Wasted Year: The Last Hippies of Ole Miss

by Douglas Gray

  “And to replace the Lyceum with a charterhouse of Carthusian monks.”

  “At least they could pray for the college. Maybe we wouldn’t be so godforsaken anymore. You want to grab something at the Buddha for dinner?”

  This being a weekday, and early enough in the evening, the line at Hirsch’s restaurant isn’t long. We’re able to get a table in under 5 minutes. The gorgeous waitress is working again tonight, but, sadly, we’re not at one of her tables.

  “Girls get creeped out if you stare at them,” Garrett advises me. “Just a tip from a guy who’s had some recent success with the ladies.”

  Just as our food arrives, Dr. Hirsch emerges from the kitchen. Something’s odd about his appearance. He seems unsteady on his feet. Then I spot the cane. His left ankle is bandaged.

  “A minor sprain,” he says, dropping into a chair by our table. “I tripped on my way to the car yesterday. Had to cancel all my classes.”

  “Well, at least the campus will be safe for a while,” Garrett remarks.

  “Excuse me?” Hirsch asks.

  “He means that you won’t be kicking anybody’s ass with that foot for a while,” I intervene. “We know how much you love to kick ass.”

  “Oh! Very good. No, no further ass kicking for me. May I join you?” He signals to Tiger at the cashier table. “Bring me a plate of sweet and sour pork, if you’d be so kind. And another order of egg rolls for my friends here. So, boys, what’s been going on?”

  “You want gossip?” Garrett asks. “Have you heard about Dr. Tappan?”

  “Is he on the faculty?”

  “Zoology. He’s an ornithologist, best known for his work with Dicaeum pygmaeum. The Pygmy Flowerpecker. But his hobby is ophidiology.”

  “Snakes,” I say.

  “Right. He loves snakes, and used to have an entire lab full of live specimens. But he had to give them up because of his sciatica. Taking care of snakes requires lots of bending over, you know.”

  “I didn’t. But it makes sense, them being so close to the ground and all.”

  “Exactly. So he finds a home for all his beloved snakes, except one, which turned out to be this old one-eyed python that nobody wanted. He considered putting the poor old thing down, but finally decided that the humane thing to do was to keep it, let it live out its natural life. However, old pythons, no matter how useless they are to anybody, can live for a long, long time.”

  “I didn’t know that either.”

  “You’re learning a lot today. Aren’t you glad we’re having this conversation?”

  “I am. Please, continue.”

  “I intend to. Because they got to spend so much time together, Dr. Tappan formed a real emotional bond with his old, withered python. So much so, that he decided to take it out of the lab, on outings. You know, show it around a little.”

  “That doesn’t sound like a good idea.”

  “No, it wasn’t. It turns out that the fair sex of Oxford are actually frightened of old one-eyed pythons. It’s also against city ordinance to show off your python in public, and the police are after him for it.”

  “Well, he should stop doing it then,” I advise. “Do you think he will?”

  “I hope he will.” Garrett turns to Dr. Hirsch. “What do you think?”

  “I think,” Hirsch answers “that Dr. Tappan sounds like a very strange man.”

  “I have my own news,” I announce “I’ve decided to move out of the commune.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Wednesday, March 8

  Suzie is enormous. It’s been a month since I last saw her, and in that time she’s turned into a hippie Venus of Willendorf. She can’t rise from a chair without assistance, and can scarcely walk without help from Nick, who remains constantly, solicitously by her side.

  He’s still clean-shaven, but his hair is starting to grow out again.

  “I understand you’ve left the bank,” I say as we shake hands.

  I hear Cindy, Garrett and Clamor in the kitchen, chatting as they cook supper together.

  “You understand right, brother. The vice president called me into his office last week. I thought something weird was happening, because everybody was watching me as I went in. Maybe I was about to get canned. Turns out, the old guy congratulated me on the job I’d been doing, said he wanted me to attend some kind of management training seminar next month in Little Rock. He said I have a real gift for banking, and that some day I might even have his job.”

  “Nick suddenly had a vision of himself at 40,” Suzie adds, completing the story, “fat and bald, dressed in a seersucker suit, an Oxford banker for life.”

  “I quit then and there, and practically ran out of the office,” Nick says.

  “Narrow escape. Are you going to grow the beard back?”

  “I like him better without it,” Suzie comments. “He looks younger.”

  “Well, then, maybe I’ll grow mine out again,” I say.

  “Don’t,” Suzie pleads. “I remember your beard. Ugliest thing I’ve ever seen. You looked like a Ukrainian beet farmer. Are we going to be invited to visit you at your new place?”

  “Sure. Bring a rifle, though. It’s out in the sticks, and overrun by packs of wild dogs.”

  “Sounds charming. Where is it?”

  “Campground Road, about a mile off Highway 30. Mr. Duck owns a trailer park there.”

  “You know, if you’re leaving because of Cindy . . . ,” she starts to say.

  “Because of James. He’ll likely be back any time, and I don’t want to run into him again. I’ve decided I don’t like him.”

  “I’ve never liked him,” she replies, which comes as a surprise. I’ve always thought Suzie got along with everybody. “James is sinister. There’s something wrong with him. Did you know that a few days before our wedding, he took Nick to Memphis, tried to buy him a whore and talk him out of marrying me?”

  “What did you ever do to him?”

  “I turned him down once, before Nick and I started going out. James dislikes all women, I think. But he hates the ones who refuse to sleep with him.”

  “Oh, my god!” Cindy shrieks from the kitchen.

  We hear a clatter, and an explosion of some kind, followed by the sound of something spattering through the room. I’m standing in the kitchen doorway a few moments later, while Nick is still helping Suzie to her feet in the parlor.

  Garrett, Clamor and Cindy stand frozen in shock. They’re dripping with an oozy brown substance that’s in their hair, on the faces, spattered on their clothes. The same stuff, whatever it is, stains the walls and the cabinets, and has left a volcanic spatter over the stove.

  “It exploded!” Cindy says. “The pudding! It just exploded!”

  Garrett turns on her, teeth bared. “It exploded? How could it explode?”

  Clamor is temporarily blinded by the stuff in her eyes, but she’s managed to find a dish towel to douse under the faucet.

  “I don’t know. I mean, I was just stirring it, and it . . . exploded!”

  “Chocolate pudding doesn’t explode,” he says. “Pudding cannot explode. It’s milk, cornstarch, cocoa and vanilla. It contains no gunpowder, nitric acid, gasoline, phosphorous, propane, sulfur, natural gas, lighter fluid, nitroglycerine, kerosene, liquid hydrogen, cherry bombs or blasting caps. So, how in the hell could it explode?”

  “I don’t know, Garrett. It just did, okay?”

  Garrett shapes his right hand like a telephone receiver. “Ring ring. Ring ring. Hello? Who? Yes, she’s here. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. All right, I’ll let her know. Bye now.”

  He hangs up.

  “Who was that?” Clamor asks.

  “The Nobel committee. Cindy’s just won the 1972 award in Chemistry, for creating an explosive compound from inert substances.”

  Clamor has managed to get the pudding out of her eyes. She notices a splatter of pudding on her forearm and licks. “It tastes pretty good, Cindy. Too bad it exploded like that.”

  We arm ourselves with dish rags
, sponges and paper towels to clean up the mess. Pudding is everywhere, even in the pantry, the half bath beside the kitchen, and the dining room. On walls, hardwood floors, electric sockets, wainscoting, linoleum, ceramic tiles, chairs, end tables, ceiling fan blades, soup cans, Cap’n Crunch boxes, the lava lamp, Cindy’s poster of Janis Joplin, everywhere.

  Dinner follows, spaghetti with tomato sauce, meatballs optional in deference to the vegetarians among us, Wild Irish Rose, garlic bread, salad. My last supper. Nick dashes out toward the end and returns with Eskimo Pies for dessert, to replace the chocolate pudding.

  McCloud has come on by the time we’ve finished. Suzie begs fatigue, so Nick drives her home. The others settle in to watch Dennis Weaver. I climb the steps to my room, to take inventory of what I’ll need to pack tomorrow afternoon, and assess whether it will all fit in one trip to Campground Road.

  The room is dark as I open the door, but I step back with a jolt at the sight of something hovering in the south corner – hovering, and faintly glowing. I battle the instinct to reach for the light switch. I step inside the room, close the door slowly behind me, and approach.

  A wave of acceptance and gratitude passes through my body. It’s Melissa again – or the projection of Melissa, in lotus position, eyes closed, face serene. She’s translucent. Energy flickers in the aura surrounding her, and weaves through her in trails of colors.

  I draw nearer, kneel, and assume lotus position a foot or less from the boundary of her aura. From here, I can gaze into a face I thought I might never see again.

  “I love you,” I whisper, and realize that she’s heard me.

  A half smile flickers across her face, the old Attic smile. She’s trying not to laugh. The field of her aura collapses, and her image folds into a single point of light that lingers in the darkness for a few moments more, before gently extinguishing.

  ~ ~ ~

  Thursday, March 9

  The snow cone stand at the corner of Campground and Highway 30 has already re-opened for the season. I offer to treat Blake to one, as a sort of new-roommate offering, and return to the trailer with a cherry snow cone for me and a lemon-lime for him.

  Blake takes a tentative lick, then a suck. “It needs vodka,” he decides. “Check the cupboard over the fridge.”

  The cupboard is packed with gin, whiskey, rum, Scotch, tequila, and brandy, but I unearth a bottle of vodka with the brand name Stolichnaya tucked away in the corner. That’s the one Blake wants. I’ve never heard of it before.

  “Russian,” Blake explains. He douses his snow cone and takes an appreciative lick. “You’re holding one of the first bottles of Stolichnaya ever to be sold in this country. It’s a new exchange treaty with the commies. The Russians get Pepsi-Cola, and America gets Stolichnaya. Sounds like a fair exchange. God bless Nixon – no, I really mean that. God bless Richard Nixon! He’s going to end the cold war with booze. To Détente!”

  Here he lifts his snow cone in toast, but my attention’s already been distracted by the just-released April issue of Playboy, which is on the floor beside the kitchen table, within reach of Blake’s chair.

  Vicki Peters, Miss April, is a doe-eyed lass who appears to spend an inordinate amount of time in the shower or lounging about topless in mossy forest settings where she’s certain to get bitten by chiggers.

  “I subscribe,” Blake explains, “for the articles only. This month’s issue contains four poems by Mao Tse-tung. As an historian, I bear a duty to stay current on international affairs.”

  I toss the magazine aside and attack my snow cone (which is very tasty, by the way). “That’s a relief,” I say between slurps. “Any young man who is dating the fair Joan is certainly not in need of additional glimpses of feminine pulchritude.”

  Blake frowns a little at this comment. “About Joan,” he says. “As her friend, you really should warn her that I’m no good. Anyone who gets to know me can tell you that. Just ask Duck, or the Widow. Joan believes she sees something in me, and as flattering as that is, she must be a terrible judge of character.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Friday, March 10

  Somebody underestimated today’s turnout for the public Barefoot committee meeting. The classroom in Bishop Hall is packed, standing room only, but Becky has managed to save a seat for me on the front row, a few yards from the table where the committee members are already gathering. I’m sandwiched between her and the pimply freshman from Yazoo City. I spot Amy on the other side of the room. We exchange an accidental glance; then we avoid looking at each other.

  The committee consists of Doctors Martin, Callendar, Glass, Suminski, and Van Kirk from Civil Engineering, Biology, Physics, Math, and Pharmacy, respectively. The average age of the table seems to be around 72. Dr. Callendar is asleep in his chair, head tossed back.

  Alcott strides into the room, adjusting his coat and his tie as if to give the impressions that he just stepped out of a bar fight. He shakes Dr. Callendar awake, and scowls at this crowd of students.

  “We all know why we’re here, so let’s get down to business. The committee members have had a chance to read the material in question. So now we’re going to vote on whether or not it’s obscene.”

  “Excuse me,” Dr. Van Kirk asks, “what were we supposed to do?”

  “Read the story. You know, in the magazine, all that crap the students wrote,” Dr. Suminski prompts.

  “Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t understand. Listen, though, I don’t know anything about literature. Shouldn’t the English department be handling this?”

  “Dean Moriarty wanted a committee of non-specialists,” Suminski says. “To act as an impartial jury.”

  “How many of you read the piece?” Alcott asks.

  “I read it,” Martin answers. “Didn’t understand a word of it. How am I supposed to tell you whether or not it’s obscene?”

  “You can take my word for it,” Alcott replies. “It’s obscene.”

  “Then why didn’t you just make the decision?” Martin complains. “Why is the Dean wasting our time this way?”

  “Because he wanted an impartial committee,” Suminski repeats, “to make sure the students have a fair hearing. However, if Mr. Alcott says it’s obscene, I believe we should defer to his expertise.”

  “Fine,” Dr. Martin says. “Then I vote that it’s obscene. Let’s get this over with. Who’s in favor?”

  Hands go up, save one.

  “I believe logicians call this ‘Begging the Question,’” Dr. Glass – the lone abstainer – purrs in his melodious Mississippi homeboy accent, his leonine jowls making tidal motions as he speaks. “How are you defining obscenity?”

  “The author uses a vulgar word referring to sexual intercourse 21 times in the space of 10 pages,” Alcott growls. “That’s what I call obscene.”

  “I suppose you mean the word ‘fuck,’” Glass replies. It sounds almost graceful in his mouth. “But the author hasn’t actually depicted an act of sexual intercourse. Vulgarity is different from obscenity.”

  “Obscene, vulgar. What’s the difference?” Van Kirk asks.

  “Society has laws against obscenity, but not against vulgarity. In America, we’re free to be as vulgar as we wish. If you don’t believe me, take a stroll down Fraternity Row any Saturday night.”

  “If Mr. Alcott says it’s obscene, then it’s obscene” Martin counters.

  “Martin, you numbskull,” Glass answers. “Don’t you understand what’s happening here? This censorship isn’t about dirty words. It’s about black people and white people makin’ love. The old-fashioned term, I believe, was ‘miscegenation.’ Dean Moriarty and the pathetic crew in the Lyceum believe we’re still back in 1962, with James Meredith knocking at the door and federal troops camped in the Grove. Dirty words don’t offend me, but racism does. I won’t be a party to it.”

  “Watch yourself, doctor,” Alcott warns.

  Glass lifts his eyes to heaven.

  The pimply freshman beside me decides to enter the argument:
“Yeah! It would only be obscene if it showed gentiles!”

  “Genitals,” Glass corrects. “That would make it pornographic.”

  Dr. Callendar, who’s appeared to be napping through the debate, suddenly opens his eyes and decides to speak: “Fuck!” he says.

  A gasp sweeps across the room. The other men at the table wheel to look at him in astonishment.

  Dr. Callendar chuckles, rises to face Alcott, and says it again. “Fuck. Mr. Chairman, that is my second use of the word. Am I obscene, or merely vulgar?”

  He repeats it again. And again. And again.

  He continues repeating it as he lifts his raincoat from the back of the chair and strolls toward the door. The mood in the room shifts to hilarity at the spectacle of the wizened professor emeritus cursing on his slow, unsteady way out of the room.

  He pauses at the door and turns to us.

  “Mr. Chairman, I believe that makes 20 times I’ve used that word, since you’re so fond of counting. Fuck Dean Moriraty. There, that makes 21 times. The Biology department sides with the students. I move to release the magazine.”

  “Seconded,” Glass says. “All in favor?” He raises his own hand.

  Van Kirk follows, hesitantly, after a moment’s pause. Three votes.

  “Opposed!” Alcott demands: himself, Martin and Suminski. Three votes.

  “The motion is defeated!” Alcott proclaims. “This meeting is adjourned.”

  “The vote was a tie!” Glass protests.

  “As chair, I cast the tie-breaking vote.”

  “You don’t get to vote twice.”

  “The motion is defeated.”

  “Objection! Objection!”

  Alcott pushes away from the table and looms over Glass, fists balled. “You want to take this outside, old man?”

  The assembly boos him. Alcott wheels, tears off his suit coat, tosses it to the floor, and crouches like a mountain gorilla, challenging us.

  “You stinking little shits! You think you can take a piece of me? Come on! I’d like to see you try.”

  “Such vulgarity, sir!” Callendar taunts.

  The rest of the committee beat a fast retreat to the door, ushering Callendar away with them.

  “Asshole!” a student shouts

  “You suck!”

  “Fascist!”

  “Pig!”

  “Prick!”

  “You better call John Wayne for backup, man! We’re gonna whip your ass!”

  “I’ve slaughtered North Koreans with my bare hands,” Alcott shouts back. “I can sure as hell kill you where you stand.”