Wasted Year: The Last Hippies of Ole Miss

by Douglas Gray

  “I do.”

  “I don’t.”

  “How do you have sex, then?”

  “Cindy, please,” Andrew interrupts. “A bit of discretion might be advised here.”

  James descends the stairs and scowls at us. He’s been in an increasingly bad mood all week.

  “Is that git on the shortwave still reciting numbers?” Andrew inquires.

  “I don’t know how you can listen to that hour after hour,” Cindy complains. “All she does is repeat the same numbers: 4, 16, 7, 31, 19, 5. It’s so boring.”

  “That’s why it’s called a number station,” James says. “They broadcast numbers. The numbers are a code. They mean something.”

  “What?”

  “Huh?”

  “What do they mean?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “Do you think it’s about Tamburlaine?” Clamor asks.

  “Yes, I’m sure of that much. He’s close. He’s very close.” James glances around the room, searching. “Where in the hell is Garrett?”

  “He’s on a date,” Clamor reports.

  “He found another midget? I didn’t know the circus was in town.”

  “A bit harsh, James,” Andrew remarks.

  “Oh, sorry if I offended, old man. I suppose I’m too busy preparing for the revolution to worry about hurting people’s feelings.” James turns his back on us. “Please continue to enjoy your mindless entertainment,” he says, on his way back up the stairs.

  “May I listen to the numbers with you?” Clamor asks, in a shy voice.

  James turns again to smile at her. “Good girl. Yes, you might learn something.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Sunday, December 5

  I’m looking forward to a quiet breakfast, coffee and Cap’n Crunch, but am disappointed to find our kitchen filled with revolutionaries instead.

  It’s James’ happy band of paranoids, most of whom I haven’t seen since Attica State, back in September.

  Just like in last night’s movie, everybody’s talking at once. Dr. Hirsch should be here. I pour my coffee, listen to the hubbub, and attempt to discover what the excitement is about.

  It seems the Anonymous Christian, after weeks of silence, struck the Square again overnight. This time, however, he posted a number of separate verses instead of just one. James’ crew is passing the handbills back and forth, in amazement. I count three different ones: Job 19:5, 1 Kings 7:31, and Galatians 4:16.

  Garrett isn’t around, so I ask if anyone knows what those verses are about.

  “Don’t be so goddamn stupid,” James snaps. “The verses are irrelevant. It’s the pattern, man. Haven’t you grasped that yet?”

  “What pattern?”

  He slaps the handbills on the table and points to them in order. “Look: 4, 16, 7, 31, 19, 5. Those are the numbers, the ones that were repeated all last night over the radio. Do you get it now?”

  “Ah. No. Afraid not.”

  “The numbers on the radio match the numbers that were posted last night. They’re linked. This is definitely about Tamburlaine. And he’s definitely headed our way.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Monday, December 6

  It takes me a few moments to recognize where I am: the Episcopal parking lot, just behind Colemans. It’s night, and it’s cold. I seem to have gone out without my shearling, and I’m standing in the well of light under a street lamp, shivering.

  Nobody else seems to be about, except for the three men standing about 20 yards away beside a blue Pontiac, the only car in the lot. They appear to be having a normal, if subdued, conversation – until, that is, the man on the left punches the man in the center square in the face.

  The man in the center wobbles for a second, staggers, and falls to the pavement. The two other men bend over him, taking turns punching him again and again. I don’t really want to be witnessing this, but I can’t walk away. My feet and legs don’t seem to be in contact with my brain.

  They’ve finished, now. The man on the ground has stopped making noises when they hit him. They straighten, turn away, and start nonchalantly across the parking lot. Now, they finally notice me, standing here watching. I ought to run, but I can’t.

  The taller man approaches me slowly, without a word. He draws close, with his head cocked, an expression of curiosity. His face is a few inches from mine. I can feel his breath. Then he draws back.

  “You’re asleep, aren’t you?” he asks.

  “I think I am,” I agree.

  He smiles at me. A kind smile. “Where do you live, sport?”

  “On Tyler.”

  “Just around the corner and down the block here, right?” He turns to his partner. “I’m going to walk this guy home. Meet me at the place in half an hour.”

  He takes me by my left elbow, guides me forward. “It’s okay, you can walk now. Sleepwalking’s a funny thing. You do this often?” he chats. “My little sister used to go out all the time like this. Always wound up at the Dairy Queen, for some reason. She grew out of it. Most kids do. But when you get to be an adult, sleepwalking’s not natural.”

  We walk on.

  “Doctors say that sleepwalking is a symptom of stress. Do you feel like you’re under a lot of stress, sport? Huh? You ought to see a doctor. That’s what I’d do. I’d go to the doctor and say, ‘Doc, I’ve been sleepwalking. I think I’m under a lot of stress.’ It wouldn’t hurt to gain some weight, too. You’re about the skinniest guy I’ve ever seen.”

  I stop when we reach the house.

  “This your place? Okay, let’s go on up the steps here. You have a key or something? No, look, the door’s unlocked. You ought to lock that door, sport. Lots of bad people in the world, you know.”

  “Thank you,” I say as he leads me to the couch and has me stretch out. “You’ve been very kind.”

  He smiles. “’Whatever you did for one of my brothers, you did for me.’ Matthew 25:40.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Tuesday, December 7

  The Nickelodeon is running a sale in honor of Pearl Harbor Day: 50% off on rock albums that have bombed.

  I pass on Village Green (The Kinks) and Instant Replay (Monkees), but decide that Velvet Underground is probably worth $1.75. Ho frowns at me and spits on the floor as I’m checking out.

  “Any news from the Red Menace folks?” I ask Dottie.

  “Not a peep.”

  “Listen,” I say, dropping my voice so Ho can’t hear – as if she could understand what I’m saying. “I’m worried about Tiger and Jimmy. As far as I can tell, they haven’t lifted a finger in that storefront. It’s almost as if they don’t expect to open.”

  “You’re spending too much time with James,” she replies. “Getting paranoid like him. Next you’re going to say that D.B. Cooper’s behind those signs.”

  I repeat my suspicions to Garrett as he drops the album on the turntable and Lou Reed’s voice blasts from the stereo in the head shop.

  “You worry too much,” he says. “Here’s something that will cheer you up.” Garrett hands me a candy bar in a wrapper labeled “Déesse” in psychedelic lettering. “I just got a shipment of these. Some heads out in Sonoma County are making them. About 80% pure cocoa.”

  “What does the name mean?”

  “It’s French, for ‘goddess.’ Take the wrapper off and you’ll understand.”

  I do, and I do. The chocolate bar’s been formed in a mold of a nude hippie chick, her pose reminiscent of Botticelli’s “Birth of Venus.” I stare at it, rapt, for a full minute.

  “What’s wrong?” Garrett finally asks. “Never seen a naked chocolate lady before?”

  “I’ve seen that body before. Call me crazy, but I think I know this girl. Just can’t place her.”

  “You’re crazy,” Garrett says.

  ~ ~ ~

  Wednesday, December 8

  Try as I might to keep them straight ahead, to the front of the room, my eyes keep wandering back to Becky.

  We’re attending yet another
magazine staff meeting – and, yes, I’m smitten. Besides, Becky is so much more pleasant to look at than Amy or Dr. Evans, who keep dithering on about typeface, paper stock, and binding, details I suppose they have to decide upon before the magazine is delivered to the print shop next month.

  We have most of the materials together: six short stories, two essays, a dozen or so poems, half a dozen photographs and woodcuts to represent the visual arts.

  Everything needs to be edited and proofed, then sent off to the typesetter.

  “What about the name?” one of the undergraduates asks. “We’ve never settled that.”

  “Compass Point,” Amy says. “My staff agrees that it’s the perfect title.”

  “Mr. Medway?” Dr. Evans asks.

  “The poetry staff is sticking with Road Kill Shinto.”

  Dr. Evans shakes his head. “Come on, let’s just have a simple name. It can’t be this difficult.”

  “How about Barefoot?” Becky suggests. It’s the first time she’s actually spoken during one of these editorial meetings.

  Dr. Evans turns to her, curious. “Barefoot?”

  “W-well,” Becky explains, “it’s a very southern image, I think, and we’re a southern magazine. And . . . and it’s contemporary, too. It’s like our generation, going barefoot, trying to get close to the earth. You know, nature.”

  Amy glares at her, but a slow smile crosses Dr. Evans’ face. “I see what you mean. Southern and Whitmanesque at the same time. I think you’ve got something, young lady. What does everyone think?” he asks the group, but doesn’t wait for an answer. “Barefoot it is. So, unless we have any other business to discuss, I’m declaring this session adjourned. I have a dinner date with a charming woman to get to.”

  News of Mrs. Giordano’s split from her husband and the romance with Dr. Evans is general knowledge around campus, and he’s made no effort to dissemble over their affair.

  “Well, your young protégé certainly scored a coup, didn’t she?” Amy needles, on our way out of the Bishop Hall seminar room. “Tell me, how long did you two brainstorm on that name?”

  “I had nothing to do with it. I actually think it’s good. Maybe kind of cute, but Dr. Evans likes it.”

  “Harold likes that girl’s kewpie doll eyes,” Amy says. “He’s being swayed by pretty faces these days, and it’s pathetic. And you’re no different, Medway. All you males are pathetic. I’ll be happy to have a real man coming to this campus for a change.”

  “A real man? Coming here? I’m intrigued. Who might this stallion be?”

  “Edward Alcott, of course. Haven’t you heard? He’s accepted the writer-in-residence position for spring semester.”

  “Alcott? He’s terrible.”

  “Really? Tell that to the National Book Awards committee – they short-listed him last year, you know. Tell it to Time magazine. Tell it to the National Review.”

  “He writes novels that Hollywood turns into John Wayne movies, for Chrissake. I read that he’s Bob Hope’s favorite author.”

  The elevator finally opens. We step in, alone together. Amy focuses on the changing numbers on the panel, down to the first floor. The doors open, and she steps through, turning to block my exit long enough for a parting comment.

  “Try not to be so jealous of other people’s successes, Daniel. Your resentments are very unbecoming.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Thursday, December 9

  It’s a remarkable day for early December, with the temperature hovering in the upper 70s, cirrus clouds hanging totally still somewhere up in the crystal troposphere, students in t-shirts and shorts, the Grove filled once more with Frisbee players.

  The flasher has already struck twice today, first surprising a coed leaving the infirmary in the Guyton Hall, and just a few minutes ago outside the Student Union.

  Campus cops are bustling all about, in another futile attempt to find him, and in the middle of this outdoor bustle, I stumble upon Dr. Sutherland sitting on a bench in the little sunken courtyard at the front door of the bookstore.

  His being here is disorients me. Nobody has seen Sutherland outside, in full daylight, for years. It would probably be less surprising to discover a great auk sitting on this bench, or a moose.

  I approach cautiously, careful not to startle him, but he greets me with a calm smile.

  “Mr. Medway. Join me. Beautiful weather, isn’t it? Can’t last, of course, but we have to enjoy blessings as they come. Puts me in mind of a Dickinson poem I memorized in high school:

  “These are the days when Birds come back –

  A very few — a Bird or two –

  To take a backward look.

  These are the days when skies resume

  The old — old sophistries of June –

  A blue and gold mistake.’”

  “Are you all right, sir?” I ask, taking the seat beside him.

  He turns to face me with a pair of puzzled eyes. “I feel like I’ve just awakened,” he answers, “as if I’ve been asleep for a very long time, longer than I can understand, and I’m wondering what’s happened to everyone while I was away.”

  I have no idea how to respond, so I say nothing, which seems to suit his mood splendidly.

  “Maybe it’s just the day,” he says, breaking a long silence between us. “Maybe it’s the weather. Maybe this is a dream. If it is, don’t wake me.” After another long pause, he turns to face me again. “I’m going to take a walk to the Confederate cemetery. Would you care to join me?”

  “I have a class.”

  “Too bad. Maybe another time, though.” Here he touches my shoulder, in a fatherly way. “I’ll pay your respects to the dead.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Friday, December 10

  Vicky, the younger cashier from Leslie’s Drugs, is at on our porch, knocking politely with a large wheeled suitcase behind her.

  “Hi,” she says as I open. “Cindy’s expecting me.”

  She wheels the suitcase into the parlor and begins unpacking stacks of plastic containers.

  “We’re having a Tupperware party,” Cindy explains. “Vicky’s one of my regulars at Grundy’s. Her husband’s stationed in Germany. She’s started selling Tupperware in her spare time to help support herself. I said she could practice her sales routine on us. You boys better be nice.”

  Andy, Garrett, Clamor, Dr. Hirsch and I are take our seats in the parlor and are awaiting the start of Vicky’s demonstration when another guest arrives, hammering on the door instead of politely knocking.

  I answer. It’s James’ thug.

  “We meet again,” he says.

  “No need to hit me this time. James is upstairs.”

  Vicky is wearing tan slacks and a checkered gingham top that, I imagine, is supposed to look wholesome and all-American, but which I find to be oddly provocative, possibly because the outfit makes her look a lot like Marianne from Gilligan’s Island, and I’ve always had a thing for Marianne.

  The presentation commences. Vicky is nervous, clumsy, not a gifted saleswoman. She’s got a script that she repeatedly checks as she goes along, but it’s been written for a gathering of housewives. She doesn’t seem to know what to do with our motley assortment of freaks.

  She brings out a rectangular set of Modular Mates and sets it beside the Sheer Gallon Pitcher. “Now this would make a perfect Christmas gift for your . . . .” Here she pauses. “Your mothers?”

  “Yes, that’s all right,” Andrew encourages her. “We all have mothers. Except for Dr. Hirsch, of course.”

  “That’s because he’s a result of spontaneous generation,” Garrett adds.

  “Actually, she passed away last year,” Dr. Hirsch interjects.

  “Claire Marie, on the other hand, came into this world through parthenogenesis. Technically speaking, she is her own mother.”

  “We’re very close,” Clamor agrees.

  “Most remarkable of all,” Andrew adds, “Garrett here is the product of an hysterical pregnancy.”

/>   Vicky’s getting flustered. Cindy stands, arms akimbo. “Everybody shut up! I apologize, Vicky. They’ve been smoking dope again.”

  The poor woman soldiers on about the wonders of Tupperware in preserving perishables in air-tight storage. When she shows us how to burp the containers, Clamor’s trying so hard not to laugh I fear she’ll wet herself. Unseen to the rest of us, another audience member has joined us, listening intently.

  “Pardon me,” the thug says, stepping forward to Vicky’s display. He taps an index finger on the Season Serve Container. “How much does this cost?”

  Vicky stammers a moment over the interruption by this sinister stranger, but manages to quote a price. The thug extracts a roll of bills from his pocket and begins thumbing through it.

  “I’ll take 82 of them,” he says, scooting a stack of cash across the table toward her. He then raises an extra $20 bill in the air. “Can I get rush delivery?”

  “Yes, certainly. Let me get you a receipt.”

  “No receipt. Just have the package sent here. I’ll know when to pick it up.”

  As he’s leaving, the thug feints a punch in my direction, and I duck.

  “Just messing with you, kid. Good evening, everyone. Pleasure doing business with you.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Saturday, December 11

  WREG is showing Charlie Chan in Panama for its late movie. Twentieth Century Fox, 1940. Directed by Norman Foster. I should probably be studying for next week’s final exam in my German class instead.

  Andrew, Garrett and I are trying to solve the mystery along with old Charlie, but he manages to stay several steps ahead of us. Cindy is absorbed in her December issue of Cosmo, which has included an excerpt from Daniel Reuben’s new book, Any Woman Can!*

  “What can any woman do?” Andrew asks, during a commercial.

  “Get a guy to ball her.”

  “Well, that’s self-evident. I can’t believe some clever sod managed to write an entire book on that topic.”

  “When I was a kid,” Garrett says, “I envied my sisters because they could subscribe to magazines like Seventeen that explained how to talk and dress and attract guys. What did I have? Boys Life. It told me how to tie knots.”

  “I bet you read Playboy, too,” Cindy counters.

  “Yes, which I had to smuggle in and hide under my mattress, and which told me how to mix martinis and score with chicks in my Manhattan penthouse. Totally worthless. I really just needed a magazine that told me how to unhook Julie McNutt’s bra strap.” He turns to Andrew and me with an inspiration. “You know what we should do? We should start a magazine for teenage guys, with all sorts of sex advice. We’ll call it Hard On.”