I Shoulda Been A Cowgirl! Wearin' My Six-Shooter, Ridin' My Pony On A Cattle-Drive...

Riding back to the campsite from Mt. Rushmore, it started to rain again, although it stopped when I got back. Still, everything was wet and I pitched my tent on a tiny hill. It had been blistering hot all day, and I was crabby and sore and all I wanted to do was get in the campground’s hot tub. Walking down to scope out the scene, I ran into two young boys, about 10 or 11. They were play-fighting right near the pool. For some reason as long as boys that age are friendly, I can get along with them like peas in a pod. I have no idea why, maybe because I have the mind of a 10-year-old boy, but hey, I’ll take it. These boys were no exception, especially the one with the huge green eyes and shaggy dark hair. His name was Jeremy. We joked around and shot the breeze until they asked, "So why don’t you get in the hot tub?"
"You see those clouds, the dark ones? They’re headed this way. The storm isn’t over yet."
"Are you chicken?" Jeremy asked.

Oh, no he didn’t!

"Hell no, bee-yatch! I’m gonna go get my suit now that you called me out! Are you chicken?"
"No. But my dad said I can’t go in the water."
"Ah, now see!" I teased. "There you go - you can’t call me chicken if you’re not gonna do it too, allowed or not. That’s called ‘writing checks with your mouth that your ass can’t cash’."
"Huh?"
"Nevermind."

I tooled around my tent, made my bed, checked my email until the storm looked like it had passed over us. Then I headed down to the hot tub and ended up joining Jeremy, his father, a young guy from Louisiana named Mickey, and a quiet, young Hispanic couple. Jeremy shouted, "Hey, you’re not chicken!"
"Hey, you’re right!"
The water felt SO AMAZING. The first hot tub I’ve been in since 2002. "Good thing I melt in your mouth and not in your hot tub," I thought, sliding into the liquid bliss. Seriously, after months of driving and days spent bumping along dirt roads and camping, there could have been nothing sweeter. Well, unless my friends were all with me.

Everyone wanted to know why I was alone, which led to the usual spiel about driving around the country. Jeremy asked the most questions. I never really blow people off when they ask me stuff, unless they’re rude about it, but his I answered very carefully, like a teacher explaining why grass is green. Again, I don’t really know why. Maybe it was an innate desire to instill some sort of wanderlust in him.

Jeremy’s dad asked a lot of questions too, looking quite amused. Not "this girl is stupid and will surely fail" amused, more like "wow, that’s awesome" amused, which is always much more welcome. Although I like to get in staring contests with people who give me the former. I always win.

While we chatted, lightning started flashing in the distance, moving towards us. Mickey noticed a hot tub full of worried eyes and assured us, "Don’t y’all worry! It’s far away. It ain’t gonna gitcha just yet. Trust me, I grew up on the bayou!" Still, it came closer and closer, until, while I was in mid-sentence answering one of Jeremy’s questions, lightning and thunder cracked overhead, illuminating the dark to daylight. It made Jeremy laugh when I answered, "No, I just worked three jobs for three years and moved baaaAAAACCK IN WITH MY FOO-OH SHIT!" as we all jumped out of the water. Rain was falling heavily, dousing the bubbles on top of the spa and making the pool surface fizz like a freshly-poured soda. The adults walked calmly inside and put on sandals, saying, "That’s it for me for the night!" while we children shrieked as though we had never seen a storm before and careened over the wet concrete for our towels, jostling each other in the hallway of the pool house as we tried to escape the rain. (Uh, hi, note which group I belong to.)

Eventually the storm passed, revealing a beautifully clear and starry sky, and us kids went back out to the spa. While we waited, though, I ran into an enclave of young Polish women in the bathroom. They were in town for the Sturgis rally and primping for a night out. I’m no xenophobe, so I tried to erase my initial thought of "Oh, they must be looking for husbands and green cards" from the forefront of my mind. I mentally slapped myself on the wrist for that one. Seriously, I hate that I think that way sometimes. And, as gung-ho for other cultures and countries as I am, I can only imagine what total xenophobics might initially think. It makes me sad sometimes. I mean, we’re all the same kind of mammal. I hate my mind sometimes.

It was just us kids when we first went back out in the hot tub, Jeremy, Mickey, and I. We were hot on the topic of favorite movies when we were joined by a large older man of about 50. "Mind if I join you?"
"Not at all!" we said. "What’s your favorite movie?"
"Oh, gosh, I..... uh... ahhhhhhhhh," he said as he slipped into the steaming water. "I don’t know offhand."
"Okay," I said, "we were just talking about Harry Potter movies. Have you seen those?"
"No, but I’ll tell you the best adaptation from a book to film I’ve ever seen is ‘The Reincarnation Of Peter Proud’."
"Really? That’s awesome! What’s it about?"

We probably sat there about 15 minutes just talking about movies and such. There was nothing about his initial behavior that indicated anything was wrong. Looking back, I respect that about him. "Are you here for the rally?" I asked, after awhile.
"No, I, uh...." His face screwed up like he was in pain. "I don’t want to talk about it."
"Okay," the boys and I said in unison.
"Well, I’ll tell ya. My fiance just dumped me. She’s been cheatin’ on me for five years with her ex whose got a bigger cock. I just found out about four hours ago. And I’m..... I’m drunk. I mean, what did I do wrong, y’know? I supported her, paid her car off, and I tried! Y’know, I tried hard as I could! I did everything! I went down for hours! I would eat her p*ssy for hours, no joke! But no, this guy’s got a bigger cock so that’s what she’s after."

I looked at little Jeremy, whose eyes were as wide as dinner plates as he sat on the edge of the spa. His fists gripped the sides and he leaned in to hear every last detail over the rush of the bubbles. I turned to the guy. "Do you mind if we continue this conversation in the pool, away from the children?"
"Yeah, yeah, sorry!" he said, lurching up out of the spa and stumbling towards the pool.
Mickey shouted, "I’m not a child! I’m 22!"
"You know what I ean-may!" I said through clenched teeth, following the man into the big pool. The cool water felt nice after stewing in the hot tub so long. Jeremy laughed.

His name was Marv and he told me everything, his whole life story. He had been married to a woman who was a single mom until one morning (conviniently right after her daughter had graduated college on Marv’s dime) she came to him while he was getting ready for work and said, "I found a place that’ll take me and my dogs so I’m gonna move there. I’ll be out of here in about a month. I don’t want to be married anymore."
He said, "Debbie, don’t you think we should talk about this first?"
"Well, if you want to that’s okay but I kind of already made up my mind."
"Okay," he said. "Well, let’s at least talk about it a little bit tonight."
"Fine."

That night, as they talked, she admitted, "I never really loved you, I just needed you. My daughter needed someone to take care of her."

He told me about the woman at work, Sherry, who had wanted to date him before his divorce was final and he kept turning her down, too upset to think about love. Finally, after a year of waiting, they started a relationship. From what he told me, it sounded very co-dependent. He needed her for the security and she needed him for the money, while she had someone else on the side for the sex. He told me about the $7,000 diamond ring. He told me he camped out for the night because he couldn’t bear to go home. He kept coming back to the same issue. "What did I do wrong?"

This is what I told him: "You may not believe me now and you may tomorrow either, or next week or next month, but listen. Better that you found out now than after you were married, number one. Number two, some people are just like that. Garbage people. And no matter what you do, you can’t change that. It’s not a matter of what you did wrong. It’s a matter of what she did wrong."
He was too drunk to listen. So drunk that I didn’t even get riled up when he asked to see my tattoo just so he could touch my breast. I just felt so sorry for him.

Later on, as we both left the pool house after showers, I called after him, "Get home safe tomorrow, Marv!"
He smiled. "Where you headed to tomorrow, Jess?"
I smiled back. "I don’t know."
He laughed. "Wish I was going with ya."

The pool closed at 11 and I showered for the third time that day just because I could. Then.... I was stuck. I had no electricity, my laptop was dead, no phone service, just..... couldn’t do anything except play my guitar but there were people everywhere and I didn’t want to wake them. I walked around the grounds for a few minutes, trying to decide what to do. Bear in mind at this point I was wearing red flannel pajama pants with snowmen and penguins on them and a pink tank top with a monkey and a rainbow. And I had the pants rolled up to my calves and flip flops on. And my hair was sopping wet and stringy in my face. So I looked like a clown traipsing through this campsite in the middle of the night.

Two men, both bikers, were sitting on a picnic table outside one of the cabins. "Whatcha doin?" the younger one asked. He was about 40, with long brown hair. The other man was much older, white curls sticking out from under his worn trucker hat.
"Nothing. Just walking. I want to play my guitar but people will wake up."
"Fuck that, bring it on over here!"
"Um, okay." I toddled through puddles back to the car and soon we were playing songs for one another. The older man’s name was Farren. He was from Montana and didn’t talk much. The younger guy was Gary. When we had exhausted our collective song knowledge (which, for two beginners, didn’t take very long) he asked if I was there for the rally. And I explained to him my unbridled hatred of bikers. Farren stood back silently as we talked.

"I’m sorry, I don’t mean to rope you in with this, but for the most part bikers are terrible people!"
Gary threw his head back and laughed loudly. "I knew you were gonna say that. But honestly, Jess, those aren’t bikers. Those are car salesmen and teachers and mechanics that think just because they have a bike, they have to act like assholes. That gives real bikers a bad name, I think. Biking isn’t about leather or beer or how many state patches you have on your vest. It’s about the freedom to just go, go wherever you want, to have the freedom to get on your bike and just ride. I guarantee most of the people here, the ones that have been mean to you so far, will never understand that. Real bikers are cool, and Sturgis is about getting to know other bikers, y’know, hangin’ out. But everybody wants to keep to themselves, it seems. It’s sad when you think about it. I like talkin’ to people - that’s how I met Farren here. I just came over and started visiting. And now you’re here. That’s biking. That’s Sturgis. Well, the old Sturgis."

He continued, "I’ve been biking since I was a kid but I haven’t come to Sturgis in 15 years. 15 years ago it was about the biking, about the ride, y’know? Gettin’ wild and havin’ fun. Now it’s all about the money, plus the cops watch everybody like hawks. They don’t want anybody to have fun, they just want them to spend the bucks. The only reason I came this year is my dad’s 65. This’ll be the last time he ever makes the ride. But this is nothing compared to how it used to be. I’ll tell you, this is the quietest Sturgis campsite I’ve ever seen - 15 years ago we woulda had girls riding bikes buck naked across the courtyard, trying to grab hot dogs danglin’ on fishing line with their mouth! Now, it’s just a corporate thing. And seriously, Jess, just because someone buys a big expensive bike and polishes it every day when they get home from the car lot, and grows a mustache once a year in time for Sturgis and cuts in front of a girl at the gas pump, it doesn’t make them a biker. Real bikers are respectful and kind. There’s just not too many of us left."
"Really?" I asked.
"Oh, don’t get me wrong! There’s some shady shit that goes down between real bikers! Stuff even I want nothing to do with. But they’re still nice people for the most part."
"Wow," I said. "Well, thanks for being the one nice biker I’ve met so far."
"Hey, you’re welcome!"
"Although, Gary, I’ll tell ya, with 75,000 bikers in town this week and you’re the only nice one I’ve come across, those numbers don’t bode very well."
"I know, Jess, I know."

Farren went to bed so Gary and I took a couple beers down into the courtyard, braving the sloppy wet grass and soaked benches, and who did we run into but Jeremy and Mickey! I introduced the guys and we shot the breeze until Jeremy’s sister came to collect him. "‘Bye," he whispered, dejectedly, as he slipped off the bench and followed his sister.
"What a heartbreaker that kid’s gonna be someday," I marveled.
"Yeah, no shit, did you see the size of his feet?!" Gary said.
"Uh, no.... I was talking more about his eyes and stuff."
"Oh, man," he continued. "If that myth is true, that kid’s got no problems."

He and Mickey laughed, which led to them talking about sex. It seemed as though they almost forgot I was there, so I sat back and just listened. Basically, they weren’t saying anything that hasn’t been said a million times, except one thing I’ve never heard a guy say (especially a biker!). Gary said, "If you gotta get a girl drunk to get a piece of ass, there’s something really wrong with you. That’s rape, in essence."
Mickey agreed. "Yeah, who’s that hard-pressed to get laid that they can’t just take their time and let it happen naturally?"
"There’s something to be said for celibacy," Gary said. "You look at couples that’ve been married 50 or 60 years and they’re still as in love as the day they met, that’s cause back then, people weren’t jumping in the fucking sack on the first date. Nowadays, with you guy’s generation, that’s the thing to do. People don’t take the time to get to know each other without it, and date and court each other and all that good stuff, they just jump right in. That’s why there’s so many divorces. Well, enough about that shit, who wants to get in the hot tub?"
"It’s closed," Mickey and I said in unison.
"Fuck that," Gary said. "Let’s jump the fence, who gives a shit? What’s the worst they can do, tell us to get out?"

Mickey and I looked at each other wide-eyed, like little kids dared to do something wrong. "Oh, my god," I said. "I don’t know...." I was always the good girl. I never got detention.
"Well...." Mickey said. "My trunks are in the wash now."
"Yeah, and I’m not putting my suit back on, it’s all cold and wet," I said.
"What, you kids have never gone skinny-dipping?"
"Once," Mickey said.
"Never," I told him.
"Come on! Let’s just do it!"
"That’s stupid!" I said. "They already turned the boiler off! It won’t even make bubbles now."
"It’ll still be warmer than sitting on these benches!" Gary argued. "You mean to tell me your butt’s not freezing right now? ‘Cause mine is!"
I looked at Mickey. "I will if you will."
"Shit, let’s do it."

We snuck down to the fence around the pool. Gary jumped over first and got right in the hot tub. He kept his boxers on, though. Mickey went second then helped me over. We crawled, Mission Impossible-style, over to the other side of the concrete, to scope out the scene on people doing laundry. There was a big crowd of them, all guys. They could totally see into the hot tub from where they were standing outside the laundry room door. I was surprised they hadn’t noticed Gary.
"We can’t do this," I said to Mickey.
"I know."

Gary called over to us in a whisper. "Hey! Come on, what’re you waitin’ for?"
I silently mouthed and motioned back - "I’M NOT GETTING IN. I’M GOING BACK TO CAMP."
"Come on, get over here, you guys!"
I shook my head violently. "NO."
"Yes!"
"NO."
It became the scene from "Anchorman" where Tino The Club Owner tries to make Ron Burgundy eat cat poop, except this time Ron won. I crawled back to the fence, clumsily jumped it, making a noise that echoed throughout the whole campground (think Napoleon Dynamite jumping the fence after throwing the grapefruit at Uncle Rico and if you don’t know what I’m talking about, shame on you) and scurried over to the wooden fence by the hot tub. Through the slats, I whispered, "I’m not cool with this, I don’t want to do it. I’m going to bed."
"Okay," Gary said. "Sorry. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable."
"No, it’s cool. I just don’t want to do it."
"Fair enough."
"Goodnight!" I whispered through the fence.
"Goodnight, Jess."

Later on, after I had gotten in my sleeping bag, a voice cut through the nylon. "Jess? You awake?"
"Yeah, hold on," I said as I unzipped the flap. "What’s up, Gary?"
"Um, how much money do you have on you? Like, cash. How much cash?"
"Why, do you need some?"
"No! No, no," he laughed. "I was gonna see if you needed any. Like, I know what you’re doing and I just wanna make sure you can get by, y’know? I’ve got $120 bucks to get home to Denver. I can spare $20 if you need it."
I was touched. "Oh, hon! I’m fine, but thank you! Really, thanks."
"You sure?"
"Yeah, I should be alright. You’re a very nice biker," I teased.
He laughed. "Thanks. Well, take care, kiddo. Be safe."
"I will, thanks. Goodnight."

The next morning, he was already gone by the time I woke up.

Leaving the town of Keystone, heading back East, I stopped for gas and coffee in a little town called Quinn. The gas station was the most primitive I’ve seen so far, at least that was open. The meters for purchase and amount pumped were dials, not digital. The building was so dusty it almost looked closed itself, but going in I met a very sweet woman behind the counter. She learned about my traveling and gave me a copy of the town paper. "Coming from the city, you’ll enjoy this. The community section is the best. We write about who had dinner at who’s house, stuff like that."
"Really?" I shrieked, dorkily excited. "My friend Max said the same thing about his hometown paper!"
"Yep, yep," she said. "That’s our community news!"

Here are a few quotes from the paper, The Capital Journal. You’ll totally get a kick out of this:

From ‘Fort Pierre News’, by Mildred Tibbs:
"Guests arriving at the home of Ken and Cora Jefferies on Sunday were her brother, Wayne and Ardath Litghfield from Middletown, MD (holla!), who will be here a few days... Bobby and Julie Jefferies and children were meeting the others on Sunday... for dessert."

"Max and Joyce Jones, Hayes, went to Sioux Falls on Friday for a medical appointment and... their Sunday guests at home for dinner were... Kim and Dave Farries."

From the ‘Blunt News’, by Louise Kozel:

"Charlene Curtis, accompanied by Mildred Adams, Devon Miner, Kaleb Marshall and granddog Charm, drove to Redfield where they met Starla Curtis. They enjoyed having supper together."

From the ‘Midland News’, by Mrs. Lyle Hunt:
"Nate Phillips from Lemmon and Nick Konst from Phillip visited with Joy Phillips on Sunday."

"We hope you are watching out for rattlesnakes. Jan saw a big one out by [her] house which Jim took care of."

"One day Sonia and Christopher went to Pierre... to visit Anita Larson and daughter Allison, so stopped to see them at Pizza Ranch."

Don’t you just love it?

By the time I headed back to Garretson, I actually recognized some of the names.

That morning was a blur, just a lot of driving but eventually I made it to where I wanted to go - a little town between Cottonwood and Wall called Midland, the town with the rattlesnakes. I had stopped by the day before on the way to Wall (and completely forgotten to write about it, that’s what happens when you get backed up in your mind), because I saw a sign for the Stroppel Inn, with hot mineral baths. I drove the gravel roads into town for gas and to poke around. It was your typical west South Dakota town, very small, a horse trailer in each driveway and a broken down truck circa 1955 on at least three corners. The main street of town was overshadowed by a grain elevator and had a tiny museum that was closed. I really liked it, especially the Stroppel Inn itself. From the outside it looked like a little B&B, inside was something out of a pictorial on life of the prairie.

It was adorable, weathered and cozy, with the town beauty shop housed in what looked like a walk-in closet to the far right of the front room. There was one chair in the shop, bolted to the floor, which swiveled left to the shampoo sink or right to the styling counter. The main room was divided into two areas, separated by a giant woodstove and leather chair on a platform. The side of the room closest to the front door was a sitting room, like a homespun parlor, with a low couch covered with an afghan and two more high-backed chairs all facing each other. The walls were solid wood paneling, not the cheap wood-fusion crap that you find in some basements in the suburbs. Somebody obviously made this by hand. Old photos of the early days of the inn lined the walls, along with American flag memorabilia. A mimeographed (yes, mimeographed) picture of George W. Bush hung on the back wall. (I know, trust me, I’m not advocating, I’m merely describing.) Anyway, the second part of the room was the check-in desk, with a guest registry and clippings from the local paper. Funny little signs hung all over, ones like "I Can Only Please One Person A Day..." and "Each Day I’m Alive I’m Forced To Add Another Name To The List Of People Who Piss Me Off!", stuff like that.

My favorite was a little wooden panel hanging on the wall that was painted with cartoon firemen running with a hose. It read, "In Case Of Fire, Life Flap." Lift the flap and there’s another wooden panel that says, "Not Now, Stupid! In CASE Of FIRE!"

Pat Vollmer, co-manager of the inn along with her husband Reuben, is also the village hairdresser. When she was finished with her customer, she showed me the mineral baths, basically a room filled entirely with water, up to about three feet. A staircase leads from the main floor down a slight incline to the water, which is pumped through the floor from a mineral spring. It seems nothing has changed since the baths were built in 1940, not even the tile. "My grandfather built the pipes for these baths. It’s really good for your health if you have skin problems or arthritis." Indeed, the small pamphlet for the inn claims that people have walked in on crutches and, after 3 weeks of mineral bathing, have left of their own strength. It really is something to see. I loved it.

Pat and I chatted briefly about the inn. "My grandparents opened it, then my parents took it over, then they sold it to Reuben and I. We raised our children here in this inn."
"Wow. That’s great! Tell me, what’s it like living in a town this size? Is it hard to keep a secret?"
She blushed. "Sometimes. It’s also very relative so you have to watch what you say."
"Relative?"
"Everyone’s related. You never know if you’re going to say something bad about someone’s cousin or aunt, so it’s best not to say anything at all. But it is good. The community really pulls together if it’s needed. Like if someone dies or gets hurt." That was true, I had seen in the Midland Community News how when one man died, a few men showed up at his farm to harvest the hay and beans that the late man’s widow couldn’t do herself.
"Are you and your husband both from this town?" I asked.
"Yes, we both grew up here."
"So you knew each other before you started dating?"
"No, not really," she smiled. "I knew who he was but I didn’t really notice him or pay attention until high school."

As I left I told her I may see her again soon. The rooms were cheap - only $18 a night for a room with a bed and electricity. It was more expensive for one with an individual bathroom and shower, but I didn’t mind. The shared shower was actually just a pipe sticking out of the wall in a closet near the mineral baths, a rinse hose, really, but it was better than the spigot at the Alive festival, and definitely better than no shower at all.

So after my stint at Rushmore, cramming the hot tub beyond capacity and meeting the one nice, respectful biker at Sturgis, I headed back to Midland. Checking in to the Stroppel, Pat seemed anxious about something, probably a lot of customers in the beauty shoppe. Still, I didn’t want to bother her about using the mineral baths, so I just headed on over to the laundromat, which is unmanned, just a whitewashed shack with some washers and dryers that sits across a gravel lot from the one gas station/grocery store/casino/video store in town. Getting change, I met Spencer, the guy behind the counter. He was about my age, a little younger, with an impish smile and glasses. A really sweet kid. I noticed a tiny bar through a back window with no customers at it. The "casino" was a tiny room filled with computerized neon slot machines, partially hidden behind a set of wooden saloon doors. A hand-written sign overhead read, "NO ONE UNDER 21". It was pretty funny.

I got quarters and soda from Spencer, then plugged in the computer in the laundry shack, getting lost for hours. When my clothes were done, I stepped into the little bar in the back of the fuel station, joining the one other customer there, a lanky old man named Jerry. We were waited on by the gas station cashier, a middle-aged woman with brown bobbed hair and glasses. She had an easy, almost curt way with Jerry. I found out later they are brother and sister.

I ordered a can of Busch Light - which I have come to see as not uncommon after spending so much time in the Midwest, but three weeks ago had never heard of - and settled in to watch ‘The Dukes Of Hazzard’ on CMT with Jerry - the original series, not the re-hashed, smarmy ass-fest that’s being served up in your local theatre. Jerry is an old-school South Dakota boy, the third oldest of 18 children (no twins and no adoptions!), because in those days you needed kids to work the farm. His face is now covered by a blanket of short white whiskers, his eyes half-hidden behind darkened bifocals. He stands about 6'6" tall, skinny as a rail, so much so that I was jealous. He reminded me so much of my Grandpa Henry, an old family friend that died when I was 10. He even smelled the same, the pungent tinge of hard work and quick wit. My dad smells that way a lot.

Jerry told me about South Dakota, how most of the people had horses for cattle drivin’ but they eat so much hay in the winter it’s almost not worth havin’ ‘em, how Catherine Bach, the original Daisy Duke, was from the town of Faith, about 20 miles north, and "Oh, you want to ride a horse? Lemme see if I can track down some-a them boys that go a-cattle drivin’ and see if I can’t get you hooked up wit one-a them so’s you can go on a real drive." Then he asked if I wanted to go a-snipe huntin’.
"Yeah, I’d love to!" I exclaimed. "What is it?"
"Oh, it’s fun as hell! You stand out in a field wit a big ol’ gunny sack and hold it open. The snipes run right on in! Ya gotta do it in the mill’a the night, though!"
"Do you kill them?" I asked.
"Ah, no, never kill ‘em. Just let’em go."
"Okay!" I said, ever the rookie. "You wanna go tonight?"
He laughed so hard I thought he’d cry.

"Ah lahk ya, so I’ll tell ya straight. There ain’t no such thing as snipe huntin’. If a cowboy ever asks you to go snipe huntin’, say ya cain’t."
"What?"
"Oh, girlie, it’s a joke we play on newcomers! City slickers, that kinda thing. Cowboys’ll stick you out there in a field with a sack and drink beer and laugh ‘hind your back while you wait for the snipe! There ain’t no snipe ‘round here!"
"Oh. Oh, okay," I said, laughing at my enthusiasm, wondering, what are snipe? And if not in South Dakota, where do they live?

"What’s the job market like here?" I asked.
"T’aint nothin’. Boys leavin’ home for the service and some go work in Wyoming at the coal fields. Them are above ground, they ain’t mines. That’s better money, but the cost’a livin’s higher ‘cause the towns they stay in know’s they got money."

Spencer joined us when his shift ended, laughing about the snipe hunt, just as a tall man in a white western-style shirt, tapered jeans, cowboy boots and a white cowboy hat walked in and sat down. He didn’t order anything, just chatted with Jerry and Spencer. He had an accent with traces of German, just like the Mennonites I met in Pennsylvania. He looked like "a real cowboy". I wanted to ask for his picture in front of the wooden saloon doors of the "casino", but I didn’t want to come off as creepy. He didn’t stay long.

When the cowboy left, Spencer said, "That was my dad." I won’t lie, I hoped for Spencer’s sake that his father was kind to him. Spencer is a hemophiliac and has one under-developed arm which rests at his side at an odd angle. His other hand is also abnormal, which I guessed is why he is a clerk at the fuel station and not a cattle-wrangler with his father. In a part of the country where so much depends on physical ability, I hoped that Spencer hadn’t been too discriminated against.

I left before I got too buzzed, going back to the Stroppel Inn and writing some more. "In a half-ahr I’m a-gonna be at the other bar in town, the one ‘cross from your hotel."
"The Tin Buck 2?" I asked.
"Yup. There ain’t no other bar in town ‘cept this one and that. Y’know, they got a cahfey there, too."
"I’m sorry, a what?"
"Cahfey."
I must have looked stupid trying to figure out what that was, because he followed up with "A cahfey, y’know, where y’eat!"
"OOOOHHH, a café!"
"Yeah, a cahfey." His emphasis made it sound like cah-FEY. "Anyhow, if you wanna talk more, that’s where’ll be. I’m gonna see if I cain’t track down Shorty Jones for ye. He might be drivin’ his stock if it don’t rain."

A while later, I met Jerry at the Tin Buck 2. It was dinner time, so there were two big parties of families, the men all in cowboy hats and boots, most in western shirts as well. It was amazing. I felt like a weirdo sitting there at the bar, turning around every so often to look at the "real, live cowboys". Apparently I caused quite a stir sitting and talking with Jerry, because people kept shouting things at us, like, "Jerry, how’s your wife?", but it was all in good fun. It was actually my intro to the rest of the crowd, and when I asked Jerry what was good on the menu, everyone shouted out their advice. "Stay away from the steak sandwich!" "The hot beef plate is a lot of food, make sure you’re hungry!" "I had the ribeye and it was okay."
"I’ve never had chicken-fried steak, is that good?" I asked.
A white-haired woman in the back yelled out, "Oh, I had that tonight, it was great!"
"Well, I’m just gonna have to get that, then!"

When I asked for lo-cal or fat free salad dressing with my side salad, the bartender shook her head. "Ain’t got that." That was the first time I’ve ever been to a place that didn’t offer it.
"Wow, I am in the sticks!" I thought.

Spencer came in, just in time for me to tell him I didn’t like chicken-fried steak. "Spence, is this steak or hamburger I’m eating?"
"Uh, steak, I think."
"Well, it sucks, whatever it is."

Two more young guys came in and sat at the end of the bar. They watched me for awhile. It made me feel a little weird. When I went to the bathroom, the one with the goatee stopped me. "Hey, are you the girl that’s writin’ a book?"
I was shocked. "Good news travels fast, I guess!"
"Well, my parents own the hotel. I’m Dustin."
"Oh, Pat and Reuben’s son! Okay, very cool!" The other guy’s name was Todd. He was a little distant and quiet. I found out later he was worried about his house - he’s one of the Midland boys who left town for Wyoming to work. He just bought a trailer house out there but a tornado went through his neighborhood. Phone service was out and he couldn’t get any word if his house was still standing.

That night was fun. I met Robyn and Steve, a cool couple who offered to take me horseback riding the next time I’m in Midland and Dustin and I swing danced to Shakira. "Just be careful," Robyn said to me. "People are kinda nice to you now but if you’re here for awhile they’ll get snooty."
"Oh, trust me, I’ve already gotten that a lot here west of Pierre."

Declining offers to go home with both Spencer and Dustin, I made it back to my room unscathed but exhausted, thankful to sleep in a bed for the first time in five days.