Tripping over my thumb, 20 years ago today in Oxford Town: Would I Be The Only Ole Miss Fan In The Italian Prison System? Oxford Town #33 March 31, 1994 So, here it is, that special time of year when we, the faithful, are rewarded with our special privilege. I particularly enjoy it, since I almost lost my special privilege about this time two years ago. You see, I thought, I was almost certain, I was going to prison for illegal drug association in a foreign country. In a foreign prison, my special privilege would be useless. I was hitchhiking in the French Alps. I had my thumb stuck out at a petrol station when a dog, a straggly, dirty shaggy dog, walked up to me. As is my custom with dogs, I bent down to pet it and directly the owner, a girl who, with me benefit of five or six baths, two or three complete makeovers, and the doubt, might have looked sanitary. We exchanged pleasantries and she offered me a ride into Italy, which I accepted. When I saw her van, I was a bit taken aback. Rusty, patched together and partly made of wood, I thought, Itll never start But, after a few minutes, it did indeed, a fact I would later come to view with remorse. Had I realized the terrain lying ahead, I would have just said no thanks and goodbye to Bamboo, the dog. She swung the van around narrow curves on old roads hanging off the mountainside, thousands of feet above sea level, as I could unfortunately see. Each swing produced a loud creak, like something off an old wooden ship, along with a shifting of all the stuff on the dashboard, including Bamboo. Her boyfriend, who had not acknowledged my presence, sat in the passengers seat with what seemed to be the only three things he had in the world: a bottle of something he kept slugging down, a circa 1980 Walkman from which I could hear Led Zeppelin blasting, and his B.O. After a while, I thought it probably best just to sit back and study the various LEGALIZE MARIJUANA stickers adorning the vans inside walls. I couldnt read all of them, because the van was packed with boxes of junk, but the message was clear, even if the heads probably werent. Before long and just about dark, we slowed and I looked up to read a sign: INTERNATIONAL BORDER. I got a kind of sick feeling. The boyfriend looked around, grinned an ugly grin and said, I hope they dont find the hash. I felt very sick. As could be expected, the border guards, after they angrily said to kill the engine (it seems the cloud of blue smoke pouring forth from the exhaust pipe was hampering their ability to breathe) told us to get out. We handed over our papers and I noticed the guard did not, as he thumbed through their grimy Spanish passports and my shiny new United States of America number, toss mine back and tell me to be on my merry way. I just leaned against the wall with the still-listening-to-Led Zeppelin-boyfriend and wondered what I would say to the U.S. consulate after he said to me, Sorry, theres nothing I can do for you. A very sick feeling indeed. There have been times in my young life when I felt lucky to be somewhere just at the right time to behold a truly spectacular vision of the grandeur that this planet can exhibit. Im thinking of times like, after climbing to the peak of an Aleutian mountaintop, I could see at once, a glimmering, inviting Pacific, stretching away to Antarctica, a churning, blue-green Bering, rocking and spewing whitecaps to the North Pole, and in the center a string of jagged, verdant peaks bursting upwards in the magnificence that is that part of Alaska; or the daybreak in Utah, at Monument Valley, when the early sun had just began to run brilliant streaks of auburn and gold between the old fortresses of Earth and frame them, as they had been for millions of years, against the sky with a starkness that the most talented human painter could never begin to achieve. And especially in Tuscaloosa, in 1988, at their homecoming and the game at which they chose to dedicate the Bear Bryant museum, Ole Miss scored the go-ahead touchdown late in the game to take victory from the Crimson Tide and seemingly spit in the face of their pre-game arrogance by hammering home the cold hard reality of defeat. Where I now found myself had the makings of just such a moment. We were high in the Alps, right on the French-Italian border, and the elevation lent a bracing crispness to the air as twilight positioned itself for the charging darkness. With sunlight quickly ducking beneath the western Alps, the streaks of clouds were turning into steely-blue ghost fingers, with only fringes of light yellow and gold to show that shortly before they had been illuminated. This was the sight I beheld, but I would have preferred being somewhere else. I was standing there with the boyfriend, refusing to watch the guards search through the van, trying to come to grips with the stinging reality that this probably meant I would lose my special privilege this year and possibly for many years, when my passport suddenly appeared in front of my face. Ah, I thought, He wants me to beg. He wants me to drop to my knees and grovel like a much-whipped cur. He will laugh with his friends later down at the pub, erupting with spitting, black-tooth-baring howls, about how he had the American pleading and begging for the life-giving document. And hey, I was ready. But then I realized he just wanted me to take the passport and move on. Hey, no problem. He said something in Italian (And who knows what that was?), to which I quickly said Thank you, sir as I scurried into the van right behind the dancing boyfriend. In a short minute we were on our merry way, me in shocked relief, the girl complaining about the mess the guard had left, and the boyfriend exactly the same as before. All I cared about was the fact that I would be using my privileges that year, as I had for so many in the past. I decided it would probably help my mental state if I caught a different ride, for as we started off it occurred to me that, as we had been ascending, we were now descending, and I saw no reason for the crate to have brakes. The boy and girl seemed unfazed and were now sharing his bottle, as well as, I believe, his B.O. It was time to get out and find another ride, one that would get me straight to a telephone. There was a special privilege that needed tending to. And, its almost time to do it again, just as every one lucky enough to share this special privilege should know. That night in the Italian Alps I got myself to a telephone and called Oxford. And when the voice answered, it was the sweetest thing I had ever heard. I mean. I had just been certain I was going to prison in Italy. May I help you, the sweet voice said. Yes, maam, said I, basking in the glow of my Ole Miss fan-endowed special privilege. I want to buy some Ole Miss football season tickets.
Posted on: Mon, 31 Mar 2014 23:44:14 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015