The Palmetto: Adventures with the Southern Underground

By Davis Horner

The year is 1969. Richard Nixon is now president and members of the New Left are trying to gauge which way he will go on several major issues, especially the war in Vietnam. My novel, The Palmetto, relates the story of Ronnie Morrison from the time he drops out of high school (as a teacher, not a student) in June of 1969 until his several personal crises come to a climax in Fall of 1970. It is the end of the school year and he has decided he cannot abide by the conditions he has been given in order for him to teach for another year. He is separated from his wife, Dale, his sense of self and of security are shaky, and he is looking for some place and some people to belong to. He also has discovered that he is still in love with his wife, though he has little hope of getting her back. On a night he expected to spend alone in his misery, he is invited – randomly – to a local gathering of “freaks” living near the university campus. He decides to take this fork in the road, and among these new friends he begins to find meaning, even purpose, in some areas of his life, while continuing his struggle to find love.
The Palmetto is a public park that sits across from the houses on Drayton Street, the university’s “Freak Row”. The journey of Ronnie Morrison involves many of the members of this countercultural community, and their collective story is told as well as his, as they struggle to live as if they were free, to avoid the draft, and to elude the forces of “Law and Order” which are allied against them, from the city police to the F.B.I.’s counterintelligence program aimed at destroying the New Left. If this weren’t challenging enough, they continue to try to find their niche in an increasing polarized society that sees them as misfits.
This story is somewhat unique in that it describes the late sixties counterculture as it existed in a university town in the American South, and how their experiences are intensified by their proximity to Fort Gregg, an army base training soldiers for service in Vietnam. There are sex episodes, drug episodes, and rock and rock episodes, as they were inevitable during the time. There is also a deep sense of exploration and inquiry on the part of the characters, as each one struggles against what seems to be their fate – whether warfare, or exile, or prison, or even madness.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Davis Horner
• Release date: Oct 18, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311550606

Davis Horner

Davis Horner has been a freelance writer for many years as well, as a staff features writer for The Edge, Creative Loafing, The Point, the Travelers Rest Monitor, and other publications. He has published poetry and short stories in regional and national literary journals.

Book preview

Part One

By

Davis Horner

@copyright 2014 by Davis Horner

Smashwords Edition

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance between the characters herein and actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

"Watch out now, take care,

Beware of soft shoe shufflers

Dancing down the sidewalks,

As each unconscious sufferer

Wanders aimlessly,

Beware of MAYA"

George Harrison

HAPPENINGS

I. The Palmetto

June the Sixth, 1969

The Wine Party

The Allied Invasion and the Meaning of Mushrooms

The Professor’s Obscure Night

Meetings:

With Phrogg

With the Faculty

With Dale

Re-meeting Kristen

MEMORANDUM: June 1969

II. Tripping Across the Western U.S. and What They Found There

I’ll Follow the Sun

Rose of Old San Antone

Moon Landing

Dune Buggy Brigade

The Golden Gate

Captain America

III. Fall Semester 1969

The Magic Theater

A Visit from Hartley

Freedom Bird

Sic ‘em Pigs

Burn

A Date with Dale

With Katie in the Narrow Room

Logan Street Bust

What Is and What Should Never Be

Moratorium

207-B

The Raptor

Woodstock Baby

Smack

Massacre

Weird Load

It is November 22

Thanksgiving

The Lottery

There’s Danger on the Edge of Town

MEMORANDUM: 29 Dec 1969

The Ring of a Remote Phone

June 6th, 1969:

It was the 28th day since California Governor Ronald Reagan had had a bowel movement. After the 7th day without a BM he fell into a very bad mood. Looking for something very nasty to do, he decided to send several hundred police and highway patrolmen to Berkeley to remove the communist sympathizers, protesters, and sex deviants who had recently been planting grass and trees in an unused piece of land owned by the University of California. The police then built a fence to keep them from coming back. The grass and tree planters pushed back. The police pushed back harder. By the day's end one man had been killed and another blinded by shotgun blasts. The governor's blockage, however, only grew worse. Nothing could move him. He ordered 2700 national guardsmen into Berkeley to occupy the city. Several UC botany students, in an effort to end the bloodshed, drove to Sacramento on June 6th with a specially prepared puree of prunes and beets hoping to deliver it to the governor, but they were turned back at the mansion guard house.

A few miles away Gilbert, a graduate student working at the Stanford Research Institute, sat at his computer terminal tapping out various codes for network control protocol packets. He was practicing codes, along with several others, in anticipation of the planned network connection with UCLA in several weeks. After entering what he thought to be a particularly clever chunk of code, he began to get up from his chair because his stomach told him it was time for a Dr. Pepper and a Hostess Cupcake. He heard a strange crackling noise from the processor and stopped suddenly. Some text appeared on his monitor screen. It said: Thou art god, I am god. All that groks is god.

Moments later, as he reclined in blissful slumber atop the serpent Ananta Shesta amid the vastness of the ocean of milk, Lord Vishnu, preserver and sustainer, cracked an eye open for three millionths of a second. It was long enough for him to perceive that the people of earth continued to be intent on killing each other and everything around them, especially the Great Souls that occasionally dwelt among them, and that their rush toward destruction and the end of this corrupt age proceeded right on schedule. His eye closed to resume his splendid sleep.

Several thousand miles away from California, a splendidly marked maculata spider crawled out from under a small pile of brush on the slope of a mountain. Her food entangling activities had been disrupted for several days due to frequent blinding lights, scorching waves of heat and fire, and the movement of men up and down the mountain. After several hours had passed in silence, and the night turned into dawn, she patiently prepared to build once again. The mountain was called Dong Ap Bia - the mountain of the crouching beast - by the native Degar people of the region. Recently it had been designated Hill 937, since it rose 937 meters above sea level. To the men from the 101st Airborne Division who fought there it would come to be called Hamburger Hill. After the last soldiers had left on June 5th, a deep silence had returned to the mountain's slope.

Twenty-five years ago on this day America's good war had reached its crescendo as waves of GI's, with their British and Canadian comrades, crash onto the shores of Sword, Juno, Gold, Omaha, and Utah beaches in France. Hours earlier airborne infantrymen had parachuted behind the lines to capture important roads and bridges in advance of the assault. The 101st Airborne was dropped at designated points on the Cherbourg peninsula, but due to cloud cover, flak from German guns, and human error, many men missed their drop zones. In spite of these adversities, the men of the 101st accomplished their missions, one by one. This became a part of their history.

Specialist Neil Lewis of the 1st Battalion, 506th Regiment, 101st Airborne Infantry Division, thought that the assault on Hill 937 had been one colossal snafu, thanks to Command, but with only weeks remaining in his tour he mostly kept quiet about it, even if other men in his company were mouthing off about it. Mostly he was glad to have survived. Back at Battalion he was able to begin the process of winding down. Some of the guys were raising a glass as they commemorated the Longest Day of 25 years ago. They joined brothers in arms all over the globe, active soldiers and veterans of the 1st, 4th, and 29th with Naval and Air Forces who were there that day. Neil stayed in, taking advantage of this time to write a letter to Kristen.

"Dear Kris,

"I'm writing to tell the good news that I have survived a terrible battle. I won't say where it was or what we were doing, but I'm sure you were aware of it from the newspapers and TV – I saw cameras there and they were busy with their picture making. The brass are, of course, saying that we won this battle. I'm not saying anything. So far I have won the battle to stay alive and, having come through this do I dare hope that my odds are pretty good? Well I won't say anything about that either, but you'll be interested to know that there are no plans to send the 506th into action for the rest of the summer. The grand strategy, as I see it, has been to keep another offensive, such as Tet, from developing. So the Army has been trying to knock out NVA strongholds in the central and south of Viet Nam. That's what this battle was about and, for what it's worth, the NVA is gone. I can't really be more specific than that.

"Sorry for going on about this, but I need to exhale – a little bit at a time – about what my buddies and I have been through. I hope you are doing wonderfully well. I should have written before now, even if just a note to reassure you, but I just couldn't find the time or mental space. I hope I haven't made you anxious. Thinking about you and the neighborhood and the gang keeps my head together – such as it is. I can't wait to see you again. Will you be in town for most of the summer? Any plans? Mainly my hope is that you'll be there to greet me when I'm back state side.

Your friend, Neil"

At a postal distribution center in Washington, DC mail sorters culled a curious looking envelope from among the many pieces to be delivered to the White House. It was addressed to "Richard Nixon, The White House, Washington, DC, and had no return address. There seemed to be an oblong, lumpy shape within. After passing it through detection devices, it was opened to reveal a large cigarette, hand-rolled, containing an odd sort of weed that was more greenish than brown. It was obvious to most observers, and was later confirmed, that someone had tried to send a large joint directly to the president. They had also included a brief, strange letter.

He'll never get the chance to enjoy it, quipped one employee. I hear he's already left for Midway. The president was, in fact, en route to the Pacific to meet with President Thieu of South Vietnam.

Many miles south of the nation's capital, nearby the campus of Atlantic University, Mitch Logan – a well-known genius – sat atop a Corinthian column in the public green space known as the Palmetto and explained to his friend Paul Heinz, himself a genius and seated atop an opposite Corinthian column, why he, Mitch, also known as Zap, was at the Palmetto today.

I got the idea I wanted to invade the White House on D-Day. I wanted to turn the president on to some excellent Jamaican I got from this freak from Fort Lauderdale. I figure that if Richard Nixon can get cool through the agency of some pure Jamaican, it could do more to change the world than fifty demonstrations. And it would be fun!

Paul, also known as Phrogg, was trying to follow Zap's global thought patterns. You may be right, he said.

I'm not convinced Nixon's really such a bad dude, said Zap. He does appear to be a tight-assed geek, in just about every particular. But maybe all he needs is to get a head together.

So what happened? Why didn't you go to the White House?

Well it was like, when I gave the Fort Lauderdale freak a ride to Atlanta, I sort of like forgot to check the oil in my car, of which it essentially had none. I made it back here okay, but the engine locked down up on Longstreet Avenue during rush hour. And there it sits today.

Why didn't you check with me? I could have given you a ride to Washington.

Right, well, here you are having had to worry about whether you were going to graduate or not, so I didn't want to divert your attention. And anyway, Ten Years After is coming to the Coliseum next week and I don't want to be stuck out of town. Plus, I want to study rutabagas, and I'd even thought of being a priest this summer.

Now I can understand your reluctance to leave.

Besides, I would miss being with Stardust all that time. I decided to call off the trip, so here I am at the Palmetto.

It's all clear to me now.

But I didn't forget about the president, said Zap. I rolled a large joint of Jamaica's finest and sent it to him: Richard Nixon, The White House. I wrote him a letter and told him if he liked it, there's a head shop in Georgetown where he can cop some pretty good stuff. Zap dangled his legs over the edge of the Corinthian column. And now I'm just waiting, man... waiting for history to change.

J.P. Garrett, Solicitor of Congaree County, opened a letter that had arrived on his desk that afternoon.

Mr. Garrett:

As it has been agreed, here is some information about certain persons living in the row of quadroplexes on Drayton Street across from Palmetto Park. So far I've been able to get some information on the tenants of the upstairs apartment at 207-B Drayton Street.

There are three official residents of this apartment. They are Scott Santiago, Stephen Pease, and Taylor Clemens. I'm sure you also know that there are a lot of other people that spend time over there, stay overnight, even stay for several days at a time. That means that it's not always easy to say who exactly is living at this or that address at certain times. So all I can say for sure is what information I have on the three rent-paying people at 207-B.

Scott Santiago is 25 years old. He was born in Havana, Cuba, and his father is Cuban and his mother American. His family moved to the U.S. before Castro took over, about 1958 I think. His father teaches at the University of Florida and his mother is a nurse. Scott says his father completed a PhD here at Atlantic. Scott was already in the 11th grade at Congaree Central, and stayed here to finish high school after his father had gone to Florida. After that, Scott started attending Atlantic. He went through college in four years and got a degree in philosophy in 1967. Since then he has been enrolled in graduate school but he'll sometimes stay out for a semester.

Santiago describes himself as a freethinker and sometimes as an anarchist. If he is a member of any radical organizations on campus, I'm not aware of it. The last place he lived, one of his roommates was a member of the SDS, but I don't think Scott ever joined. He is also a pacifist, has studied Gandhi and Thoreau, and has frequently made statements against the Vietnam War. Finally, I have no first hand knowledge of Santiago having used illegal drugs.

Stephen Pease is 19 years old and graduated last year from Beckham High School here in Congaree. He began attending Atlantic last fall. His father is a widower – Stephen's mother died – and lives in Pennsylvania. Stephen also has an uncle who is an NCO at Fort Gregg. Stephen is an outspoken radical and is involved in anti-war and civil rights activities, but I'm not sure whether he's a member of any campus organizations or not. He's an intelligent fellow and is able to speak persuasively on current issues. He's also an excellent guitarist and musician. I'm pretty much certain Stephen doesn't use drugs. In fact he's said more than once that he gets his high from music and from science fiction.

Taylor Clemens does not use illicit drugs. I'm fairly certain of that. He is 22 years old, and is a native of Congaree, where his father works for the Department of Corrections. His parents are divorced. Taylor says he is a member of the Communist Party, though I've never seen evidence of this such as an I.D. Card. I have no reason not to believe him though. He is a rising senior at the university, having dropped out from time to time to work or travel. I don't think Taylor is a member of any other radical groups on campus, because he is mostly critical of them. He says that that fact that so many of them are interested in sex and drugs and rock and roll proves that they are not true revolutionaries.

That's all the information I have so far on 207-B Drayton Street. I'm trying to hold up my part of this agreement, but you should know that I can ask too many questions or get into people's business without their getting suspicious.

You know how to contact me.

PAC

The Wine Party

The Wine Party took place on Friday, which also happened to be D-Day, at the apartment of Scott Santiago and Stephen Pease. This is how it happened: Taylor Clemens had come into possession of three gallons of cheap, anonymous wine. His sources were a mystery, and Taylor wasn't telling. Even though he was rather strict on himself with regard to drinking and other indulgences of the flesh he thought he could afford to be generous with some of his friends and tolerant of their little pleasures, perhaps even buying himself some goodwill as part of the bargain. Everything would redound to the glory of the Party in the end - the Communist Party, that is, not the Wine Party, though as the evening wore on party lines became a little blurry. Taylor unscrewed one of the gallon jugs and took a deep, red swallow for himself, just to taste.

At four o'clock on Friday afternoon no one yet knew there was going to be a Wine Party. Scott rose from his bath water after soaking for an hour, walked into the apartment's living room, and open wide all the windows to dry himself with spring air. Lorraine and Alice from down the street arrived shortly and began to paint his feet and toenails. After a few minutes Stephen came up the back stairs and carried the first gallon of wine into the room, as Zap and Phrogg, just arrived from Bee Street at the top of the hill, walked in the front door. Zap could hardly believe it: Three gallons! Man, we are a fortunate people. That's half a gallon for everybody here!

We'll need some help to drink it all, said Scott. There is no reason to keep it to ourselves. We will be having a Party!

Fiesta!

Our friends have to come.

Alice and Lorraine, go and tell everybody, said Scott. Zap you can tell the people on the Hill, and I'll tell the bunch on the other end of the Palmetto. Scott laughed and clapped hands. Oh boy! This is incredibly beautiful!"

In all, fifty-seven people came to the apartment that night until all three gallon bottles were emptied and people had to go out for more and more. Some of the people that came were too young to legally be drinking, but Scott Santiago believed that people should be able to do whatever they wanted to do. He was no one's custodian, and no one was his. Silly America. There was cherry wine, and apple, and hearty burgundy, and rosé, and someone brought a bottle of champagne. Some girls came with two loaves of bread and a large hunk of cheese. From somewhere appeared a shrimp salad, several tins of sardines and packages of crackers, two squash and mushroom casseroles, and a huge pan of lasagna. People sat on pillows and blankets, on the floor, on the porch and on window sills, where late spring air blew slow and sweet and friendly. The phonograph was turned up or down or off at various times, but mostly it was Stephen Pease's fingertips which became numb from all the tunes he picked and rolled on the guitar. People began to paint pictures on the wall - their favorite animal, or a sunset scene, or a basket of flowers. Some wrote their favorite quotation in Da-Glo, or someone's name, or their own. Soon nearly everyone had made a contribution in paint until there were thirty-five people's names on the wall and all sorts of other things besides. The white lights went off and the black lights came on and there were gasps of delight as the painted wall glowed. Everyone became a little quieter for a while, studying each other's traces.

While Taylor Clemens, the bemused initiator of this event, worried over his strict one half glass of wine, his face a curious blend of amusement, disdain and mild mockery. He made a couple of wry comments concerning the soft-headedness of people, then retired to his room to read an essay or two from Comrade Herbert Marcuse.

A few people simply stumbled into the Wine Party, as it was a spontaneous affair. They may have heard of it at some point along the Grapevine, or perhaps they heard the Wine Party itself as a crooning of voices falling upon their ears as they walked down Drayton Street. School was out for two weeks before summer session and nothing else was going on. It was a full warm evening and everybody spilled outdoors.

Indeed, the Wine Party began to spill out of Scott and Stephen's front door and into the front and back yards of the quadroplex. Finally it spilled into the park across the street, called the Palmetto. For all the dreaming confusion of their waking hours, Zap and Stardust always seemed easily able to find each other. Melanie Donovan arrived and found Stephen, and sang a couple of duets with him, to a hushed group. Billy Foote came down the hill with his best friend Liberty the Dog. Jimmy Bowen came over from Logan Street and found Melanie. Snarfy Baxter was there, and so was his sister Mystical T. They found all of their friends – the only people they had ever met who loved them.

There was a teacher from Beckham High School named Ronnie Morrison. He liked to take long walks whenever he needed time to think or was depressed. Since he had recently moved close to campus he would often wander through the Palmetto. Tonight he was depressed. He also had many things to think about: his estranged wife and suddenly disastrous marriage; the debacle of a once-promising teaching career; his whole fucked up existence. Ronnie walked a slow circle through the nearly deserted campus and ultimately arrived at the Palmetto. He hoped that here he could spend an hour or more in the dark sitting under a tree and listening to the little waters of the brook that curled through the park. As he settled into his brookside spot, he heard a distant harmony of voices coming from the row of houses across the street.

What can I do about my miserable life? he asked the brook. Before there was any answer he heard the abrupt roar of a motorcycle and what sounded to him like a rebel yell. The cyclist then shrieked Ha cha!! in a shrill falsetto and his engine snarled into the street and across toward the park.

Ronnie gazed at the water as it blinked with starlight and tried to concentrate on his problems. Is there no peace? he murmured.

A girl's voice (from inside the park and not far away) shouted Fantastic! and someone else called out, as if in answer, You're a cow!

Ronnie had little time to fathom this exchange before he heard rustling in some nearby shrubbery. He looked up to see a man dressed in leather looking at him. Another rustle of shrubbery and a woman stood beside him. She wore leather too.

Who are you? said the man, and did you happen to see a rutabaga in a smoking jacket walk by?

The name's Ronnie, he answered, feeling a little trespassed. I haven't seen any rutabagas, but I am feeling a bit like a vegetable myself.

Right! Hey! Wow! Sorry, man! It's just we didn't know anybody was back here. Not human, anyway. The man in leather smiled. I'm Mitch, a.k.a. Zap. And this here is Fuchsia, a.k.a. Stardust.

Hi! said Mystie.

How's it going? said Ronnie, with a slight wave of his hand. It took quite an effort for Ronnie to smile, the way he was feeling. So he didn't.

We were just doing a little exploring, you know. Thought we'd check out the shrubbery tonight. Amazing! Zap motioned toward the cluster of bushes. I'm talking about intelligent rutabagas, among other things. Man, the rutabaga has kind of a raucous sense of humor, it's true, but he's really quite wise. There is much he can teach us. Zap paused for a minute, then looked at Ronnie. Hey man, do you like want to be alone?

Maybe. Not necessarily.

It's all right. No problem. If you do, we'll leave you right here at the Palmetto. See the world in a grain of sand, am I right? By the way, you know what day it is?

June sixth?

Yeah, yeah. What else?

D-Day?

Outstanding! You got it, man! We're celebrating D-Day, what can I say? Maybe you've been to a D-Day party before? Come on if you want to. Everybody's invited. Take Stardust here - she just sort of ended up on the doorstep, which she does pretty often.

Ronnie wasn't sure what to do. He was feeling morose and lonely, so lonely that he wanted to be alone. At least he thought he did. Perhaps that wasn't very intelligent, though. His anxieties had reached an advanced stage, nipping at his mind. He was befuddled and couldn't see his problems clearly anymore. It was useless. He told the brook good-bye and pushed himself to his feet. He turned to the leather clad couple.

Don't you get a little hot on a night like this?

Oh well, so we're kind of like costume freaks. I don't know, said Zap. Ronnie followed as they plunged through the shrubbery, heading back to the row of houses on Drayton Street.

Can this girl talk? I did hear her say Hi didn't I?

I think so, said Mitch. Stardust had stopped in the middle of a grassy field and was waving her hands in a criss-cross in front of her face. Oh, wow! she said.

See? She can talk. I was pretty sure she could.

Ronnie followed Zap and Stardust through the front door and up the steps to the second floor apartment. He had to step over two people and a large yellow dog who reclined next to the entrance. There must be thirty people in this room, he thought. They seemed somehow all to be connected, he thought as he scanned the room, almost as with a physical link.

The room felt full to him, but not crowded or stuffy. It was just now fully dark outside. There was only a little glow of light in the room from the stereo receiver, the black light, and the illuminated paint on the walls. A couple of people looked up at him and waved.

Hey man! called someone whose teeth shone purple. Welcome! You're earthling, right?

There was a man sitting in the middle of the floor. His feet were glowing in several colors. There was music coming out of the stereo speakers. Ronnie looked at the throng as it sat lotus style on the floor in a wavy ellipse.