Wasted Year: The Last Hippies of Ole Miss

by Douglas Gray

  “Yes! Hopeless losers, both of us. But – and this is a big ‘but’ – you cannot help but feel yourself to be one of nature’s most nearly perfect creations, if you simply compare yourself to that fulsome pile of uselessness.”

  Here he points at Flop, the fat fur ball sprawled in the middle of the floor. As far as I can tell, she’s been in that spot all day, and it’s now past eight in the evening. Not even to go outside to whizz. The cat’s too lazy to pee.

  Every so often, the mice scuttle out in pairs from their new lair behind the couch to taunt her, running laps around her ponderous girth, kamikaze raids across her paws, at times even hopping atop her head and diving onto the floor from the tip of her nose. Flop manages a feeble swat in their general direction, heaves a sigh, and goes back to sleep.

  I’ve spent the day watching, and reading Book 5 of the Odyssey, fantasizing my own personal Ogygia, my own personal Calypso. “She doesn’t do anything except lick her private parts,” I say.

  “I don’t think that cat has quite grasped the concept of private parts.”

  “The Widow warned you she wasn’t a mouser,” I say. “Why not just take her back?”

  “I tried to. The Widow doesn’t want her back. Says her trailer actually smells good for the first time in years.”

  “Flop does have a distinctive body odor,” I remark. “Maybe it’s what the Widow’s been feeding her – green beans, bacon fat, cornbread, leftover chitlins. Little wonder she stinks. Dr. Goodleigh feeds her monsters some kind of special dry food, and they all smell like fresh-washed babies.”

  “Are you saying you plan to keep her?”

  “We can’t very well throw her out for the dogs to eat.”

  “They wouldn’t touch her. She smells too bad.”

  “Go ahead,” I dare.

  Blake gives her a long look, then returns to his drink and his pages. “Goddamnit. Another goddamn female in my life.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Sunday, April 9

  I’m on Highway 7 on the way back to the trailer park. Jackson Browne is on the radio singing “Doctor My Eyes,” the windows are down, a bank of clouds on the edge of the horizon has started turning a bluish shade of pink from at sunset, and a green Caddy is following maybe 50 yards behind me.

  I’ve just now noticed it. I’d spotted it, without thinking one way or another about it, at the Shell station where I’d stopped for a refill. As I near the exit to 30, the radio starts playing “American Pie.” Again. Probably the third time I’ve heard it today. I flick the radio off, take the exit and drive east on 30 slow, watching in the rearview mirror. Maybe 20 seconds after I make the turn, the Caddy appears on the road behind me.

  I pull into the parking lot of the snow cone stand at the corner of Campground Road, kill the engine, and get out. The Caddy approaches, slows, and stops at the opposite end, motor running. It’s been spotted. It knows, not even trying for deception now.

  I order two raspberry snow cones from the attendant, carry them over to the Caddy, and tap against the smoked glass window on the driver’s side. The window rolls down slowly to reveal Skoll’s face, his gaze ironic.

  “My treat,” I say and hand him the second cone.

  “Werry kind of you,” he replies, accepting it. “Please to get in. Ve talk, okay?”

  “So you’re the one who keeps trying to run me over.”

  “I meant only to get your attention,” Skoll reassures. “No danger. I am excellent driver, provessionally trained in wehicle dynamics, high speed chase, maneuvering. Vas meant to make you nerwous.”

  “I don’t think I was ever truly nervous. Just puzzled as hell. Why did you keep dressing like an ugly woman?”

  “Because I couldn’t dress up like a preety one!” Skoll chuckles to himself and sucks on his cone for a moment. With the windows closed and the heater set on high, the inside of the car has a stale, lived-in smell.

  “This is your meeting,” I prompt.

  Skoll wipes purple flavoring from his lips with a paper napkin. “Thees conversation never happened, okay? I vant to geeve you little advice. Take your papa’s money, do what he asks you to do.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Your mama,” he begins.

  “Step mother,” I remind him.

  “Step mama. She deleevers in summer. Maybe she has girl baby. Your papa has no more need of you, and you get nothing. But maybe she has boy baby. Papa still wants you to do thees thing for him, only thees time he offers no money. He has judge in pocket, files papers, takes name instead.”

  “How does he do that?” I ask.

  “He proves you are not his real son. Bastard. Illegitimate. Your mama vas beautiful voman, many admirers. Ve don’t know who your true vather is.”

  I take another bite of my own cone, and mull this over. “You know, of course, that if he could prove that I’m not a Medway, that might be the best thing that ever happened to me.”

  Skoll gives me a look of compassion. It’s disconcerting to see an actual human emotion cross his face. “No. Your mama was faithful vife. You’ll alvays be Medway. All that happens is your mama’s memory gets disgraced, and you get no money. Is good advice I give you. Do what papa vants. Do it now.”

  I attempt to placate Skoll by muttering a vague assurance that I’ll consider his words, exit his car, begin walking back toward mine, but then turn back. I tap on his window again.

  “That beating I took back in January,” I begin.

  He shakes his head. “No, that vasn’t me.”

  We nod to each other. I start walking again, but return for one last question. Skoll hasn’t rolled the window up, expecting this.

  “That kid you hassled on Tyler,” I prompt.

  “Hippie vith big ears poking out?”

  “That’s the guy. What did you say that scared him so much?”

  Skoll looks pleased with himself. “That boy has devil chasing him. I know. I offered to let devil know vhere to find him.”

  “That wasn’t very nice.”

  “I’m not werry nice man,” Skoll shrugs.

  ~ ~ ~

  Monday, April 10

  “Dean Moriarty is telling people that you’re the most dangerous man on campus,” Dr. Goodleigh reports upon her return from her 10:00 Classical Art class.

  Little Becky has paid a visit to the Museum, almost unbearably pretty in a wispy little tri-pastel, tailored, long-hemmed and long-sleeved dress that makes her look like she just stepped off a page of The Faerie Queene.

  “It’s an honor just to be nominated,” I reply.

  She drops her pile of books with a thump onto my desk, appraises the loveliness of Becky in her spring attire, and returns her attention to me. “I’ve heard reports of a disturbance Friday night in Bishop auditorium. Hippies heckling Alcott.”

  “I had nothing to do with that. I wasn’t even there. I decided to leave so I could be sick in private once the movie ended. I was in the Grove, watching some old guy herd rabbits.”

  “The Ranger is back?” Goodleigh asks. “I haven’t seen him in a good four or five years. He was charming blue jays and squirrels in the Grove back then. A very unusual man. But back to the question: you truly weren’t there?”

  “I’m innocent.”

  “That’s good. Bill Sutherland will be relieved,” she says. “He’s taking heat from the Lyceum to rescind your graduate assistanceship. Moriarty is threatening to do it himself, if Bill doesn’t act.”

  “Can Moriarty do that?”

  “Technically. Nine months ago I would have guessed nobody would take such a drastic step. But in light of what’s already happened this year . . . well, it might not be a bad idea for you to begin looking for other work.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Tuesday, April 11

  “So what if you lose your job?” Nick inquires. “You have like $3,000 in the bank. You could live years on that much.”

  “That’s tainted money. It came from my father,” I explain. “My stipend from the Museum
is $95 a month. Without that, I’d have to curtail my bon vivant lifestyle pretty severely. Give up weed. Give up alcohol. Give up food. Clothing. Shelter.”

  The lobby to the Oxford Eagle is empty as we step through the heavy glass door. I ding the little hand bell, and we wait for a minute before an employee takes notice. She’s Mrs. Pearson, the heavyset, 60-ish blonde I’ve seen dozens of times in Blaylock’s over the past year.

  “Can I help you?” she asks.

  Nick is the first to speak. “We need to take out an ad in the paper.”

  The clerk glances at Nick, then at me, then back to Nick. “I’m guessing you found this wandering the street, and you’re trying to locate its owner,” she says, pointing to me. “Save yourself the trouble, and just drop it off at the animal shelter.”

  “I’m the one taking out the ad,” I tell her.

  She draws back in feigned surprise. “It can talk?”

  “I want to offer myself for hire,” I say.

  “As what? We already have a village idiot and a town drunk.” This woman seems to be taking offense to my presence in her office. Or maybe it’s my appearance.

  “As painter and interior designer to Oxford’s elite,” Nick interjects, protectively. “Have you ever visited the Russell mansion on North Lamar? He painted the ballroom. The man’s a genius, an artist. I’m a painter myself. I can testify to his credentials.”

  “I also painted both the men’s and the ladies’ rest rooms at the Greyhound station,” I brag. “I think I need a really classy ad to let the goodly folk of Oxford know I’ve returned from a two years of travel, painting for the crowned heads of Europe.”

  She scoots a pencil and a pad of paper across the counter to me, explains about rates (number of words, spaces, and letters, number of issues the ad will appear in – a complex equation of many variables that I decide to ignore) and invites me to compose my ad.

  I think, write, think some more, scratch a few words out, add a few new ones, tighten up the syntax, transpose information points to catch the reader’s attention from the very first word, polish, edit, polish some more, and put the pencil down.

  Mrs. Pearson takes the pad, and reads my thoughtfully-composed 15 words of copy. “Not bad,” she admits. “But you forgot to include your phone number.”

  “I don’t have a phone.”

  “No phone?”

  “No ma’am.”

  “How do you expect people to contact you?”

  “You should get a phone, man,” Nick suggests.

  “Never. You know why.”

  “How about an address?” Mrs. Pearson asks.

  “I suspect the place where I’m living doesn’t officially exist.”

  “P.O. box?”

  “The post office is staffed by narcs.”

  Mrs. Pearson is losing patience.

  “You can use our phone number,” Nick offers.

  “Suzie wouldn’t mind?”

  “Course not. Suzie loves you. Suzie’s my wife,” he says, turning to Mrs. Pearson. “She’s almost eight months pregnant. I’m going to be a father.”

  “Lord preserve us,” Mrs. Pearson says.

  ~ ~ ~

  Wednesday, April 12

  “Wake up,” I say, shaking Blake’s shoulder. “C’mon, man, wake up. I’ve gotta know if you’re hearing this.”

  Flop, slumbering on the floor, rolls over to expose her full moon of a bloated, furry belly, and blinks at me before going back to sleep. She doesn’t seem alarmed. That’s a good sign.

  “Blake! Wake up. It’s time to wake up!”

  He belches a cloud of gin fumes, but keeps his eyes closed. “What time is it?”

  I glance over at the clock. “3:17.”

  “Hell. That’s no time to wake up.” His eyelids are forming little slits now, crescents of bloodshot white showing behind. “I’m drunk,” he slurs. “Help me up.”

  “No, man. Listen. You can’t go down there. You can’t go into your room.”

  “Why not? Who says I can’t?”

  “Just listen. Be quiet for a second, and listen.”

  I put my finger to my lips, the universal sign for “shut the fuck up.” Blake arches his brows in curious compliance, and tilts his head at an angle supposedly suggestive of rapt attention.

  The racket of voices, squeals, laughter and occasional whistles rolls down the darkened hallway from the back of our trailer, from his room. Somebody’s having a swell time down there – except that I’ve already checked, and the room is empty.

  Blake listens, hears, and lifts a derisive eyebrow at me. “You woke me up for the voices?” I sense an accusation there. “Goddammit, I was having a sex dream. Jane Fonda was in it.”

  “What is that?” I demand to know.

  “The voices. I already told you. The witch left them behind. They’re harmless. Go back to sleep,” Blake mutters, and instantly follows his own advice.

  Flop sighs and farts in her sleep.

  I’m left sitting alone at the table, listening to the party at the dark end of the hallway.

  ~ ~ ~

  Thursday, April 13

  “I should warn you,” Dr. Valencia says in reply to my repeated request to be strapped to the Russian brain machine, “that some patients have reported certain side-effects.”

  “Such as?” I ask.

  “Headaches, insomnia, vertigo, somnambulism.”

  “Sleep walking?” I say. “No worry there. I already sleepwalk. Hell, I have blackouts in the middle of the day. Yesterday, I came to and found myself driving a delivery car for Kiame’s. The manager says I stopped in, applied for the job, and was hired on the spot.”

  “There’s no future in delivering pizzas,” Dr. Valencia advises. “You should stick to house painting.”

  “You’re telling me. I didn’t even get a damn tip.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Friday, April 14

  The reporter from the Commercial Appeal appraises Jenny Tyson’s law office, from the shelves of legal reference books, to the scarred oak desk where an avuncular Dr. Evans sits smoking his pipe in a seersucker suit, to the glass door that leads onto the porch above Sneed’s hardware and a panorama of the Square at mid-day.

  “Wow. This is like something right out of Faulkner.”

  The reporter herself is decidedly not Faulknerian. Nina Fairchild is an emaciated woman dressed all in black. With a set of cheekbones so sharp you could whet a hunting knife on them, and her tangle of Medusa-like black hair, she looks like a figure in a playbill drawn by Aubrey Beardsley.

  Despite appearances, Miss Fairchild has a delicate air about her, a rather touching shy awkwardness that she manages to keep hidden until the moment Garrett enters the office, here at Jenny’s invitation as our journalistic go-between, the one person in town who finally managed to persuade the Memphis staff to pay some attention to the Barefoot case.

  Jenny, Dr. Evans and I fill her in on the background of the suit. Miss Fairchild has requested an interview with someone in the Lyceum, only to be refused.

  She asks questions, scribbles notes. We answer, attempting to be quote-worthy. The hearing has been scheduled May 18 in Judge Watters’ court. No, the author of the contested story hasn’t agreed to testify yet. No, we don’t know whether the University will invite Edward Alcott to serve as an expert witness.

  Miss Fairchild jots down every detail, but I notice that her eyes keep returning to Garrett. Tatyana persuaded him to shave his beard during his visit to North Carolina, and she trimmed his hair to pull back into a long blonde ponytail that falls to his shoulder blades. I glance at her, glancing at him, and Garrett glancing back at her.

  Love is in the air.

  As the interview concludes, Garrett suggests coffee at Grundy’s before Miss Fairchild begins her return trip to Memphis. The others of us politely decline, leaving Miss Fairchild and Garrett free to talk shop over coffee.

  I drop by the Ohm at 6:00 to invite Garrett to the Buddha for dinner, but stop halfway up the stairwa
y when I catch sight of the two of them sitting on the waterbed, sharing a joint.

  I note that Miss Fairchild’s hair seems even more riotously tangled than it was earlier in the day. They don’t spot me. I turn and descend the steps on tiptoe.

  ~ ~ ~

  Saturday, April 15

  “Are you boys from the college?” the Man in the Quaker State Cap asks us, sliding into the empty chair at our little table. He’s been keeping an eye on us from under the brim of his cap for the past 10 minutes or more, sizing us up, apparently trying to decide whether to approach.

  The band keeps rocking loud, but the bar patrons fall silent as he steps away from the bar and crosses the room to our table.

  “Are you boys from the college?”

  “Yes,” Blake says.

  “What are you studying?”

  “I’m in History. The French Revolution.” Blake gestures toward me. “He’s in ancient Greek literature, for reasons known only to him.”

  He nods. “Growing up, I wanted to go to Ole Miss. But I never had the chance. Too late now, I guess.”

  “Lot of guys your age are there now on the GI Bill,” Blake says.

  Another nod. “I served in the Army. Guess I’d qualify.”

  “What would you like to study?”

  “Physics,” he says, without a pause for thought. “Subatomic particles. The space-time continuum. Unified field theory. Einstein, Neils Bohr, Heisenberg. Those cats are my heroes. Do you think I could enroll in some classes on them? Could you boys talk to someone in the college, to let me in?”

  “Dr. Glass is the chairman of the department,” I offer. “I can contact him, see if we can set up an interview.”

  The Man offers one final nod as he rises from the table to return to the bar. “Appreciate it. Just let me know.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Sunday, April 16

  This reception for the Art Department’s Spring Gallery Display seemed like a brilliant idea last Tuesday when Dr. Goodleigh egged me into inviting Little Becky to join me for an afternoon of art appreciation.

  It’s turning out to be a far less subdued event than I’d remembered from my undergraduate days. Instead of a Junior League style soiree featuring still lives of fruit bowls, oil paintings of magnolias in blossom, and watercolor portraits of grandmothers, this year’s installation consists of mainly of nudes in every imaginable medium – acrylics, pastels, charcoal, bronzes, woodcuts, mobiles, photographs – along with enormous canvases of angry abstract paintings in passionate colors and violent brushstrokes. The timid, mousy artists of my memory, too, have been replaced by a troupe of savage Bohemians who argue, smoke, swear and spill their drinks on the floor.