Prologue
The first eight days of October are critical racing days for us. Crimson Streak is running in a bottom-level maiden race at six-and-a-half furlongs on the first and Cosmic Song is scheduled for a six-furlong maiden $40,000 race on the eighth. Both of them will be favorites, or close to it, as they are both dropping down in class precipitously. And yeah, we know Siobhan wanted to take the $20,000 offer for Crimson Streak after his first start. It’s not over yet but right now it looks like the score is Siobhan 1, Bill 0.
Marilyn
Several weeks after Janis’ first performance there, Threadgill’s became the place to go. Janis and I had gone in different directions by then, but I still went out to watch a couple times a week. So did several of the Ranger staffers, the Ghetto crowd and a growing smattering of regular Austinites, not to mention a few of the more sophisticated high school kids.
One night, Lieuen and I were sitting on barstools listening to opening acts when suddenly a gorgeous woman with a great blonde mane moved across the floor toward the bar, sitting down nearby. I don’t believe in Love At First Sight, but I do believe in WHOA At First Sight. Unsmiling, face like a Madonna; smiling, face like a movie star. Oddly, she was accompanied by a klutzy, deferential guy, who didn’t seem to fit. Yeah, I know, the age-old query of males—what’s a babe like that doing with a guy like him? Lieuen knew.
“That guy’s name is Stephen Goldfarb. His role in life is to introduce new young women to the enlightened class. They go out with him to parties and such because they know they will be introduced to far superior beings—like you and me—especially me. Tammi went out with him, and Pat Brown.”
“Then what—they ditch him? Seems a little cynical.”
“We all have our roles, Killeen. Mine is to drink.”
“What does Goldfarb think about all this?”
“He seems to accept it as his duty. People invite him to very nice parties.”
“Jesus.”
“Look at it this way, Killeen. Maybe at one of these parties he’ll meet somebody perfect that he steals away from the next Stephen Goldfarb.”
“And the chances of that are….”
“Slim to none, but you never know….”
Shortly, Goldfarb knocked his beer to the floor, smashing glass everywhere and spilling beer on himself, his friend, Lieuen and me. The blonde was embarrassed, but dignified.
“I’m really sorry.”
“It’s a bar….don’t worry about it.”
She told me her name was Marilyn Todd and I told her mine. That was it for the time being. I asked Pat Brown about her later, however, and a day or two later Pat brought her up to the Ranger office. I talked to her for a while and walked her home. A very long walk, I might add, up a very steep hill. An obvious admission of interest if ever there was one. We saw each other a couple more times and then scheduled a Real Date….dinner, the whole nine yards.
Julie Paul, songwriter extraordinaire (There’s an empty pillow on the bed where your head used to be; I filled it full of tears the night that you walked out on me), was going to let me drive her beautiful TR3 automobile and Jack Jackson, a Ranger cartoonist, said I could use his apartment, post-meal.
Things went pretty well, unless you consider the fact that I drove Julie’s car over a badly-placed island in the road and Jackson came home a little too early and began banging impatiently on his door. I told him to go away for another hour, which he did, but not happily. Geez, Jack, when you offer somebody your apartment it has to be for more than ten minutes.
Austin In My Rear-View Mirror
At 4:30 in the morning of December 26, Marilyn Todd slipped out her bedroom widow, across the yard and into my newly repaired Cadillac Superior Model Hearse. An insurance company had finally paid off an old claim from an accident in Massachusetts and I thought it might be enough to get me to Gainesville, where I intended to start my own magazine. I did not reckon, however, with the dogged persistence of William B. Todd, esteemed Caliph of the Rare Books Division of the UT Library, friend of the University President and Others Of Influence, who was bound and determined to get his daughter back. If somebody like me ran off with my daughter I would try to get her back too.
Shelton got me a message advising that Marilyn’s father, despite her being of age at 18, would try everything in the book to nail me on some quasi-legal ground. When someone with money, power and friends in high places comes after you, it is probably wise to find the safest ground possible. I headed for home….Massachusetts, stopping only at the Springfield, Virginia house of my childhood friend, Jack Gordon, which I knew would be safe. Shortly after I left the next morning, Jack got word to me the Military Police had been by, looking for us. If you’re wondering why Marilyn left secretly, are you getting the drift now? Anyway, we made it to Massachusetts unscathed. Shortly after we arrived, Marilyn’s grandmother and aunt flew in for a powwow. Marilyn bravely resisted their entreaties. Her grandmother eventually mellowed, to the tune of “If this is your choice….” The aunt remained furious. But we were in a secure spot now, home in Lawrence, where the law cannot be manipulated as easily say, as in South Carolina.
Life in Lawrence was tedious after the fun days of Austin. After a few weeks, as we perceived the danger had passed, we got our own apartment and found modest jobs, saving our money for another attempt at Florida. One more winter in New England reminded me why I didn’t want to be there any more.
On The Road Again
Eventually, the time came for us to leave and we headed south, arriving in Gainesville without incident, amused along the way by quaint southern towns, roadside zoos and strange restaurant menus. We found a very small apartment in Gainesville, not far from the Duck Pond neighborhood. We were very poor and Marilyn conjured up at least 65 different recipes for ground beef, rice, onions and potatoes. In the morning—every morning—we had pancakes with the cheapest (and thinnest) syrup buyable, a product just north of water. But we were happy. We visited with the publishers of the off-campus magazine, Old Orange Peel, and got a little work hauling magazines to Daytona for Spring Break. The University of Florida had an Orange Peel of its own and the two magazines, better entrenched, would be impossible for us to compete with for a while. Gainesville offered a lot of advertising, but not that much.
One day, Jack Horan, one of the publishers of the Old Orange Peel, got a call from the UF Dean of Students. He asked Jack to pass on a message to me—assuming he knew me—that he would like a sitdown. William Todd strikes again. I set up a meeting. The Dean was very nice. He was “advising” me that “Doctor Todd will do whatever he can to get his daughter back.” He asked if any accommodation could be made. I told him I’d get back to him. Then Marilyn and I (her on a bus, me hitchhiking, money being an issue) went to Folkston, Georgia and got married. Take that you despoilers of True Love!
We ran into a little snag, however. Despite all those signs you see when passing through Folkston, 24-hour marriage offerings are not guaranteed. First, you have to get a blood test. The blood test people are not open at night, which was when we arrived. And alas, there is no real bus station in Folkston, just a little bench where the bus stops. We mournfully slumped on the bench for a little while, and then our worst nightmare. A police cruiser pulls up, obviously unaware of these matters, they just feel sorry for us, young kids looking to get married—supporting the cottage industry of Folkston. So they take us to the Fire Station, of all places, where we get to sleep in the majestic and very large front seat of the giant fire truck.
Next morning, we get married in the little town hall, all by ourselves. Then, Marilyn gets back on the bus and goes back to Gainesville and I hitchhike home. Feeling pretty good. Whatsoever God hath joined together, let no man put asunder. Right?
Tallahassee Days
We found a nice apartment in Tallahassee near Leon High School, right in the middle of town. And surprisingly cheap. Little did we know that the drunken landlords, a husband and wife, fought to the near-death nightly. We endured this and went about organizing our magazine. We didn’t have any competition in the form of other magazines in Tallahassee, and Florida State University, while not the size of UF, was plenty big enough to support us. We found a few likeminded friends to help in the effort and eventually got the thing off the ground. We sold the magazines at little tables around campus and took what was left to Gainesville, to get our feet in the door down there. Everything went well. Marilyn started selling ads in Gainesville as well as Tallahassee and we actually started making a little money. I remember one notable trip to a supermarket with our first flush of cash when we bought everything we wanted, a rare experience. We rented a house a few miles out on the Apalachee Parkway that had an actual yard. Things were looking up!
Well….almost. The brakes on the hearse went out just as we were about to embark on a magazine-selling trip to Gainesville. We decided to go anyway—at night—to avoid having to stop as much (which we couldn’t do anyway, right?). We didn’t get very far. A highway patrolman noticed a taillight out, motioned us to pull over, and when it took about a mile to get the hearse stopped, he inspected the brakes.
“This brake pedal is stuck to the floor.” No shit, ace.
We had the old hearse towed home. We traded it to a guy who had wanted it for a “wood truck”. We got a shitty old car in return, but one that would make it to Gainesville. We were sad to see the old girl go after so many years of useful service, but life marches on and so must we.
Lieuen Comes To Florida
The magazine was doing well in Tallahassee and Gainesville so we decided to try a Great Expansion throughout the Southeast. For this, we would need help, so we solicited Lieuen and a guy named Bob Brown, who had been editor of the humor magazine at RPI. Bob was a great illustrator/cartoonist, an easy-going character who fit right in. We all lived together in our third house, a two-story job not far from the armory, a few blocks off Monroe.
The house was close enough to town and the University to walk to, fortunately for Lieuen, who liked his bar time and arrived without a car. Lieuen would arrive back at home late at night, stick in hand to fend off the legion of yapping neighborhood dogs.
Eventually, the great sales tour began. Lieuen and Bob trekked through the South selling magazines everywhere there was a campus, often incurring the wrath of suspicious cops, occasionally being arrested (and quickly let go when it became apparent they were relatively harmless) and having difficulty getting close enough to campuses to sell many magazines. Lieuen eventually talked Bob into taking him all the way back to Austin, from whence he never, ever moved again, having learned his scary lessons about the hostility of the Outside World. Bob went back to RPI, it becoming evident there was not enough money in this thing to support many people. And Marilyn and I moved back to Gainesville with the demise of the two Orange Peels.
Farewell, Adelita
The Charlatan, with no competition, accumulated much advertising and plenty of sales. By 1967, it became lucrative enough to provide seed money with which to open the Subterranean Circus. The Circus provided the means to enter the horse business. Richly unrewarded for all this was Marilyn, who, unwilling to tolerate a wayward husband, returned to Austin a couple of years after moving to Gainesville. Back in Austin, she eventually found a husband more deserving of her, mothered a batch of happy children and lived happily ever after.
She remains one of my Greatest Heroes.
