Mardi Gras - New Orleans, LA - February 1970

Leaving the Louisville airport I was overtaken by a sense of gloom; or was it fear, uncertainty? It was late, it looked like rain; I had an old knapsack but no tent or sleeping bag. Glimpsing a motel not far away I opted to spend about 1/4 of my funds on a room for the night, not a propitious start. My somber mood turned brighter as the room was cozy and safe. The next day was bright and cold and feeling renewed I continued my journey.

At about the half way mark, I stopped for the night at a university, it might have been Mississippi State, it certainly felt old south. There I found the Phi Delta Theta house, my old fraternity from the University of Buffalo. They took me in, fed me and gave me a bed for the night. The next day everyone was up early and off to classes, I figured I should be off as well. I don’t remember any of the rides except the last one. If you remember the character, Freakshow, from the movie, Harold and Kumar Go to White Castle, the creepy guy in a pick up truck who gives the boys a ride, it was very similar. While my ride was menacing and intimidating he was also gracious enough to take me all the way to Tulane University, my final destination that night.

It was dark when I arrived at Tulane, around 8 PM. There wasn’t a Phi Delta Theta fraternity on campus. So as a former jock, I asked where the jock dorm was. I found it and scanned the floors for a good spot. Finally settling on the eighth floor TV room where I found a nice sofa and fell asleep. Around 1 AM I awoke as a security guard was rousting all of us up. It was something like, “Clear the room boys, go to your rooms or get out of the building.” A student who’d been watching TV took notice of us and said, “You guys can sleep in my room if you want.” Options being extremely limited we took him up on his generous offer and slept on his hard linoleum floor.

The next day we awoke late and sore. I say “we” because the night before I’d shared the floor with three guys from Ohio State who had also come to party at Mardi Gras. We teamed up and began to explore New Orleans. Mardi Gras or Carnival is a festive season preceding Shrove Tuesday or Fat Tuesday, which is Mardi Gras day. Different communities celebrate it different ways. At this time in New Orleans the Carnival spanned several weeks gradually working itself up to a crescendo on Mardi Gras Day. I had arrived two weeks prior to the big event.

The guys from Ohio State had a car and I threw my knapsack in their trunk and off we went to explore what was going on in the French Quarter. With my limited funds I bought a bottle of port wine because it was about 21% alcohol by volume and another bottle of Bali Hai (cheap soda pop like wine) as a chaser. I drank both of these in a span of perhaps twenty minutes. My idea of having a good time in those days was to drink a lot of cheap liquor quick. This night was to teach me an excellent lesson about why this is not a good idea.

She was a cheerleader for the New Orleans Saints, a svelte witty brunette tall and voluptuous. We went out to dinner with a group of friends; we marched around the French Quarter collecting beads, laughing, talking, and frolicking in our youth. It was a magic night. She was fascinating and I was charmed. Alas, these are the only bits and pieces that remain. It was a lost night, what all happened is a mystery; my memory fades in and out like tuning a distant radio station on a crystal set. Never saw her again, couldn’t remember her name and didn’t get her phone number. Crossroads.

There was a beer in front of me and it felt like a dream as I sat at the bar talking to a guy next to me when suddenly my mind rebooted. I’d been awake but my brain suddenly switched back on from some other mode. A few minutes later and a question popped into my head, “What’s my name?” Not knowing was unsettling and bewildering. It took some moments of complicated concentration and finally some time later an answer, “Russ”, that’s my name. WOW! What a relief! But what’s my last name? Same process. My celebration of self discovery was short lived, the bar was closing and we were soon ushered out the door.

Walking down the deserted streets alone, I began my self-examination. Where am I? How did I get here? It was another twenty questions before I hit upon, “What happened to those guys from Ohio State?” Abruptly realizing all my worldly possessions were in the trunk of their car was a profoundly depressing thought. Oh woe is me! Where am I walking too? Do I even know? It was around 5:30 AM and I’d been walking about twenty minutes when who whirls around the corner but the guys from Ohio State. One of them yells out the car window at me, “We’ve been looking all over for you!” Thank God they found me. I’ve since wondered if I could ever recapture the events of the entire evening perhaps under hypnosis. What really happened remains a blank enigma.

We drove to a city park and went to sleep; sometime after noon we woke up with ravenous pits in our stomachs and went off to campus to scout around for food and better lodgings. After lunch we were walking across campus when I spied a friendly-looking student. Hopping he might point us in the right direction I asked, “Hey Dude, you know where we could spend the night?” This was 1970 and I did use the word “Dude” probably entering it into the official future lexicon of “The Simpsons”. He replied in the affirmative that we could stay as his house. He was renting a place off campus which he shared with a roommate. His roommate wasn’t thrilled but acquiesced to the idea. We anted up some rent money and lived in their house over the course of Mardi Gras.

Crawfordsville Sojourn - April & May 1970

In April 1970 I began living alone in a camper in the woods in Crawfordsville, Indiana at the behest of my parents, I was twenty-one. Today it would be considered cruel and unusual punishment; there was no electricity, which made for a somewhat primitive lifestyle. I even had to bathe in the creek. My parents expected me to work, cut down trees, and clear brush. They had a dream to build an RV camper park. But being my parents they had no money and they weren’t paying me. They figured free camper rent was enough.

The camper was designed to sit in the back of a large four door, dodge pick up truck. It was set up sans truck on steel poles designed for that purpose in the clearing at the top of the hill. It was an odd looking domicile, but I did have a nice view of the farmer’s field across the road. It was isolated and solitary. I thought of Henry David Thoreau and Walden Pond, but it didn’t help much.

I soon figured out I should get a job if I wanted to continue to eat. There was a Sunoco station out on the North end of town by the highway, gas was $.36/gallon. I got a job there and began my gas pumping career. Not ever having lived in a small town before, this job gave me an opportunity to meet the locals.

One day one of my customers approached me about a job. He said, “I believe you have potential.” By this he meant he’d like me to do a ride along while he sold his “Prairie Farmer Life Insurance”. Naively I agreed; his most important point, always show the “Prairie Farmer” bumper sticker stuck on your brief case, this should get you in the door. We visited a number of farms that day and I distinctly remember one old geezer who didn’t look like he had nickel to his name. He had a ramshackle house and a bunch of kids running around barefoot. We didn’t make a sale and my mentor’s comment was, “This guy has millions.” A million corncobs, maybe. I continued to pump gas.

The next encounter was even more bizarre. Two young women around my age started getting a lot of gas, practically every day; finally one of them asked me out. She had a car and a huge pair of bosoms; we went to the drive in. I don’t remember the movie. A few days later we decided to rendezvous at my camper in the woods, a romantic getaway if there ever was one. Before long we were both naked; a short while later and suddenly an awkward realization. A bell did not go off in my head; just a realization, there was an absence of passion. Nothing had happened. Nothing was going to happen. There was little conversation and she quietly got dressed and left, never to be heard from again.

U.S. Army Enlistment Day - January 1970

In January 1970 I had decided to enlist in the U.S. Army. The draft had been hanging over my head for four years just waiting to explode like a blowout on the highway. I’d had a draft deferment while in college and then the merchant marine, both of which had vanished like pizza at a fraternity party, now I was fresh meat. Enlisting, and getting it over with, seemed smarter than waiting around for the inevitable. How bad could it be? Maybe I could play Army football, I’d heard of that. By joining the Army it would all be over in two years; four years in the Navy or Air Force sounded like a lifetime.

Most of the advice I’d received about joining the Army had been bad. For example, I’d heard of this “foolproof” way to get out and avoid the military from more than one source. “Just spread plenty of peanut butter in your butt crack and when you have to bend over for your physical the doctor will ask you, ‘what is that?’” That’s your cue to grab some, stick it in your mouth and say, “Tastes like crap to me!” These and other ideas just didn’t sound viable. I conjured an image of a sergeant yelling, “Got another peanut butter A-hole here, make sure his butt ends up in Viet Nam!”

When I arrived at the building in downtown Indianapolis I was surprised to find enlistees for the other services as well. One guy in particular was adamant about joining the Marines. He was so excited he acted like he’d just won the lottery. I thought to myself, “Haven’t you seen The D.I. (1957), Jack Webb is going to chew your butt, you moron.” But I kept my thoughts to myself. Soon we were ushered into a room to take a placement type test. The test was basic stuff, but as I looked around the room I detected puzzled expressions on many faces. I began to realize I could be a searchlight among dim bulbs, which wasn’t at all reassuring.

We had to fill out many forms and mechanically I began this task, already resigned to my fate. I tried to answer as best I could. When I got to the medical forms I simply described how I’d torn two ligaments and the cartilage in my right knee playing football in college a little over a year before. No big deal. Then we stood in lines and wasted more time in preparation for our new career of hurry up and wait. Finally it was my turn and the officer looks at me, then looks at my forms. He says, “We want you to see a doctor.”

I didn’t spend much time at the doctor’s office, it was a brief visit. He looked at the file, looked at my knee and said, “Would it break your heart if you didn’t go in the Army son?” I could hardly believe what I was hearing, without hesitation I replied, “No Sir.” I got my draft card with the 4-F deferment shortly thereafter. I was free at last.