WENT TO SEE THE GYPSY
(1961)
BE STILL AND KNOW THAT THERE IS GOD read the sign in the old woman’s yard. There were cages crowded with chickens and rabbits and a pen with goats. It looked like a gypsy camp. Locals believed she held ritual sacrifices and read the still warm entrails to foretell the future. The sign on the trailer read, OPHELIA HARWOOD—CONSULTANT PSYCHOLOGIST. Framed certificates and diplomas filled the walls inside, every available surface covered with stacks of books and magazines. She sat across from me studying a lunar chart and muttering, “Boy, you don’t know what you want, do ya?”
“No, ma’am,” I said, truthfully.
Spring 1961, Waco, Texas: my failed freshman year of college. Ophelia Harwood’s trailer camp lay at the mouth of Cameron Park, sprawling acres of trees, bushes, and vines, some completely wild and some sculpted into otherworldly grottoes with monolithic stones and strange statues. The meandering Brazos River’s prehistoric canyons and cliffs had been carved with Indian legends of Lovers’ Leap. It was easy to get lost in Cameron Park. Students were warned to stay away after dark with stories of murderous “chain gangs” and the Hook Man. We spent many drunken nights driving the dark tree-tunneled narrow winding roads. I had seen Ophelia Harwood’s camp and read the sign many times that year.
So there I sat:
Flunking out of school
In dread fear of being drafted
Crazed by drink and drugs
Struggling to finish my so-called
novel begun in Memphis long ago
I told her I wanted to be a writer.
She grunted, “You might do some writing later on but you better stick to the music. It comes naturally to you.”
I hadn’t told her I played music!
“You’re in the middle of a fourteen-year slump. Nothin’ you can do about it. Just ride it out. I got Scorpios coming to me worse off than you. One committed suicide. Stick with the music. You might write a couple of books later, but now you’re too confused.”
She told me things about my past and my future. She told me my father was sick and that was the source of our conflict. She told me my grandmother was going to die; my family was going to move. She told me not to get married because I didn’t know what I wanted. She wished me luck. “You’re going to need it,” she said.
I left the gypsy and started drinking. The gypsy had done little to alleviate my anxiety. Ghosts from home called me in the Texas night. What had brought me to the cliff’s edge? Who, where, and what were the people, places, and chain of events that brought me face to face with the terror that comes in the night?
Set the controls on the way-back machine for once upon a time, to the beginning. Out of the primordial ooze comes the Swamp Beast, dripping slime and tadpoles. Sharpen up your razor; pour gin in your glass. Play me some blues, my man, and take it back one night at a time. Run it by again and let me shoot at it.