Wasted Year: The Last Hippies of Ole Miss

by Douglas Gray

  “You really ought to read it,” she adds, returning to the subject after a full minute of silence. “Garrett and I could do it, you know. Together. Build an underground newspaper. We could be the king and queen of Memphis Gonzo.”

  Garrett leaves the party with Miss Fairchild on his arm a little after 11:00. Dr. Evans and Mrs. Giordano circulate through the crowd, making certain that nobody’s glass runs dry. Things are getting louder and louder. The cigarette smoke is dense as fog. I find myself in the kitchen with Dr. Goodleigh. She’s trying to tell me something that I’m not quite able to fathom or to follow.

  Something about Turkey.

  Suddenly, Garrett is by my side, drinking a Bud.

  “I thought you’d left,” I shout over the din of revelry.

  “Did I?” he asks. “Yes, you’re right. I believe I did. But I came back.”

  “Why?”

  “Why indeed? An astute question. Why did I come back? I seem to have had a good reason. Something important. News. What was it?”

  Garrett cocks his head, closes an eye and peers deep into the lip of his Bud with the other, apparently attempting to commune with a spirit in the beer who knows the reason for his return.

  “That’s it,” he says. “Big news over on Tyler. I came back to tell you. I thought you should know. Suzie’s had her baby. Delivered at 7:15 this evening. Seven pounds, three ounces. Mother and child doing fine.”

  “Boy or a girl?”

  “Boy. They’re going to name him Samuel.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Saturday, May 20

  “I still can’t get my head around it,” I admit to Joan.

  We’re standing together at the big window of the nursery at Baptist Hospital. A dozen cribs in the room, four of them occupied. The one in the second row, left, contains the sleeping form of Suzie and Nick’s offspring.

  “A baby. A brand-new human being. And they made him – the two of them. That truly blows my mind.”

  “You better get used to it,” Joan says. “Once the first couple in a group has a baby, they suddenly start popping out everywhere. I’ve seen it with my older sisters and their friends. I wouldn’t be surprised if Cindy got pregnant next. Then, who knows? Maybe you’ll knock some lucky girl up.”

  “Not if I can help it,” I say. “I plan to be the last of my kind, the end of the Medway line, prevent the name and the genes from passing along to another generation. That’ll be my contribution to the future.”

  “We’ve scarcely seen you all week,” Joan remarks, changing the subject. “Where have you been staying?”

  “Here and there. A couple of nights in the car, once in the Grove. Once passed out on Faulkner’s grave. Sheriff Claprood found me there and gave me a cell to sleep in. Last night, a bunch of us crashed in Dr. Evans’ living room.”

  “Trying to avoid Blake?”

  “He’s mean when he’s sober,” I complain.

  “Try to be understanding. He’s under a lot of pressure to finish the dissertation. He’s promised me that once it’s done he’ll start drinking, and everything will be like it used to. We’ll be happy again.”

  “That’s what he says now. It’s easy to make promises, harder to keep them.”

  “I believe him, though.”

  “Listen,” I say, “I’ve known a lot of sober people. You can never trust what they say. My father was sober all the time. A thirty-room mansion, with not a drop of alcohol anywhere. Growing up, I got scarred for life.”

  “Blake really means it, though, I can tell.”

  “I hope you’re right. Just remember – sobriety’s a disease. He can’t control himself.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Sunday, May 21

  “Thank you for arranging this meeting,” Dean Moriarty says.

  Dr. Sutherland nods a “You’re welcome.”

  We’re in Sutherland’s office, third floor of Bishop, overlooking the ruins of Fraternity Row after what appears to have been an epic Saturday night of partying. It’s 10:00 a.m., and I’m wondering why Bill Cook and the Dean aren’t in church at this hour. Everyone who has an office in the Lyceum goes to church. It’s a job requirement.

  But I guess this may be the perfect time for a meeting that nobody else is supposed to know about.

  Bill Cook opens his briefcase, lifts out a manila envelope, and produces a typewritten document with two signature lines at the bottom, which he pushes toward me across the table. Dr. Sutherland cranes his neck to glimpse it over my shoulder as I retrieve it.

  “The University wants to purchase Barefoot,” Cook says. “For $312, the amount you paid the print shop for the job.”

  Dr. Sutherland and I exchange a glance. “And then what happens to it?” I ask.

  “We release it,” Cook says. “With a stamped disclaimer on the front page of each issue stating that Barefoot is not an official publication of the University.”

  “That’s what Judge Pettry told you to do after the first hearing, way back in March,” I point out. “The solution wasn’t good enough for you then.”

  “The situation’s changed. It is now acceptable to the administration.”

  I read the agreement they’ve drafted. It’s essentially just a bill of sale. “This doesn’t say anything about your promise to release it. Shouldn’t that be in writing as well?”

  Moriarty shifts uneasily in his chair. So far he hasn’t uttered a single word.

  “No,” Cook says. “You’ll have to accept that stipulation on faith. You have my assurance that the administration will observe both the letter and the spirit of our agreement.”

  I glance at Dr. Sutherland again. He answers with a barely perceptible shake of the head.

  “Why would I agree to sign this?” I ask.

  At this point, Moriarty finally decides to speak. “Because, it’s in the best interests of everyone concerned, the students and the University as well. And because it’s what a gentleman would do.”

  “Why do you people insist on confusing me with a gentleman?”

  “Look at it this way,” Cook says. “Sign, and the suit ends here, today.”

  “In case you missed it,” I say, “the suit is already over, and we won. Judge Watters ordered you to release the magazine to me.”

  “We’re not prepared to recognize you as the rightful owner.”

  “You’re not? But here you’ve written a contract for me to sign my rights over to you. Doesn’t that mean I’m the owner?”

  “Sign the contract, and we’ll recognize you as the rightful owner.”

  “But then I won’t be . . . not once I relinquish ownership.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “So the only way you’ll recognize my ownership is if I relinquish it.”

  “Right.”

  “Wow. A Zen lawyer. Do you recite koans in your closing arguments?”

  “If you fail to cooperate, we’re prepared to file a new suit,” he says. “Against you, personally.”

  “You committed fraud,” Moriarty says. “We can prove it.”

  “Fraud?”

  Cook waves a warning gesture toward Moriarty, and intervenes. “We will allege that you misrepresented yourself to Mr. Patrick as a messenger from the English department, in a fraudulent manner.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Shut up and listen to me, boy,” Moriarty explodes. “You’ve had yourself a fun little time here embarrassing the Lyceum, leading your degenerate crusade for free speech. Now it’s our turn. If we go back to court, you’re the defendant, you’re the one in the crosshairs. No class action to make you seem important, no free Commie lawyers to hide behind. We’ll humiliate you, expose you for the fraud you really are.”

  Cook speaks more quietly. “Your accomplice in the transaction would be a party in the suit as well. The young lady. I’m sure you’re not anxious to see her reputation besmirched.”

  The Lyceum has, I realize, has outfoxed me. Well played.

  “It would be best,” Cook adds, “to avoid f
urther unpleasantness.”

  He takes a pen from the pocket of his dress shirt, hands it to me. I sign. He signs and produces a business-size envelope from an interior pocket of his suit coat.

  Inside is a check for $312.45. I begin to tear it in half, but Dr. Sutherland snatches the check from my fingers.

  “Think,” he counsels. “No pointless symbolic gestures, okay? No one ever needs to know what happened here this morning. At least make the bastards pay.”

  Cook is closing his briefcase. Moriarty is halfway out the door. Sutherland halts him with a question: “And our agreement?”

  “Will be honored,” Moriarty answers, with a pause, but without looking back.

  “Your agreement?” I ask after they’ve left. “What have you done?”

  “I negotiated to have your position reinstated. You’ll continue to assist Dr. Goodleigh in the Museum.”

  “That wasn’t necessary,” I say. “I appreciate the gesture, but I can support myself without the job.”

  “Why don’t you climb down off your high horse and give him some water, Medway? He looks tired. Jesus! I didn’t do this for you. I’m doing it for the department. I am the chairman, you know. The department needs your position. Without it, the Museum would be left unstaffed all summer.”

  “Unstaffed? What about Dr. Goodleigh?”

  “Jane’s grant to study in Turkey was approved. She received confirmation late Friday. Didn’t she tell you at Harold’s party?”

  “Turkey? She’s going to Turkey? So that’s what she was trying to tell me!”

  ~ ~ ~

  Monday, May 22

  “No,” Dr. Goodleigh answers, “I’m not going to Turkey to study Turks.”

  She’s wearing her hair down around her shoulders today, hoop earrings, blue work shirt, and a buckskin skirt I haven’t seen before, over the old thigh-high leather boots. She appears to be prepared to track the buffalo migration across the prairie after a day in the Museum.

  “Why, then?” I ask

  “Field studies around the tell of Hissarlik. Ilium,” she adds, in response to my blank look. “Troy. The UNESCO grant. You typed the application. Don’t you remember?”

  It takes a moment, but I finally do. “That 30-page monster from back in January. UNESCO’s considering how to create a list of historical sites that will come under its protection. So you’re going to Troy!”

  “Hissarlik. Only amateurs call it Troy. And you’re staying here to watch after the shop.”

  “I’ll make sure everything’s still standing when you get back.”

  “And . . .” she says, with the half smile as she reaches for this morning’s edition of the Commercial Appeal.

  “And?”

  “And the cats, of course.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Tuesday, May 23

  “Ah warned you that this day would come.”

  Keith Thompson, accompanied by a cohort of his fraternity brothers, has intercepted me on my way to the car, on Magnolia Drive, for our long-anticipated showdown. The grassy quad out front of Garland, Mayes and Hedleston has been designated as our arena. Odd to think that this is also the spot where I first kissed Melissa Allen.

  It seems a good portion of the campus has been informed of our showdown beforehand.

  The place is already crowded with guys from the surrounding dorms and from Fraternity Row. The two rival camps – the Greeks versus the Independents – are flanked on the south and the north sides of the yard, respectively, to witness a battle between their champions.

  Sadly, there’s no doubt in anyone’s mind regarding the outcome of this contest. Keith, stripped down to a pair of gym shorts and a white t-shirt, is a wall of muscle. His parents probably have a shelf of his high school boxing trophies proudly displayed in their rumpus room down in Gulfport.

  I’m about to get my ass handed to me. All I can hope to do is minimize the damage by going down quick, on the second or third punch.

  Keith displays some fancy footwork and jabs the air with his bare knuckles. “You cannot claim that you haven’t been warned!”

  I strike a pose that must resemble a fisticuff scene from an old silent movie, arms raised high, fists clenched.

  “Thumbs outside, you idiot!” somebody shouts.

  Right. I unclench and clench again, thumbs now in the correct position so that if a miracle occurs and I manage to land a punch, I won’t come away with broken digits.

  Keith has started dancing, circling me. “A proper thrashing at the hands of a gentleman is no less than you deserve.”

  He’s probably right. It would be a dangerous distraction for me to argue the point with him at this moment.

  “Nothing to say for yourself? Eh?”

  A fist darts toward me. I duck, feint, lean back, manage to evade the blow. Keith looks a bit surprised that my reflexes haven’t been more dramatically slowed by years of depraved living. I’m surprised, too. We’ve been in our imaginary ring for almost a minute and I haven’t yet been rendered to a bloody pulp.

  “Nothing to say? All right. Save your breath to beg for mercy. Not that you’ll get any. Not from me. No mercy from me, you bastard. Defiler of women. Rapist.”

  “Rapist? What – ?”

  Keith’s follow-up punch lands straight into my solar plexus. The air goes out of me, ripping away the question I was about to ask along with it. My knees buckle. I fall forward, gasping, face into the dirt.

  A wild cheer rises, seemingly from both camps. It doesn’t really matter who wins today as long as somebody – and that would be me – get the shit stomped out of him. It’s the last week of classes, finals coming up. The boys of Ole Miss need blood sports to blow off some steam.

  I roll over onto my side, then onto my back, body collapsed into a fetal crouch. Keith looms over me.

  “Get up!” he commands. “You’re not hurt. I barely touched you, asshole. Get up. Take your beating like a man. I’m gonna’ show you. You’re gonna’ pay for what you did to her. You hear me? You’re gonna’ pay.”

  I try to sit up, but land on hands and knees instead, struggling forward on all fours, with Keith still looming, but backing away with every inch of forward progress I manage to make.

  Through the pain and humiliation, though, I suddenly detect a change of atmosphere, a shift in the mood of the crowd. The din subsides, the calls for my death cease, an uneasy silence settles over the quad. Somebody boos – softly at first, then louder. Other voices join in, boos from several directions in the crowd.

  “Get up!” Keith yells. “Get up!!!”

  This is when I hear it – a tremor in his voice. He’s not commanding. He’s pleading. I look up at him for the first time since my fall and discover a face flushed and convulsed in sorrow.

  Keith is about to cry.

  “Get uuuuupppp!!”

  When I can’t, he kicks me in the ass. I fall back onto my side. He’s kicking my back, shoulders, arms, but each blow lands a little further off target, a little less controlled, a little less force. “Son of a bitch!” he yells. “Son of a bitch, get up!”

  Then the blows cease. I hear Keith wheezing over me. I hear the crowd breaking up. I hear voices telling Keith that it’s over, everything’s over, he’s won.

  “Let’s go back to the House,” a final voice suggests, authoritatively.

  His brothers lead him away. I eventually roll over to discover myself alone with Stanley Boyle, my former pledge. I rise, wobbly on my feet. Stanley offers no assistance.

  “What was that all about?” I ask.

  Stanley glances over his shoulder at his departing contingent, then back at me. “You’ve never seen a man with a broken heart before?”

  “Broken heart?”

  “What you did was disgusting,” Stanley said. “I know guys – some guys – joke about snaking young girls, and lie to each other about it. But there’s a big difference between joking and lying about it and actually doing it, especially to some sweet kid like Becky.”

 
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “You took that girl’s virginity.”

  “What in the hell makes you say that? I did no such thing!”

  “Stop pretending,” Stanley says, turning away. “We all know you did it. Stay away from the House. You don’t have any friends left there.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Wednesday, May 24

  I lay three $20 bills on the kitchen table where he can see them. Blake stops typing, takes a sip from his Pepsi Cola, looks interested.

  “Where’d you get that?” he asks.

  “I cashed a check. I want my stereo back.”

  “It’s not for sale.”

  “Stop acting like a jerk. Look, you paid me fifty. Here’s sixty. That’s a $10 profit.”

  “It’s worth more than that.”

  “Okay. How much? Name your price, I’ll pay.”

  “Why not just buy yourself a new one?”

  “I want that one. It was a gift. It has sentimental value.”

  “Gift from who?”

  “A girl. You don’t know her. She’s not around anymore. How much?”

  “I already told you: it’s not for sale. Going out?” Blake asks as I gather my things together.

  “I’m sure as hell not staying here.”

  “If you happen by the Jitney, we’re low on Tasters Choice. And peanut butter. Smooth, not crunchy.”

  “Eat me.”

  I slam the trailer door behind me and begin stalking up the hill to my car when a rusted two-tone ’63 Oldsmobile F85 turns into the gravel drive and forces me to step aside into a clump of weeds.

  I don’t recognize the car, but the driver – once he’s put on the emergency brake, killed the engine and stepped out to have a look about – seems vaguely familiar.

  “Lost?” I ask. No other reason occurs to me for him being so far out on Campground Road.

  He answers with a grin. He’s no more than a kid. “Thank you, no. I know where I am.” He squints through the glare of sunlight reflected from the windshield. “Say, you look familiar. Do I know you from somewhere?”

  “I was thinking the same thing,” I say.

  His grin vanishes, uncertain. We stare at each other. Then it returns.

  “Veni, vidi, vici, man!” he hails.

  Now I place him: It’s my Latin club buddy, the thug’s young assistant who pulled his punch on me that long-ago night in the kitchen on Tyler Avenue. We shake. He seems inordinately pleased to see me.

  “Veni, vidi, vici,” I say. “What brings you way out here?”