Was That You, Joe McGee?

By F. J. Klein ©2007

The year was 1965. I had just turned 21. Vietnam was raging. The folk group, Magic Circle, was yet to become the Mamas and the Papas. While free love bloomed with psychedelic opulence in San Francisco, I remained anchored to Mississippi State University — languishing in the rural bosom of Starkville, Mississippi, presided over by an aging southern aristocracy politically appointed to administrative guardianship. The only signs of flower power were within the university greenhouses, tendered by aspiring horticulturists clad in khaki and denim — wearing straw hats and something less picturesque on the soles of their work boots.

Life on campus at “State” (as they say) was not much to write home about — especially if you weren’t into sports, or marathon weekend dates with the girls in Columbus or fraternity shenanigans. So when the new Student Union building finally opened with its bookstore, barbershop, shoeshine parlor, and grill — it instantly became the gathering spot for many displaced souls on campus.

Naively content with scholarly challenges, we plodded through the daily campus routine like so many before us — soaking up education, longing for graduation, all the while assuring ourselves we could actually make a difference in the world.

It was a Saturday afternoon, before the dreaded final exam week. There we were, five lost souls — hanging out in the grill — enjoying greasy burgers, soggy fries, bad jokes, and freely offering expert opinions on every subject that came before the forum.

Amidst the conversation du jour, I politely excused myself … to use the restroom. I left the crowded area, rounded a corner, and began looking for the usual signs. I spotted one down a small corridor. Upon entering the room I was pleasantly surprised by the bright clean newness — bathed in a sterile fluorescent light making the white tile glow an unearthly beige. There was no one there. I walked towards the privacy of the dimmer lighted end stall, entered, closed the door behind me and went about my business.

I sat, literally suspended in space; my mind roamed carelessly and revisited the week’s events — tests, reports, ROTC drills, lost laundry.. Suddenly, the hallway door burst open and startled me back into the present. Footsteps approached — echoing within the cavernous tiled room. I felt a bit uneasy when the guy picked a stall two down from me. He entered and closed the door. I wondered silently: “With ten cans to choose from, why did he have to pick that one?”

“Maybe”, I thought, “he didn’t see me down here at the end.” I leaned forward, folded my hands across my knees, and began re-dreading the impending final exams.

Oddly, the stall partitions were usually high off the floor, and I could easily see the guy’s feet down the way. His oxblood penny loafers screamed “frat rat”, and a mental picture popped into my head — the stereotypical fraternity dude wearing freshly pressed jeans and a pinch pleated button down madras shirt — all decked out to charm the “babes” for the evening — just like the other frat clones that recently took up “daytime court” in the new Union. Well, it turns out I was wrong. I mean, I was REALLY wrong, and what happened next is going to be hard to describe, so bear with me.

After a brief moment, I saw what looked like a piece of luggage lowered to the floor. The small case then slid over and parked itself against the partition. I felt more at ease — with the case between me and him blocking the view of his feet. Ease turned to tension when I heard the distinct sound of shoes removed and dropping. The leather soles slapped the floor echoing through the tiled room. I was beginning to feel very uncomfortable, and I didn’t know whether to leave, or stay. I was curious. I stayed.

After more rustling sounds from across the way, I realized the guy was changing clothes — probably getting ready for a date… But then the surprise came when unseen hands lifted the case within the stall. I couldn’t believe my eyes — the penny loafers were gone, and in their place — a pair of ladies’ black patent leather high heels with huge feet stuffed into them almost bursting them at the seams! Above the bulging shoes I could see tanned hairy legs clad in black fishnet stockings! But there was more to come…

There was a loud SNAP, followed by a ratcheting noise that echoed briefly and faded into a dead silence. In the stillness I sat motionless — trying to be inconspicuous. “Maybe he doesn’t know I’m here”, I hoped. Then I heard a short sigh from over the walls followed by …

“CLICK-CLICK-THUD-CLICK-CLICK- CLICK-CLICK-THUD….DING…CLICK-CLICK-THUD-CLICK- CLICK-CLICK-THUD….DING-DING!”

Typing?! Yes, typing.

Could this be really happening? Surely, someone is playing a joke on me. Yes, it’s a setup. But…. What if it isn’t a joke?…. Driven by curiosity, I decide to stay put, keep quiet and see where it went…

The feverish typing continued. One, two, three pages, I count being pulled out and replaced. It seemed like a half hour. “Oh, God”, I thought, “don’t let him be writing a sequel to Gone With The Wind…!”

Then as quickly as it all began, the typing stopped. The case snapped shut and appeared again on the floor. Off with the heels … a quick clothes change … on with the loafers … the click of the stall door unlocking. I held my breath while listening to the sound of his departing footsteps. The door to the room opened, then glided closed with a soft hollow thud.

Nothing. I was alone again.

When I got back to my group in the grill, there was only one person left — my best friend, Clay. Looking very annoyed at my prolonged absence, he remarked, “What happened to you? Did you fall in?”.

I looked him straight in the eye, and answered, “Almost.”

“Let’s go hit the books.”

fredjklein@yahoo.com