Siri’s Drunk Sister

The Chool Bus (ch03)

Chapter 3: Jack Dean makes paranoia a viable career path

By the wall clock, it was 9:15pm. Jack Dean had no plan to still be on campus after celebrating accomplishments and attending end of semester ceremonies for faculty and staff, but he had grades to turn in and he needed to have that task completed before Monday at noon. Normally, he would have saved some of that work for Saturday, but since he was scheduled to hit the road with his former band mates and long-time friends Mork Thompson and Billie Schmidt, he needed Saturday and Sunday for attending personal tasks preparing to accompany his friends on the first of many road trips supporting Thompson’s research project searching for the fibrillating heart of our divided nation. Fortunately, he was able to click “submit” on the final class roster before 10:00pm. Now he could head home, get some sleep, and get his bizniz done in time to check in with the gang Sunday afternoon.

Back in the day, Jack played a crucial role in the Grunge band (The Forks) with Billie and Professor Thompson, stage name “Mork T.”. Jack was not just a perfectly serviceable bass player, he was also the glue that kept Mork T., primary songwriter and the group’s center of gravity and Billie Schmidt, their kinetic hot-headed drummer from flying apart. A bit of a paranoia case, Jack could sense when trouble was brewing. Not only between his mercurial companions but also with promoters, venue owners, and fans. Like… he had a 6th sense antenna for trouble. Fortunately, these proclivities served him well after the band broke up and each member saught their own post rock-n-roll life. 

Again, Jack was a bit of a paranoid, not pathological, but enough to make sleep a bit of a challenge. His nighttime MO consisted of a couple hits of primo weed and a beer or two on weekends. On this occasion, he skipped the beer and hit the hay after packing his ganja back in it’s “safe” place. Tomorrow would be dedicated to making preparations for weeks on the road conducting focus group interviews and tending to logistics with the assistance of a US road atlas and a new GPS app sporting various celebrity personalities for voices. Jack called the app, “Siri’s Drunk Sister (SDS)” because it had led him astray a couple times, and he felt he needed to cross-reference questionable “back road” routes with the “official” road atlas. No worries, the extra vigilance was worth the trouble because the newest build had Samuel L. Jackson and Roseanne Barr among others giving voice instructions. Colorful remonstrations issued forth whenever a driver made turns not aligned with SDS instructions… often hilarious. 

And like Billie, Jack was excited to be part of Professor Thompson’s team as he was also on the university’s “tenure track” and so needed publication credits for his curriculum vitae. More importantly, he was excited to be traveling with his old band mates, older, wiser, no longer dealing with youthful angst and drunken drama that marked many of the “good ol’ days”. 

One reason the gang’s checkered past was even more colorful than most was Jack’s hapless talent for attracting trouble. And though he was no longer soliciting extra-curricular rendezvous with young admirers of that rock-steady bootie-movin’ groove for which he was regionally famous, he still possessed an animal magnetism that had to be judiciously regulated on campus. Jack was damn good at repelling amorous advances by the many young students populating the campus. But, as a cyber-security specialist, not many of his direct charges were of the female persuasion. And, for some odd reason, his male LGBT students weren’t susceptible to his particular brand of pheromone. 

And so, the gang was reunited, Billie had taken the Chool Bus on a maiden voyage over one of the more challenging mountain passes on a pilgrimage to visit Owl Farm in Woody Creek Colorado, the home and redoubt sanctuary of her favorite cultural critic Hunter S. Thompson. So, with the Chool Bus road-tested from the High Plains to the top of the world, the Forks were ready to take the nation’s temperature, coast to coast. 

First stop, Fort Collins Colorado. Professor T.’s research included survey questionnaires, the type used by political pollsters, where participants are drawn from college towns and rural working-class communities with strong religious identifications. This data would be juxtaposed with the face-to-face focus-group work conducted by the reunited Forks making their way from state to state in a rolling home converted for traveling rock and roll refugees, the Chool Bus. Appointments with off-the beaten path communities as well as inner-city diverse-demographic groups are made and the tentative itinerary was crafted to be flexible enough to have alternate destinations in case any of the original appointments proved unworkable for whatever reason. Jack Dean, the paranoid tenure-track cyber-security instructor with a history of attracting trouble and a terrific bass player with tons of soul. No way Billie and Professor T. would trade Jack in for a less troublesome model, the Forks loved their mildly paranoid groovelicious partner.

NEXT WEEK:
Chapter 4: The Forks embark, and Professor T. learns the perceived value of privacy in a “social media” world.

GO BACK => Preface and Chapter Links

This Land: South Dakota

So, we may have to rename this tour… something like, “everyone has a plan…” Chadron, our intended stop for the Nebraska lowdown, turned out to be a charming little berg with a primo park perfect for cranking out the Colorado post. Unfortunately, the town isn’t big enough to hold a Planet Fitness, which meant no cleansing shower for Ronnie Hays. And to top it all off, the rotation appointment we snagged at the local tire emporium wasn’t until the following Monday (this being a lazy Thursday).

Consulting the oracle of Google Maps (Siri’s drunk sister), we discovered that salvation, in the form of a steaming hot shower and a decent workout, resided just over an hour north in Rapid City, South Dakota. Packing up Rocinante, our trusty mount, we pointed her bug-splattered nose towards the promised land.

Rapid City itself is a San Francisco analog, all rolling green hills juxtaposed with crumbling infrastructure and a smattering of contemporary steel and glass. The pièce de résistance? A giant grain elevator, the kind you’d find crumbling away in every Kansas town, sticking out like a sore thumb. But hey, that’s the beauty of the road, right? You gotta roll with the punches, surf ’em like tasty waves.

Speaking of waves, the drive from Chadron to Rapid City was a technicolor dreamscape. Yellow wood-sorrel rippled across the Nebraska/SD rolling plains like a giant, undulating welcome mat, punctuated by a playful thunderstorm that kept teasing us with glimpses of blueberry sky between cotton candy clouds generously leaking a steady stream of nature’s universal solvent. Our initial plan was to hit a car wash in Rapid City to scrub the bugs off Rocinante’s snout, but Mother Nature, in all her benevolence, had already taken care of that with her pre-dawn car wash special.

Now, Chadron beckoned us back on Monday, June 17th, for that all-important tire appointment at 9:00 AM sharp. From there, who knows? North Dakota awaits, then west to Montana or East to Minnesota. One thing’s for sure, though: we’re sticking to the northern border until the prairie convection oven quits treating Rocinante like a sardine can in a microwave.

Ah, South Dakota. Land of majestic, perpetually bored bison and presidents’ faces etched into granite like a celestial dentist appointment gone horribly wrong. The state motto, “Under God the People Rule,” smacks you in the face like a rogue hailstone in a prairie squall – a paradox as clear as a whiskey-induced hallucination. On the one hand, it’s a middle finger salute to the nanny state, a boot-stomping declaration of rugged individualism. On the other, it’s about as subtle as a neon JESUS IS COMING sign plastered across a casino marquee.

Our initial quest for hot springs, fueled by enthusiastic Googling, promised a plethora of public geothermal paradises. However, Siri’s drunk sister, bless her malfunctioning circuits, led us down a path more suited for a scene straight out of “The Texas Chainsaw Massacre.” Unmaintained roads, dilapidated farm equipment – the whole shebang. Needless to say, Ronnie Hays decided hightailing it out of there seemed like the most prudent course of action at the time. However, on the return trip, alleluia, the Town of “Hot Springs,” SD was a mere 5-mile diversion. Did we take it…? Derp, waddya think, home slice? Even’s Plunge brought back childhood memories. It seems R.H.’s parents had a similar attraction to these sacred waters. He (R.H.) spent the rest of the morning shuttling between the mineral pool and the bubbling hot baths…!! Voila! Hot Springs beat the busk, and now the busk better get in gear.

You meet the most interesting people in mineral baths, no? We met “Chico Scotty (not his real name),” a retired rescue ranger from the U.S. Forest Service and he described a scene straight out of a fever dream brewed on moonshine and monster movie marathons. Nestled amongst the Pondarosa pines, trapped in a rock tangle after a particularly nasty stumble, he thought he might be in a situation similar to that one where a climber had to cut his own hand off to escape, he (Chico) encountered a creature that defied every ranger handbook he’s ever thumbed through. More on Chico’s adventures later.

Forget the literary landmarks, loopers. This is Laura Ingalls Wilder country, and for some loopers, that’s good enough. Who doesn’t love a good tale of pioneering grit and sunbonnets, right?

And what about that South Dakota character? The good? Friendly folks, as sturdy and dependable as a John Deere tractor. The not-so-good? Let’s just say some mindsets can be a tad… well, stuck in the past.

Lifestyle? For tourists, it’s all about the wide-open spaces, the kitschy attractions (dinosaur and pheasant statues, anyone?), and the feeling of being a million miles from anywhere (which, depending on your perspective, can be a good thing or a bad thing). For natives, it’s a land of self-reliance, hard work, and a fierce sense of community. Sure, the winters can be brutal, but the sunsets are enough to make a preacher slap his mama.

Vox populi: What do South Dakotans say about their state motto? Most chuckle, then offer some variation of “it ain’t perfect, but it’s ours.” There’s a grudging respect for the spirit of self-sufficiency it embodies, even if the government’s idea of “empowerment” sometimes feels more like being shoved headfirst into a vat of scalding hot mineral water. And speaking of mineral water, back to Chico Scotty’s reverse Rescue Ranger forest debacle. This wasn’t your run-of-the-mill grizzly with a bad case of the Mondays. This was a lumbering, buxom rug with a coat of hair rendering clothing unnecessary. Chico thought he had encountered a female wookie, all 6’10” of her, reeking like a gym sock left in a swamp. Chico, a man who wouldn’t blink at a rogue moose on PCP, felt a primal tremor shimmy down his spine. But forced himself to push the silly sasquatch thoughts aside. He was delirious, desperate to escape the rock tangle, and this strange creature seemed willing to help.

With the grace of a drunken tap dancer on a greased skillet, and with the help of the creature, Chico wrestled with the rock tangle, muttering curses that would make a sailor blush. Finally, with an audible thunk, and sending electric pain all the way up his spine, the rock fell away. The hairy maiden straight out of an R.Crumb sketch book lumbered to her feet, with a graceful waltz of power and surprising elegance. This unusual savior let out a sound that could have been a growl, a yodel, or maybe the mating call of a particularly disgruntled walrus. Chico, ever the pragmatist, took it as a giant, hairy “good luck, human.”

The big gal then did something that cemented Chico’s belief in the whole “myth must persist” philosophy. She melted back into the woods like a particularly large, pungent shadow. Now, Chico did remember one thing clearly (it was a stressful ordeal, and well, he wasn’t completely lucid): The big gal moved with a stealth that would make a ninja weep with envy.

Back at the ranger station, showered, slightly less ripe, he dressed the flesh wounds, and nursed a brace of coffee. The encounter with the big gal sat heavy in his gut. He knew the official channels would have him hunting the poor thing down with a posse and a platoon of tranquilizer darts. But Chico, in a moment of rebellion, decided to keep his trap shut. The big gal deserved her peace, and her myths. Besides, who was Chico to deny the world a little bit of magic, even if it came wrapped in a giant, smelly package? The legend of Bigfoot lives on, thanks to a ranger with a heart as big as the Crazy Horse monument, and a mouth that, thankfully, knew when to stay shut.

So now… the point. Here’s this Hot Springs or Busk tour appended verse to Woody Guthrie’s timeless classic “This Land”:

From the Black Hills…
To the rolling prairie…
South Dakota…
Extraordinary…
Pull your boots up…
And leave the legends lie…
These folks are strong…
As mountain stone.

Onward through the fog… R.H.