The name ‘Big House’ had to do with the people who lived there allowing almost anyone to use it as a temporary shelter. Of course, preference was given to “heads” with dope or booze and to all females.
The two-lane asphalt highway crawled with summer congestion. Once an especially slow, snake-like section skirting a picturesque bayou had been navigated, however, the white, travel-worn, 1959 Ford Galaxie 500 hit a straight stretch of road past cotton and sugar cane fields and picked up speed. No one inside noticed the change. They’d seen it many times before and were too busy talking.
On the radio, Bobby Goldsboro began a lugubrious lament about a dead wife and a live tree. Mark Cahill beat his best friend to the dial and, as was his right by conquest, turned down the volume. Tall, elegant, redheaded Amy Marshall, who would have turned the volume up, leaned back against the passenger door and gave him the finger. He grinned in triumph at the obscene gesture.
They were heading for what promised to be a real “hippie” wedding between Howard Ingram and Ginger Reynolds. Along with almost everyone else at LSU, Mark and Amy knew all about the groom. Howard was once one of the school’s many hustling future politician types. But over the last year, he had assumed the trappings of the counter-culture.
The bride, an average-to-pretty brunette, had first met Howard at a fraternity party during their freshman year. She’d stayed with him through his unsuccessful campaigns for various student council posts. Then she went along with his recent transformation from frat rat to flower child.
For Amy and Mark, the official housing plan, as approved by both sets of parents back home, called for Amy to stay with a sorority sister, while Mark crashed with his old roommate who was supposed to be in summer school. In reality, Mark’s roommate had just flunked out and departed for parts unknown while the sorority sister was, Ginger, the bride-to-be. As they and their friends had arranged, Mark and Amy headed for the shelter of the house Howard and Ginger had shared for the last few months with three other guys.
Although called, “The Big House,” at first glance, the name seemed grandiose. It was a venerable, single-story, white frame structure located on an no longer fashionable , tree lined, residential street near the city park.
When Amy asked about the name, Mark explained that it had to do with the people who lived there allowing almost anyone to use it as a temporary shelter. Of course, preference was given to “heads” with dope or booze and to all females.
For wedding presents, Mark brought two cases of cheap beer. Amy had two jugs of an even cheaper wine. They parked down the street, got their presents out of the trunk, and trudged through the humid, July heat toward the house. Their brief but sweaty journey was accompanied by the ever increasing multi-decibel sound of rock music coming through large, open windows hidden behind a mass of hydrangea in serious need of pruning.
A motley collection of tables, stools, and chairs were scattered about on the wide, screened, front porch. In the living room, well-used furniture of various shapes and sizes lined walls covered with posters extolling favored musicians and causes.
A steady, gentle movement of air kept the interior relatively cool and indicated the place had a working attic fan. Over in a far corner an unidentified female-type person wearing nothing but an over-extended pair of panties, slept face down on a couch.
The other person in the room was a barefoot guy in overalls. He was sunk deep into a sagging green armchair positioned across from two large speakers. His eyes were closed. But judging from the movement of his head, which kept jerking in an out-of-sync rhythm to the music, he was awake. Whether conscious or not, the person in the chair was Mike “Last Card” Landry.
In his previous incarnation, Last Card had arguably been the worst poker player at school, and unarguably the luckiest. It was a truth universally acknowledged, that no human being, living or dead, could fill an inside straight with more regularity than Last Card. Of course, no one but an idiot, or Last Card, would ever try to fill an inside straight. Playing poker with him, waiting to see if his last card would once again steal another pot, could be an exasperating and often expensive proposition.
But that was yesterday, thought Mark, and yesterday’s gone. During the spring, Last Card dropped out, tuned in, turned on, quit cutting his hair, grew a Fu Manchu mustache, and moved into the Big House. These life-style changes may not have occurred in that exact order, but no one had kept score.
Amy glanced over at the girl in the corner, then motioned toward the human metronome. “I suppose you’ll want to keep an eye on things out here with Last Card. I’m going on back and look for the bride-to-be.”
Mark sat his ice chest full of beer on the hardwood floor and tapped a knuckle on Last Card’s head. “Anybody home? Hello down there. Is anybody home?”
After what appeared to be a painful effort, one eye opened. With obvious irritation, Last Card gazed up at his assailant. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he said, breaking into a big grin. “How the hell’s it hanging, M.C.?”
“Rock hard and steady, L.C.. You want a beer?”
“Damn straight. You just slide into town?”
“Yep. Amy and I came down for the big wedding. We’re just poor wayfaring strangers in search of shelter.”
“Well, Amy’s always welcome, and you too, since that ice chest seems way too heavy.” Last Card accepted a beer.
“I figured two cases of beer would get me a dry corner to sleep in. But I’m not sure our redheaded friend is up to the challenge.” Pulling out a beer for himself, Mark popped the top, tossed the tab back into the ice and let the lid fall shut. “Poor Amy’s led a sheltered life and has this thing about dirt, bed bugs, lice, and….”
A new voice interrupted him. “Did I hear you mention the name of, She Who Must Be Worshipped?” Turning around, Mark saw William “The Word" approaching. William, he never responded to any of that name’s many variations, was a gnomish life-form with horn rimmed glasses that made his hazel eyes look even bigger. Before the hippie craze began sweeping the campus, he ranked high among the school’s most eccentric students. Now he was just one of the crowd.
Although no longer considered particularly weird, William still had several distinctive characteristics. In addition to being short, he was sarcastic, brilliant, a gifted writer, and he always wore a vest. For the last three years, he’d gone around proclaiming Amy Marshall a goddess of female perfection he would forever worship in a chaste and reverent manner.
It was Mark’s contention that Amy brought that on herself by treating William like a human being when they were in the same Freshman English class. Since then, her attitude toward this public devotion had mutated from embarrassed, to mad, to resigned. Along with everyone else, she now accepted it as a bad joke and the price one paid for having him around.
To keep from staring down at William, Mark sat on the arm of Last Card’s chair. “I thought you were going to spend the whole summer in San Francisco getting stoned, laid, and material for a great book.”
“I spent as much time out there as I could endure. By the way, thank you for offering me a beer.” Mark grinned, fished out a can, and handed it over.
William accepted the beer with his usual, “Mercy buckets. There’s a limit to how many beautiful, groovy people any thinking human being can tolerate. I did, however, get stoned quite a few times, laid almost as often, and gathered enough material for a small encyclopedia.”
Having completed his, “What I Did This Summer,” lecture, William opened his beer, handed Mark the tab, took a long pull, and then looked around.
“Didn’t I hear you say the paragon of womanhood was among us? If so, please tell me where she is so I may go pay proper homage.”
“The last time I saw her she was heading toward the back, looking for Ginger.”
“Then I must journey thence and make my obeisance. By the way, Last Card, I’m in need of ecclesiastical counsel. Since you’re a born on the bayou Cajun and no doubt a good Catholic, tell me, when I’m genuflecting and making the sign of the cross before, She Who Must be Worshipped, do I cross myself from left to right or right to left? Being a Reform Druid, I never can keep that straight.”
Last Card looked at him with a weary smile. “Word, you’re so full of shit you stink.”
“No doubt. And I’m sure you’re an expert on the subject. But what is the answer to my sacred question?”
“Right to left,” sighed Last Card.
William accepted this with a nod and walked away practicing his moves. Mark shook his head and looked at Last Card. “Being a light-foot Baptist, I’m no expert on this subject, and Amy’s a Methodist so it won’t matter to her, but isn’t that sign of the cross thing done left to right?”
The grin on Last Card’s face widened. “It is if you’re Catholic. Somebody else, I think it’s the Greek or maybe it’s the Russian Orthodox, do it right to left. I doubt anyone will notice, but I couldn’t resist.”
After pulling out two more beers, Mark sat on the ice chest and let Last Card catch him up on the local social scene. As the report wound up, it occurred to Mark that he hadn’t seen the groom-to-be. “Where’s Mrs. Ingram’s pride and joy, the soon-to-be-married Howard?”
“Passed out in the back bedroom.”
“This early? The man never could hold his liquor, but passing out,” Mark paused to check his watch, “when it’s not even three in the afternoon?”
“No man, that’s not it. He’s still passed out from last night. We had kind of a bachelor’s party, except Ginger was here, along with some other chicks.”
“Sorry I missed it. Did one of them jump naked out of a cake?”
“Hate to kill your wet dreams, Cahill, but that was beyond our limited means. We did, however, have a fully clothed Ginger throwing something, I think it was her sandal, at that girl with her butt sticking up over there on the couch. And I seem to remember the girl being about half-assed naked at the time.”
Mark cast a studious look toward the couch. “Did Ginger hit her?”
“Nope, but she did manage to connect on Howard’s soft little head.”
“I thought Ginger was throwing at the girl.”
“She was. But you see, the girl was sitting on Howard’s lap. She ducked. Howard didn’t.”
“Now it all kind of makes sense. Who is she?”
“Hell if I know. Came by yesterday with a couple of dudes. They split. She stayed.”
Mark glanced back over at the girl. “You know, I do believe it’s time we checked out the condition of that poor child over there. Then I better check on Amy. Word might have her cornered.”
“I’ll join you on that first part,” said Last Card, as he struggled out of the chair.
After the girl with the tight panties had been examined and commented on, Last Chance went back to his new album while Mark headed for the kitchen. Amy, Ginger, and a plump, serene-looking person everyone called Mother Ruth were gathered around a small table talking and drinking wine.
“So this is where the elite meet,” said Mark, saluting everyone with his can of beer.
“Well, it was,” said William, “until somebody let the riff-raff in.”
Mark hopped up on the counter and then looked down upon the group with bemused tolerance. “You’re throwing spitballs at a battleship when you try to insult me, Brother Word.”
Turning his attention to Ginger, Mark said, “Miss Reynolds, you are looking beautiful. You too, Mother Ruth. Did you desert New Orleans for the wedding or are you up here trying to save these poor souls from a lifetime of greed and materialism?”
“Both. But it may take more than a weekend to save some of this crowd.” Her low voice had a pleasant trace of her hometown’s unique accent.
A few minutes later, the girl with the tight panties came wandering in. A rumpled sheet served as her toga. After a vague, disoriented, examination of the now silent kitchen, she spoke in a vague, disoriented voice.
“Isn’t this the way to the bathroom?”
She was soon made aware of her navigational error and given directions. On her way out, she bumped into Howard who was shuffling into the kitchen. The collision sent her toga tumbling to the floor.
The girl stopped and stared down at the sheet. After a long pause, she shrugged, kicked it aside, and resumed her search for the bathroom.
The moment she was gone, Amy began to giggle. “Well, at least she had panties on.”
“Thank God for small favors.” Ginger did not sound amused.
“I don’t know about that,” said Mark. “What do you think, William? Judging from the strain on those drawers, I’d say it was a pretty big favor.”
There was some laughter and general agreement. Then the group turned its attention to the man who was now standing at the sink, pouring himself a second large glass of water. Howard Ingram sported a pasty complexion, unkempt hair, blood-shot eyes, shaky hands, and a bump on his forehead as trophies of his performance at last night’s party. No one mentioned the bump or said anything about the sandal-throwing incident.
Howard and Ginger had been living together in the back bedroom. But at Ginger’s insistence, they were moving into a nearby garage apartment after the wedding. “That back room’s the quietest one in the house, Mark. You should take it,” said Howard. His voice was half-croak, half-moan. “I still say all your taste is in your mouth, but no one else can keep Word in line. Besides, if you don’t, a couple Kappa Sig’s might want to move in and there’d go the neighborhood.”
“It’s a thought. My roommate flunked out last semester and I don’t feel like breaking in someone new.”
“No shit? Dudley Fontenot busted out? What a bummer.” Somehow, Howard managed to look even worse.
“I shit you not,” said Mark. “It was a vicious combination of Dr. “No Mercy” Brown in math and his breaking up with Linda Neal. He called a few days ago and said the draft board was on his tail so he was about to join the Air Force.”
At Ginger’s insistence, the group migrated from the tiny, crowded kitchen to the living room. Last Card was still there. And the girl was back on the couch, although she’d put on a t-shirt and was propped up, smoking.
Someone asked Ginger about a honeymoon. They were, she revealed, going to drive down and spend a couple weeks in Mexico. “It’s gonna be such a blast,” interrupted Howard. “I’ve worked out this deal where we’ll be hauling back enough weed to pay for the trip plus a little extra. The drag is that after dropping it off, we’ve got to go to Shreveport. We both kinda promised our folks we’d have another wedding just for them.”
His audience was spared having to express their sympathy by the sudden appearance of the fourth permanent male resident of the Big House. Allen Donovan, who had been out scoring dope for the wedding reception, was a tall, muscular, good-looking former high school basketball star.
Back then, his build, plus the reputed size of his male organ, had earned him the nickname, “Big Al.” With his looks, body, and the rumors surrounding his endowment, Big Al seldom slept alone. No one was surprised, therefore, when, a few minutes later, he and the girl with the tight panties got up and headed for the door.
Mark looked up from the album jacket he’d been reading. “Al, how can you leave this scene of urban charm and sophistication?”
“Too many gutless, fence-straddling, bullshit artists around here.” Al took great delight in abusing anyone he felt lacking in sufficient devotion to whatever happened to be his current cause.
“Act nice, Al,” intoned The Word. “Mark may be moving in with us in the fall.”
“Cahill, nothing personal, but when it comes to things that matter, you’re nothing but a go-along-to-get-along, jive-ass, spineless drag. What the hell are you going to do, turn this place into a LBJ fan club?”
“Damn glad you weren’t being personal, my old self-righteous friend and former gung-ho member of the ROTC drill team. Just please remember, I was a Goldwater man. It was dedicated liberals like you who gave us four more years of Lyndon Baines Johnson as our Commander-in-Chief.”
“You know Cahill, I can be an asshole sometimes, maybe most of the time, and I’ll admit my views have changed. But at least people know where I’m coming from. It’d be different if you gave a shit about Goldwater or anything else. But to you, everything’s a big, fucking joke. I’ve known you for three years, and I still don’t know what you believe in, besides being a nice guy.”
Mark maintained his composure, but some of Al’s insults were coming too close for comfort. He decided to try and end things. “You know what they say about nice guys finishing last? At least it’s what the ladies claim. You should try it sometimes.”
The two men stared at one another until Big Al shook his head and grinned. After giving Mark the finger, he walked out. The girl in tight panties, who by now had covered them with a pair of tight jeans, followed close behind.
That evening, two young city cops stopped by to, “check on things.” According to Last Card, they were regular visitors and a general pain in the ass, but seldom did anything more than eye the chicks and try to act tough around the guys. As predicted, they hassled everyone for a few minutes, then left.
Later, two black guys, who The Word said were Big Al’s regular connection, came by to give Howard a wedding gift of hash. The boss man was Tecumseh Jones, a wiry, intense, young brother who sported a big Afro, several heavy gold necklaces, and a gold tooth. His “partner” was a quiet, very well-built older dude named Jerome. There was a scar on his cheek and half of one ear was missing. Everyone treated both men with great respect.
When they left, Ginger consulted with Amy and Mother Ruth. Then she announced that since it was the night before their wedding, she and Howard should sleep apart. He disagreed, of course. But after the previous night’s events, he was in no position to make a strong protest.
That left him on the outside unable to look past the closed door leading to his own bedroom Ginger was sharing it with Amy and Mother Ruth. Everyone assumed Big Al would be gone all night with the girl in tight panties, so Howard took over his bed.
Grateful for any soft spot, Mark claimed the well-used couch. This business of crashing at a big house might be okay, he thought while searching for a smooth spot amid all the lumps., but moving in, well, that was a different story. With a sigh, he settled into a small crease between lumps. Something told him neither he nor Amy were cut out for hippiedom.
The two-lane asphalt highway crawled with summer congestion. Once an especially slow, snake-like section skirting a picturesque bayou had been navigated, however, the white, travel-worn, 1959 Ford Galaxie 500 hit a straight stretch of road past cotton and sugar cane fields and picked up speed. No one inside noticed the change. They’d seen it many times before and were too busy talking.
On the radio, Bobby Goldsboro began a lugubrious lament about a dead wife and a live tree. Mark Cahill beat his best friend to the dial and, as was his right by conquest, turned down the volume. Tall, elegant, redheaded Amy Marshall, who would have turned the volume up, leaned back against the passenger door and gave him the finger. He grinned in triumph at the obscene gesture.
They were heading for what promised to be a real “hippie” wedding between Howard Ingram and Ginger Reynolds. Along with almost everyone else at LSU, Mark and Amy knew all about the groom. Howard was once one of the school’s many hustling future politician types. But over the last year, he had assumed the trappings of the counter-culture.
The bride, an average-to-pretty brunette, had first met Howard at a fraternity party during their freshman year. She’d stayed with him through his unsuccessful campaigns for various student council posts. Then she went along with his recent transformation from frat rat to flower child.
For Amy and Mark, the official housing plan, as approved by both sets of parents back home, called for Amy to stay with a sorority sister, while Mark crashed with his old roommate who was supposed to be in summer school. In reality, Mark’s roommate had just flunked out and departed for parts unknown while the sorority sister was, Ginger, the bride-to-be. As they and their friends had arranged, Mark and Amy headed for the shelter of the house Howard and Ginger had shared for the last few months with three other guys.
Although called, “The Big House,” at first glance, the name seemed grandiose. It was a venerable, single-story, white frame structure located on an no longer fashionable , tree lined, residential street near the city park.
When Amy asked about the name, Mark explained that it had to do with the people who lived there allowing almost anyone to use it as a temporary shelter. Of course, preference was given to “heads” with dope or booze and to all females.
For wedding presents, Mark brought two cases of cheap beer. Amy had two jugs of an even cheaper wine. They parked down the street, got their presents out of the trunk, and trudged through the humid, July heat toward the house. Their brief but sweaty journey was accompanied by the ever increasing multi-decibel sound of rock music coming through large, open windows hidden behind a mass of hydrangea in serious need of pruning.
A motley collection of tables, stools, and chairs were scattered about on the wide, screened, front porch. In the living room, well-used furniture of various shapes and sizes lined walls covered with posters extolling favored musicians and causes.
A steady, gentle movement of air kept the interior relatively cool and indicated the place had a working attic fan. Over in a far corner an unidentified female-type person wearing nothing but an over-extended pair of panties, slept face down on a couch.
The other person in the room was a barefoot guy in overalls. He was sunk deep into a sagging green armchair positioned across from two large speakers. His eyes were closed. But judging from the movement of his head, which kept jerking in an out-of-sync rhythm to the music, he was awake. Whether conscious or not, the person in the chair was Mike “Last Card” Landry.
In his previous incarnation, Last Card had arguably been the worst poker player at school, and unarguably the luckiest. It was a truth universally acknowledged, that no human being, living or dead, could fill an inside straight with more regularity than Last Card. Of course, no one but an idiot, or Last Card, would ever try to fill an inside straight. Playing poker with him, waiting to see if his last card would once again steal another pot, could be an exasperating and often expensive proposition.
But that was yesterday, thought Mark, and yesterday’s gone. During the spring, Last Card dropped out, tuned in, turned on, quit cutting his hair, grew a Fu Manchu mustache, and moved into the Big House. These life-style changes may not have occurred in that exact order, but no one had kept score.
Amy glanced over at the girl in the corner, then motioned toward the human metronome. “I suppose you’ll want to keep an eye on things out here with Last Card. I’m going on back and look for the bride-to-be.”
Mark sat his ice chest full of beer on the hardwood floor and tapped a knuckle on Last Card’s head. “Anybody home? Hello down there. Is anybody home?”
After what appeared to be a painful effort, one eye opened. With obvious irritation, Last Card gazed up at his assailant. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he said, breaking into a big grin. “How the hell’s it hanging, M.C.?”
“Rock hard and steady, L.C.. You want a beer?”
“Damn straight. You just slide into town?”
“Yep. Amy and I came down for the big wedding. We’re just poor wayfaring strangers in search of shelter.”
“Well, Amy’s always welcome, and you too, since that ice chest seems way too heavy.” Last Card accepted a beer.
“I figured two cases of beer would get me a dry corner to sleep in. But I’m not sure our redheaded friend is up to the challenge.” Pulling out a beer for himself, Mark popped the top, tossed the tab back into the ice and let the lid fall shut. “Poor Amy’s led a sheltered life and has this thing about dirt, bed bugs, lice, and….”
A new voice interrupted him. “Did I hear you mention the name of, She Who Must Be Worshipped?” Turning around, Mark saw William “The Word" approaching. William, he never responded to any of that name’s many variations, was a gnomish life-form with horn rimmed glasses that made his hazel eyes look even bigger. Before the hippie craze began sweeping the campus, he ranked high among the school’s most eccentric students. Now he was just one of the crowd.
Although no longer considered particularly weird, William still had several distinctive characteristics. In addition to being short, he was sarcastic, brilliant, a gifted writer, and he always wore a vest. For the last three years, he’d gone around proclaiming Amy Marshall a goddess of female perfection he would forever worship in a chaste and reverent manner.
It was Mark’s contention that Amy brought that on herself by treating William like a human being when they were in the same Freshman English class. Since then, her attitude toward this public devotion had mutated from embarrassed, to mad, to resigned. Along with everyone else, she now accepted it as a bad joke and the price one paid for having him around.
To keep from staring down at William, Mark sat on the arm of Last Card’s chair. “I thought you were going to spend the whole summer in San Francisco getting stoned, laid, and material for a great book.”
“I spent as much time out there as I could endure. By the way, thank you for offering me a beer.” Mark grinned, fished out a can, and handed it over.
William accepted the beer with his usual, “Mercy buckets. There’s a limit to how many beautiful, groovy people any thinking human being can tolerate. I did, however, get stoned quite a few times, laid almost as often, and gathered enough material for a small encyclopedia.”
Having completed his, “What I Did This Summer,” lecture, William opened his beer, handed Mark the tab, took a long pull, and then looked around.
“Didn’t I hear you say the paragon of womanhood was among us? If so, please tell me where she is so I may go pay proper homage.”
“The last time I saw her she was heading toward the back, looking for Ginger.”
“Then I must journey thence and make my obeisance. By the way, Last Card, I’m in need of ecclesiastical counsel. Since you’re a born on the bayou Cajun and no doubt a good Catholic, tell me, when I’m genuflecting and making the sign of the cross before, She Who Must be Worshipped, do I cross myself from left to right or right to left? Being a Reform Druid, I never can keep that straight.”
Last Card looked at him with a weary smile. “Word, you’re so full of shit you stink.”
“No doubt. And I’m sure you’re an expert on the subject. But what is the answer to my sacred question?”
“Right to left,” sighed Last Card.
William accepted this with a nod and walked away practicing his moves. Mark shook his head and looked at Last Card. “Being a light-foot Baptist, I’m no expert on this subject, and Amy’s a Methodist so it won’t matter to her, but isn’t that sign of the cross thing done left to right?”
The grin on Last Card’s face widened. “It is if you’re Catholic. Somebody else, I think it’s the Greek or maybe it’s the Russian Orthodox, do it right to left. I doubt anyone will notice, but I couldn’t resist.”
After pulling out two more beers, Mark sat on the ice chest and let Last Card catch him up on the local social scene. As the report wound up, it occurred to Mark that he hadn’t seen the groom-to-be. “Where’s Mrs. Ingram’s pride and joy, the soon-to-be-married Howard?”
“Passed out in the back bedroom.”
“This early? The man never could hold his liquor, but passing out,” Mark paused to check his watch, “when it’s not even three in the afternoon?”
“No man, that’s not it. He’s still passed out from last night. We had kind of a bachelor’s party, except Ginger was here, along with some other chicks.”
“Sorry I missed it. Did one of them jump naked out of a cake?”
“Hate to kill your wet dreams, Cahill, but that was beyond our limited means. We did, however, have a fully clothed Ginger throwing something, I think it was her sandal, at that girl with her butt sticking up over there on the couch. And I seem to remember the girl being about half-assed naked at the time.”
Mark cast a studious look toward the couch. “Did Ginger hit her?”
“Nope, but she did manage to connect on Howard’s soft little head.”
“I thought Ginger was throwing at the girl.”
“She was. But you see, the girl was sitting on Howard’s lap. She ducked. Howard didn’t.”
“Now it all kind of makes sense. Who is she?”
“Hell if I know. Came by yesterday with a couple of dudes. They split. She stayed.”
Mark glanced back over at the girl. “You know, I do believe it’s time we checked out the condition of that poor child over there. Then I better check on Amy. Word might have her cornered.”
“I’ll join you on that first part,” said Last Card, as he struggled out of the chair.
After the girl with the tight panties had been examined and commented on, Last Chance went back to his new album while Mark headed for the kitchen. Amy, Ginger, and a plump, serene-looking person everyone called Mother Ruth were gathered around a small table talking and drinking wine.
“So this is where the elite meet,” said Mark, saluting everyone with his can of beer.
“Well, it was,” said William, “until somebody let the riff-raff in.”
Mark hopped up on the counter and then looked down upon the group with bemused tolerance. “You’re throwing spitballs at a battleship when you try to insult me, Brother Word.”
Turning his attention to Ginger, Mark said, “Miss Reynolds, you are looking beautiful. You too, Mother Ruth. Did you desert New Orleans for the wedding or are you up here trying to save these poor souls from a lifetime of greed and materialism?”
“Both. But it may take more than a weekend to save some of this crowd.” Her low voice had a pleasant trace of her hometown’s unique accent.
A few minutes later, the girl with the tight panties came wandering in. A rumpled sheet served as her toga. After a vague, disoriented, examination of the now silent kitchen, she spoke in a vague, disoriented voice.
“Isn’t this the way to the bathroom?”
She was soon made aware of her navigational error and given directions. On her way out, she bumped into Howard who was shuffling into the kitchen. The collision sent her toga tumbling to the floor.
The girl stopped and stared down at the sheet. After a long pause, she shrugged, kicked it aside, and resumed her search for the bathroom.
The moment she was gone, Amy began to giggle. “Well, at least she had panties on.”
“Thank God for small favors.” Ginger did not sound amused.
“I don’t know about that,” said Mark. “What do you think, William? Judging from the strain on those drawers, I’d say it was a pretty big favor.”
There was some laughter and general agreement. Then the group turned its attention to the man who was now standing at the sink, pouring himself a second large glass of water. Howard Ingram sported a pasty complexion, unkempt hair, blood-shot eyes, shaky hands, and a bump on his forehead as trophies of his performance at last night’s party. No one mentioned the bump or said anything about the sandal-throwing incident.
Howard and Ginger had been living together in the back bedroom. But at Ginger’s insistence, they were moving into a nearby garage apartment after the wedding. “That back room’s the quietest one in the house, Mark. You should take it,” said Howard. His voice was half-croak, half-moan. “I still say all your taste is in your mouth, but no one else can keep Word in line. Besides, if you don’t, a couple Kappa Sig’s might want to move in and there’d go the neighborhood.”
“It’s a thought. My roommate flunked out last semester and I don’t feel like breaking in someone new.”
“No shit? Dudley Fontenot busted out? What a bummer.” Somehow, Howard managed to look even worse.
“I shit you not,” said Mark. “It was a vicious combination of Dr. “No Mercy” Brown in math and his breaking up with Linda Neal. He called a few days ago and said the draft board was on his tail so he was about to join the Air Force.”
At Ginger’s insistence, the group migrated from the tiny, crowded kitchen to the living room. Last Card was still there. And the girl was back on the couch, although she’d put on a t-shirt and was propped up, smoking.
Someone asked Ginger about a honeymoon. They were, she revealed, going to drive down and spend a couple weeks in Mexico. “It’s gonna be such a blast,” interrupted Howard. “I’ve worked out this deal where we’ll be hauling back enough weed to pay for the trip plus a little extra. The drag is that after dropping it off, we’ve got to go to Shreveport. We both kinda promised our folks we’d have another wedding just for them.”
His audience was spared having to express their sympathy by the sudden appearance of the fourth permanent male resident of the Big House. Allen Donovan, who had been out scoring dope for the wedding reception, was a tall, muscular, good-looking former high school basketball star.
Back then, his build, plus the reputed size of his male organ, had earned him the nickname, “Big Al.” With his looks, body, and the rumors surrounding his endowment, Big Al seldom slept alone. No one was surprised, therefore, when, a few minutes later, he and the girl with the tight panties got up and headed for the door.
Mark looked up from the album jacket he’d been reading. “Al, how can you leave this scene of urban charm and sophistication?”
“Too many gutless, fence-straddling, bullshit artists around here.” Al took great delight in abusing anyone he felt lacking in sufficient devotion to whatever happened to be his current cause.
“Act nice, Al,” intoned The Word. “Mark may be moving in with us in the fall.”
“Cahill, nothing personal, but when it comes to things that matter, you’re nothing but a go-along-to-get-along, jive-ass, spineless drag. What the hell are you going to do, turn this place into a LBJ fan club?”
“Damn glad you weren’t being personal, my old self-righteous friend and former gung-ho member of the ROTC drill team. Just please remember, I was a Goldwater man. It was dedicated liberals like you who gave us four more years of Lyndon Baines Johnson as our Commander-in-Chief.”
“You know Cahill, I can be an asshole sometimes, maybe most of the time, and I’ll admit my views have changed. But at least people know where I’m coming from. It’d be different if you gave a shit about Goldwater or anything else. But to you, everything’s a big, fucking joke. I’ve known you for three years, and I still don’t know what you believe in, besides being a nice guy.”
Mark maintained his composure, but some of Al’s insults were coming too close for comfort. He decided to try and end things. “You know what they say about nice guys finishing last? At least it’s what the ladies claim. You should try it sometimes.”
The two men stared at one another until Big Al shook his head and grinned. After giving Mark the finger, he walked out. The girl in tight panties, who by now had covered them with a pair of tight jeans, followed close behind.
That evening, two young city cops stopped by to, “check on things.” According to Last Card, they were regular visitors and a general pain in the ass, but seldom did anything more than eye the chicks and try to act tough around the guys. As predicted, they hassled everyone for a few minutes, then left.
Later, two black guys, who The Word said were Big Al’s regular connection, came by to give Howard a wedding gift of hash. The boss man was Tecumseh Jones, a wiry, intense, young brother who sported a big Afro, several heavy gold necklaces, and a gold tooth. His “partner” was a quiet, very well-built older dude named Jerome. There was a scar on his cheek and half of one ear was missing. Everyone treated both men with great respect.
When they left, Ginger consulted with Amy and Mother Ruth. Then she announced that since it was the night before their wedding, she and Howard should sleep apart. He disagreed, of course. But after the previous night’s events, he was in no position to make a strong protest.
That left him on the outside unable to look past the closed door leading to his own bedroom Ginger was sharing it with Amy and Mother Ruth. Everyone assumed Big Al would be gone all night with the girl in tight panties, so Howard took over his bed.
Grateful for any soft spot, Mark claimed the well-used couch. This business of crashing at a big house might be okay, he thought while searching for a smooth spot amid all the lumps., but moving in, well, that was a different story. With a sigh, he settled into a small crease between lumps. Something told him neither he nor Amy were cut out for hippiedom.
