Wasted Year: The Last Hippies of Ole Miss

by Douglas Gray

  “No, sir.”

  “At 7:00 last Saturday night. It must have been quite an event, because all 150 copies were gone by 9:00. All anonymous purchasers, of course.”

  “A true publishing phenomenon,” I say. “The college should consider a second printing.”

  “I’ll suggest that to Dean Moriarty, next time we meet.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Friday, June 16

  Today is Bloomsday. I didn’t celebrate it last year in Charlottesville, because the town and the campus depressed me so profoundly that I lacked the energy to walk more than twenty steps at a time.

  But I’m back in Oxford, where I’ve reenacted Leopold’s and Stephen’ day four times now since my freshman year.

  I begin the day with a shave, followed by a breakfast of bread, butter and honey. I lock the trailer behind me and set off for town. First stop: the Education building where I lurk about in hallways listening to student teachers with their summer school students.

  The Grove, as always, is my Sandymount strand. I wander about, engaged in interior monologue. My next stop is Jitney Jungle’s meat counter, followed by a visit to the post office and St. Mary’s church. Then a stroll to and through the cemetery, my Hades episode, and on to the Journalism school for Aeolus.

  Noon finds me in the cafeteria with the Lestrygonians. I’ve given myself the day off, but I unlock the Museum to glimpse the nude bottoms of a few Greek goddesses. After an hour reading Shakespeare criticism on the third floor of the Library, I walk to the Square and watch the foot traffic for the rest of the afternoon from a vantage point of a courthouse park bench.

  From this point, I need to proceed by car, since it’s too long a walk to the Beacon for supper with the Cyclops. After another stroll through the Grove as dusk settles over Oxford, I’m off to the Baptist Hospital maternity floor to look in on the babies.

  Through the entire day’s peregrinations, I haven’t met or even seen a single person I know, but my solitude ends as I arrive in Holly Springs, for my version of Stephen’s Nighttown. I find the Man in the Quaker State cap sitting alone at a table in Skeeter’s, sipping Pepsi cola from a bottle. As I order a beer from the bar, he catches my eye and signals for me to join him.

  “Haven’t seen you in a while, man,” he says. “What you been up to? Where’s your friend?”

  “Vanished, without a trace,” I say, and recount the events of that night on the Tallahassee bridge.

  “That’s a shame, man. But in my experience, cats who do crazy things like that eventually come to their senses. I bet you and his girlfriend will be seeing him again. You know, I was sort of looking forward to talking to him. That story he read about that poor little Dauphin — I just can’t get it out of my mind.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, I’ve been doing a litte background research. Did you know that the boy who died had a younger brother? Yeah, and the brother became the new Dauphin. When the revolution broke out, some of the King’s supporters smuggled the kid out of France, to keep him from being executed with his parents. Guess where they sent him?”

  “Where?”

  “Here, to America. Some of the French nobility were tight with the American Indians, so the kid was raised by the Iroquois. He was so young when he arrived that he forgot about being French, and grew up as a fur trader, never knowing his was the rightful king of France until somebody told him when he turned adult. He was called the Lost Dauphin.”

  “Cool story,” I say. “Did that really happen?”

  “Does it matter if it really happened?” the Man in the Quaker State cap asks. “Like you said, it’s a cool story.”

  “It would make a good movie,” I suggest.

  “Yeah,” he says. “I’ve been thinking about that, too. Lots of action, wilderness scenes, deerskin coats, throw in a couple of ballads, maybe get Ann Margaret to co-star.”

  “An historical romance, sort of a return to your roots,” I say. “Like Love Me Tender.”

  The words are out before I can stop them, and I know instantly that speaking them was a terrible mistake. The cardinal rule here at Skeeter’s is never to allude to the Mans true identity. The Man in the Quaker State cap draws back, narrows his eyes, and pulls the bill of his cap lower across his forehead.

  “Excuse me, man. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  He’s out of his chair and out of the building before I have another chance to speak.

  ~ ~ ~

  Saturday June 17

  “I don’t know how you can stand this,” the Widow says.

  I take it she’s referring to the knocking on the trailer walls, the shrieks and whistles and moans the periodically rip through the air, my coffee cup zipping across the kitchen table every time I reach for it.

  My expectation was that the demons would depart when Blake left. If anything, there are now more of them than before.

  “You get used to it,” I say. “Living with malicious spirits is a lot like living in a men’s dormitory. Reminds me fondly of my days in Garland Hall.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Sunday June 18

  “I didn’t realize you can sell albums on Sunday,” I say to Dottie.The Nickelodeon is open for her Fathers Day sale — 20% off all male artists of age to father children.

  “I probably can’t,” she acknowledges, “but nobody’s come by to stop me yet. I reckon Perry Claprood has better things to do than enforcing the state’s blue laws. Like most of us, he probably can’t even figure them out. They make no sense. I was in Blaylock’s some Sunday last March. One of the customers had found a stray dog. The clerk would sell him a can of dog food, but the blue laws wouldn’t let him buy a bowl for the critter to eat from.”

  “Dog bowls are anathema in the sight of the Lord. The state of Mississippi recognizes that He has to draw a line somewhere.” I’m rummaging through the shelves and find the new release of Honky Chateau. “What about Elton John?” I ask.

  “He won’t ever have any kids,” Dottie says, “but that’s not to say he couldn’t if he were so inclined. I don’t discriminate based on a man’s proclivities, so long as he doesn’t sing country or pop.”

  There’s a disturbance on the Square. Dottie and I step outside to see what’s the matter. It’s a convertible crowded with five frat boys, top down, circling the courthouse.

  Most likely drunk, either having started early today or continuing from one of last night’s parties on Fraternity Row. Sunday services have ended, and the sidewalks are filling with church-goers on their way home. Dottie and I join them to witness this disturbance of the sacred hush of Sabbath morning.

  As they drive round and round the courthouse, the boys shout a repeated phrase. At first, it sounds like gibberish to me, but just as the car passes directly in front of us, I hear it plain: “Ego phone boontos en te eremo!”

  Their pronunciation is all wrong. The “phone” sounds like “pony,” and “en te eremo” comes out as “entry emu.”

  “What are they saying?” Dottie asks.

  “New Testament Greek,” I say. “I am a voice crying in the wilderness.”

  “That’s from the Gospel of John,” she says. “Now, why would a bunch of drunk frat boys be shouting that?”

  “I suspect they think it means something else,” I answer.

  ~ ~ ~

  Monday June 19

  “Dear Daniel,” Becky writes.

  Her letter arrived in this morning’s mail packet to the Museum. The envelope and stationery have been sprayed with perfume. I don’t recognize the scent. Dr. Goodleigh would have been able to identify it for me, but she’s on the plain of Ilium by now.

  “I do wish you owned a telephone. The sound of a friendly voice would do me a world of good. I’ve never understood why you hate them so. They’re just machines. Maybe someday you’ll tell me another of your stories and make sense of it all for me.

  “Being home is worse than I even imagined it could be. I remember mentioning to you that my older sister (f
our years and an unbridgeable chasm of outlook separate us) is getting married at the end of August. No reason you should remember that. I mention it only because the life of the entire household revolves around wedding preparations. Endless shopping expeditions for dresses, fabric, place settings. Day before yesterday, a florist was here for six hours – six hours! – discussing flower arrangements for the rehearsal dinner. Not for the wedding itself, mind you, but for the dinner the night before. I shudder to think how long it will take to select the flowers for the altar and for the reception.

  “Also, my parents expect me to make an appearance at the country club every afternoon for a couple of rounds of tennis and a swim. I must maintain my social contacts, you know. My father somehow got the idea in his head that this is the summer for me to learn to play golf. Golf! He even went so far as to schedule private lessons for me with the club’s pro, who’s this old lecherous man with hair growing out of his ears. I put a halt to those plans first thing, though. I told my parents that I just didn’t feel ‘safe’ alone with a man who might touch me inappropriately while pretending to correct my swing or explaining how to address the ball . . . or whatever people are supposed to do while playing golf.

  “My mother has let me have her Jag for the summer. I have to admit that it’s a lot of fun to drive. It would be even more fun if there were someplace interesting to go. Just driving up and down neighborhood streets lined with Nixon signs loses its charm pretty fast.

  “By the way, I think I saw your father on the local news earlier this week. He was speaking at a fund-raising event for Senator Eastland’s campaign (as if that man even needs to campaign, since he’s been in the Senate since before the Civil War and is virtually running unopposed). Are you certain you two are actually related? Seriously, there must have been some mix-up in the maternity ward, because no man as fat as him couldn’t possibly have a son as skinny as you.

  “The worst part of the summer is not having anything to read. The public library is a joke, and the bookstores have nothing on their shelves besides Herman Wouk and Judy Blume. Don’t be surprised to find me at your door someday soon in the Jag so we can drive to that underground bookseller in Overton Square — what was its name? — and get drunk together at the Looking Glass.

  “Hope you are well. I miss you. Write to me!”

  ~ ~ ~

  Tuesday, June 20

  I return to consciousness from another one of my blackouts, only to find myself driving through town with another pizza from Kiame’s beside me in the passenger’s seat. The receipt taped to the box says it’s going to an address on Madison Avenue, but I decide to run it by the commune instead.

  “Dereliction of duty,” Garrett says when I explain the situation to the gang there, who appear glad for a free pie. “Aren’t you afraid of getting fired?”

  “I’m afraid of finding myself doing this again,” I say. “Really, the manager ought to recognize that I’m insane and stop re-hiring me.”

  Cindy turns the television on and finds a rerun of an old Andy Griffith Show on. We settle in to watch.

  “I’ve always been puzzled by this program,” Andrew says. “It’s supposed to take place in the south, correct? But you never see a single black person in Mayberry. How can that be?”

  “That’s because there are no blacks in Mayberry,” Garrett says. “It was explained in one of the early episodes when Andy deputized a white mob to drive them all out of the county. Pretty gory. That episode didn’t make it into syndication, reason that you don’t see it anymore.”

  “That’s not true,” Cindy objects.

  “Of course it is,” Garrett replies. “The amazing truth about this show is that it was never meant to be a comedy at all. It’s really a psychological thriller about a town that’s being terrorized by its sheriff. They originally were going to call it Mayberry, Town of Terror.”

  “No.”

  “Yes! Then, before the first broadcast, a sound technician accidentally put a laugh track on it. Because people were laughing in the background, the stupid American audience thought it had to be a comedy, and they ate it up. But if you just get past the supposed comedy, you see that the show’s really about some heavy, twisted shit.”

  “Like what?” she asks.

  “Aunt Bea, for one. Do you know who she really is?”

  “Andy’s aunt,” Andrew replies, “named Bea.”

  “No, she isn’t. Everybody call her Aunt Bea. Barney does. Otis does. Hell, even Floyd calls her Aunt Bea. And by the way, what town would ever trust a man like Floyd with a razor?”

  “Then who is she?”

  “Andy’s concubine. ‘Aunt’ is an honorific.”

  “His concubine?”

  “I don’t mean to say that he sleeps with her. Probably not more than a few times a month, when he comes home drunk. She’s like an Old Testament household servant. ‘Sex slave’ would probably be a more accurate term. Andy got her, as one of the perks of the office, after he gunned down the old sheriff. That’s another episode that didn’t make it into reruns.”

  “I don’t believe a word of this.”

  “Facts are facts, I’m afraid,” Garrett says. “Mayberry has only one church – the one that Andy attends. It has only one telephone operator, Sarah, who’s forced to work 24 hours a day, seven days a week, monitoring every call the townspeople place and reporting them all to Andy. People are terrified of him. And with good reason – his hands are dyed red with blood. In fact, when the show switched from black-and-white to color, the producers had to be careful not ever to show Andy’s hands. Just look at Otis.”

  “What about Otis?”

  “The man’s a symbol for the traumatized psychology of the entire town, a generalized guilt complex for cooperating with the monster they created. Otis drinks himself into a stupor to numb the pain, and then submits himself to Andy for ritual punishment every night. Barney, on the other hand, represents the emasculation of the body politic under Andy’s reign of terror. That’s the point behind Andy forcing him to carry an unloaded weapon and keep a single bullet in his shirt pocket. Of course, every time Barney works up the courage to load the gun, he shoots himself in the foot instead of aiming for his true enemy. Which is just as well, since Opie is the one who’s destined to eventually gun Andy down, to avenge his mother’s death.”

  “That actually makes a bit of sense,” Andrew admits. “Nothing is ever said about what became of Opie’s mother.”

  “Andy murdered her,” Garrett says. “Opie knows, but he’s too young and powerless to do anything about it. Just watch any scene between the two of them. You can tell that Opie’s seething with hatred just below the surface while trying to keep Andy off-guard by his false display of childhood innocence. That kid’s just twitching with revenge. He’s like Hamlet.”

  As it happens, at this very moment Andy and Opie are on screen, chatting over the dinner table. We watch, silent and aghast. Garrett’s right – Andy Griffith is like a John Webster tragedy.

  “I don’t think I can ever watch this show again,” Cindy laments.

  “Then my work here is done,” Garrett says.

  ~ ~ ~

  Wednesday, June 21

  “Longest day of the year,” Pam (my waitress tonight at the Beacon) says as she delivers my order: cheeseburger, fries, cole slaw.

  The Beacon makes the best burgers in all of creation. I make a vow to eat here more often, even if I’m alone, like tonight. It’s almost 9:00, but still partially daylight outside. I’m the only customer in the place, even though the parking lot is full. The Beacon parking lot is always full, even when the restaurant is closed. One of the mysteries of Oxford.

  “You’re right,” I say. “Now we start slipping back into darkness. Winter will be here before you know it.”

  “I wouldn’t fret,” Pam says. “We still have a long summer ahead of us. Farmers have been saying it’s going to be a hot one, too.”

  I dig into my burger and return to Herodotus, so absorbed in my tw
o favorite things that I scarcely notice when another customer enters and seats himself in a window-side booth at the back of the dining room. It’s only minutes later, after enduring an eerie sensation of being watched intently, that I glance over my shoulder to see who’s there.

  A man in his early 40s, pinched face, wearing a black shirt. Familiar, but I can’t quite place him. From his expression, I can tell he’s thinking the same of me. He’s clean-shaven, that’s what’s different about him now. Last time I saw him, he sported a tidy black beard that helped fill out his face.

  It’s Brother Leopold, Joan’s ex-lover, exiled from St. Mary’s parish before my return from Virginia.

  “Medway?” he says. “Is that you?” He rises from the booth and takes the seat opposite me. Uninvited, but that’s all right. “Somebody told me you’d died,” he says.

  “Has the diocese sent you back?” I ask. “Don’t tell me St. Mary’s is going to have a priest again.”

  Leo shakes his head. “The bishop may be crazy, but he’s not insane. No, my order has sent me out for a stint of soul-searching, to decide whether I really want to stay in the priesthood. I thought I’d start in Oxford, since this is the spot where everything started to go wrong.”

  “How long have you been in town?”

  “Since yesterday. A lot has changed in a year. The Earth is gone, almost nobody I recognize on campus.”

  “Have you been to the new commune on Taylor Avenue?”

  “Earlier today,” he says. “I didn’t receive a warm welcome. At least not from James.”

  “You can scarcely blame him for not being delighted to have you back.”

  “I was afraid to ask him about Joan.”

  “She’s staying at Dr. Goodleigh’s house for the summer, taking care of the cats while Goodleigh’s away.”

  “I don’t suppose she’d wish to see me, either.”

  “I don’t suppose,” I agree.

  He answers with silence and a forlorn look. I intuit what he’s asking without him having to say anything. It seems like little enough.

  “Where are you staying?”

  “I have a room at the Holiday Inn. Of course, that’s only short-term. My funds are limited.”

  “I have an empty bedroom in my trailer. You’re welcome to crash there for a few nights. But you’ve got to promise me not to do anything priest-like.”