by Douglas Gray
“Boss’ orders. He told me to drive out here, take a look around, report back on the state of the place. He’s your new landlord, planning to move into that trailer of the old guy. What was his name – Duck?”
“Working for someone new?” I ask. Somehow, though, I already know what he’s going to say.
“No, same guy.”
“Shit,” I say. “Crap. Goddamn. Fuck me. Duck sold this place to the thug? Our new landlord is a mother fucking drug dealer?”
“Hey! Chill, man. He’s not such a bad guy, so long as you don’t cross him.”
“Cocksucker. Piss. Asshole. Hell. Damn. Fff-fff-fudge! Dung! Titty! Doo-doo!”
The kid listens to me sputter out in impotent rage. “You need lessons in cussing, man.”
“I lose my vocabulary when I get really angry.”
“Listen,” he reassures, “it’s all gonna’ be good, I promise. You’ll see. Like today, he’s sent me out with news about the rent.”
“He’s raising the rent?”
“No, that’s the news – no more rent. Everybody’s welcome to stay here for free. Just chip in on the power and water and such.”
“Water’s from a well.”
“Woah! Free water, too? See how cheap it’s gonna’ be? Man, you all ought to change the name of this road, call it Easy Street ‘cause that’s what you’re gonna’ be living on.”
“And what does he expect in return?”
“Not much,” the kid says. “I guess, just to look the other way every now and then.”
~ ~ ~
Thursday, May 25
This is one of those perfect late spring mornings in Oxford, weather that arrives like one of Odysseus’ sirens sent to mock and tempt students out of the classrooms and dorm rooms and library carrels where they ought to be holed up, cramming for exams and catching up on coursework they’ve put off all semester.
An air of festival pervades the Grove, hundreds of students cutting classes. The first thing I spot when I arrive is Citizen playing Frisbee with a bunch of heads. They throw it, Citizen runs long and leaps to catch it midair.
A ballet class has spilled out of the art building. A dozen or more shapely girls in leotards and tights make movements that are almost as graceful as Citizen’s airy pirouettes.
A work crew is setting up a big screen by the stage behind Ventress Hall, for tomorrow night’s showing of 2001.
Off under my favorite oak, the Ranger preaches to a crowd of followers who have taken to gathering round him whenever he’s on campus. He’s telling them about Emanuel Swedenborg.
The Ranger’s a Swedenborgian, like William Blake, Helen Keller, Carl Jung, Walt Whitman and Robert Frost. And somebody else whose name I can’t remember. Clamor’s told me all about it. She’s thinking about converting.
I set about scoping out a different spot for sitting zazen, but haven’t strolled more than ten yards when I suddenly encounter Paul Walker, the boy Melissa threw me over for and subsequently abandoned in New York.
Offstage, out of costume, he’s still every inch the actor, possibly even more handsome now than he was when we were undergrads together.
We simultaneously recoil in shock at this accidental meeting, sort of like Richard Kimble and the one-armed man used to do when they accidentally spotted each other in The Fugitive. And we both begin with the same question to each other:
“Have you heard from her?”
I report on Clamor’s chance meeting with Melissa way back in September and the rumor about her being in California, but decide to keep mum about the candy bars and the several times Melissa has astral-projected into my room.
I’m touched to discover that Paul actually feels remorse – the old agenbite of inwit – over taking her away from me. “It was a lousy thing to do to a friend,” he says.
“You couldn’t help yourself,” I say. “If the situation had been reversed, I would have done the same thing and stolen her from you.”
“You can take satisfaction in the knowledge that I probably suffered as much as you did, maybe more, when she walked out on me in New York.”
“What happened to you two up there?”
“Melissa hated the city.” Paul explains. “I thought it was exciting, but to her it was just crowded, dirty, dangerous, loud and rude. We’d agreed that I had six full months to find work, and if I hadn’t by then, we’d head to the west coast to try again. That’s where she really wanted to be. Five months in, late in October, I got the break with the soap. I was on top of the world. Melissa tried to be a good sport, but the city was really weighing her down, especially with winter coming on. And I wasn’t around much, always at the studio. And then . . . ,” Paul stops.
“And then?” I prompt.
“I sort of had an affair with one of my co-stars.”
“Idiot,” I say.
“The girl who played Sandy on the show.”
“I never watched the show. How could you be so stupid as to cheat on the perfect woman?”
Paul registers a grimace. “Turns out, Melissa’s not really all that perfect. In fact, she was kind of a pain to live with. There were times when I considered that you’d been the lucky one after all. But after she left, I fell apart. My work went to hell, the writers killed the character, and I came back here with my tail between my legs, thinking we’d get a second chance. But Melissa was already gone. Somebody in her old department thought she’d headed to Turkey. I almost booked a flight to follow her, but then I chickened out.”
“Afraid she’d turn you down again?”
“Hell no – afraid of the Turks. Haven’t you heard about that guy named Billy Hayes who got sentenced to life in prison for carrying a couple of ounces of hash? They’ve got some bad prisons over there, stuffed with American guys.”
“You chickened out for fear of getting busted in Turkey?”
“No woman’s worth getting locked up for,” Paul judges.
I stop and think about that. Probably, he’s right. But for Melissa, I might take the chance anyhow, and I’m just about to express this opinion to Paul when a roar from the crowd at the other end of the Grove interrupts this maudlin conversation.
The Flasher, we soon learn, has made his most daring appearance to date, before hundreds of coeds, frat boys, Frisbee players, amateur guitarists, ballerinas, Swedenborgians, a mysterious ancient dog, English majors, visiting writers, jocks, ROTC guys in uniform on their way to drill practice, unpublished poets, mathematicians, ground crew workers, witches in a drum circle, Law students, kids from Oxford High School playing hooky for an afternoon’s fun on campus, drug dealers, museum curators, department secretaries, sculptors, Sociology instructors, librarians, teaching assistants, campus cops, foreign exchange students from Kuwait and South Africa and the Philippines, and emeriti professors.
His greatest audience is also witness to his most miraculous escape.
~ ~ ~
Friday, May 26
I enter Hefley Hall at 7:18 and wait in the parlor while Becky gets an intercom call from the front desk to meet her date. She’s surprised by the hamper I’ve brought – pleasantly, I think – when she arrives.
“I thought a picnic would be nicer than the Buddha,” I say, without mentioning that this change in plans had come about through Dr. Goodleigh’s insistence and that the hamper’s contents – the Greek olives, devilled eggs, cheese straws, strawberries, honeydew slices, cheese, crackers, chicken salad, chocolates and a cleverly camouflaged bottle of white wine that would probably escape the notice of any campus cops who might be about – were all of Dr. Goodleigh’s selection.
The movie starts at 8:00. We’re among the early arrivals and find a good spot to spread our blanket before the screen that the crew of workers managed to complete yesterday, once all the excitement of the Flasher had died down. Becky had been in the crowd.
“I’ve seen him three times this year,” Becky says.
“I’ve never seen his face. What does he look like?”
�
�I’ve never noticed his face – been too busy laughing at his fat old shapeless body.”
“Well,” I say, “three sightings of the Flasher still quite an accomplishment for your freshman year. I trust you’re not going to mention it to your parents when you go home.”
She takes her first sip of the wine and leans toward me, conspiratorially. “If they knew half of what I’ve seen this year, they’d pack me off to the all-girls school in Colorado they wanted me to attend.”
“Colorado sounds nice,” I admit.
“Fuck Colorado,” she says. “I’m happy right here.”
I’ve never heard Becky curse before. I’m momentarily stunned, but she seems not to notice.
“What about Keith? Aren’t you concerned about what he’ll tell everybody when you get home?”
Becky gnaws the tip end off a strawberry, pretty lips all puckered around it. More and more movie-goers are arriving. There’s going to be a good crowd tonight.
“Keith is no longer speaking to me. If he won’t speak to me, he won’t speak about me. It’s part of his code. He’s very proud, you know. He’s shut me out of his life forever.”
“Wow, you must have really pissed him off.”
Becky finishes the strawberry, places the uneaten stem cap on a plate, selects an olive, bites down carefully around the pit, gazes off for a moment toward the traffic on University Avenue, then finally says, “I broke his heart.” She turns to face me. “Ever had your heart broken?”
“My heart’s a ’62 Chevrolet Impala of breakdowns,” I say. “Broken hearts build character. He’ll recover.”
“Have you ever broken someone else’s heart?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“I a bit ashamed to admit it,” Becky says, “but it feels kind of affirming. In charge, you know? Dr. Goodleigh says it’s one of the few powers we women have over men, to counteract all the power men have over us.”
“I imagine Dr. Goodleigh has broken one or two hearts in her day,” I admit, recalling the rumors that she was the mysterious lady of Nathan Poole’s Under the Yellow Arch
“She’s my role model, you know. I’m going to grow up to be just like her.”
“Funny,” I say, “I didn’t think you two liked each other at first. But then something changed.”
“Well,” Becky answers, “she was a big help to me during the pregnancy scare. I didn’t know who else I could turn to.”
“During the what?” I ask.
“When I thought I was pregnant,” Becky says.
“Why would you think you were pregnant?”
Becky, who’s moved on to nibbling a slice of Swiss cheese on a Ritz cracker, gives me a puzzled look. “Because I was two weeks late, and we hadn’t used any protection.”
It’s getting dark enough that I can scarcely make out her face. I hope she can’t clearly behold my expression as what she’s just revealed sinks in.
“You mean you and Keith . . . did it?”
“Good lord, no. Not Keith. Mark.”
I’m stunned. Mark, the boy she introduced me to out here in the Grove. “You fell in love with a frat boy?”
“Love? I didn’t say anything about love. Mark’s a special guy. He came highly recommended. Some of the girls at Hefley told me about him, said he was very experienced. They all learned a lot from him.”
“He’s a . . . ,” I begin.
“A teacher,” Becky says. “I came to college to learn things. Important things, like poetry and sex. Do you remember when I was having all that trouble with my calculus class?”
“You had a B average.”
“Right. And a B isn’t good enough for me. So I got a tutor, and aced the class. Don’t you think sex is at least as important as calculus?”
“But your first time – at least your first time,” I protest, “– ought to be for love.”
“Was your first time for love?” she asks.
“No,” I admit. “My first time was a trip to a New Orleans whorehouse, a gift from father on my 16th birthday, in the company of an insane former KGB officer.”
“Did the experience leave you scarred for life, traumatized over sex, cheapened and coarsened in your heart?”
“Actually, it was the one nice thing my father ever did for me.”
“Listen,” she says, “most my friends in high school fell in love with horrible, selfish, inexperienced boys, suffered horrible experiences and came away emotionally scarred. I vowed not to repeat their mistakes. My first lover was going to be someone I chose carefully – an intelligent, experienced man who could teach me some of life’s wisdom, not subject me to the worst of its stupidity.”
I chew on this for a minute. A dozen counter-arguments to what Becky is saying occur to me, none of them sophisticated or especially persuasive.
“You’re not the girl I thought you were,” I finally admit.
“I’m not a girl at all. I’m a woman. Dr. Goodleigh helped me realize that. Do you have any idea how hard it is looking the way I do? Everybody thinks I’m so goddamn innocent, because of this child’s body. But listen.”
At this, she leans across the blanket, close enough to whisper in my ear. I feel her breath, smell strawberries and wine.
“I’ve got dreams. Big dreams that I’m going to make come true. Soon as I graduate, I’m moving to Paris. I’m going to get a loft, write volumes of poetry that will shock the world to its core, and have lots of lovers. Interesting men – artists, writers, philosophers, financiers, spies. Maybe women, too. Who knows? I just know I’m going to be a legend. That’s the life I’ve chosen for myself.”
“Sounds great,” I have to admit. “Give me a call when you get there?”
Becky just sighs. “I would, but you don’t have a phone.”
The Grove is dark. The movie projector has started. I lift my little plastic cup of wine in toast. “To a great life.” We touch glasses, swallow the last of the wine, lie back on the blanket.
“Did you bring that joint you promised?” Becky asks.
“Got it right here.”
“Then let’s light up and watch the show.”
Saturday, May 27
“Do your friends have parties like this often?” Jane Acton asks me.
We’re in the parlor on Tyler Avenue, pondering the buffet before us.
“Garrett likes to do themes,” I say. “I don’t know how he comes up with them.”
Tonight’s festivity was billed – and widely promoted around town and campus – as the first annual Great Gourmet Grits Gala. The Tyler Avenue crew is supplying the grits, ladled from a cauldron-like pot on the kitchen stove, and guests have brought quantities of whatever they best like in or on or with their grits.
The table is cluttered with bowls, cups, shakers, tins, plates and jars of strawberry jam, grape jelly, peach preserves, jalapenos, minced garlic, parmesan, Monterey jack, crumbled sausage, bacon bits, shredded cheddar, cognac, prosciutto, cinnamon, Tabasco, alfalfa sprouts, strawberries, raspberries, blueberries, blackberries, boysenberry jam, chives, capers, barbecue sauce, anchovies, ricotta, wheat germ, teriyaki, lemon curd, sun dried tomatoes, red eye gravy, caramel sauce, maple syrup, molasses, chopped onions, shallots, saffron, pineapple chunks, shredded coconut, salsa, chili peppers, bleu cheese, sardines, soy sauce, Worchester sauce, shaved ginger, peanut butter, bourbon, pine nuts, peanuts, cashews, chocolate sauce, butterscotch, horseradish, half and half, brown sugar, goat cheese, ham, mustard greens, Wild Irish Rose, mozzarella, black olives, black pepper, nutmeg, and honey.
Jim Ratliff surveys the selection with a disappointed look. “Somebody forgot to bring walnuts,” he says.
The house is more crowded than I’ve ever seen it, and the two visiting editors from Uncle Bedford – up from Jackson for the day to confer with Garrett and Miss Fairchild over plans to establish a free press in Memphis – seem a bit wallflower-ish in this roomful of strangers, only half of whom I even recognize myself.
Don Pendergast, the other member
of the Uncle Bedford brain trust, refused to join the trip to Oxford, over some past grievance against the place. He did, however, send his heartfelt wishes that “Ole Miss would eat shit and die.”
“He’s no fun at a party anyway,” Jim Ratliff reassures us. “A grump by nature, but now he’s really unhappy that the newspaper is shutting down.”
Dottie Carroll overhears this remark. She’s has a plate of grits with bacon, blackberries and goat cheese. It actually looks pretty good. “That’s so sad,” she declares. “I move more copies of Uncle Bedford off the shelves than I do albums every shipment we get at the Nickelodeon. The last issue sold out in under six hours.”
“Every penny we bring in goes toward legal fees,” Jane Acton says. “Just as bad, we’ve run out of presses willing to work with us. Whenever we make a new deal with some printer, the Clarion Ledger acquires the company. There are scarcely more than a dozen independents left in the entire region. We’ve inadvertently helped those boys consolidate an empire.”
“I’m quitting the newspaper business, gonna’ pursue a new career path of knocking over liquor stores, which apparently isn’t against the law in Jackson. Publishing’s got too many headaches.” Ratliff turns to me. “Guess you found that out, the reason why you made a deal to sell your magazine back to the college.”
“They’ve promised to release it,” I say.
“And they will. They’ll release it some Sunday morning at three o’clock during a break between semesters. By dawn, every copy will have been bought by stooges of the administration. Nobody’ll ever get to read it.”
“Posterity,” I say, “will be none the worse for it. Somehow the human race will trundle on without Barefoot.”
Jane Acton passes the joint to me. “Uncle Bedford, too. But I’m going to miss it.”
I fix a plate of grits with peanut butter and Tabasco, and wend my way out to the back porch for air, where I come upon Suzie nursing little Samuel while a group of women – Joan, Cindy and Clamor included – hover about them like seraphim at a nativity scene.
And off in a corner, in a spot usually reserved for the asses, stands Blake. Or rather slouches Blake. Not just slouches, though – he’s weaving back and forth as if torn by the wind shears of his solipsistic vortex.
He’s drunk. Blake is drunk again.
He gives me a big grin, draws me in with an arm around my shoulder, looks for a moment like he’s going to kiss me.