Stranger- chapter seven: Mississippi

.Pomade Vendor: I can get the part from Bristol. It’ll take two weeks, Here’s your pomade.

Ulysses Everett McGill: Two weeks? That don’t do me no good.

Pomade Vendor: Nearest Ford auto man’s Bristol.

Ulysses Everett McGill: Hold on. I don’t want this pomade. I want Dapper Dan.

Pomade Vendor: I don’t carry Dapper Dan, I carry Fop.

Ulysses Everett McGill: Well, I don’t want Fop, goddamn it! I’m a Dapper Dan man!

Pomade Vendor: Watch your language, young feller, this is a public market. Now if you want Dapper Dan, I can order it for you, have it in a couple of weeks.

Ulysses Everett McGill: Well, ain’t this place a geographical oddity. Two weeks from everywhere!

-Oh, Brother Where Art Thou?

    

       We as humans are instinctually compelled to seek the significance in our natural born habitat. It’s a place we and others may take for granted often. But we don’t choose where we come from. Jackson, Mississippi is not L.A. or Seattle or Atlanta or New York City by far. It’s a small city trapped in a big town. Surrounding communities fit the stereotypical conventions of mundane, one-dimensional, country-living life as seen on Andy Griffith or The Dukes of Hazard.  Many never leave Mississippi. The dream of the farm and the tractor and the payoff from long hours of physical labor is the dream of many. The simple life becomes just a matter of keeping it simple.

      But there are others (like myself) who long for more. We actively seek a life of diversity and want something other than country fried steak and gravy for dinner. Not all Mississippians are the same. Our history is far more complex and diverse than some wish to acknowledge.

       You can’t converse about the birth of America’s music without mentioning the magnolia state. The delta blues, forerunner to rock-and-roll, were born at the crossroads of Highways 49 and 61 in Clarksdale, Mississippi. The popular legend speaks of a young man by the name of Robert Johnson who sold his soul to the devil to become a blues man. His influence on musicians and artists such as The Rolling Stones, Led Zeppelin, and Jimi Hendrix revolutionized electrified distorted guitar-driven music. This is the legacy of my home state. One I take pride in.

      Situated three hours south of Memphis, Tennessee and three hours north of New Orleans, Louisiana, culture, art, and diversity have never been too far out of reach for Jacksonians longing for a weekend taste of the big city life. These neighboring metropolises have always welcomed us with open arms as cousins coming in for a visit. I remember many caravans to New Orleans to see Anthrax, Jane’s Addiction, Red Hot Chili Peppers, EMF, and Primus. Jackson still got its fair share of decent concerts into the late eighties and early nineties, yet local and regional music slowly became a greater priority than the arena acts. This was a good thing for blossoming artists with dreams of stardom.

         The old cover template that bands followed for years grew less and less popular as we rejected the folly in thinking you must first play music from other artists if you were ever to get noticed. This only worked if you had ambitions to be a professional cover band or you wanted a weekend warrior side gig. Booking agents and managers in the southeast were ill equipped to deliver on any discernible promise of fame. Your best connection was reduced to a course of nightclubs dictating what bands should wear, play, and how they were to conduct themselves, resulting in a caravan of revolving circuit riders whose set lists were about eighty percent identical. 

         For years, we bought it.

        But that’s not to say a representative original music scene in Jackson did not exist. Things changed when bands insisted on writing and playing their own music and stopped relying on the faux grace of someone else to grant them some big break. It happened a time or two for the lucky few.  But this was the exception and not the rule.

        Thanks to the birth of the DIY culture, musicians and music lovers alike developed an appetite for something more genuine. There remained a motivation to create a self-sustaining unique scene and thanks to a handful of local bands who went all in, it worked.

          We remained isolated. No one payed much attention to the goings on down in Jackson, Mississippi, and there was little incentive to do so. In our hospitable ways, we showered warm greetings on great bands from all over. We hosted acts such as Buttermilk from Athens, Georgia, Split from Austin, Texas, Animal Bag from San Francisco, Bentley Tock and Loppybogymi from Alabama, Fugazi from DC, Phunk Junkeez from Arizona, Follow For Now from Atlanta, and we had a few of our own with Homegrown, Stretch Armstrong and local heroes Flinghammer.

         Despite all our efforts, Mississippi still felt confining. It hurt to acknowledge our isolation from the progressive world around us.

   It was commonplace to hear our state was an average of seven years behind the rest of the country in fashion trends, music, in everything. In one way, I can understand this line of thinking. Information was not available at our fingertips as it is now with the internet. But somehow, Los Angeles and New York were the cultural pulse. It’s safe to assume it had something to do with the movie/t. v./music/fashion industries. If you wanted to be famous, you had to pack up, take the risk and move away. Elsewhere you could find an agent, be discovered, get a deal, and be on your way.

         But most Mississippians live and die Mississippians. The oppression of isolated deep south life left the unshakeable impression that we were never to become anything more than common laborers. Things like a college education, though helpful, were unnecessary. It is a far greater priority to preserve traditions and a sense of heritage than anything else.

        Yet there were so many of us. And by “us”, I mean the ones who had no tradition, no inheritance, no autonomous sense of familial identity. We were Generation X of the south; ghosts in our own home state. It was up to us to find each other and create a culture for ourselves no matter how self-destructive or nihilistic. We could revel in our dim outlook of our future together.

        We had our own pursuits, understanding that no fast track to corporate management existed and we were okay with that. It wasn’t what we wanted, anyway. The fight was hard with the deck stacked against you. So as suggested before, we took our nothing and turned it into something by whatever unhealthy means necessary.

       Drugs exploded throughout the nineties. And although crack had been wreaking havoc even in the south for almost a decade, we were unconcerned with a feel good experience. We wanted to expand. We longed for the ability to look beyond our despair to see something that no one who worked your typical 9 to 5 would even have the guts to acknowledge. It was more than art. It was a prophecy. And LSD found its way to Mississippi as it cascaded in a psychedelic wave all over the country.

       This cultural crest did not pass by Mississippi unnoticed. Perhaps because it was an easy product to transport. And when it made its way to us, we embraced it.

       As an agricultural state, weed was never that scarce. But even it got boring after a while. Now we had a shiny new toy.

       At sixteen, it was time. Employment with a shady carpet cleaning operation that had all the markings of a money laundering set up enabled me to put easy non-taxed money in my pocket. My only responsibility was to sit in a small call center (nothing more than a tiny office space with several standard key phones lining the walls) with a phone book and harass everyone in the greater Jackson area into buying three rooms of steam carpet cleaning for $10.50 (“That’s only $3.50 per room!”). The idea was to get the foot in the door giving the technician an opportunity to upsell them everything from carpet deodorizer, shampoo, extra scrubbing or even extra rooms. Regardless; we made ten bucks off every job completed even if the company made only fifty cents. Like I said: shady.

        Those were not the only indicators that something questionable was going on. Office manager Chuck granted a lot of liberties to us employees. Sometimes he would incentivize our efforts by walking into the call room with a half-ounce of marijuana, set it in the job basket, give us a goal, and turn us loose. Upon hitting our magic number, we would then split the stash among ourselves but only after we rolled a couple to share... while still on the clock.

        To celebrate our efforts and increasing good numbers, good ole boss man Chuck threw us a little office party. He liked to get down too. He loved his beer and weed and he liked cutting up, laughing, and was always ready for a good time.  We knew this party would be right in our carnal youthful interests.

      You could say there was a seedy, creepy side to Chuck. Call room personnel only were invited. No technicians. Most of us were high school kids, several being girls.

       He brought in a keg. Someone brought food. And it wouldn’t be a party without a radio. My older friend Coop and I scored some acid. This would be the night I would experience the legendary hallucinogenic for the first time and I couldn’t wait. My nerves rolled not knowing what to expect, but my curiosity far outweighed my reservations.

      Printed on a tiny quarter-inch piece of perforated paper were hints of yellow, black, and silver that suggested it was part of a much bigger print. We called it the “yellow shield”. It puzzled me at how something so small could pack such a large punch. It looked like a rip off at eight bucks a hit. Yet I remained willing to ingest this mystery.

       I was grossly under-prepared for the experience. Getting stoned was committing your state of mind to only a two-hour time frame, and Visene could mask any visible queues that may inspire parents to ask questions. Even then, I had no problem playing it off.

       But I did not understand that what I was embarking on would leave me functionless for the next ten to twelve hours. I expected to just slither back into the house late that night undetected, but I would not go home that night.

       Coop and I both absorbed our tabs on our tongues before we even left his house. It was him, his girlfriend, and our friend and co-worker Dion.

       Dion was the responsible one. He didn’t drink, do drugs, or even smoke weed. He liked his Marlboro Lights and Mountain Dew, but that was about it. We could count on him to be our navigator for the evening as his duty was to ensure we all made it home safe. He was good at that.

      It took less than thirty minutes to arrive at the party, and I still wasn’t feeling anything. I grew skeptical and became more convinced that this was a waste of time. My suspicion would only last about thirty minutes longer though. At some point someone said something funny, and I laughed. I laughed so hard, tears streamed down my face and my cheeks hurt. This caused Dion to laugh, and I laughed at his laughter. It didn’t take long until Coop was laughing along with us. And little did I realize that was just the beginning.

       The girls of the office showed up looking for a casual party hook up. I even caught the attention of one. But when the ocular illusions hit me like a pulsating invisible earthquake of vibration, any other sensual encounter was just not even in my interest or possible.

      What started as just a distortion gradually morphed into shadows moving and prancing about on their own. Nothing too obvious; just a mysterious distraction that caught the corner of my eye now and then. Direct light fragmented into colorful laser-like prisms yet still subtle. I reached a level of awareness that was just not normal in an everyday sense.

       The euphoria was perhaps the most unexpected aspect of it all. I expected no emotional recoil, but all of my senses were on high alert. This did not suit well when about an hour into the experience, Coop’s girlfriend had too much to drink and her immaturity manifested. Even though I delighted in my moment, her cries and screams from another room overtook the narrative and soured the moment. I went to see what was going on and I wish I hadn’t. She sat slumped in a chair crying and upset and I’m not even sure she understood why.

       Coop in the same state as I shouldered the responsibility of mollifying the perceived crisis. He tried talking, coaxing, and soothing her any way possible into a calmer state because he understood what her emotional spasm was doing to the party. Her histrionics frustrated him as it seemed a way to just turn attention to herself and no one was in the mood to babysit. Coop screamed and begged with her to calm down, but she was inconsolable.

       I could hear all the commotion. The drama caused me to panic. Now I was losing control and just wanted this ride to come to a full stop. This buzz kill was about to derail my whole experience. I was no longer in control and had no one to guide me to a place of stability. I was on my own to ride the whole thing out.

       Coop and Dion made the wise decision to get her out of there leaving me behind for a while. It was the only sensible thing to do.

       A few of Chuck’s other shady friends paid a visit to get a share of the keg. One grizzled fellow sat in an office chair across from me. He just wanted to drink in peace. His appearance caused me much trepidation though. He was older, skinny, and looked like a truck driver.  He wore the standard trucker cap (way before it was fashionable), blue jeans, and t-shirt and even sported the mandatory trucker sideburns and belt buckle. His angry countenance set him apart. Somehow, we got left alone in a room together. My irrational and panicked mind convinced me he might jump up and kill me for no reason.

    “Hey, man... Hey, man... what are you doing?” I would ask upon his every little twitch. I annoyed him, but I couldn’t help myself. I was convinced he was nothing more than a psychopath taking a break in between murders. I disturbed his moment of Zen and now I was trapped in his murderous vortex. Was I next on his hit list?  

     “Hey... Hey man... What is that? What are you about to do?”

      The poor guy came for the free beer. The look on his face was a clear indication he was unaware of the chaos he walked into.

       Thanks to repeated distractions and Coop and Dion returning hastily (Dion was a resourceful and efficient driver), I didn’t have to sit there long. We were at least four hours into the experience now and it felt as if my cerebral ataxia stabilized. As my cloudy mind cleared, I became cognizant once again of my surroundings and setting. I can’t recall when that transition took place. Perhaps aliens abducted me. It sure felt that way.

       There was much beer to drink. I for one wanted to partake. I discovered a strange thing about having acid in your system. It causes a temporary immunity to the subjective intoxicating effects of alcohol. Being a lightweight, it shouldn’t take that much. But I drank cup after cup and felt no effect. This was not wise, but it amused me.

       Sometime well after midnight, we still had a massive amount of beer to drink. Nobody was ready to go home. One coworker called in some reinforcements after a local dance club known for its heavy drug traffic had shut down for the night. We were the after-party for a bunch of guys and gals who just did not see the sense in going home right away.

       The bros in their Z. Cavariccis and silk shirts amused us all. One would ask “How much is left?” as another would give a tug on the keg and relay back: “About half.“ This became an inside running joke for years to come. 

      As we watched the sunshine break through the windows, we would not finish that keg. Chuck sat in his office chair in inebriated silence nodding off in shameless defeat. The party was over and the last ones standing were Coop, Dion, and myself. But all that beer would suddenly have its intended effect as the strength of the acid continued to wane.

      Somewhere along the way, I blacked out. I woke up at about 3 pm the next afternoon in Coop’s room. Him and Dion were sound asleep and would remain so for several hours if I had not panicked knowing my parents had no idea where I was.

      I called home thinking I could smooth things over, but to no avail. My Mom insisted I come home right away. This meant that Dion and Coop needed to wake up, and they showed no desire to do so. They would have slept until sometime that evening. I did not have that luxury. My mother was livid, and I would have to face her wrath for a minute and I wanted to get it over with.

        That’s about all it was. Just a moment of fury from a worried mother coming my way. She had every right. I had not counted on coming home as late as the next afternoon. If I knew my first LSD experience would require such a commitment of time, I may have been better prepared.

        Either way; the night stuck with me. I examined it and thought of what I could have done to ensure that it had been all pleasure without drama. I guess most experiments don’t go perfect on their first trial run. But I made very careful mental notes about what to do the next time. And there would be a next time.