CHAPTER 11 Graduate Thesis

However dramatic the peyote experience was, it was the first of many such turning points in my life. I gave a complete report on the peyote experience in my Psychology 101 class with drawings, gestures and innuendos. The report earned me some very strange looks, social ostracism, and the same grade of "C" that I had earned the previous six weeks by doing nothing at all. Such a negative reaction to my research was hard on my ego. I had expected an outburst of enthusiastic questions. What I got instead, convinced me of the power of the media. I had seen the same news reels and printed propaganda about drugs as the rest of the world. I had been enlightened; but enlightening others was obviously not my destiny. I was now a confessed dope fiend and the impropriety of exposing myself in the classroom had been frowned upon by peers and professor alike. Rather than becoming a confirmed bohemian and striking out blindly against society though, I began to actively plan my future and pursue it. In short, I hit the ground running.

I determined (or realized) that I was going to quit college at the end of the semester and become a radio announcer. Not just any announcer, a successful if not famous one. All the announcers I had ever heard played a part in that career decision, particularly Dave Naugle, George Carlin and one gawdawful local announcer in Denton, Texas. The man was so bad on the air that those who had better radios than mine would tune in anything else at all, so as not to listen to him. My radio however, was the victim of interference and the only station it would receive was - you guessed it. Scott and I collaborated on ideas for a radio station and cracked ourselves up creating the ideal call letters. University of North Texas was the paramount association and the ideal call letters would reflect that; K-U-N-T. I'm sure there were dozens of students before us and hundreds since who have enjoyed the joke. There were dreams and variations on dreams of our own radio station. Scott loved to dream. I loved to make them come true. We set up a fantasy broadcast company "KNTU" using Scott's apartment as the address. Those call letters actually exist now at the campus radio station at The University of North Texas.

We took the fantasy so far as to make a presentation to the Chamber of Commerce, in an effort to find funding for the radio station. The audience was limited to one person in the Chamber of Commerce who was the Executive Director. I played crudely produced "commercials" for the City of Denton and its future, predicting a gigantic central airport just south of town that would serve Dallas, Fort Worth and Denton. This and similar growth aspects for the community it was argued, justified the need for a new radio station. We were respectfully dismissed with a wry suggestion that we make the presentation to a bank. There are opportunities provided Youth that somehow elude those of us with common sense, experience, ability and wisdom. I wrote to Collins Radio to inquire about putting a radio station "KNTU" on the air. Lo and behold a week later, a representative from the company actually made an appearance at the apartment. I tried to apologize to the gentleman for the unnecessary inconvenience and the apology was immediately brushed aside. Before he left we had been made a proposal involving equipment and complete financing of the project. It was the occasion of one of our finer weekends of getting drunk.

Crazy Jerry was one of Scott's roommates in the apartment and also one of our several musician friends. He and I had been making a merry madcap night of wine and song (sorry, no women) which had reached its climax on the 50-yard line of the NTSU Eagles football stadium. This wild Yankee with a saxophone was also a wild man with a gun. Traveling on my motor scooter, Jerry and I had somehow found access to the football playing field. That's a great place to take a leak. While we both drenched the mid-field chalk marks, my Crazy Yankee friend pulled out a GI .45 caliber automatic pistol, let out a Texas "rebel yell" and fired one round straight up in the air. At 1AM in the morning with the hush of spring around, such a report can echo from bleacher to bleacher in a football stadium for what seems likeminutes. It can also make you wet your pants if you tuck in too quickly. It was my turn to get paranoid. I half hauled Jerry onto the motor scooter and we got the hell out of there with Jerry yelling like a bronc rider, waving the gun in the air. I headed straight for the dorm where I argued with Jerry for a full half hour to get him to lock the gun up in a closet. I finally threatened to punch him out and that was the end of our fun. With the gun safely put away, we headed back to the apartment.

The only traffic light on the campus turned red and the Campus Police pulled up right behind us. It was close to 2AM. Driving the scooter very smoothly for a drunk, I proceeded at a very legal pace off the campus. We were immediately tagged by a Denton Police cruiser. It was only two blocks to the apartment and still being very drunk, I was overcome with bravado and decided to try to outrun them. To that moment we were being perfectly behaved and the cops had no reason to be suspicious of us (except for being on a motor scooter at two in the morning). I tore down the street at almost 40 miles an hour and made the corner at a 30 degree angle, drifting like a real motorcycle racer. We made the half-block to the apartment and were about to skid into the parking lot when the cruiser's lights went on. The Denton jail was like most of the others I had visited. Jerry's state of inebriation was comical and I could hear the officers in the interrogation room roaring with laughter. I had no idea what he was saying. My brief interrogation was in the form of a fatherly lecture from the Sergeant on duty. I was made to promise to behave like a good citizen. I was fined for reckless driving and we were summarily dismissed. Kindly, we were driven back to the apartment in a patrol car.

Scott's departure from the dorm to the apartment had left a vacancy in my room. Actually, two vacancies were available since no one had dared take the only empty bed. No matter, it would have taken days to move all of Scott's junk off of it and out of the spare closet. I was approached for the room spaces by two musicians, both named Mike. One Mike had flaming red hair and freckles. He spent most of his time carving reeds for his bassoon. The other Mike was a trumpet player with a hormone problem and overdeveloped breasts whom we all called "Groovy". He had a habit of substituting that word "groovy" for "yes". Calling the redhead Mike and the other Groovy suited us all just fine. Things went well for about two weeks until I found myself for seemingly no reason, under attack. My roomies didn't like me. It seemed as though it was because I was almost never there. Groovy I think, really hated himself but took it out on everyone else. I was the natural victim of his hatred because of my absence. He would demonstrate his feelings in very obscene ways. They were petty little annoyances at first but after a time they began to take on a malevolent aspect. I came in early one evening to have a pipe and relax awhile. Pipes had become my source of tobacco since I couldn't afford cigarettes. I filled the bowl with my mixture of latakia and Cherry Blend and prepared to get in some study time. I gagged. I choked. The smoke tasted like piss. It was indeed, piss. Mike couldn't contain his laughter. Groovy couldn't hide his guilt. He had indeed, soaked the bowl of my favorite pipe in the bathroom. I vowed vengeance quietly to myself. Groovy would not relent. Every day there would be some petty personal item of mine broken, moved or messed up. Finally one day my temper snapped. Another something had been broken on purpose and it was just too much.

I sprang at Groovy with a bath towel in my hands. He was too startled to defend himself. I wrapped the towel around his neck and pulled down tight, fully intending to strangle him to death. Groovy was cool though. He struggled his fat, cherubic body to its feet and turned to face me. He made no effort to defend himself at all, he just stared at me as his face turned purple. That stopped me. I was doing for him exactly what he couldn't do for himself. I was killing him. I removed the towel and took two deep breaths as I controlled my rage. Neither of us spoke for the rest of the evening and as far as I know, neither of us told another soul about the incident. We maintained a respectful distance from each other after that.

My day of reckoning with Groovy came a few weeks later. There had been a Lab Band party at Lake Dallas. One of the musicians came in early to tell Mike and I that Groovy was playing drunk. He had had two beers and was acting like the Head Wino of Sleazy Street. Sure enough about a half hour later, he came stumbling through the door like he could barely stand. He of course, had driven almost thirty miles without an accident. It was time for the Truth. Mike engaged our slush bucket in conversation while I canvassed the entire wing of the dorm for donations of booze. My story convinced most of the fellows to part with their individual hoards of spirits and I was surprised at the amount of liquor in the place. Even our obnoxious friend Barry contributed by donating most of a bottle of Manishewitz wine. The entire collection consisted of Sloe Gin, wine, Southern Comfort, brandy, bourbon and a bit of cognac totaling almost two fifths of assorted liquors.

We sat. We drank. I called Groovy a lying S.O.B. to his face and told him that tonight he would get seriously drunk for the first time in his life. Mike left the room, grinning. I ordered Groovy to take his time and drink it all. Lo and behold in less than thirty minutes, he did. He never asked for mercy and got a little sick only once on the bourbon. There was only a little water for a chaser. He took his medicine like a man and made me swear that I would wake him up at six-thirty a.m. for his class in Physical Education at the gymnasium across the street.. I promised him in a fatherly way, that I would. At six-thirty Groovy's alarm went off. His eyes were half open but he was completely unconscious. Mike and I stood him up and got him dressed for gym class. He was able to open one eye and respond to his name. We finally got it into him that it was time for him to go to gym class and guided him into the hall. After he consumed a half gallon of water at the fountain, I had to walk him down the flight of stairs to the door. It was two days before we saw him again.

The story got back to us that Groovy had indeed, made it in for his morning workout. He appeared for calisthenics with his shirt only half on, his over developed breasts exposed. His gym shorts were on backwards and inside-out. He hadn't even tried to put on a jock strap. He had one shoe on one foot with no sock. The sock was on the other foot with no shoe. He had attempted one jumping jack and fallen on the spot. The coach had sent him home. He didn't know where that was.

Groovy was rescued by a kind-hearted soul who took him to his apartment for a 36-hour dryout. When he returned to us, he was an enlightened person. We eventually became friends.