The day started innocently enough. I woke up early with expectations and spirits higher than high. As I rolled out of the parking lot in Sheridan, Wyoming, I accelerated and noticed that the car couldn’t quite catch up to the power my foot was requesting. It felt like accelerating while in neutral. I tested the motor’s response a few times, eventually deciding to stop on the way to Rapid City to have the car serviced.
From Sheridan, Gillette is roughly fifty-two miles. The trip was uneventful, with little reason for anxiety. When I got to Gillette I found a Midas that offered complete service and tire rotation for $26.95. They said they were swamped with other cars, and weren’t sure they had anyone that could work on an imported car. Just down the street, I found a Goodyear that promised me they would have the car serviced in thirty minutes. I told them about the car’s recent trouble: harsh and vibrating while idled, double-clutching and null response when accelerating. I pulled the car into the garage and popped the hood. They said everything looked okay, and we hoisted the car to change the oil. Darryl, Darrick and Chris were the names of the mechanics. The transmission fluid, power steering, anti-freeze and brake fluid were fine. They didn’t have any oil filters for a Volvo, so I had to wait while they called on a favor from a friend. Chris went to lunch and I sat around talking with Darryl and Darrick.
Darrick asked what brought me to Gillette, and I motioned to the car. “This,” I said. “I’ve been driving around the country for about a month writing a book about music in different major cities.”
“Where have you been?”
I went into the whole story and everywhere I’ve been. He asked me if I’d had any car trouble to this point, and I said not at all. He said that he was impressed, after 7,500 miles he would have expected some kind of incident. I told him the car was only five years old and has never had any major problems, there aren’t many miles on it considering it’s age, etc.
“So like, is this for a job or something?” He asked.
“No, not exactly. I just graduated college in May.”
“When did you graduate high school?” Darrick inquired.
“I guess high school would have been… 2001.” This was a concept Darrick understood more clearly.
“Oh, so you’re really young.”
“Well, I’m 22. I guess that’s young, I don’t know.” At this point, Darrick said he was going to lunch and he left me with Darryl. Darryl was much quieter than Darrick, but eventually he shuffled over in my direction and we got to talking.
“So you’re writing a book?”
“Yeah, about music in different cities.”
“So, is it just about country music? Or are there, like, other things in there?”
“Well, it’s not just about country…” I said. I don’t know what inspired me to lie so blatantly when there was absolutely no just cause for it. “There’s some rock bands in there, too.”
“Anyone famous?” He asked.
“I mean, there are bands who have been able to play in Europe and Asia. Some folks can pretty much live securely as musicians without other jobs. I consider that to be successful or famous.” I think I lost him on this point, and he soon exited to find out where the oil filter was. Apparently, it was “lost in transit,” and arrived about an hour later. After two hours, the car was given a clean bill of health and I took off. But not before finding Gretchen’s new sea-foam green home and delivering a special house-warming gift. Unfortunately, she didn’t have a mailbox so I just stuffed it in the door.
Devil’s Tower is another surreal sight. Picture a giant brick looking rock, some 630-feet high, sticking out of the ground. It’s mammoth. The path around it spans over a mile, and it is a beautiful hike through different environments. Ponderosa forest, badlands, boulder garden and burnt woodlands. Devil’s Tower is revered by the natives. They come and score the base of the rock leaving symbols, and tie pieces of cloth to surrounding trees and shrubs.
DEVIL’S TOWER (1) (2) (3) (4) (5) (6) (7) (8) (9) (10)
THE VIEWS (1) (2) (3)
I strayed from the path to go exploring on several occasions. As you make your way up the drive, you pass through prarie dog country. I’m surprised there weren’t dead prarie dogs coating the road. They scamper everywhere but across the street.
PRARIE DOG COUNTRY (1) (2) (3)
At one point, I saw something moving through the grass. I chased after it as it crawled into the underbrush. It was a snake with a tread on its back not unlike a rattlesnake. Naturally, I moved in closer. I got right up in its face, and it started lunging for me to bite me. I took a stick and poked at it. Truly juvenile, but fun. It turned out to be a bull head snake. I know this because I’ve watched a great deal of Animal Planet in my life, mostly late at night whilst trashed. When I left the snake, it was hissing and crouched in an attack position. It started to rain so I got back on track and headed for the car.
This is Deadwood, cocksucker. I was so excited to visit this fabled land, a throwback to 1876 and the days of Wild Bill Hickok, Wyatt Earp and The Gem. Unfortunately, my car stalled as I was rolling down the hill into town. I managed to find a parking lot. Sturgis is only seven or eight miles from here, and the main drag was packed with bikers. It totally killed the atmosphere having one thousand bikers revving their engines in unison. Meanwhile, my ride wasn’t revving at all.
The town looks authentic enough, old fashioned street lamps and facades. I visited several saloons, including The Gem, which apparently was the first saloon in Deadwood. I found a place to grab some food and soon realized at the entire state was jacking up all their prices because of the influx of visitors.
I left Deadwood and the car wasn’t moving at more than 40 miles per hour. I figured as long as I was driving on an open stretch of road that was level I could coast into Rapid City. Of course, I was in the Black Hills, and the entire ride was through mountainous terrain. After encountering my third motorcycle accident the car stalled. I don’t even want to repeat what I said at the time. I’ll just proceed to the wrap-up.
When I checked in all I had with me was my laptop. I didn’t have the will to bring any clothes or baggage with me. The receptionist gave me a few “BUY ONE GET ONE FREE” tickets for the bar and I made a b-line for booze without seeing my room.
On or about my fourth pint of beer, I decided that I was feeling artistic. Maybe it was my inner Dylan Thomas yearning to break free. I got my last free pint and headed for the pool area. I was alone with my laptop, writing and drinking. I finished the synopsis of my day (way better than this piece of shit I’m firing off right now) and loaded in my pictures. I was all set to walk out into the lobby, plug in my computer and update this site. I shut the the screen of the laptop, and it came down on the lid of my glass, spilling half a pint of Hefeweizen all over the keyboard.
I went to my room and started cursing and throwing things. I didn’t feel like sleeping so I stole some pads and pens from the lobby and coated the walls of my room with degrading comments and self-effacing remarks. I spit on the back of the paper and stuck it to the mirror so that I would see it when I tried to brush my teeth or look at my disgusting, unshaven, filthy self.
To quote famed Simpsons character Comic Book Guy, “Worst episode ever.”
