7 JACKIE OF THE OLD PLACES AND THE DEATH OF BARON GEORGE DEMOHRENSCHILDT


She met me in the bus station in Detroit, with a handful of tens and twenties, and a clipped out ad for a place advertising cheap nightly rooms, called, ironicly, the Camelot Hotel. Broken, penniless except for her money, homeless, half-orphaned, I held her again, told her that I would love her forever, and then, the tears came, as she broke away, slowly, gently. That was the last kiss of The Russian Girl. Nearby, a middle-aged woman looked sidelong at me in amusement as I wept. Lost and bewildered, I followed her exact directions on city buses to the rundown, cockroach-ridden Camelot Hotel, somewhere in Detroit's sprawling ghetto. In the morning, I returned to Ann Arbor, with The Russian Girl's money.

By the summer of 1974, I had entered Xanadu Co-op in Ann Arbor, a combination of student housing and hippie commune, still intent on joining with the leftist campus activists, still intent on concealing my rightist past. There, I attempted to fraternize with campus Maoists and Trotskyites, learned the Hebrew Qabalah, and adopted a mode of thinking which termed my former friends, the conservatives, "neo-Nazis". All in all, students or not, the co-opers were a seedy, drunken, drug-infested lot, except for an ever changing contingent of upper class New York Jewish girls, whom I admired greatly, and were, through some strange quirk of fate, the only Xanaduvians who were ever nice to me.

Continued on Page (8 of 9)

... Back


MT © 1999-2000-2002. All Rights Reserved. Return to Intercepted Transmission