A Gay/Straight Boy Goes Streaking and Graduates Law School
Chapter 34: School’s Out!
As graduation approached in the spring of 1974, a new college craze called “streaking” overtook the nation. Students across the country began running nude through their campuses. A streaker even ran across the stage during The Academy Awards stunning actor David Niven, who commented,
“Isn’t it fascinating to think that probably the only laugh that man ever will get in his life is by stripping off and showing off his shortcomings?”
That streaker happened to be a gay rights activist, but that part of the story didn’t circulate as widely as Niven’s quip and certainly did not reach me. I had never heard of gay activism.
Word had it that one Friday night in March streakers would liven up Tulane’s campus. At first, I told Julie we should go see what all the excitement was about, but then I became interested in joining in if I could muster up a few friends. I will not deny that the thought of seeing male streakers and stripping with a bunch of guys had an erotic appeal.
My law school acquaintances were much too studious to be interested and in truth, I was too old for this silliness, but looming graduation and the yoke of work for years to come made one last college-like fling irresistible. I called Freddy, Bill, Rob, Anthony, and one or two others. All agreed to meet at the Tulane Student Union where a crowd of about 500 waited.
We brought cold beer for courage and parked just off campus, picking a spot that would make a good end point for a quick get away. We slammed back beers and pocketed more in case we got a chance to drink while we took in the sights.
The scent of marijuana wafted over impressive crowds. A weird carnival atmosphere prevailed as we walked across the quadrangle to the student union. Security guards were about, but they just watched when the streaking began in fits and spurts. We saw small and large groups of naked kids, almost exclusively male, run furiously across the quad and off into the shadows to the cheers of onlookers. The air was charged with the excitement of the forbidden.
After downing a third beer each, we went into the men’s room of the Union, planning to get naked, and then sprint down the hallway, out the main doors, down the stairs, and across the quad to our cars and waiting wives. This was more than a two-block run but seemed like the best approach since we did not have dorm rooms or frat houses.
I wanted very much to run naked and exposed, but felt oddly self-conscious, partly due to lingering misplaced anxieties. It even briefly crossed my mind that someone could reach out and grab me painfully by the genitals. Beauregard, it seemed, remained painfully present.
I had not been naked with guys since high school gym class, so the comfortable familiarity no longer existed. Yet I felt like a happy exhibitionist enjoying a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to be legitimately naked out of doors and on the street. I’m not sure what was so exciting, but I was not alone in this.
However, for me, it was as if I could briefly be seen as all of whom I was; almost like some kind of liberating confession with all pretense banished. Perhaps it was akin to a fantasy of unburdening myself of my secret attraction to men’s bodies.
The Union and its men’s room were empty. We undressed nervously, careful not to look at one another. After putting our shoes back on and tucking our shorts and tees under our arms, we were ready. We huddled by the door, not touching of course. I peeked out into the brightly lit hall and saw no sign of security. “Okay! Let’s do it!”
We burst out the door, feet pounding and echoing, and flew down the stairs to the lawn. A sobering mental picture of lying naked on the ground with a broken ankle kept me from going all out. We ran at roughly three-quarters speed across the quad as the shouting crowds parted. I must have been in the lead because I don’t recall seeing my friends running with me. The blur was over far too soon; it seemed we were instantly pulling on our pants as our indulgent wives smiled at us like we were a pack of fools.
The naked run had been great fun, comradely and exhilarating, but I felt foolish, like I had failed to recapture a part of the past that could never be revived. We were no longer boys out for kicks and giggles. We were either working, or in graduate school, or both. Daily adult burdens hung heavy over us. I loved these guys dearly and missed our old closeness, but even this impulsive adventure could not change the fact that our effervescent college days were over. We had to get on with life.
The last day of exams offered one more surprise. As I walked down the steps from Merrick Jones Hall into the warm magnolia- scented air along Newcomb Place, I noticed a flashy new Oldsmobile Cutlass. A tall lean guy I had never seen before was stretched out on the hood leaning up against the windshield holding court with several of my classmates. I sat on a bench nearby to enjoy the luxury of a final smoke at the end of my last day. As I inhaled, I was just close enough to hear their conversation.
“Lenny, what’re you doin here?”
Suave and cool in Wayfarer sun glasses, Lenny replied, “Same as you guys. I had to take my last exam.”
“But we haven’t seen you all year!”
“Hey, I don’t waste my time in those stupid lectures. Why bother?”
“So you’re still in school here?”
“Yeah, but three years is enough. I’m done. I start my clerkship at Phelps tomorrow. Then we’ll see what happens.”
I was flabbergasted. Here was a guy I had never seen in my entire three years of law school, and he had just walked out of the same last exam I had. I could not imagine how such a thing was possible and envied his easy self-assurance and evident intellect.
Phelps Dunbar Claverie & Sims was the foremost aristocratic law firm in the city and while Lenny did not look like a blue blood, I knew nothing about him. To me, he was just one more well connected rich kid. I was disheartened over how hard I had worked to get to this day while he had not made much of an effort at all.
I have little recollection of our graduation ceremony. I remember the extravagant wide lapelled glen plaid suit Julie and I picked out and my mother paid for. I remember the celebration Julie threw in the party room at our apartment complex, complete with balloons, hors d’oeurves, and a full bar. All our local friends came, and her parents flew down from Wisconsin.
The only thing I still remember about the graduation itself is a line from Dr. Ferd Stone’s address where, after carefully instructing us on our duties to our clients, our communities, and our profession, he assured us we were society’s intellectuals and with this gift came exceptional responsibilities. I certainly did not feel like any kind of intellectual but was honored even by the suggestion. Great things could be on the horizon.
Lenny Radlauer became a rich and successful personal injury lawyer representing injured oilfield and marine workers in Federal Court. Twenty years later I would represent an oil company he sued. I settled the case on reasonable terms just before trial when the judge told me how much juries liked Lenny.
By then I knew juries liked me too, but I was not eager for the contest with Lenny and remained intimidated by his success. His ostentatious bad boy lifestyle was well known in the local maritime law community. He had not changed much at all, still cocksure and untroubled; exerting seemingly no effort to succeed exceptionally well.
Thirty-two years after law school, Lenny would fall ill after struggling to survive with his twelve-year-old son in their flooded home during Hurricane Katrina. They had to swim in the putrid waters for blocks and then hitched to Baton Rouge.
He would ask me, a man nothing like him, and by then openly gay for over a decade, to take over his caseload because he trusted me. When we met at his home, I asked how he managed law school without going to class.
He explained that he had limited his readings to the “cans,” the student prepared and circulated summaries of each case studied. I had read the cans too, as did we all. However, the rest of us also read the distressingly long, dated, and complicated case opinions themselves, and then went to class to answer punishing hair-splitting questions on nuanced fine points of meaning, law, and justice. So, though I was honored Lenny trusted me, I remained dismayed at how easy he made it all look.
The last time I saw him, we met in New Orleans for lunch to discuss his remaining cases. He was terminally thin and frail, even with the help of his canes and hired attendant. The contaminated flood waters had triggered a cascade of fatal health issues.
After lunch, he asked me to drop him off at the home of a friend where he was to stay before traveling home to Florida. I drove him to the famous Montgomery Grace mansion on St. Charles Ave, just a few blocks down from the streetcar stop where I met Julie after work so many years before. I helped him up the drive to a discreet side-entry brick courtyard where the blue-blooded Krewe of Rex occupant looked questionably and perhaps disdainfully at me as I handed Lenny off. I wished he could see my Bentley at the curb, but it was out of sight. I waved goodbye to Lenny as they entered the elevator in the Persian carpeted anti-chamber. He died soon after.
Maybe his blood was blue after all. Mine certainly was not, but I still miss irreverent maverick Lenny. Sadly, that historic mansion burned to the ground as I wrote this piece. Time and change are relentless.
