Ritual Reality
1 Opportunity Knocks
Friday, 18 October 1968
Wayne was cold, tired, and hungry, wandering through a desolate countryside. Firelight glowed at the top of the steep hill… if only he could make it that far. Warmth and rest—maybe even food.
He crested the hill to see the looming shadows of a great stone circle with a fire at its center. “Toto,” he whispered to himself, “I’ve a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore.”
He crawled forward toward the fire, insinuating himself between dark shapes that seemed not to notice him. What a stupid thing to do. Finally feeling the warmth of the blaze penetrate his freezing hands, he raised his head. And stared straight into the eyes of Dr. Allen—auburn hair, falling loosely from her normally severe bun; dark brown eyes probing his soul; lips pursed. They knelt stark naked facing each other across the fire.
“My god!” he whispered and stood to run.
The dream abruptly ended with the class bell jolting Wayne awake to gather his books and join the exodus of students. He hadn’t meant to sleep. It was so hard to keep his eyes open through these 7:30 a.m. lectures—especially since he hadn’t had more than three hours sleep any night this week. He should have just cut class but the slide presentation on Druidism sounded interesting. As soon as the lights were out, so was Wayne.
As his eyes focused on his surroundings, he saw no student exodus taking place. In fact, the lecture hall was empty.
Empty, that is, except for Dr. Allen, standing behind the podium staring at him.
“I’m still dreaming,” he pled with himself struggling to wake up. “Please let me still be dreaming.”
Dr. Allen was still staring and Wayne could only assume that he was facing reality.
“Hamel, Wayne R. Correct?” asked Dr. Allen
“Yes, Dr. Allen. I’m sorry…”
“For being who you are?” the professor asked. “I’m beginning to worry about you, Mr. Hamel. Are you well?”
“I think so, Dr. Allen.”
“You have slept through every class this week. Is there a reason you come here at all?”
“I try to never cut classes,” he answered truthfully enough.
“I ask you again, Mr. Hamel: Are you ill?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Are you on drugs?”
“No, ma’am!” Wayne exclaimed. “Never!”
“Is it then that my lectures are simply so intensely boring that they put you to sleep? Please be honest, because I do make every effort to make these classes interesting and if I am failing, I would like to improve.”
“Why couldn’t I be dreaming?” Wayne muttered to himself.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Nothing, Dr. Allen. I just… I’m sorry.”
“You mentioned that.” The professor moved around the podium and walked toward Wayne. She carried a sheaf of papers in one hand and her walking stick in the other. Exhausted and humiliated, Wayne was about ready to disgrace himself.
“I’ve taken the liberty of checking your records, Mr. Hamel. Many professors are quick to judge and all too slow to consider potential problems with promising students. You are a junior?”
“That’s right.”
“Excellent grades in English literature. Straight As in Theatre. Your major, I believe.”
“Both of them.”
“You are an intelligent student, Mr. Hamel. There is no reason for you to be failing my course.”
“I have to have this class, Dr. Allen,” Wayne pled. If he missed this he’d drop below the minimum number of credits for the term and that spelled draft. He had no intention of ending up in Viet Nam.
“If you were not a bright student, or had a reputation as a troublemaker, or if I had any reason to suspect you were on drugs, I would dismiss you from this class and simply submit an involuntary withdrawal for you,” Dr. Allen said. “But after thirteen years at this school, I am inclined to offer redemption rather than punishment. Do you like opportunities, Mr. Hamel?”
“Yes ma’am. Uh…What kind of opportunity?”
“What—during your waking hours—has interested you most in this class?” Her biting sarcasm was not lost on Wayne. Somewhere along the line she’d dumped the sheaf of papers on her desk and approached with her ever-present walking stick. It made him nervous. She seemed to sense his discomfort and leaned the stick against the podium.
Wayne quickly called into focus a few things that he had heard in class before production got into full swing. The past two weeks he’d spent every night until early morning on stage.
“The uh… myth… mythology parts. It’s uh… a different perspective than we get in literature. I uh… think the part about, uh…”
“Don’t overtax yourself,” Dr. Allen broke in. “You’ve proven that you heard something. Have you read much mythology?”
“A bit,” he answered. “They had mythology comics when I was in junior high. It was my favorite reading.”
“Comic books?” She actually laughed. She wasn’t bad looking when she smiled. “To what is the world coming? You learned more from comic books than from this class?”
“No ma’am,” he said. “It just got me started. Mythology plays a very important part in all literature. Take the show—er… Hamlet—that opens tonight. In one scene Hamlet confronts his mother because she has married her husband’s brother,” he rattled on, caught up in his narrative. “He pulls out the locket that he wears with a picture of his father and the locket that she wears with a picture of his uncle. Then he compares them, ‘Hyperion to a satyr,’ he says. Without studying mythology, who would know that he was referring to his father as the great and glorious sun-god and to his uncle as a goat-legged drunk?”
“Very insightful, Mr. Hamel. There is hope. Now about your opportunity.”
“Usually when my dad says he has an opportunity for me it means more chores to do.”
“Your father is wise. You have the opportunity to pass this course.”
“Thank you, Dr. Allen. What do I need to do?”
“Two things. I am not going to ask you to stay awake during my classes, only that you not sleep in them. That’s right. Stay in bed. I don’t want you in class if you can’t listen to what is being said. As it seems your schedule makes an early morning lecture impractical, I am changing you to independent study, though you may attend class whenever you can stay awake.”
“Yes ma’am!” This was too good to be true.
“Don’t be too relieved,” she continued. “There are two things.”
“What else?”
“This class normally requires a fifteen-page term paper at the end of the semester. Your ending term paper—write this down—will be to trace a mythological image, since that interests you most, through a phase of literature—one of your majors. Take the image you just described of Hyperion and a satyr, for example. You might analyze Shakespeare’s perspective as reflective of the Elizabethan era and compare and contrast his view and expression of the myths with the anthropological perspective. Are you taking this down? The paper should include both the analysis of the era which you choose and the cultural origin of the myths. Is that clear?”
“Yes ma’am.” Wayne scribbled the notes rapidly. “In fifteen pages?”
“No. It would be unfair of me to limit you to fifteen pages for a paper of this scope. To do the subject justice, your paper would be no less than, say, fifty pages, but you are not limited to that, either.”
“Fifty pages?” he breathed trying to think if he even had a notebook that big.
“Typed. Double-spaced. One-inch margins. Not including the bibliography and end notes. A wonderful opportunity, right?”
“Right,” he sighed. Dr. Allen stood to leave. “You’d love my dad,” he said.
“Mr. Hamel,” she said, “do you have any friends and neighbors back home you’d like to hear from?”
“Well…” he began then let his mouth hang open as he gathered in her reference. “No, ma’am.”
“Believe me; I don’t want you to hear from them either. This is…”
“…a wonderful opportunity, Dr. Allen,” he finished for her. She smiled at him and then turned to leave.
Not only was this a rotten way to start his morning, but when Wayne glanced up at the clock he realized he was late. And late was much worse than asleep. Dr. Allen might have had a great opportunity for him, but it couldn’t compare to the one he was missing right now. With a howl of distress, he grabbed up his books and ran out of the classroom, out of the Lily Science Hall, and across the parking lot with Dr. Rebecca Allen watching in amazement.
Wayne ran full tilt through the empty lower hall of the Academic Building, which also housed the theatre. Sitting quietly on a box outside the scene shop was Judith Harmon, perhaps the most exquisite woman Wayne had ever laid eyes on. She was going to give him fencing lessons and she had waited!
It was not often that Wayne attracted the attention of a woman. Certainly, he had his share of girlfriends, but Judith was electric. Her short blonde hair framed a lightly freckled face with slightly upturned nose. Very British. She exuded energy and sparkle that was way more than her diminutive frame. Someone had packed a bigger than life woman in the body of a pixie. Of course, there was nothing serious between them. Not yet. But she had waited for him, even though he was very late.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” he began sputtering before he had come to a stop. “You wouldn’t believe what a rotten morning I’ve had. I’m really sorry I’m late and I’m glad you waited.”
“Hi,” she said. “Are you all right?”
“You’re the second person who has asked me that this morning. I guess I’m better than I deserve. I just got out of my 7:30 class.”
“Your professor must have been long-winded,” she responded. “It’s after nine.”
“No, I mean…yes. She sort of kept me after class,” he said. “But I got out of it. Not that I’m sure I’m better off than if I was in it. But I’m out of it and I don’t have to go back, but I can if I want to and I probably will just to show that I’m not taking unfair advantage of her or anything. I just have to stay awake when I go back.”
“You Americans are very confusing sometimes,” she said.
“Yeah, I know what you mean,” he said. “I’m just glad you waited. How are you today?”
“A little peckish. I’m afraid I skipped breakfast to meet you,” she said smiling.
“Oh geez! I’m sorry. Look. We don’t have to do the fencing lesson,” he kept apologizing. He was always apologizing to someone. “I owe you—just for waiting. Let me buy you breakfast.”
“You don’t have to do that, Wayne,” she smiled. “But I’ll join you if you’re interested.”
“I’m interested,” he said, regretting that he had sounded so interested. “I know a little doughnut shop, unless you like bacon and eggs and stuff.”
“Continental breakfast would be fine.”
“What’s that?”
“Just tea and rolls.”
“Great! That’s just what a doughnut shop is,” he bubbled. “At least, I think they serve tea. I always drink coffee. If not, I’ll buy a teabag and make you a cup.” They left their books in the scene shop and Wayne picked up motorcycle helmets from the workbench. “You don’t mind a motorcycle, do you?” he asked.
“Sounds like fun!” she answered.
As they rode to Donut World, Wayne luxuriated in the feel of her arms around his waist. Life was just too much!
Judith liked Wayne. In fact, as a new student at the college she found him one of the few people who were approachable. She’d had to scramble when she enrolled late this fall. It was all she could do to get a study visa and get to America before it was too late to enroll at all. Then she had to catch up.
She would never have become involved in the theatre this term if it had not been for Wayne. He approached her after hearing her voice in the one class they shared. She was English, right? Would she help with accents in their production of Hamlet? When the director found out that she was also a fencing master, she was sucked into the fathomless commitment of the Theatre Department.
Well, she was more at home on stage than faking her way through her academic classes. Even her professors were a little curious about why an English girl would come to Indiana to study English poets. She just couldn’t risk getting into courses she hadn’t already studied. She had to be just another ordinary student, even though foreign.
Over doughnuts, Wayne explained what had happened to him in his early class. Judith laughed with him over his apparent good fortune; but when Wayne mentioned his professor’s name, she became much more interested in his project.
“Dr. Allen?”
“Yes,” Wayne said. “Do you have any classes with her?”
“No. I’ve heard she’s very tough, though,” Judith probed.
“Hard as nails,” Wayne said. “I have to say, she’s more than fair, though. She could have just flunked me on the spot.”
Judith calculated the possibilities in her mind and decided to push ahead. She’d come to America to protect Dr. Rebecca Allen. It suddenly seemed possible to get a message to her without risking exposure. She was not happy to use her new friend as an unwitting conduit, but if she helped him pass his class, then Wayne would be the beneficiary, she reasoned.
“Did you think about the possibility of combining the project with one for another class?” she asked. “Perhaps you could select a poet for the English Romantic Literature paper that used a mythological image.”
“Great idea,” he answered. “I couldn’t hand in the same paper, but that doesn’t mean I couldn’t use the same research to write both. All I really need is a good angle on a poet. Got any tips?”
“Well, I’ll think about it,” she said. It wouldn’t be good to give him too much at once. Let him think he discovered The Vagabond Poet on his own.
Wayne took her back to the scene shop to collect their books before they went to their 11:00 classes. He was stalling, fumbling with the key, clowning. She could tell that he was trying to say something else, but she was halfway out the door of the shop before he finally got it out.
“Oh, Judith,” he said as she was leaving.
“Yes, Wayne,” she answered pleasantly. Encouragingly, she hoped.
“It’s opening night tonight.”
“Wonderfully exciting, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, but… We have a tradition here of having an opening night party after the show.”
“Really? How delightful!”
“I was wondering if you were planning to go.”
“Well, I hadn’t thought about it.”
“Actually, I was wondering if I could take you.” He’d got it out and was blushing under his shaggy beard.
“Wayne, do you mean take me, as in ‘give me a lift,’ or take me as in ‘on a date?’ I’m still getting used to American idioms.”
“Well… I mean… like… on a date, you know?”
“I was hoping that’s what you meant,” she smiled. “See you tonight then.”
She knew he was watching her back as she left and hoped he understood she meant yes.
Tuesday, 22 October 1968
Scarce images of life, one here, one there,
Lay vast and edgeways; like a dismal cirque
Of Druid stones upon a forlorn moor,
When the chill rain begins at shut of eve,
In dull November, and their chancel vault,
The Heaven itself, is blinded throughout the night.
“Thank you, Judith,” Coop said. “It’s lovely to have the words of English romantic poets brought to life by a lovely British voice.” Professor Cooper had begun each class this semester with Judith reading a short passage and the wistfulness of his voice indicated that he would gladly listen to her for the entire class if he didn’t have others around. Wayne had become acutely aware of the professor’s apparent fondness for Judith and over the past week had found himself a little jealous. He and Judith had only had one date, but it was really nice. He liked the way she hugged herself to him on the back of the motorcycle and was thinking of ways to get her to do it again—for longer.
“So why do we look at the one piece that Keats didn’t finish?” Coop asked. “Surely, we could study a Keats masterpiece like ‘Endymion’ or his sonnet, ‘Bright Star!’ and learn more. Let’s look at the words he used when abandoning ‘Hyperion.’ He said it had too many Miltonian inversions. What does that mean?”
Coop went on. Once he started rolling, he was so enthusiastic that the small class couldn’t help but pay attention. For the most part. Wayne was still a little distracted and just enough of a romantic to imagine himself a consumptive poet like Keats, pining for the love he knew he could never have. After lines for Hamlet were down cold, he’d practiced memorizing poems from the class while he worked on the set. He loved the fierce defiance of Shelley’s Prometheus Unbound declaring to Jupiter that “One only being shalt thou not subdue…” As Coop continued to describe inversion—“Ten paces huge He back recoil’d”—and doodled on his pad of paper. The words came to him and he jotted them down, scratched them out and wrote again.
Are you my Bright Star, myst’ry of my morn—
Love’s light seen afar as new day is born?
“Well it isn’t Keats but not a bad couplet,” Coop said. When did he start wandering around the room? Wayne looked up at the professor in panic. Coop was smiling. “I withdraw the question.”
“What question?”
“That’s why I’m withdrawing it.” The class laughed. “Now here’s the difference, class. There are fifteen of you here—make that fourteen as I see Boomer didn’t make it again today. How many of you have written words of poetry? Be honest, now. I’m not going to ask you to read it.” Everyone raised a hand. “Good. You see if you don’t write poetry when you are a teen or in your twenties, you have no heart. Of course, if you are still writing poetry when you reach my age, you have no brain.” They all laughed. “But that’s the difference. Keats, Shelley, Wordsworth, Blake—they didn’t just write poetry. They studied it. They criticized the works of Milton and Spenser and Shakespeare. They learned everything they could and criticized their own works based on what they learned, perfecting the craft and allowing themselves to reject their own works if they didn’t measure up to the standard.”
“Were you writing a poem?” Judith asked as they left class and headed to lunch. They’d been walking a lot together this week.
“Just doodling with words, really,” Wayne dissembled. “Nothing I’d show anyone. I wrote it as a rhyming couplet but the fifth syllable of each line rhymed, too. A quatrain in a different meter. I’m embarrassed Coop saw it.”
“Must not have been too racy, at least. I’m sure he would have made fun of that. Maybe someday you’ll write something I can read.”
“We’ll see.”
“Any great inspirations for your big paper? It was an interesting class this morning.”
“Yeah. I was actually thinking of using the Shakespearean image of Hyperion vs. the mythological version of the ancient Greeks, but I didn’t think I could develop fifty pages around four words from Hamlet.”
“Keats certainly made more out of it. That fragment of only 880 lines makes it sound like Hyperion was the king of the Titans instead of Saturn.”
“Hey. Maybe if I used the Keats fragment for a good analysis, I could turn that part of the paper in for Coop and use most of it for Allen as well.”
“Wow! What a great idea. Pay Tom and Tim with the same coin. Personally, though, I’m sticking with Prometheus Unbound for my paper. There was something about Shelley that just calls to me.”
To suffer woes which Hope thinks infinite;
To forgive wrongs darker than death or night;
To defy Power, which seems omnipotent;
To love, and bear; to hope till Hope creates
From its own wreck the thing it contemplates;
Neither to change, nor falter, nor repent;
This, like thy glory, Titan, is to be
Good, great and joyous, beautiful and free;
This is alone Life, Joy, Empire, and Victory.
“Your accent is getting quite good, you know?” Judith said when Wayne finished the quote.
“Why thank you, my lady,” Wayne bowed. “I know it’s rather late to be asking, but if you don’t have a date for Brown County Day tomorrow, I’d love to take you. As in give you a ride on my bike and have a date.”
“I love the idea of a date, but what is Brown County Day?”
Wednesday, 23 October 1968
Wednesday dawned crisp and clear, a beautiful day for a ride to the state park in Southern Indiana. “Ha!” Wayne thought. “Southern.” For those who bothered with maps, it was obvious that the north and south were divided by U.S. Highway 40 through Indianapolis in the middle of the state. Now it was Interstate 70. But if you grew up in Northern Indiana, you knew that culturally the south lay just across U.S. Highway 30 running from Ft. Wayne to Chicago. It even bore the name “Lincoln Highway” along most of its length. Heck, the Grand Poobah of the KKK lived in some Indianapolis suburb. But the landscape was beautiful south of Indianapolis if you stayed off Interstate 65 and followed the state highway down to Nashville.
“Are you sure you guys don’t want to ride with us?” Gail asked after we’d all met up at breakfast.
“On a day like today? This weather was made for a bike,” Wayne laughed. No way was he sharing Judith with Glenn and Gail today. Let them figure their own relationship out.
“I’m not sure I want to be trapped in a car alone with Glenn,” Gail laughed. “He farts,” she whispered to Judith.
“Hark, the cannon roars,” Wayne said in response.
“I’ll take my chance on the back of the scooter,” Judith said. “More ventilation.”
“Well, if it starts to rain, you can ride back with us,” Glenn said after punching Wayne in the arm. “He can ride the death-mobile on the wet pavement.”
“No rain today, my friend. But let’s meet in Nashville for a late lunch. How about two o’clock?”
“Great! See you guys there!” With that, Glenn and Gail piled into his Corvair and were off.
“They’ll be there half an hour before us,” Wayne said. “But you know what Nader says: ‘Unsafe at any speed.’ Would you believe Glenn volunteered to pick him up at the airport when he came here to speak last year?”
“And your motorbike is safer?” Judith asked, smiling.
“Just hang on tight,” Wayne smiled back. She did.
In the park, the two walked around, greeting the few upper classmen friends they met and watching the freshmen vs. sophomores tug-of-war. Someplace between the contest and the barbecue, Judith’s hand slipped into Wayne’s. They took only a single hamburger from the grill and split it with some chips since they were meeting Glenn and Gail in Nashville.
“We didn’t plan where to meet,” Judith said as they shared the burger. Is there someplace special?
“Last time I was in Nashville, there was only one street and it had a burger joint at the east end. We’ll just cruise down the main drag and watch for them. Most of the folks there will be students. We’re talking Nashville, Indiana, not Nashville, Tennessee.”
They held hands as they walked the trail from Hesitation Point to the fire tower and then climbed the tower to look out across the valley. When they were at the top, Wayne slipped his arm around Judith’s waist and held her to him. He was intent on being polite and not pushing his luck, so was busy pointing out the sights to the East and missed her upturned face. He led the way down the ladder, looking up at her approaching derriere. By the time they got back to the parking lot, it was already past two.
Wayne gunned the motorcycle out of the lot and headed into Nashville. The little town was rapidly becoming an enclave of hippie-types from Indiana University who had begun to remake the area into a Christmas village. Several shops had opened along the main drag featuring crafts by IU students including Christmas ornaments, candles, leather goods, and art. It had grown since Wayne last saw it a year ago. They met Gail and Glenn at the burger shop and by four they were on the road again. Wayne savored the feeling of Judith cuddling up to his back and didn’t push the speed limit heading back to campus.
Sunday, 27 October 1968, early morning
“What ho, fair maiden?” Wayne said as he entered Donut World, his helmet tucked under his arm.
“Now aren’t you a gallant gentleman,” the doughnut lady drawled. “Did you tie your steed at our hitching post? You must want a strong cup of coffee and nourishment before you ride off into the sunset. Or, I guess at this hour it’s into the sunrise.”
“Lissa, you’re a card,” Wayne said. “Now that accent was pure Georgia, but Wednesday night you were Mexican. What’s a guy to think if he can’t get a handle on where you’re from?”
“Just keep guessing, dahlin’. That’s all I can say.”
“Well, coffee and a couple doughnuts sounds like a good idea. I haven’t decided whether I’m going to bed or not.”
“What’s up?” she asked as she put a hot cup of coffee and two of his favorite chocolate coated old fashioneds on the counter for him. Wayne dumped half a cup of cream in his coffee and started to eat.
“We closed the show tonight,” he said. “You know, Hamlet, over at the college.”
“I didn’t get to see it. But that had to be hours ago. It’s almost three o’clock in the morning, sugah.”
“Well, we had to strike the set and get it off stage so the stupid music department can put risers in tomorrow for their fall concert. Sharing a stage sucks. But, I guess it’s good experience for when I’m doing rep work. And I get paid for lighting their concerts. The theatre work is all volunteer. I don’t think there are any musicians strong enough to lift anything heavier than a checkbook.” He felt talkative tonight and realized he’d better slow down. But Lissa was a good listener. He’d found her here on his first midnight doughnut run in September.
“Still, the show had to end hours ago. How big was your set?”
“Well, it was pretty big, but there was a cast party after. I just got tired of the inane conversation and had to get out of there. And my girlfriend… well, I think she might be my girlfriend… wasn’t available.”
“Why not?”
“Oh. It’s the first day of her period and apparently she gets really bad cramps. She went straight back to the dorm and her heating pad after the show.”
“Happy First Day to you,” Lissa sang.
“Shh. She’d kill me if she knew I said that.” Wayne paused. “Actually, she probably could.”
Wayne finished his doughnut, showing Lissa the copy of the review in the Indianapolis Star. “With Wayne Hamel, quite good as the Player King.” It was his first review for a performance. It was past four when he pulled into the dormitory parking lot and locked up his bike. The dorm monitor scarcely looked at him as he went through the lobby and up to his room. Hamlet was over. Now it was time to sleep.
Comments
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