There, stretched out on his bed, looking every bit the cowboy with his well-worn boots, jeans, and western-style shirt, was the New Mexican cowboy, Gary Mitchell. I had no way of knowing it at the time, but this was the beginning of my decades-long association with New Mexico.
He seemed to have converted a college dorm room into a kind of bunkhouse. There was a cowboy hat on the dresser and cowboy boots with spurs under the desk.
There was a strange smell in the room unlike anything I had known. Hmm, I wonder what that is, I thought.
But that wasn’t the most astonishing thing by a long shot. I noticed Gary seemed to be reading what was clearly a textbook.
The first question that popped into my head had nothing to do with cowboys but was rather, if classes don’t start for three days, what’s this guy doing reading a textbook? That was Gary, though: usually working at or on something.
Subsequently, being the gentleman I always found him to be, Cowboy jumped up from his bunk and with an outstretched hand and welcoming smile introduced himself in the slow drawl that is unique to the plains of eastern New Mexico. “Howdy. I’m Gary Mitchell.”
Howdy? I hadn’t heard howdy much around Chicago or beyond the Bonanza television series, for that matter. After the twin initial shocks of seeing him reading a textbook almost a week before classes were to begin and hearing him say howdy in the unfamiliar western drawl had sunk in, I stuck out a sheepish hand and introduced myself.
“So you’re the cowboy they told me about,” I said.
“Aw… they call me that ’cause I’m from New Mexico.”
“Are you a real cowboy?”
“Yep; family has a ranch in Encino, New Mexico. You don’t mind rooming with me?”
“Mind? Why would I mind?”
“Well now, some folks don’t much care for the smell.”
“OK, now that you mention it, what is that smell? It’s not that bad, but what is that?”
“I keep my saddle with me, and some folks don’t much like the smell of it.”
Looking around the room, I didn’t see a saddle, but that peculiar, unfamiliar odor I’d noticed a few minutes before was still lurking about. Still, wanting to get off on the right foot and not finding the smell to be all that objectionable, I answered, “Doesn’t smell too bad to me.”
“You sure?” he asked.
“Oh yeah; it doesn’t bother me a bit.”
Our dorm rooms came equipped with a rectangular corner storage unit between the beds about five feet deep, and covered with a heavy hinged lid. Inside our storage unit was Gary’s saddle.
While the smell wasn’t really that bad, it was certainly sharp and pungent, apparently resulting from a combined mixture of aged, well-worn leather and horse sweat—not something you would expect to find in an Illinois Wesleyan University dorm room.
All the folksy talk could lull people into thinking Gary was some kind of country rube. He was far from it. Gary was quiet, hardworking, studious, and serious. Although I wasn’t known for being serious or studious, I was, for the most part, quiet and, if need be, a hard worker. Gary might well debate how quiet I was, but the pairing worked out well for both of us for quite a spell.
During the first few months of our rooming together, I learned a good deal about New Mexico, a lot about ranching, and a little about horses. During that period occurred the first and only time I ever tagged along on a spur-shopping trip. More importantly I learned how to dress like a cowboy.
Other than in movies, I’d never seen anyone wearing spurs or cowboy boots or even a cowboy hat, for that matter. Then there were the cowboy jeans. Before the era of cowboy-cut jeans came along, I discovered that the way to make jeans more easily fit over boots was to slit them up the side at the bottom hem, fit a piece of triangular fabric between the cut, and then sew it in. There you have boot-cut jeans. Gary’s mother made great-looking boot-cut jeans.
Even if I didn’t study that much, those things alone were an education that would come in handy later.
I suppose I wasn’t taking student life all that seriously, partly because I expected to be drafted. The Vietnam War was still going strong, as was the military draft at that time.
During my first year at IWU, I became eligible for the draft. College draft deferments were available but only to those with enough credit hours to qualify. I didn’t qualify. I believe I was one hour short of a deferment, so it was a close call.
Thinking maybe IWU could give me a break with that one missing hour, I checked with the registrar’s office, but there was no way they could help. I would be classified 1A, a designation given for one year to those eligible for the draft. Those making it through that year without being drafted were free and clear.
Draft numbers were assigned by way of a lottery according to birth date, and my number was 149. I’d noticed that about thirty numbers were being called each month, so it appeared very likely I was going to the army. It didn’t happen.
But I was stuck in a self-imposed holding pattern for three or four months just waiting for the letter. I was all packed up and expecting my IWU career to end very shortly. No question, I was not as serious a student as I should have been during that time and was falling behind rather quickly as a result. I soon discovered that might not have been the right approach.
The numbers being called up each month had suddenly dropped off rather dramatically. On December 31, 1971, I ran out to get a newspaper that would have the lottery numbers being called up. Lo and behold, I officially missed being drafted. It was very close, but I was no longer 1A with the draft board.
What I was left with was a lot of catching up to do. That didn’t happen either.
I unpacked all my things that had been stuffed into my footlocker and turned to the business of being a college student.
IWU made a point of trying to attract students from all over the United States, and Gary had landed there as part of the effort. The school offered work-study as one component of a financial aid package.
As part of his work-study program, Gary had been employed by the security force patrolling the campus. About the time I was heading to bed, Gary would be out checking and locking doors around campus. Although I’d had no direct contact with the security force, I’m certain that, through Gary, they knew of me, which came in handy on more than one occasion.
IWU had separate men’s and women’s dorms at the time and forbade visits to dorms by the opposite gender beyond a certain hour. Whatever hour that was I’ve forgotten, but it wasn’t three o’clock in the morning. That was about the time I was making my way out of Gulick Hall, an all-female residence, one cold winter morning.
Descending the stairs from the second floor of Gulick, I stood inside by a side street door, waiting to make my break. I peered out the window, first left and then right, to make certain there was no security officer nearby. At that hour I was fairly certain the coast was clear, but it was better to be safe than sorry. Whatever the penalty might be for this particular transgression, I didn’t want to find out about it firsthand.
Satisfied there was nobody around, I confidently made my way out the door, down the sidewalk, and straight into the path of an IWU security officer. Real nice job checking the coast was clear.
I made a snap decision and attempted to appear as if I was really supposed to be coming out of Gulick Hall at three in the morning. So with as much confidence as I could muster, I walked right up to the security officer, intending to say something, but he simply nodded and passed on by. I couldn’t help but think the leniency shown by the officer had been a result of Gary’s association with IWU security.