Claprood asks. “My lord. That must have been awful.”

  “You have no idea.”

  “Nobody’s really missed James around here,” I say. “Still, it was kind of you to intervene on his behalf.”

  “I’m not motivated by kindness,” Claprood corrects. “The truth is that I need him back here. I’m inclined to believe that he represents our best chance to finally locate Tamburlaine. Some of the FBI boys down in Jackson are of the same opinion.”

  “Tamburlaine doesn’t exist,” Joan says.

  “That’s just what they want you to think,” Claprood says. “He exists. And he’s someplace close. Do you remember that convoy around Thanksgiving time?” he asks me. “There have been three others since then, all U.S. Army deployments triggered by reliable sightings of Tamburlaine. Those boys don’t go chasing after imaginary targets.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Saturday, April 22

  The campus is mobbed for Earth Day. I eventually find a parking space back around my old undergraduate haunting grounds at Garland Hall, and walk from there to the Grove.

  A girl is singing “Sad Eyed Lady of the Lowlands” on the outdoor stage by Ventress Hall when I arrive. She’s followed by some professor talking about the relationship of climate to political upheaval in Bangladesh. He’s interrupted by a disturbance on the edge of the crowd, a rumor that the Flasher has made another appearance.

  I wade my way closer to the stage, and discover Raven Bright and her coven prepping for a drum and chant number in celebration of Gaia. She recognizes me, and inquires about “that bastard you’re rooming with.”

  I report that Blake’s gone missing. She hopes he’s dead in a ditch somewhere.

  I begin to thread my way out of the thicket of students. A lovely young woman in a halter top is riding a horse bareback along
the Loop. I spot Citizen and the Ranger near the steps of the Law Building, and decide to join them. Just as the witches take the stage, I’m intercepted by Garrett.

  He has three scrawny undergraduate guys in tow. We’re introduced – Mike, Harley and somebody else. They’re all sharing my old room on Tyler Avenue.

  “We’re on a commando raid,” Garrett tells me. “Want to be our lookout?”

  It seems like an odd time for a raid, but I trust Garrett’s wisdom in these matters. He leads us to the rear stage entrance to Fulton Chapel. He’s parked the bus at the foot of the hill, beside a dumpster. I take my position, standing watch from a vantage point that gives me a view of both the bus and the stage door. Garrett leads his cohort into Fulton. No one’s around. Everybody’s in the Grove. The raiding party reappears a few minutes later, each carrying several plastic garment bags, the kind you might see at a dry cleaning shop. Or in the backstage of a theater, for storing costumes.

  “Not stealing,” Garrett assures me, as we pull away in the bus. “Borrowing. We’ll sneak them back as soon as we’re done with them.”

  “What’s in the bags?” I ask.

  “Show him.”

  The boys unzip a few of the bags for my inspection. Inside are women’s ball gowns, antebellum style, with hoop skirts, brocade, lace, frills. Scarlet O’Hara shit.

  “I’m not even going to ask what you want these for,” I say.

  “Best not to,” Garrett says from the driver’s seat. “It would spoil the surprise.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Sunday, April 23

  It’s night in the trailer at the edge of the woods in Lafayette County, Mississippi. All is blessed silence, except for the occasional noise of Flop farting, the scuttle of mice in the cupboards, and the pop-pop-pop of gunfire from the ravine, where Duck and the Widow are firing at the wild dogs.

  But no more voices. Joe Cocker’s on my stereo, I’ve poured three fingers of Jim Beam into my cup, and Herodotus is telling me the story of how Amasis tricked the Egyptians into worshipping a statue made from a chamber-pot.

  Just as I’m relishing the full sweetness of my solitude most, it is broken by the sound of voices coming from outside the trailer, followed by the tromping of a dozen or more feet on the gravel outside. The door flies open, and Blake enters with a party behind him. Joan, clinging tipsy to Blake’s arm, is the only guest I know personally, but I recognize many of the others – grad students from the History department, and a few younger professors, including Blake’s dissertation director, Dr. Schreyer.