“What’s that?” I ask.
“A television, silly.”
“Who owns a television?”
“James bought it from the Carroll Brothers this afternoon. He says we can watch the Revolution on it. It’ll be televised. In the meantime, we can watch I Dream of Jeanie reruns.”
~ ~ ~
Saturday, September 11
With the cash we pooled before he left for work this morning, Garrett returns to Tyler Avenue at 6:15 with two chickens and two gallon jugs of Wild Irish Rose.
“It’s much better than Ripple,” Andrew explains, trying to coax Dr. Hirsch into tasting it. “Especially served in a Styrofoam cup.”
Dr. Hirsch has come to see James, but has stayed for the party. He beams like a high school misfit who’s suddenly been welcomed into the company of the popular kids. He tries talking to me about the Historical Linguistics class, but is quickly too drunk to follow his own thoughts.
Clamor is also here to see James. I’m keeping my eye on her. At one point, while she’s on the couch beside me, I’m convinced that I’ve spotted a bulge of breasts beneath the camouflage jacket. But then I’m not sure.
James isn’t here, so we take the liberty of removing the television from his room and gathering around it in the parlor, just like an old-fashioned family. A fairly odd old-fashioned family.
Garrett starts flipping through the stations, landing on Channel 5, WMC out of Memphis. “Look,” he says, “the Miss American Pageant is on tonight. Have you ever watched one of those things stoned?”
Andrew produces a bong of Rebel Red, just in time for the talent competition.
The contest begins with the usual singing and dancing. Miss Ohio plays “Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head.” Miss California performs a bit from “Swan Lake.” Miss Alabama comes on as a hula dancer.
Everyone’s talking over the set, making it hard to hear anything, but there’s a pause as Miss Mississippi is introduced. She’s singing “Am I Blue?”
“Actually, she does look blue,” Andrew remarks. “Can someone adjust the color?”
“Holy shit, she’s doing George Bernard Shaw!” Garrett proclaims at one point, over our babble. Sure enough, Miss Somplace-Or-Other is performing a monologue from Saint Joan. She’s followed by a drum majorette, an accordion player with a medley from Doctor Zhivago, a saxophonist, a girl in sequins lassoing saw horses decorated like bulls, and an archer.
“Aim for Bert Parks!” Dr. Hirsch shouts, suddenly waking from his nap.
A banjo player mangles the theme from The Beverly Hillbillies. Now a young lady is performing impressions of Jimmy Cagney and Jackie Gleason. A girl comes out dressed as Jesus and recites the Sermon on the Mount, and I’m beginning to wonder how much of this can be real. Then Nixon comes on, and talks about a wheat deal with Russia. This turns out to be the news, because Andrew has switched the station to check on the riot in New York.
We howl at him to turn Miss America back on. Now there’s a girl driving a tractor. When the ventriloquist takes the stage with a weird-looking dummy rabbit named Rollo and starts talking to it, Garrett collapses onto the floor.
“Make this stop! I can’t take any more!”
James returns to spoil the fun just as the swimsuit competition begins. He unplugs the set, chastises us for watching a beauty contest in the middle of the Revolution, and heads to his room with the sorority chick Rose on his arm. Clamor and Dr. Hirsch mope behind for a while, dejected.
Andrew and Garrett finish the second jug of Wild Irish Rose. Cindy passes out on the couch. I go to bed.
Miss America’s done for another year, and I can’t even tell you who won.
~ ~ ~
Sunday, September 12
Somebody’s taped handbills on every shop door around the Square. Each is a mimeographed 8 ½ x 11” green sheet with “Psalms 18:29” in large, handwritten block letters.
“With my God, I can scale a wall,” Garrett says, identifying the verse. It’s easy to forget that when he first arrived at Ole Miss, he planned to become a minister. That was before the boys at the Earth took him under their wing and corrupted him.
“Scale a wall? Did they do a lot of that in the Bible?”
“Only in the Old Testament. It was a common profession, like being a shepherd or a harlot.”
“Scaling a wall is nothing. With my god, I can leap tall buildings in a single bound.”
“You worship false gods. With my god, I can bend steel in my bare hands and change the course of mighty rivers.”
“Your god’s a wimp.”
“Watch your mouth, boy. My god can whip your god’s ass any day of the week.”
“Except Sunday.”
“Well, certainly not on Sunday. It’s a day of rest. No fighting. My god wouldn’t allow it.”
“Neither would mine.”
“I don’t care. The commandments of your false god are of no interest to me.”
~ ~ ~
Monday, September 13
Dr. Hirsch doesn’t look well. His complexion has a slightly greenish tint today. He’s trying to explain Grimm’s Law to his Historical Linguistics students, but is doing a poor job of it.
When class ends, I offer to treat him to a cup of coffee at the Union.
“I felt sick all day yesterday,” he reports. “Hung over. It’s been a long time since I last drank wine. And I’ve never smoked marijuana before. You boys are certainly opening me up to new experiences.” He drops his voice to a whisper. “I had been seriously considering retirement, since my mother’s death, but I’m enjoying myself too much now.”
“Life can radically change when a parent dies.”
“Just look at me. I’m actually having fun . . . and I’m rich.”
“I’d heard you’re a wealthy man. What are you planning to do with all that money?”
Dr. Hirsch glances left to right, uncomfortably, then gestures me to lean forward so that we’re bent forehead-to-forehead over the table, like a pair of conspirators.
“Promise not to say a word to anyone.”
“Promise.”
“I’m investing in a restaurant.”
“What kind of restaurant?”
“A kind that Oxford has never seen before. Something altogether new. A very exciting opportunity. I’m partnering with two young men who know the business well. I supply the capital, they supply the expertise, and we split the profit three ways. We can’t lose.”
I grab a copy of the student newspaper, The Daily Mississippian, on my way out of the Union and turn, as always, to its most recent set of corrections, retractions and apologies.
On August 1 it was reported that running back Gregory Howland has been diagnosed with a stigmata that won’t interfere with his performance on the field. He was actually diagnosed with an astigmatism. The staff of the Daily Mississippian regrets the error.
Apparently, Ole Miss is still playing football. Amazing. Apparently, we won a game Saturday against Long Beach State. Who’s managing the schedule these days? How did we end up playing Long Beach State?
And, apparently, according to a report buried on page 3, we have a flasher loose on campus. Two coeds – one in the library, the other along Sorority Row – have been subjected to the vision of an unidentified middle-aged man’s withered private parts.
I shudder to think of it.
~ ~ ~
Tuesday, September 14
The Attica prison riot has fizzled, with state police retaking control through tear gas and rifle fire. James is disappointed over the fizzle of this particular revolution, but he’s faithfully watchful for the next one.
I’m giving Andrew and Cindy a lift to the Jitney Jungle.
“You don’t really believe all this Tamburlaine shit, do you?” I ask Andrew.
“You’re asking,” Andrew replies, “if I believe in a revolutionary leader named Tamburlaine, whom no one has ever met but who is being pursued by the FBI, the CIA, the NSA, the Pentagon, and Nixon himself. A m
an who has reportedly been an eyewitness to every assassination and riot of the past 20 years.”
“James thinks he’s a time traveler,” I say.
“That’s not the most absurd thing his followers believe about him. Many hold that Tamburlaine was actually born as a wolf that was captured and transported to the Paris zoo, and then turned into a human being by the power a magical talisman that is rumored to be a claw ripped from the foot of Satan himself during a wrestling match with a monastery blacksmith in Italy during the 12th century.”
We arrive at a red light at the intersection of Jefferson and Lamar. I stop. Andrew continues:
“They contend that this wolf-turned-man is now wandering the back roads of the United States to recruit an army of hippies in a plot to overthrow the American government. You’re asking whether or not I believe in that?”
“I hadn’t heard about the claw and the wrestling match.”
“Of course I don’t believe a word of it. Tamburlaine’s a legend, and a damn silly one at that. I don’t mean to imply, however,” Andrew adds, anticipating my next remark, “that James is chasing a phantom. Far from it.”
“I don’t follow.”
“Tamburlaine may be fiction, but there’s certainly somebody in those pictures. I’ve studied them carefully – the assassinations, the marches, Kent State. Now, Attica. The same person, that man in the hat, is in all of them.”
“No shit?”
“Somehow or other, there’s a chap out there who knows when something important is about to happen, and is always on hand to witness it.”
We’re waiting for the light to change, pondering this deep mystery. Suddenly, Clamor’s head and shoulders are inserting themselves through the open passenger-side window. Andrew draws back with a startled cry at this unexpected invasion.
Clamor is chewing a stick of Juicy Fruit. I can smell it on her breath. “When will you take me to Memphis?” she asks.
“Not today. Soon.”
“See you at the Harvest,” Clamor says, pulling out of the window.
“At the Harvest,” we chime together.
“Someone’s got a girlfriend,” Cindy teases from the back seat as we take a right on Lamar.
“Or a boyfriend,” Andrew adds.
~ ~ ~
Wednesday, September 15
The campus flasher has struck again. I’m in the Union, reading the Daily Mississippian’s latest report, when I catch sight of Joan, the scandalous divorcee, descending the stairs from the mailboxes on the second floor.
She pauses on the landing and sweeps her gaze across the room below, where I stand gazing back up at her.
Joan is as perfect as I remember her. Perfect skin. Perfect lips. Perfect cheekbones. Perfect hair. Perfect figure.
For one instant, she looks directly into my eyes, but doesn’t seem to recognize me. She resumes her descent. I want to step forward and meet her at the bottom of the stairs, greet her as an old friend.
I could ask her about Melissa. Joan might know where Melissa is, and it would be a conversation starter. I could stand beside her, gazing into her perfect eyes, glancing at the perfect teeth and the perfect shadow of cleavage below the neckline of the striped blouse she’s wearing.
I want to do this. Instead, I keep my place and pretend to read the newspaper as she passes by me and out of the building.
“She must not have been wearing her contact lenses,” James concludes, when I tell him that I saw his ex, but that she didn’t notice me. “She’s very near-sighted.”
“Joan wears glasses?”
“Contacts. She’s too vain for glasses. But she loses them all the time, and spends half her life stumbling around in a myopic fog. That’s why she’s usually on some man’s arm.”
“Joan wears contacts?” I repeat.
“Why not? Did you think she’s perfect or something?”
~ ~ ~
Thursday, September 16
These are some rough-looking men in James’ room. Not students. Not hippies. Not, all of them, Americans, either. But James has called Garrett and me here to meet them.
No one makes introductions, though. The head man of the foursome merely looks us over and nods at James.
“They’ll do.”
“What the hell was that all about?” Garrett asks, after they leave.
“You’re in.”
“In what?”
“The plan.”
“And what plan might that be?”
“The plan to walk off with a dozen 30-gallon trash bags of Rebel Red from the Harvest on Saturday.”
“Can’t be done,” Garrett says. “The cops will see us.”
“True. But they won’t understand what they’re seeing, or care.”
“There will be 15 of us in the work crew,” Andrew explains, “actually handling the cannabis. We’ll be wearing oil-resistant particulate face masks, the kind construction workers use. Six troopers will be guarding the four entrances to the gym, positioned roughly 10 yards from the work area. They won’t have masks.”
“The assumption is that the cops will be far enough away from the fumes not to need protection, because the exhaust will be going through the ceiling vents, with the fan system. However, the fans won’t be working on Saturday.”
“You’re planning to get the cops stoned,” Garrett realizes.
“Without ventilation, the gym will be hot,” Andrew warns, “so pass the word to dress appropriately. We’re going to suffer in there. The troopers, however, will have the best day of their lives.”
~ ~ ~
Friday, September 17
Lunch. Dr. Goodleigh and I are at Giordano’s table once more, at his insistent invitation.
I’m puzzling over the postcard from Valerie that arrived today with a photo of Lincoln’s tomb on it. The postmark, however, is from Provincetown, Massachusetts. The message itself does nothing to explain the disconnect:
Daniel – Smoked grass last night with some new friends I’ve met here. Thought of you. Hope you’ve found that hippie chick. – Valerie
Giordano’s graduate students are arguing over whether Daniel Ellsberg should be executed for treason. The majority opinion favors the death penalty. Great minds at this table.
“There goes a man,” Giordano comments, cutting the debate short and pointing an impaled slice of Polish sausage on a fork in the direction of Dr. Evans, who at this moment is crossing the dining room toward the east doorway. “Maybe he’s just an Anglo-Saxon, but he’s a man.”
Dr. Goodleigh sighs. “What are you talking about now?”
“Look at him. Look at him. Watch the way he walks. Like a lion. He walks the way a man with a new mistress walks.”
I look, but see nothing remarkable in the way he walks.
“Oh, Aldo,” Goodleigh says, “you spread gossip like an old fishwife.”
“Ha. You just don’t like to hear it because the mistress isn’t you.”
~ ~ ~
Saturday, September 18
Harvest Day. Andrew was right – the gym is unbearably hot. I’m dressed in jeans, sandals and a t-shirt that’s already soaked with sweat. Clamor is working alongside me, in her camouflage jacket, but seems to not mind the heat a bit.
Piled before us is a small mountain of cannabis sativa, freshly cut and delivered in armored vans. The work crew consists of 15 students, most of whom I know at least by sight, if not by name. Our task is to cut the stalks into 36” lengths, thresh the dirt and the insects by beating the lengths on a mat, and pack the plants in canvas sheets that are then loaded onto a dolly and carted back to the vans.
We’re given a 10-minute break every two hours, to grab a snack or a smoke, take a bathroom break, whatever. But we’re warned not to remove our face masks while we’re in the gym. Good advice. As James promised, the fans aren’t working, and an almost tangible haze of TCP floats across shafts of sunlight coming through the clerestory windows.
By noon, even with our masks on, everybody on the crew is
stoned. But we’re used to marijuana.
The troopers, obviously, are not.
The pair guarding the west exit have caught a major case of the munchies. Back and forth they go to the vending machines in the lobby. Empty potato chip bags, candy bar wrappers and cellophane from packs of peanuts and cookies lie strewn about the doorway.
One of the east guards is wearing his hat backwards and writing on his hand with a felt marker. His partner is asleep on the floor. The south guard has wandered away from his post. The north guard is twirling his sidearm like a western gunslinger, and laughing.
James catches my eye and nods. I pass the signal along to Garrett, who then makes eye contact with Andrew. The deed is done in under than 20 minutes. One at a time, in seemingly random order, each of us ducks behind the bleachers, which have been stacked against the walls to make room for today’s project, to retrieve the plastic bags that James planted earlier in the week.
Again in seemingly random order that actually follows a pattern worked out by Andrew, we pack the bags and stash them back behind the bleachers, where James’ “associates” (his word) will find them after breaking into the gym tonight. The other members of the crew appear to be as clueless to what we’re up to as the cops are.
We’re finished harvesting a little after 3:15. We sweep plant debris from the floor with wide brooms and pack this chaff in two more sheets, the last to be loaded on the vans. The cop who slept through the day is now awake, and emotional. He’s waiting at the vans and insists on hugging each of us as we exit.
“Good-bye. Thank you! God bless,” he stammers with a bear hug and three pats on the back when my turn arrives.
We gather on the sidewalk to watch the six cops fire up the three vans, one driver and one shotgun rider to each, and pull away from the curb, a caravan of pot headed toward a secret destination for drying and curing, which one of the cops already told James is an old cotton warehouse outside Rosedale.
The caravan pulls slowly around the curve of Library Circle. Moving at around seven miles per hour, the lead driver fails to navigate the curve and runs over a fire hydrant at the corner. There’s a sickening thud of metal as the hydrant tumbles to the ground and a geyser of water erupts from the sidewalk.
The caravan shambles to a halt. The cops get out of the vehicles, laughing, and pointing at the clumsy driver in the lead. I’m one of the first to rush into the spray, to cool off, followed by the rest of the work party and the cops.