REPELLING SOUTH DAKOTA

REPELLING SOUTH DAKOTA
By
Rick Haley

        Well it always seems like a good idea at the time. Low costing, unending travel and the freedom that comes from hitchhiking across the continent. The time was the early seventies. Most folks back then didn't automatically assume you were a felon or fugitive. Long hair and Pink Floyd were popular, as was Timothy Leary, Ken Kesey and paraquat pot. Most of the mushrooms back then were not those found in the gourmet section of some chic food emporium. Time and youth were on my side.
        Having recently received my honorable discharge and matching pension for injuries served, I decided to see America. Seeking  to find in part both something real about the country I had just served to the best of my ability, and in myself. I hitchhiked all across this great continent. I crossed America so many times I actually started a hitchhiking guide service, The Urban Backpacker's Conglomerate.
        I averaged close to a hundred thousand miles a year back then. My best time from LA via SF to NYC was 84 hours and 32 minutes in six separate rides. I hitchhiked the Trans-Canada, which was a six-week, six thousand mile experience of a lifetime. Hundreds of us hippy folk leap frogging rides, all heading to Vancouver. We would meet back up every night in youth hostels. Gathering points spread about every two hundred miles over a six thousand mile stretch of road! Homespun music, roll your owns, and I'll trade you this for that, made the nights memorable. Most of my fellow sojourners had traveled from Europe for the summer. All of us, hoping to arrive first at the music Mecca of western Canada, Vancouver, BC.
        Unfortunately, today times are much different. So much so, that it would be most unwise for me to expound on many of the details of those trips today, at least in print. I made several perimeter runs around North America outlining the furthest accessible reaches and tracing its coastline. I saw all of Canada except for the Prince Edward Islands and the Yukon. I saw all but three States of America. I missed Alaska due to a torrid transient girlfriend. South Dakota will be explained later, and up to then Hawaii escaped. Now I did hang out at the piers in Southern California for a couple of weeks trying to hitch a ride there but no luck. It also seems to be pretty consistent to me that drivers of Hawaii tagged vehicles have a, very limited to none at all, sense of humor. I’m sure it must have something to do with their long drive over here.
        Now, about the great state of South Dakota, and I can only assume it is a great state, having on more than eight separate occasions, purposed by thumb, and various other means, to share the love there. I still have yet to arrive within its boundaries. Those eight attempted outings, resulted in finding myself in Florida, Texas, Minnesota by way of Arizona, the Northwest Territory by way of Oklahoma, Arkansas, Philadelphia, Washington State lost  in the rain forest for a week, and finally ending with a thirty three year stint in Idaho. Despite having been within light missile range of that fine state, I have yet to set foot in it.
        It was here in Idaho, I finally gave up the dream of seeing the stone carvings of dead presidential heads. Let me say this in the defense of my now long dead and dusty dream. I did on all attempts make courageous and valiant efforts to cross the impenetrable border of South Dakota. I suspect still that someone phoned ahead. Informing them I was currently inbound. They, in their noble state sovereigntyness, and public safety consciousness, just naturally flipped the switch, and the freeways were officially off. In order, I have concluded, to protect their good citizenry from my carefree influences and of course eliminate all possibility of a gene pool contamination. It was indeed, the seventies, and in their eyes, better safe than sorry.
        On that final thumb induced attempt to brazenly enter South Dakota, I waited on what, if memory serves correct, was a brand new concrete six lane Y. The right arm of which, would have no choice, but to deliver me into the thus far elusive promised land. The first eight hours of standing there revealed the only four vehicles of the entire stay. Thereby answering the plaguing question of; 'Is this highway really in use?". Three were headed south, on the other side of the median, and one continued north without slowing or waving, on the left arm of said Y.
        Someone had indeed phoned ahead yet once again. Finally frustrated and now sixteen hours later, I cut across the vacant freeway. I was once more defeated. I lowered my sulking head and trudged off south from whence I came. A few miles down that lonely road, I came up on one of the southbound vehicles. An aging man with a flat tire on his pick up seemed to be having the same kind of day as I. The poor guy's tire had the lug nuts so over tightened he couldn't loosen them. Of course, I helped, and we traveled south for a few hours chatting and finding kinship in one another. I parted from the old Alaskan fisherman exchanging post office box numbers and promising to write, which we did for many years.
          The personal rejection of the Great State of South Dakota still weighs heavy on my heart today. Though I have only recently stopped chanting and sacrificing small animals in order to appease the great and powerful border spirit. I have also grown tried of the incantations and midnight nude moon dances as well. Neither has resulted in knowledge or enlightenment on this issue. They have however, on numerous occasions, allowed me the opportunity to be forcibly practiced in the very difficult, albeit confining, yoga positions at the hands of Boise's finest. Hence, I have relinquished all hope of knowing the nature of my unintended transgressions to this noble and unwelcoming territory.
          I had not completely given up following this successful near contact. I would yet again attempt this seemingly insurmountable trek, spawned back in the days of my colorful and reckless youth. I have in fact attempted several covert missions. All were vain attempts to penetrate the Dakotan force field. One such attempt, hoped that through civil airspace I might gain a foothold on this topography. Cleverly disguised as a small time business traveler. I was incognito among the terminal masses.
          I boarded the plane in Boise checking my carry on; it seemed like a good idea at the time. I was now scheduled to arrive in Grand Rapids. Just a quick over-niter topped with a morning business deal. A mere seventy-two minutes and I would at last be within the borders of my thwarted longtime desire. I was near giddy with anticipation! I, however, wound up in St Joe, Missouri. My luggage went to Houston, Miami, New York, and finally London, England, before returning to Boise ahead of me. It said it had a nice time. Me not so much.
          I was plunged into a four-day, five night, intensive course study of airport security and cleaning techniques, personnel scheduling, and the aesthetics of the St. Joe airport washrooms. I also participated in a biological experiment designed to see how long a human being could survive on corn nuts and water. I learned from that trip never to put your return ticket, checkbook, and traveler's checks in your bag when trying to enter South Dakotan airspace. Nothing good can come from it. The business deal was as lost as my well-traveled luggage. The score was now South Dakota, nine, Non-visiting team, zero. But this game was far from over, my time would come or so I thought.
        My next attempt eventually resulted in the catastrophic disintegration of my marriage, economic ruin, and of course the standard journey into traumatic emotional oblivion. A very small price to pay indeed, for gaining purchase to the great state of South Dakota I say. I would on the next mission accept the 'At All Cost' priority, and of course, the devious spirits surrounding South Dakotan Transportation System would be lying in wait for me.
        On my next carefully concealed black op mission to enter the afore named abyss. I was doomed through the oldest and most common of military planning snafu's. I had, in hindsight, seriously under-estimated the resolve of these cosmic forces determined to keep me at bay. Nor had I fully considered the cruel ways, means, and resources, they would employ to maintain this land as a Thaylon Taylor free zone. Despite the careful planning and brilliant execution, this attempt resulted in the devastating loss of all things material and loved. It had all started so naturally. Once again, it seemed like a good idea at the time.
        This part of the adventure opens with a marriage celebration, a day of joy and love, the birth of a family nucleus. It fell upon an infernally hot day, a record hundred and six degrees in early June. Temperatures ideal for breeding fatal and foul bacteria and vermin, on which I would later determine, my new bride would secretly feed upon. It was of course an unshaded outdoor wedding. So much for ice sculptures, cake-icings, easygoing attitudes, and happy brides. Those melting Dolphins, in retrospect, were indeed prophesying of the unerring future meltdown of my marital state. This relentlessly dismal destructive destiny had now acquired a lock on me. Malice and mayhem were coming down the pike at me, and they were coming fast.
        Now not to get over preachy here but I learned a valuable, yet simple, lesson from having my insides gutted like a small pond trout and fed to passing carrion. A lesson that, after having what little faith I had in a loving God, along with most of myself, thrown to ravenous and rabid wolves, crystallized in a foundational premise for me. Well, my dear readers this epiphany may not seem so Earth shattering to you and may even come as common sense to many a reader. As Mark Twain once said, and I'm pretty sure he was talking to me, ”Common sense ain't so common.” So what is this jewel of wisdom gleaned at such great personal cost? Simple, a poor boy ain't got no business marrying a rich man's daughter!
      Now everybody is aware of the laws of attraction that govern the drive of the typical status quo good girl woman, causing her to desire the fringe element bad boys. Tag. I was it. I still preserve a certain flavor of it these days. I was however at the time completely unarmed and incapacitated. I was young and in love and as such completely void of intelligent reasoning. Solely on the Demon Seed's advice and nagging, we waited, not going on our honeymoon for two weeks. Not until we, my new Satan Spawned bride and I, signed on the closing of my, our, new home. Good move. Wait until after you're married to Darkest of All Hell's Angels, to sign away all your life's hopes, dreams and savings, good thinking! So how does South Dakota fit in to play a feature role in my imminent destruction?

        Simple, remember that honeymoon? Well no, we were not going to South Dakota. We were headed to Yellowstone National Park. Having been there a few times, I thought to myself, "What a wonderful place. I can't wait to share the most beautiful place on the planet with the daughter of Satan, Demonica. Yes, I will share this amazing and most favorite of geological landscapes, with the Matriarch Of All Malignancy. We will camp out in Yellowstone Park for our Honeymoon! It seemed like such a good idea at the time.
        Now remember that 'rich man's' daughter' thing? Yep.

        "Eeewwh! Dirt! Bugs! Look I broke a nail, you bastard, I hate you!"
        "I’m going to the hotel!"
        "Go rent me the Honeymoon suite at the Old Faithful Lodge. I'm staying there!"
        "I want it. I WANT IT NOW!!!!!!"
        I want, I want. Gimme, gimme, gimme, I want, I want and on and on and on.
        "Oh yes, My Essence of Sweetness. I'll get right on that. Just do me one teensy wennsy favor first, my precious and lovely bride. Why don’t you wait in the back of the tent, while I find some gasoline and matches so I can make this feel a tad bit more like the natural environment of your birthplace.”

        Well, after a week of this wedded bliss she finally got the clue I was not going to pay two hundred and ninety bucks a night for some Prima Donna hotel room. This was equal to about a third of my monthly income at the time! She of course, had quit her job so she could get married. I didn't have a clue that working in an upscale fashion boutique required a single only status. You know for one or two nights, I had no problem, but her Satanic Majesty would not settle for less than the full ten days. It was then she made her decision.
        Thinking only of us and our common betterment as a couple I am sure, Miss Chucky Jason Kruger, decided she could work her feminine talents elsewhere for far greater and more lavish rewards. So with the marital bliss waning, the honeymoon long over, but barely half gone, she took off in a flatbed with some abbreviated tooth guys from, yep. South Dakota.
          One month later, napping in my lazy boy, I receive a call in my new and now quiet home. A call demanding I come and return the Dark Empress to her rightful seat of satanic power in Boise. I am commanded, to gather Her Evilness, from the frolic of some inter-relational gene pool competition. Being young and stupid, I went to go retrieve Lucyfer. I jumped in my then flawless, sixty-nine, four four two, and headed east as fast as I could. Off to gather up my Evil Incarnate.
          After eighteen hours of hard driving, I am within sixty miles, west of the infamous South Dakotan force field. It is there that I threw a rod, instantly seizing up the motor. I believe the motor due blew up due to Dakotan cosmic influences being in league with the Demon Mistress and protecting it's borders against all things Haley.
          Luckily, I only tore the clutch out of it as I flatten two tires while raking the entire right side regaining control from a hundred and forty plus spin n’ slide. I left the car there, nicely nuzzled around a billboard stanchion. I left it, as is, signed title under the wiper blade. I then turned my back on the honorable state of South Dakota. Hitchhiking back home I began reminiscing of other failed attempts at entry. I was starting to see a pattern here.
      The Anti-Christess somehow managed to beat me back to my house. Thanks I am sure to Daddy's deep well of charge cards. My instincts however, told me she flew in through a un-garlic'd window. Whereupon, entering my former residence, the Caustic Countess and several of her evil minions, as well as the Gopher Kings of South Dakota had already been throughout the house's nooks and crannies, most likely seeking refuge from sunlight. Rising from her dark throne, the Queen of Hell promptly served me with divorce papers and a restraining order. Thanks again to Daddy's deep well of attorneys.
        When it was all said and done, I got the mortgage for her Dark Fortress and clothes I was wearing. Unfortunately, for me, one of the Gopher Kings was my size. The Evil Empress got everything else. I stood outside the courtroom dazed and defeated, It seemed impossible things would get stranger, but they did. There, much to the delight of Cruella DeVille, a marshal approached me.
        Identifying me, he handed me a certified letter. It was dated many months prior. Opening the letter I found my old Alaskan fisherman friend had past on. I was asked to appear within the year to an attorney's office in Alaska, which I was able to do with a friend's help and credit card. Turns out my simple, fishing friend wasn't so simple. He had owned one of the largest and most profitable fish cannery companies in the Alaska. He kindly had left half of it to me.
        I am writing this little story from the balcony of my newly remodeled Hawaiian condo overlooking the ocean. Replaying in my head, the tortured, and anguished cries of the evil minions back in the Dark Kingdom. Hearing them, painfully shrieking out their cries of woe, as they learned of my new and legally untouchable wealth. It is truly a lovely sound track for this year’s vacation in Hawaiian paradise.
        Faithful as always, I still owe the Great Apostasy four grand for my abandoned car. A debt, I that always hold as dear and unchanging as my promise to never again attempt to enter the great state of South Dakota, and this time, it seems like a great idea.

Word Count: 2,880