The Lady in Black

The Lady in Black

Once, while sitting in a graduate level math class, I heard the history instructor in the room next door say something that really upset me. He said, “It is sad but with all that was happening in the country during the 60s and 70s, nothing happened in Texas and Arkansas”. Where was he in the 60s and 70s? I cannot speak for Texas, I only lived there for eight years, but for Arkansas, I can say a few things. First thing about me, I am not one that looks for the strange and unusual. It just seems to find me. There is no rhyme or reason that I should meet the people that I have met. It just happened. This leads me to believe that everyone has a story or two to tell.

At the end of 1973, I was still teaching Science and Math at Pea Ridge High School. On a cold December day, I call around for some companionship. Terry is free on Friday. We arranged for a date and invite some people that might want to go to Fayetteville with us. There is a new place in Fayetteville, it is a renovated warehouse and is big. They serve pizza and a variety of American favorites. I had heard that they have a wonderful gourmet chilidog, my favorite food in the whole world. I pick up Terry at her apartment in Rogers. I know I seem somewhat obsessed with how my lady friends dress, but there was a revolution in women's fashion during this time. There were all sorts of new fashions and trends. Unfortunately, some trend and fashions are not for everyone. Hot pants, for instance, were made for one body style. They looked great and drew attention to slender women with long legs, and a low waist. The hot pants were repulsive on certain body types.

Terry was the type that could wear hot pants, but she never did around me because I disliked the fashion so much. This may be a letdown, but true. How about stretch jeans, a white blouse, and short heel boots that came up to her knees. This might attract a few glances. As always, she needs to button up two more buttons of her blouse before going to church. This is not church night. If I were saying this during the 1960s or 70s, one would understand this, but since is 2012, I probably need to explain further. During the 1970s, many women were not fond of underwear. Now the next part is boring. I was wearing my very best faded jeans. Store bought faded jeans were just entering the market. I had on rough-out cowboy boots with no decoration and a white wool sweater bought in Germany. We were a fine looking pair. I have to mention this:  I had traded my beloved MG for a Datsun 240Z, moving me up into a completely new automobile society. The Datsun 240Z was a fast car.

We drove to Fayetteville and went to an old friend’s house. I remember that his name was Bill. Bill was a big man. He stood over six feet and four inches and weighed about 210 pounds. He was not overweight. I had met Bill when I was in undergraduate school at Fayetteville. He was one of the coolest people I had met up to that time. We met at a costume party, where he was dressed as Clint Eastwood and his date was dress like Mr. Spock. I would not need to say this in the 1970s but I had better say it now, Bill’s date was a woman. She was only dressed up as a man. It was a costume party. She was not a cross dresser, she was just dressed for the party. At that time, he was a senior and I was a junior. When we met again, after three years, he was still a senior. I think he majored in English, Philosophy, and Biology. His date was someone I had met, but not really met. She was the bartender at George’s Tap Room when I turned 21. There is no other way I can say it.  I really do not want to, but to do otherwise would be a lie. I was totally in lust with that woman at 21. I had not seen her since I went into the service. There she was, dating my friend. This is hard to believe. The only words I ever exchanged with her, up to the time I am talking about, was “I will have a Draw,” and she said to me in the most erotic voice, “Can I see your Id please”. It was lust at first sight. I swear that is the only contact we had. This is going to be a wonderful night. A 240Z is known in the sports car world as a 2+2. That means it is designed as a two seat sport cars, but some sadist engineer has designed it with a back seat. It is impossible to get four grown people in to a 240Z with any semblance of civilized comfort. We rode in Bill’s van. This is the sequential hippy car, a 1956 VW van. No, it did not have flowers on it. It had a panoramic view of the Ozark Mountains. It was beautiful and it was roomy. The men sat in front and the women sat in back getting to know one another. They had never met. I did not remind Alice that we had met before.

We venture to the warehouse. The place is chic for the times with a very loud band and large dance floor. I danced a couple of times with Terry and with Alice, Nothing stimulating, just a nice dance. Since there was nothing to hold us here, we leave for other pastures--the coolest bar on Dixon Street, the De Lux. I must interject that we are all mature and we are well aware of our alcohol limit. Our purpose of going to a bar is not to get drunk but to visit and have fun with friends. We are regulars and everyone in the establishment recognizes us. We know most of the people by their first names. The De Lux is not a dark dive. It has good food and beer on tap for 25 cents. We order a hogi on whole wheat.

While we were sitting in the corner eating, drinking, talking, and laughing, a strange thing happened. A young woman in a black evening gown walked into the bar. Now remember this is December; it is not Halloween. An overdressed lady in a bar would not attract much attention, but she was with two rather large African-American men and I do mean big. I asked, “Who is that?” in a very low voice, hoping her escorts did not hear. No one had any idea. The woman got up and it appeared that she might be going to the ladies room. I tell Terry to follow her. Terry is just as curious as I am. This is what she told me. The lady first checked to see if anyone was in the restroom. She then went in with one of the men while the other stood outside the door. She came back and sat back down with the two men, one on each side. She would order the men around and did not seem intimidated in any way by the men. I concluded that they were bodyguards or servants. We watch them for a while and the group got up and left. I followed them out and another strange thing for Fayetteville occurred. They got into a brown and white Rolls Royce. I rushed back into the De Lux and told everyone “I have a good idea where they are going”. We pile into the VW van and start driving toward campus. We catch up with the Rolls at the football field and just as I thought, they went up Tower Mountain. Students call it Tower Mountain because it had a water tower on top that resembled a space ship. We follow at a discreet distance and as I suspected, they turned into the driveway of the mansion on Tower Mountain. This mansion was an artists’ colony. Many of my friends had lived at the colony. I went to several parties up on the mountain. At the mansion, land was a dirt road that led into the forest. Along this road are rows of small cabins. The owner of the mansion rents these cabins to art students. All of us had been to parties at the cabins. We drove up the road and stopped at one of the cabins. Terry and I knew a man that lives in one of the cabins. He had lived in Pea Ridge at one time but he had gotten into some major trouble and was hiding out from the FBI and the Federal Marshals. He was AWOL from the Marines. He was home, as usual and paranoid, as usual. We went in and made ourselves comfortable. Well, as comfortable as you could be in a room full of illegal weapons multiple cases of ammunition. He was taking home security to the extreme.

We get down to business. I tell him about the woman and the African-American bodyguards and how they left in the Rolls, which belonged to the lady who owned the mansion and land. He laughs, (don’t you just hate it when someone does that?), and says, “You really do not know”. If I knew, I would not be talking to a crazy that is stoned and armed to the teeth. He throws me a newspaper. The lady in black is on the front page. All I can say is “You have to be kidding me.”  That would be the milder reaction as each of us recognized the photograph. She and her cohorts have been hiding out here for two weeks. Fayetteville is a favorite hideout for people on the run. “Why do you think I stay here,” he asked me. Arkansas has the fewest number of federal agents in the country. No one expects anyone to come here; they think if you are on the run, you will hide in a large city. A small college town is perfect, especially with this colony. The lady that owns the house knows the Hearst family and welcomed Patty and her court with open arms. Patty is living in the carriage house. While they are looking all over California for the Symbionise Liberation Army, the main body is right here in River City taking a vacation.

Unbelievable things did happen in Arkansas. This did happen to me.

My Marine friend could have been pulling our legs, but the person we saw was identical to Patty Hearst. Not too long after this, she was caught and the Symbionese Liberation Army disbanded. My Marine friend turned himself in and volunteered to go to Vietnam. His service erased his bad time. He was, up to his retirement, a Superintendent of a school in North Central Arkansas. Bill graduated and taught at Fayetteville High for a couple of years, and moved west. I have since lost any contact with him. Alice married a Wal-Mart store manager and is now a zillionaire. Fayetteville was an exciting place to live during the 1960s and 70s. I wish you could have been there. 

Modernity’s double punishment is to make us both age prematurely and live longer.  

Always check the statutes of limitations before you write your life story.

“Be nice 'cause, remember: no matter where you go... there you are.”  ~Buckaroo Banzai

©2012 Michael L. Wright