Don't Follow Me, I'm Lost Part 14

"So what's so big going on in Cole? You trying to get at the dean's records?"

"Honestly . . ."

"Well, it won't do you any good. Everyone knows it's all over for you kids."

"Ummm . . . so you want to copy down our ID info?"

"That's fine. We don't need that anymore."

We walked back to the mod in silence. I realized he hadn't even asked our names. Back at the house, alternate plans to liberate the acc.u.mulator were immediately offered. Four years later, when I finally left Hampshire, it still sat tucked away in the back corner of a cla.s.sroom on the third floor of the Cole Science Center, stacks of books heaped on its meticulously decorated roof.

In the final days before Spring Jam, the question of the d.i.c.ks' performance became the consuming obsession, and the more it was debated, the more hopeless it seemed that we would find a solution that was both adequately grandiose and dismissive of the entire Spring Jam enterprise. After Spring Break, Jon checked out of the conversation entirely. "I don't even think I'll play," he said. "You guys just do whatever you want."

I bounced the dilemma off Tasha one afternoon at Clase. "I've heard that concert is pretty cool," she said. "Dinosaur might do a set this year."

I stammered a bit. "It's not cool. It's like, you know, the fascist hierarchy."

She stared blankly at me.

"They are trying to destroy the real power of liberation, d.i.c.k music, beneath this-this veneer of rebellion. Orgone energy, it's like, a million times more powerful than a bunch of guys in leather jackets flailing at guitars."

She looked at me for an agonizing moment more. "Why don't you guys just do a show?"

I sputtered. "Because it would be just upholding the deadly-orgone-radiation paradigm."

Ramona, visiting from Boston, rolled her eyes and said, dangling a solitary French fry between two fingers, "What is it about your school that makes everyone so boring?"

I sank into my seat. A few minutes later, Tasha got up to leave.

"So do you want to talk on the phone later?" I asked her.

"Yeah, maybe, no. I'm going to be out until later."

"Oh, really. Out?" I looked over to Christie, to my knowledge the only person she would be out with. Christie gave no reaction to Tasha's statement.

"Oh, okay," I said. "Probably me too."

Sensing my gloom, Ramona leaned a little toward me and murmured, "Don't worry. Someday soon this kinda stuff will happen and you won't feel anything at all."

The day of Spring Jam everyone was miraculously awake by noon, even though we were not scheduled to go on until six. Nothing had been resolved about the show; it hadn't even been definitively decided that we would play, although Luntz had grudgingly sent word through his girlfriend that the d.i.c.ks would indeed be allowed to go on.

As the hubbub built in the living room, Jon sat picking at an unplugged electric guitar. The debate over what we should play gathered steam and grew into a roar before petering out for lack of any consensus. As usual, the room turned to Jon for instruction.

"I dunno," he said, not looking up. "Do you guys really want to play this show?"

We groaned.

"I guess we could do the vegetable song. What's the big deal?"

The show that year would long be remembered as the apex of Spring Jams. The bands included swinging sixties pop collective the Malarians, the country/western Jersey Slim and the Prescott Playboys, a punk group the Lonely Moans, girl rockers the Five Dumb Broads, funksters known as Jambone, and underground sensation the Loneliest Christmas Tree-each of whom drew a huge following on campus and in the area. The long winter was finally behind us-the day was perfect New England spring and a crowd of a thousand or so sprawled on the vast lawn, eating tempeh burgers from the snack bar, hacky-sacking, and enjoying the a.s.semblage of musical giants that Hampshire had produced.

I found Tasha sitting with Susie and some of the other Amherst punks. "So what are you guys gonna do?" she asked.

"I dunno. I guess just play."

The little group looked at me, incredulous. They believed that a historic disaster had been promised.

"That's cool," Tasha said, turning back to the group.

I looked across the vast lawn and surveyed the scene. For the first time since I had been at Hampshire, the hippies, punks, hard-core feminists, art scenesters, NYC nightclubbers, Preppy Deadheads, and machine shoppers had all come together in one happy, contented day at the park. It looked like a finale scene of contentment and celebration from some postapocalyptic underground film, the ending of 8 cast with the extras from The Road Warrior.

And then it was our turn to go on.

As the d.i.c.ks climbed onstage, one could feel the peaceful idyll become tense and jittery. A few rose to leave. Scattered boos were heard. The show started uneventfully enough, just as the sun was setting. For this show, some ten guitarists stepped forward to join the group, along with Steve Shavel on slide guitar and Mark on drums. As usual, the set started with no clear delineation between tuning the instruments and actual music, no clear indication that the set proper had begun and we were now actually in a song.

At some point the random chords resolved themselves into something resembling a steady drone, driven on by something approximating rhythm. At some point Steve Shavel took a microphone and, in a deep sonorous voice, began what sounded like a medieval monk's chant. The audience sat mildly annoyed for a few minutes but as ten and then fifteen minutes pa.s.sed of the same, more boos were heard, barely, over the drone. The boos grew louder and louder and soon were equal in volume with the music itself. I looked around the lawn, and half of the people were on their feet yelling. The other half seemed to be leaving. I saw campus security look for guidance to Luntz, who shrugged and yelled something at the stage.

Jon and Tim moved toward each other and began playing their guitars directly in each other's faces, in fumbling mockery of two arena rock band members sharing a jam, except instead of the gleeful expressions one might find on Jon Bon Jovi and Richie Sambora's faces at such a moment, Jon and Tim were blank and emotionless, absorbed in their own drone. Then, with a sudden burst of aggression, Jon shoved his guitar at Tim, who, showing no surprise at all, violently shoved back. The necks of their guitars met, and in what looked like a sword fight with their instruments, the meeting of the twain created such a G.o.d-awful noise that most of the crowd at once covered their ears. As the howls of protest from the crowd grew louder, Jon and Tim's fight looked intensely real; Jon's normally goofy expression seemed twisted in a determined and hate-filled grin. Security moved toward the stage.

Just as the fight seemed at a stalemate, their guitars locked together, splinters flew out of the instruments, and a huge one shot directly into Jon's forehead. Within moments his face was covered with blood. The others continued playing as though nothing had happened. The boos of revulsion from the crowd became overwhelming. Luntz moved to turn off the sound and security rushed onto the stage.

It was at this point that I looked back toward the mixing table and saw Dennis, Luntz's first-year protege, a laughably self-serious punk-nerd whom Zach, Nathan, and I had routinely mocked-kissing Tasha. I gasped for air as the mysteries of the past month unraveled in an instant. Onstage, the ten d.i.c.ks outnumbered the six security officers chasing them around the platform. The officers would shove one off the stage and go after another and the one shoved off would jump back on. I looked to Liz and Marilyn, who stood beside me. We shrugged our shoulders and jumped onstage, too, joining in the standing sit-in. For the next half hour, security played Whac-a-Mole with us until we all tired out and the lawn completely emptied. With Spring Jam over, we called it a day.

The first announcement informed us that 21 was officially disbanded. A little note, sealed in the dreaded Hampshire stationery, was delivered to each of our boxes, saying that we had each lost our residential privileges for Greenwich and Enfield Houses for the following year and that Mod 21 would be rea.s.signed to incoming students in the fall. This meant, it occurred to me, that should I be allowed to return the following year, I would be banned from three of Hampshire's five houses. I asked Steve Shavel whether this was a record for a first-year. He suspected that it was a first in the eighties, but he recalled hearing stories that a decade before there had been a hippie girl who, during a four-month acid trip, had been thrown out of all five houses in her first semester. But still, he consoled me, it was a considerable achievement.

Returning to 21, eviction notice in hand, I expected to find a sullen room of defeated faces, but to all appearances, no one was taking any notice. A tape blared while Arthur and Tim played their guitars. A few more quarreled in a corner. A bunch of people were getting ready to go to the quad, where one of the NYC club crowd had summoned the whole campus to lie on the ground in the shape of a peace sign. She had rented a helicopter and was going to fly overhead and film the spectacle for her Div III-a music video.

Meg read a music magazine in the middle of the floor. Half-eaten sandwiches lay stuffed between cushions on the couch just like every other day, as though nothing in the world had happened. The c.o.c.kroaches-whose population had exploded since spring began-strode up and down the walls with unusual energy and swagger in their step. For a moment I wondered if the news had made it back; then I saw a copy of the same note I'd received tacked to the wall between the illuminated portrait of the Apollo 11 astronauts and a Bob Weiner for Congress poster.

"So I guess it's over," I said, to no one in particular.

"Yeah, sucks," Meg said without looking up.

"Oh, wow. Where do you think you're going to live, Rich?" Ox asked, concerned.

"I guess I still don't know if I'll be back."

Ox nodded. "That's true."

Upstairs, Susie was trying on a springy dress she'd bought at a thrift store in Northampton. ("Isn't it weird that all our clothes come from dead people?" Ox had asked on the trip.) I noticed her Zelda Fitzgerald library had disappeared from her room.

"Did you finish?" I asked.

Susie made a face. "Ach, no. Milton is being ridiculous. I don't think he understands Zelda at all. I really don't feel like dealing with him anymore."

"So you're not upset about the mod, then?"

"It's really not healthy, all of us being cooped up here all the time. I've got to tell you, I'm getting sick of these people. They're just lazy."

"So what will you do?"

"Go to New York, I suppose. Be beautiful. Become a star." She turned to inspect her dress from another angle in the mirror.

"What do you think I should do?"

"I would get out of here, too, if I were you. Really, Hampshire has gone completely downhill. If it had been like this three years ago, I never would've come."

In desperation, I decided to go to cla.s.s. I recalled that my Tolstoy cla.s.s started in ten minutes. On the brief walk over, I wondered if it wouldn't be awkward to show up to a cla.s.s after a two-month absence, but none of the twenty or so other students or the professor seemed to notice or care that I hadn't been there before or that I was there now.

The professor was actually one of Hampshire's most exciting, and seeing her gave me pangs of regret that I hadn't come to cla.s.s more often. Ninotchka was a dead ringer for Morticia Addams, down to the long, slinky dresses she wore in black, gray, or red. She sat down and apologized to the cla.s.s that she might have to cut things short today, since she was suffering from walking pneumonia.

Since I hadn't read Anna Karenina, the lecture and discussion were fairly obscure, but Ninotchka's musings on Anna's suicide were absolutely captivating. At the end of the cla.s.s, Ninotchka reminded everyone that final papers were due the following week. In a whisper I asked the guy sitting next to me how many papers they had written so far. He shot me a dirty look and said, "This is the first."

After cla.s.s, walking nearly on tiptoes, I approached Ninotchka and asked her for another copy of the a.s.signment, saying I'd lost mine. She handed me the page, giving no hint that she realized I had not been in cla.s.s all semester. I asked her, "Do you really think Anna needed to kill herself?"

"Oh, yes. . . ," she drawled, looking up at me from her desk.

"But how come she couldn't go back to whatshisname?"

"To Karenin?"

"Right, him."

"She's been with Vronsky now. Once you've lived your romantic ideal you can't very well return to the mundane, can you?"

"No. You really can't."

"I'm glad you see that." She smiled and it occurred to me that I should become a student of Russian literature.

After the disappearance of Tasha from my life, I once again sought out Elizabeth, and once again found myself confused and frustrated by every encounter with her, and by my own inability to explain, even to myself, what I would have wanted from her.

One night we were hanging out in her room, sharing a bottle of bourbon I had, along with some Darvon she had been given at the Health Services for headaches. Feeling exceptionally at ease, I asked her, "Do you think we should go to that show Sat.u.r.day night?" (referring to a concert at SAGA by the band Half j.a.panese).

"Why wouldn't we go?"

I nodded. "Yeah, of course."

"You mean like together?"

"I dunno. Maybe. Whatever."

"Do you want us to go together?" She looked me dead in the eyes. I turned away.

"Probably, you know. Since we're hanging out a lot." I paused for a moment and thought. "But I guess I should check what's going on at Twenty-one first. . . ."

She laughed. "Okay . . . ," she said, and chased a handful of the remaining pills with a swig from the bottle.

The following night Zach and I had our radio show at Amherst. I still had a hangover from the night before, which had lingered on to well past noon. In the end, Elizabeth had declined to come back to 21 with me but, still miraculously wide awake, had left me in front of the library and wandered off in the direction of Prescott, where, I couldn't help but think, there lived an acid dealer named Neal whom I'd noticed her chatting with in the past.

As Zach and I settled into the booth, I fumed, thinking of Elizabeth hanging out with Neal, tripping, the two of them perhaps even brazenly listening to my show. I reached for Husker Du's Zen Arcade alb.u.m. "Happy morning, Pioneer Valley," I said into the mike. "To start things off, here's a smash hit from those lovable mop-tops from Liverpool, Husker Du, which goes out to a special someone, who maybe at this moment is hanging out in Prescott House. I hope you're listening." I started up the song "Never Talking to You Again" and sat down to soak it in.

When the song ended, Zach was still fumbling for another alb.u.m, so I picked up the needle and started it over from the top. When I did that a second time Zach asked, "Are you trying to send someone a message?"

"Maybe."

"But is there any chance in h.e.l.l that they are listening?"

I thought about that for a second. "No. I guess there isn't."

Zach nodded. "Nice work, then."

"Thanks," I said, starting the song over once again.

Three plays of the song later, Zach said, "I know sending this message to all zero of our listeners means a lot to you, but I'm getting sick of it. Can we play something fun?"

"Fun?!? Like what?"

He grabbed Dexy's Midnight Runners off the shelf and started "Come On Eileen" on the turntable. "Like this."

I started to object but then stopped and listened, and soon found myself nodding along. "I have to say, this speaks to me."

"See? Life is a big bowl of happiness. Toora Loora Toora Loo-Rye-Aye."

I took this in. "Let's listen again." I started the record over. And then again, and again.

At six A.M. Todd the station manager walked in wearing pa jama pants and a baggy Police Synchronicity tour T-shirt, his head askew with tousled bed hair. "Hey, guys." He glanced at us nervously. "Great song."

We nodded. "It is. It really is." He smiled, clearing his throat. Dexy sang, "These people round here wear beaten down eyes/ Sunk in smoke dried faces, they're resigned to what their fate is."

"It's beautiful," I whispered softly.

"Yeah, well, hey. I don't want to tell you how to run your show."

"Good," Zach said.

"Huh-huh. Yeah, but-"

"Here it comes."

"I've been getting some complaints."

"Complaints?" we said in unison, eyes wide. We looked at each other. "You mean someone is listening?"

"Some people are."

"Some people are. . . . There's more than one person listening?"

"Well, I've gotten a bunch of calls. I mean, people, especially the Amherst campus, sorta depend on this station to provide them with some basic atmosphere."