“Don’t ever let it be forgot that once there was a spot,
For one brief shining moment that was known as Camelot.”
Once upon a time in a universe far, far away, there was a magic castle, hidden from most on a small road just outside the heart of the Big City. Now, many of the people who lived nearby had no idea the castle was there and even the traffic which passed couldn’t feel the magic. They thought it just another building. The people who worked inside knew better, though. They called the castle the Subterranean Circus.
Every day, many people from the town came to visit the castle. All of them were smiling when they left. The workers, young people all, knew their time there would be limited and they were determined to enjoy the magic while they could. Day after day, the castle was alive with music and laughter and the scents of foreign shores. Some people thought it might last forever.
Into this carnival walked a young fellow named Michael Hatcherson, who his friends called “Jagger,” celebrating his affection for a popular musician of the time. Appropriately, Michael sported a longish Prince Valiant hairdo and a constant smile, charming all the ladies of the court. While neither a hunter nor a warrior, he left a slew of broken hearts in his wake as he was, alas, married to the achingly beautiful Linda Hughes, a petite blonde of quiet demeanor who was forced to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous competition. Sometimes, love hurts.
To say that Jagger was a boon to the store would be gross understatement. Jollity begets jollity and he was always in a good mood, raising the spirits of those around him and customers as well. If he was a little obsessed with the Rolling Stones and monopolized the stereo selections, well, so be it. Jagger and Linda lived in a cottage out on Rocky Point Road, just north of Payne’s Prairie, until one day they didn’t. Thus began a new life of singlehood and barhopping with fellow employees, Debbie Brandt and Ricky Childs, Gainesville’s original Tres Amigos. They drank long and prospered.
If Jagger was the ultimate Merry Man of Mirth, that is not to say he tolerated fools well, nor was he reluctant to use the Needle of Sarcasm he kept at the ready in his back pocket. As in the case of Jim Hines, the unforgettable “Waterbed Man.”
Hines showed up one day on the Circus doorstep with a Plan. Looking like nothing less than a polished fraternity man, crisp blonde hair, preppy attire, a serious demeanor in a Palace of Clowns, Jim laid out his idea. HE would sell waterbeds in the roomy area at the back of the store, take care of all the advertising and pay us a nice percent of the take. I had already ordered a half-dozen of the things, unsure of the demand, but Hines was talking BIG sales, hundreds a month. He offered a ridiculous percentage of the gross so I took the deal. Jagger, simultaneously amused and appalled at Jim’s straight-arrow mien and slightly huffy attitude, took to calling him “Waterbedman.”
Waterbedman proved to be an apt entrepreneur, promoting his product with abandon and selling fabulous numbers, but despite his success he could never quite fit in with the denizens of the Circus, who featured him a strange visitor from another planet. Jim tried dressing down, bringing in beer, introducing us to his perky buttoned-down girlfriends, nothing worked. He started out “Waterbedman” and “Waterbedman” he would remain, especially to the unrelenting Jagger, who thought Jim would benefit by learning the language of Humble.
As time went by and months turned into years, Jim Hines prospered, as did the Subterranean Circus by dint of his contributions. He started to assemble a better wardrobe, chose more appropriate women, almost morphing into one of the boys. At which time he decided to approach the impish Jagger with one simple request.
“Okay,” he pleaded, “I’ve paid my dues. I’ve been here two years, my business is doing great, I’m getting along well with everybody in the store. I think it’s time you started calling me ‘Jim Hines’ instead of ‘Waterbedman’.”
Jagger eyed him with the lowered eyelids of a fisherman who has his catch well within the net.
“You know, my good man, if you manage to become as rich as Croesus….if you show up on the front steps some day with Jane Fonda in her Barbarella suit….even if you bring me the pillow Captain Mick slept on….you’ll always be ‘Waterbedman’ to me.”
Hines slumped off, forever a stranger in a strange land, and a short time later opened his own waterbed store. By that time, the Subterranean Circus was a true behemoth, devouring competitors for lunch, and while Jim did well, things were never the same for him. He decided to go into the record business and called the Circus one day, interested in selling us his remaining stock. Mike Hatcherson, of course, took the call.
“Jagger,” Hines announced, “this is Waterbed Man.”
“Of course it is,” replied Jagger, winking to no one in particular.
Jagger In His Prime
The Diabolical Bonker
Despite his live-and-let-live nature, on very rare occasions Michael Hatcherson took offense. When this happened, everyone put down their newspapers and walked over to investigate the problem. One day, a friend of the realm named Michael O’Hara Garcia, just home from participation in the Vietnam War, came with news of a new weapon to provide security for the castle. He called it The Diabolical Bonker. In Vietnam, the local Defenders Of The Turf, had used a similar weapon to repel invaders. There, it was called a Viet Cong Trail Trap. It consisted of a large chunk of tree branch with a giant spike emanating from the center; the entire apparatus then camouflaged high above a well-used pathway through the wilderness. When an unfortunate interloper tripped a trap wire, the spike roared down from the trees and impaled the poor fellow. Garcia thought this sort of thing might be used in the Subterranean Circus, which had sustained a few recent breakins. Since a spike seemed a smidge unkind in less than warlike circumstances, Garcia designed his Bonker using parts of an automobile engine in place of the spike. The weapon was extremely heavy, nonetheless, and, when tripped for a practice run, shook the whole building. Jagger, who was closing the store the First Night Of The Bonker, dutifully set the weapon. Then, inexperienced in warfare as he was, he accidentally tripped the wire, hitting the floor just before the behemoth swung menacingly past his curly head. It was enough to give a chap apoplexy.
Next morning, Michael Hatcherson approached management in a rebellious mood. “That thing is going to kill somebody,” he promised, relating the incident of the prior night. “I’m afraid to be around it. If you’re going to keep it, I might have to quit.” We knew he was right. Garcia was summoned and he grumpily took down his creation. “Some people would be glad to have it!” he announced, personally offended. And maybe somebody would. Somebody, hopefully, who was heavily insured.
Jagger With Linda At Their Wedding
The End Days
With the Subterranean Circus eventually filled to the bursting point, the building next door was purchased and made into a clothing boutique, with a connecting door to the Circus cut through the two walls of the respective buildings. Jagger moved over to supervise proceedings in the new store, which we called Silver City. Early partners-in-crime were Ricky Childs and Debbie Brandt. We took care of all our minority hiring requirements by employing Ricky, who was black and gay. He made it his business to capture all the minority business in town and that included the female impersonators, a group very hard on dresses. Debbie was in school at UF, where she was an Architecture major. By the time she left, she also had a minor in Public Relations and was hired right out of school by Landlubber Jeans as their Southeastern representative. This trio was notoriously upbeat and pumped out a ton of merchandise. And they were thick as thieves when the place closed at night, often disappearing together into the raucous Gainesville downtown. Those were the days, my friend, we thought they’d never end, we’d sing and dance forever and a day. We’d live the life we choose, we’d fight and never lose, for we were young and sure to have our way.
But Camelot didn’t last forever for King Arthur nor for Jack Kennedy and not even for the crew of the Subterranean Circus. Eventually, Debbie graduated and moved to Atlanta, soon marrying an itinerant musician. Ricky stuck with the Circus til the bitter end in the early nineties. Jagger moved to Ketchum, Idaho, near Sun Valley, returning every now and then to Gainesville on his way to Orlando to spend time with his parents. Once they passed on, we lost touch, as often happens. We thought of Jagger now and then, happily meandering around his own private Idaho. Then, just days ago, a bolt from the blue—an email from Linda, now living in North Carolina, with sad news. The always active and ebullient Jagger had been laid low by a nefarious spinal infection requiring surgery and was lodged in a rehab facility in Boise, still unable to walk. He could use a little cheering up.
I called right away, Jagger’s voice raspy but recognizable through the fog of time, distance and the circumstances. He said he didn’t answer all his calls but he lit up when he noted the Gainesville number. We spoke of the good old days, of friends scattered to the winds, of souls lost and, yes, since laughter was required, we also spoke of The Diabolical Bonker. Jagger became more cheerful, even resorting to a couple of guffaws as the conversation advanced. I told him I wasn’t sure he’d feel like talking with anyone and was glad he answered. “I’ll always talk with you, Bill” he said. “We’ll always be friends.” I don’t get a lump in my throat very often, but….
Next day, I called our old store manager, Bob Sturm, who’d been with us for years and who Jagger had asked about. Then, I tracked down Ricky. I’m still working on Debbie Brandt, but it’s only a matter of time. Michael Hatcherson can use those Gainesville phone calls. There’s nothing like talking to the old gang, to those who were there when you were in your prime. Deep in November, it’s nice to remember the fire of September that made us mellow. Deep in November, our hearts should remember. And follow.
The phone number is 208-726-8879. For those of you who were there back in The Day, call Jagger now. After all, he was a Circus guy.
That’s all, folks….
