Author: Betsey Horton

STORY: Sneaking Out, Sneaking In

Posted on Posted in Bloody Mary's Bar, Short StoriesTagged , , , Leave a comment

The night I snuck out of Bloody Mary’s Bar was legendary. The night I snuck back in was even more so.

I was sitting at the bar, waiting for Tom after one of his more ridiculous dates. He had a lot to answer for. Duke had been watching me stew over his brother for some time and decided to interfere. When Tom finally came in, they pointed at me and laughed. Tom stood by the door, smirking at me like he owned the place. I knew he was inviting me to walk past him to leave, but I would not be played for a fool so easily.

I was sick of these men and their bullshit. I decided to take revenge. I reached into my purse and pulled out my lucky cigarette. I went out onto the back patio and waited for inspiration to strike. Suddenly, it came to me: I could climb the fence and sneak out the back.

My first few attempts to scale the fence were unsuccessful. I pushed a table up against the cooler and climbed on top. I was just a few inches too short to pull myself up.

“I wish some random man would appear to give me a lift.”

Luckily, right at that moment, some random man appeared to give me a lift.

He caught me standing on the table trying to pull myself up.

“What are you doing?” he asked. “Are you trying to sneak in?”

“Of course not!” I exclaimed. “I’m trying to sneak out! That old villain Tom showed up here tonight and I’m not having any of it! Do you think you could possibly assist me in my plight by giving me a lift?”

“Of course,” he said. I could tell by his expression that he was mesmerized. “What do you need me to do?”

“I just need to climb up on top of this cooler and down the back fence. All you need to do is lift me up by the legs so I can push myself up.”

He did what I asked immediately. Thanks to his help, I was finally able to climb on top of the cooler. I climbed down the other side of the fence and jumped down to the ground. I called out to the random man one last time.

“Thanks for your help!” I said. “Have a good night!”

“Say, just what was your name anyway?”

“Betsey Horton, Writer Extraordinaire.”

I laughed my ass off the entire walk home.

Sometime later, the novelty of standing by the door had faded and I still hadn’t returned from the patio.

“Where did Betsey go?” Tom asked. “I didn’t see her leave. Did you?”

“I’ll go check the patio,” said Duke. He checked the back room, the patio, and all the bathrooms. It appeared that I had suddenly vanished into thin air. When Duke came back, the expression on his face was mystified.

“She’s gone,” he said.

“That’s so weird,” said Tom. “Where did she go?”

To this day, I still laugh about it when I’m depressed and angry.

+++

The night I snuck back in, Duke was the bartender on duty. Tom and his friend were the only other people in the bar. I decided to go to Bloody Mary’s for one last drink before I had to abstain for Inipi. Unfortunately, the presence of these three villains prevented me from walking in.

They saw me standing in the doorway and decided to come outside. I booked it as fast as I could and hid around the corner. They stood outside, as if they were purposefully blocking so I could not come in.

Well, I’d had just about enough of these men and their bullshit. I would not be denied my favourite drink before attending a Life-Changing Spiritual Ceremony™. I decided to take revenge.

In less than a moment, inspiration struck me. I could sneak in the same way I had snuck out a year before. I walked around the block, through the alleyway, and over to the fence. I climbed up onto the cooler and jumped down on the patio.

“Parkour!” I said to one in particular.

I smirked to myself and walked into the bar. Duke was still outside. I took a seat in my usual spot and sat there waiting for him with the biggest smile on my face. When he finally came back inside and saw me sitting there, the look on his face was Priceless™.

“Hi there,” I said pleasantly as I tossed a fresh twenty on the counter. “I would like a Blue Moon with orange juice, please.”

Duke looked at me like I was the literal Anti-Christ. It was probably only because his family is Super Catholic™. They are so Catholic, I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s actually seen a real witch burned at the stake.

“How did you get in here?!” he demanded. “I need to know right now.”

I smiled at him again.

“Don’t worry about it,” I said.

Duke suddenly looked stressed out. He looked like he was about to have a panic attack. I have to admit, watching him freak the fuck out was really fun. I sincerely enjoyed every minute of it.

“Don’t mess with me,” he said. “If there’s a door unlocked, I need to know!”

I laughed at him.

“I didn’t come in through a door.”

“Then how the hell did you get in?!”

“Oh you know, just a bit of good, old-fashioned witchcraft.”

Duke’s eyes widened. For a moment, he looked like he was genuinely afraid of me. I looked forward to the moment when he finally realized that I was totally messing with him. There was no magic involved. I had just used my brain to outsmart him. Wasn’t it obvious?

“I’ll have a Blue Moon with orange juice, please. Extra oranges on the side.”

From that moment on, Duke never put oranges in my beer ever again.

STORY: The Owl

Posted on Posted in Bloody Mary's Bar, Short StoriesTagged , , Leave a comment

From the first moment I met the Owl, I knew there was an alien life form living inside of his brain. Though he appeared human on the outside, his disguise has never been enough to fool me. I am 100% convinced The Owl is, in fact, an alien from outer space, just like me.

While some aliens come to Earth to live a relatively peaceful, meaningless existence, the Owl was sent here with a purpose. He’s part of something big, something very few individuals know about. It’s only a matter of time until the great mystery begins to unfold. Then these stupid humans will finally discover the truth, a truth the Owl had predicted for years. A truth they had been blind to all along.

His perch at the bar is the perfect place to sit back and observe human behavior. He records their most interesting activities and sends the data back to the mothership. He’s never without one of his many communication transmission devices by his side. He wears special goggles around his eyes that contain state-of-the-art technology designed to produce optimum recording quality.

The Owl is definitely a legal alien. He’s been registered with the MIB for years and regularly gives them information. He acts as an intergalactic freelance spy. He passes the information he receives between his home planet, the US Government, and any other interested parties… but only for a price.

As the only other alien in my immediate vicinity, I seek the Owl out for advice regularly. I know his understanding of human behavior is very similar to mine. Though we are from completely different planets, neither of us is from Planet Earth. And that, at the end of the day, is the most important thing the two of us have in common.

STORY: The Frank Zappa Radio Takeover Hour

Posted on Posted in Novels, Short Stories, Travel TalesTagged , , , Leave a comment

GREEN RIVER, UTAH

After scanning the radio forever, I finally found a radio station featuring a variety of hip hop music. I was pleasantly surprised by the blend of mainstream, underground, and international artists. I’d never heard French rap on the radio anywhere but in France. Yet there I was in the middle of Utah, jamming out to IAM.

“Welcome back!” the DJ said. “This is the 24-Hour Hip Hop Radio Takeover! We’re playing nothing but hip hop for 24 hours in an effort to raise money for our own station. If you’d like to make a donation, call us now or visit us online!”

I was grateful to hear this news, especially from a radio station coming out of Colorado. Now I didn’t have to change the station the rest of the drive.

At the end of the hour, the DJ bid us adieu and a new voice came on in his stead. The voice was bright, bubbly, and squeaky AF. It was nervous, shy, young, naive. The girl it belonged to couldn’t have been a day over 19.

I didn’t recognize a single song in the next block. I could tell by the instrumentals and lyric patterns it had all been made in the last ten years. She was obviously into the underground stuff, whereas I was about as mainstream as one could get.

“Welcome back!” the new DJ said excitedly. “Guess what, everybody? We have a special guest here who stopped into the station to make a very generous donation! Um… I’m sorry. What did you say your name was again?”

“Frank Zappa.”

“That’s right! I’m sorry. Tell us what you do for a living, Mr. Zappa.”

“I’m a musician. Well, I was anyway. My days are over now. I was just passing through Colorado and wanted to see what the kids were listening to these days. I enjoyed this station so much, I decided to stop in and make a donation.”

“And we are very grateful for your donation. Tell everyone how much you donated.”

“Ten thousand dollars. That’s right! Ten grand. Nothing makes me happier than supporting young people’s love for music.”

“And we are very grateful for your support, sir. So you said you’re a musician. Have you ever had any hits on the radio?”

“Oh yes. A long time ago. A long, long time ago. It was decades before you were even born. I was a rock and roll legend. But you know, rock and roll would be nothing without the influence of jazz and blues, and that’s why I’m so thrilled to support the hip hop community today.”

“I’m sorry I haven’t heard of you before. I don’t really listen to much rock and roll. It doesn’t, um, speak to my experience the way hip hop does.”

“It’s all right, sweetie. We all have different tastes. That’s what makes the world such a great place. So tell me, what inspired your playlist selection tonight?”

“Ummm… I guess I wasn’t thinking about it. I was just playing some of my childhood favourites.”

Both Frank Zappa and I felt old at the exact same time. How I longed to hear some early-to-mid 90’s West Coast gangsta rap to make me feel young again. They chatted on the radio for a few minutes longer before returning to the music.

Sometime later, I was relaying this story to my extended family at a holiday dinner.

“Are you making this up right now?” my uncle asked me.

“No, of course not. I really heard Frank Zappa take over a college hip hop radio station.”

“Betsey… Frank Zappa has been dead for over twenty years.”

I was stunned.

“Seriously?”

“Uh, yeah. Everyone knows that.”

I rolled my eyes. Nothing annoyed me more than people who acted intellectually superior to others just because they had different musical tastes.

“Well, I didn’t know that. I’m like the girl in the story. I don’t listen to that stuff. Obviously, I prefer pop, rap, reggae, and jazz.”

“Maybe it was an impersonator,” said my first cousin.

“Maybe it was his son,” suggested my second.

“Maybe it was a practical joke,” said my dad. “That check was probably fake.”

“Whoever it was, it was not Frank Zappa.”

“How do you know?” I asked. “Maybe his spirit likes to travel around and hand out cash to young people struggling to make it in the music industry.”

“You know, I can see actually that.”

We debated the mysterious donor’s identity for a few minutes longer before the conversation moved on. To this day, I still get chills down my spine whenever I think of Frank Zappa’s Radio Takeover.

STORY: The Adventures of Betsey and The Grape Ape

Posted on Posted in Personal Narrative, Short Stories, Travel TalesTagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , Leave a comment

GRAND JUNCTION, COLORADO

The drive across Utah was long and tedious, but I refused to give up until I crossed the border into Colorado. By the time I reached Grand Junction, I was about ready to crash.

The next morning, I asked the guy at the front desk if he knew where the closest dispensary was.

“For what?” he asked stupidly.

“For puppies, of course! Is there any other kind of dispensary?”

He laughed weakly.

“Sorry,” he said. “I’m not really into that stuff.”

I knew he was telling the truth when he directed me to a head shop instead. As it turns out, the closest dispensary was an hour or two down the highway. I hopped back in my Jeep and headed straight for Kush Gardens. After three weeks of overwhelming anxiety, I couldn’t make it there fast enough.

When I pulled into the parking lot, I practically kissed the ground. I waited for what seemed like an eternity. When they finally called my number, I approached the counter in a rush.

“Are you okay?” the budtender asked. “You seem really stressed out.”

“I am really stressed out,” I replied. “I’ve been on the road for months. I’m so happy to finally be back in Colorado.”

“Colorado is pretty great. You should totally move here. We’re a really rich state right now. Business is booming!”

“I should move to Colorado,” I said. “The only problem is that I’d never want to leave.”

The way she smiled at me made me feel like Odysseus in the Land of the Lotus Eaters.

“Then don’t,” she said hypnotically. “You could stay here and get a job at a dispensary. It’s actually pretty easy. They train you and everything.”

“Don’t tempt me. I’m a writer. I’d love every minute of it.”

“Oh, you’re a writer, huh? Are you looking for something to boost your creativity?”

“Definitely. Something to help me write and something to help me chill the fuck out.”

“I’ve got just the thing!”

She pulled out a jar from beneath the counter and handed me a pair of chopsticks. I picked up a big nug and took a whiff. I didn’t know very much about the Science of Marijuana, but I did know whatever this was smelled great.

“This strain here is called The Grape Ape,” she said. “It’s a nice, relaxing indica. Perfect for relieving all that anxiety. You’ll be worry-free in no time!”

I nodded and smiled politely as she continued rambling on about crossbreeding and THC content and all that other scientific shit. I didn’t understand a word she was saying.

“Sounds good,” I said quickly. “I’ll take it. What about something for creativity?”

She pulled a couple more strain options for me to peruse. I sniffed the flower samples as she began her presentation on edibles.

“These here are new,” she said, handing me a container of lemon-flavoured lozenges. “We just got them in. Just take one before bed and you’ll go right to sleep. They make one for daytime use as well.”

“Hmm,” I said, looking over the package with my eyebrow raised. “I haven’t tried anything like this before. I tend to stay away from them.”

“Really?” she asked. “I personally prefer them. They don’t give you that anxiety like smoking does.”

I knew she could tell I wasn’t convinced, but she had to make the sale.

“Tell you what,” she said. “I’ll give you both flowers, throw in the edibles, and charge you for a quad.”

“Done,” I said, throwing my cash on the counter. This was exactly why I preferred a dispensary to the average, run-of-the-mill drug dealer. I always knew exactly what I w as getting and I always got a good deal.

I left the dispensary happy and stashed my souvenirs in the back. I headed to the nearest gas station to fill up my tank and pick up some papers. I parked my car in the lot behind the station and cracked open the container of Grape Ape. I rolled myself a joint and reclined my seat. I closed my eyes and began to inhale. For the first time in weeks, I was finally able to relax.

When I opened my eyes again, a bright purple animated gorilla was sitting in the passenger seat next to me.

“You must be The Grape Ape,” I said.

“You must be Betsey.”

“Are you real?”

“Are you?”

“Uhhh… I’m not sure. Maybe.”

“What is Real anyway? What does that word even mean? Reality is completely subjective to every individual on the planet. It’s based on one’s own individual experience, not on anything concrete. What’s real to you might not be real to me. The world itself might not even be real. For all we know, we could be living in The Matrix.”

“That’s so deep,” I said, passing the joint over to the cartoon character next to me.

“Damn,” he said, taking a few puffs before passing it back. “This is some good shit, man. I’m high as fuck.”

“Me too.”

We sat in the car listening to rap music until the joint was halfway gone. I decided I was high enough and stashed it away for later.

“So what should we do now?” I asked.

“The same thing you always do. Eat a snack, go on a random adventure, and take a nap.”

I took the right Twix and he took the left. Once we had satisfied our munchies, we headed to a nearby mountain trail to take a hike. I grabbed my yoga mat and the two of us climbed up to the overlook. I did yoga on the mountaintop while the Grape Ape frolicked in a field nearby.

When we returned to the car, the Grape Ape opted to climb a tree and swing from a branch while I took a power nap in the backseat.

When I woke up again, I realized I was nowhere near where I was supposed to be. I’d planned to be in Denver by nightfall, but I was still on the completely opposite side of the state.

I drove until it was dark and I was 10,000 feet in the air. Driving through the mountains made me nervous, especially with all the semis on the road. The combination of my anxiety and the altitude was making it impossible to breathe.

Somewhere around Copper Mountain, I heard a voice inside my head telling me to stop. It didn’t belong to the Grape Ape, but it was familiar to me nonetheless. I stopped at the ski village and got myself a room for the night.

“All of our rooms are strictly non-smoking,” the front desk attendant said. I was used to hearing this spiel by now. “That includes marijuana. If you’d like to partake, please do so outdoors.”

Much to my surprise and delight, my room was “Native American themed.” I looked around to see which tribes were represented throughout the room. The pattern on the blankets was Diné (Navajo). The portraits on the walls were Lakota. The miscellaneous trinkets provided for decor were Comanche, Apache, Hopi, Crow. The soaps provided were handmade from real sweet grass by real Natives on a real Reservation.

I knew my spirit guides had sent me to this room on purpose. To me, it was a sign that all was well in the world and everything would be okay. It seemed like every time I encountered a difficulty on my trip, the Natives showed up in some way to help me. This was not the first time, nor would it be the last.

I took some time to freshen up before I set out to explore the ski village. It was completely dead, but it was also a Sunday night in late October. The shops were all closed down and the streets eerily silent. My only company was the Grape Ape.

We sat on a picnic table by the lake and toked up again. We sat together in silence, gazing into the reflection of the colorfully-lit trees on the lake. In the darkness, it made a perfect mirror image.

“What is the meaning of life?” I wondered aloud in typical stoner fashion.

“Fuck if I know,” replied the Grape Ape. “I’m just a big purple animated gorilla.”

“True.”

“To be honest, I don’t think there is one. I think we’re all just here to make the most of life and have a good time.”

“That sounds about right,” I said.

“Your problem is that you worry too much. You just need to chill out.”

“Easy for you to say. You’re just a big purple animated gorilla.”

“True.”

“Nobody expects you to be anything but what you are. Most of the time I feel like everyone wants me to be someone else. They just refuse to accept me for who I am. It’s like no matter what I do, I’m never going to be good enough. The criticism from my family is constant. It drives me crazy.”

The Grape Ape nodded along in empathetic silence.

“It’s just like… maybe I don’t want to get some oppressive office job and climb the corporate ladder. Maybe I just want to wait tables, be a bartender, and write a novel.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“There’s nothing wrong with that!” I exclaimed. “I was happy at my last job in Vermtown. I loved working at the Chinese restaurant. Maybe it wasn’t always glamorous, but it was a job I could stand. I was so upset when my psychopath of an ex-boss freaked out and fired me in the middle of my shift. I worked my ass off! I was there almost 40 hours a week, by my own choice. I was the one picking up the slack when the college students came in with their excuses. They had to hire THREE new people to replace me, and then the restaurant closed down anyway.

“Not one person in my family understood how upset I was. All they cared about was my sister’s stupid wedding. I was supposed to go on the family trip that weekend but I was so distraught over suddenly losing my job that I didn’t want to leave my apartment. Every single one of them acted like it was no big deal and called me a selfish bitch for missing the trip. I still haven’t heard the end of it. That was my life! That was my job! And I lost it because the owner was an emotionally unstable asshole on the brink of divorce.”

“Is that why you ran away?”

“Yes. That and… other reasons. I don’t even want to think about that right now. Let’s just say the last place in the world I want to be right now is Vermtown.”

“Then why are you going back?”

“I have no idea. I should have taken the money and gone down to New Orleans instead. I’ve never been there. I hear it’s fun, especially if you’re a writer.”

“If you’d done that then you wouldn’t be here.”

“That’s true. I am pretty grateful to legally be high as a fucking kite right now.”

“Have another toke,” said the Grape Ape as he passed the joint back to me. “Chill out. Relax. Take a deep breath of that fresh Colorado mountain air and enjoy those beautiful lights.”

“I can’t. I’m too stressed out now.”

The Grape Ape reached out and took my hand in his.

“I know just what you need. Follow me.”

We walked back to my building and headed down the first floor hallway to the spa. It was still open for another two hours.

“You’re a genius.”

“I know.”

I ran up to my room and changed into the appropriate attire. When I returned, the other two guests inside were just packing up to leave. Within five minutes, I had the place all to myself.

I climbed into the jacuzzi and watched as the snow began to fall outside. I felt myself beginning to get stressed out again at the thought of driving on those treacherous mountain roads in the ice and snow.

“Relax,” said the Grape Ape. “It’s just a light dusting. You’ll make it out of Colorado without any further problems.”

I sat in the jacuzzi for a few minutes longer. Suddenly I remembered an article I’d once read in Cosmo about a woman who contracted an STD from a hot tub while on vacation. I wondered to myself how many germs and diseases were floating around before climbing out.

“You’re freaking out over nothing again,” said the Grape Ape. “The water has chlorine in it. It’s no different than swimming in a public pool.”

“I think I’m going to try the sauna instead.”

“That’s a good idea. The steam and the sweat will be therapeutic. It’ll be just like Inipi.”

I adjusted the dial and the sauna and tried my best to get the fake rocks to steam. Nothing happened. I just felt like I was in the desert again.

“How’s it going?” the Grape Ape asked as he wandered in and sat down across from me.

“This is nothing like Inipi,” I said.

“I think there’s something wrong with this thing. There’s no steam coming out.”

“Never send a machine to do a medicine man’s job.”

I returned to my room and took a regular, old-fashioned bath instead. There I had my sage, my sweet grass, my tobacco, my pot. I smudged myself and sweat out the stress. This was exactly what I needed all along.

When I got out of the bath, the Grape Ape had wandered away. I found myself alone again. I got in bed and studied the portraits of the Lakota warriors on the wall until I finally fell asleep.

In the morning I woke up to the sight of freshly fallen snow. I made a cup of instant coffee and gazed at the mountains outside of my window. It was one of the most beautiful sights I’d ever seen.

Somewhere far off in the distance, I could see the Grape Ape jumping around excitedly and waving his arms at me. For the first time in weeks, I finally found myself completely at peace.

—–

Disclaimer: No, I did not literally see a big purple animated gorilla when I was high in Colorado. That’s not what marijuana does to your brain. I invented this character for the sake of storytelling purposes only.

In case you need it spelled out for you, The Grape Ape is a metaphor for a strain of marijuana which provides relief from anxiety and depression. As a person who has suffered from mental illness for most of my life, I am a strong proponent of the use of medicinal marijuana as a natural alternative to pharmaceuticals.

If you would like more information about the Grape Ape and other medicinal marijuana strains, please visit leafly.com. For more information about Kush Gardens, please visit kgcolorado.com.

STORY: Taco Belle

Posted on Posted in Short Stories, Travel TalesTagged , , , 1 Comment

OMAHA, NEBRASKA — After I dropped my brother off at the airport, I decided to make the most of my trip to Omaha and find something fun to do. I started by hot boxing my car in the parking lot of a nearby Taco Bell.

To the surprise of no one, I completely lost it when I approached the counter to order. The cashier laughed along with me. I could tell by the look in his eye that he wanted to hit me up for a smoke break.

I ordered my tacos and sat down at a nearby table. Just as I was about to open a notebook, an old woman approached me. She had the look of a person who had aged rapidly due to drug use. She was shaking and seemed confused. I tried to avoid her with my eyes, but I knew in my heart our conversation was close at hand. I looked down at her shoes instead. She was wearing the most fabulous pair of strappy sandals I had ever seen.

“I like your shoes,” I said sweetly.

“Aww, thanks honey,” she said. “I’ve had these for years! I have so many shoes, I don’t know what to do with myself!”

“I know exactly what you mean.”

She looked at the hot pink stilettos on my feet and smiled.

“I like your shoes too!” she exclaimed. “We have a lot in common!”

She sat down with me at the table immediately. I gave her a taco in exchange for her story.

“So how’s your day going?” I asked.

“I need to take my medicine,” she said desperately. “I have to get over to the clinic to get my medicine.”

For as many attempts as I made to steer the conversation elsewhere, her focus remained on her medicine. I suddenly understood the predicament I was in.

“Can you give me a ride to the clinic?” she asked feebly. “I have to take my medicine. It’s just around the block. Up the street, through the intersection, two buildings past the light.”

I nodded at her slowly, accepting the situation sadly.

“Yes,” I said. “I can take you to the clinic.”

She wrote down her address in my notebook so I could mail her a pair of shoes. As it turns out, we wore the exact same size! We agreed to set up a shoe exchange as she climbed into my car.

“It’s just past this light,” she said. “The clinic, that is. It’s that building! Right there! Turn here, turn here!”

I turned where she pointed and parked in the lot outside the clinic. I wasn’t exactly sure what she was on, but whatever it was was both legal and well-regulated by the pharmaceutical industry.

STORY: The Haunted Highway

Posted on Posted in Short Stories, Travel TalesTagged , , , , , , , , , , 1 Comment

ROSEBUD, SOUTH DAKOTA — Sometime after midnight, I passed over into the Rosebud Reservation. The Pow Wow music had long since faded into static and the stars the only source of light on the road.

Highway 18 spans the southern length of South Dakota and passes through three Indian reservations. It is notorious for being haunted by trickster spirits, especially along the Rosebud Reservation. I could have turned West and stayed in Hot Springs for the night, but I decided to try my luck with the spirits instead. I wanted to see if I could get a vision.

I’d heard stories about Highway 18 since I started researching Wounded Knee. I was especially warned about the area I was passing through now. Cars were always breaking down at random, and it was the last place you wanted to be stranded at night.

My first source had her first highway encounter as a teenager. One night, she and her best friend were out smoking and driving. A tall, shadowy figure with evil eyes crossed the road in front of them. They screamed and slammed on the breaks, but the figure disappeared. After collecting their composure, they drove straight home and didn’t leave the house again.

My second source was driving down the highway when she spotted a crying child alone on the side of the road. When she stopped to ask him where his parents were, the little boy didn’t say a word. He only looked into her with his strange eyes. The woman put him in the backseat and drove to the police station. When she parked the car and turned around, the little boy was gone.

A third source recalled the night he was almost lured off the road while drunkenly stumbling home. The lights beckoned to him, motioning to follow them into an abandoned farmhouse far off the road. He shook his head and refused their call. He decided to play it safe and passed out in the ditch beside the road instead.

Much to my simultaneous relief and disappointment, I had yet to meet any spirits on the road. Unfortunately, my energy was fading fast. I knew there was nowhere to stay on the Rez when I came here, but I decided to go for it when the last motel I passed in Nebraska had MURDER written all over it. I noped right out of that one, much preferring the company of a few trickster spirits over Nebraska’s very own Norman Bates.

In spite of my exhaustion, I decided to press on. I knew my vision was close at hand. I lit another cigarette and rolled the windows down to give my head a lift. I checked the mirrors behind me. No other cars were on the road and I hadn’t passed any in some time. The nearest town was miles out of the way; more like a collection of trailer houses than actual place.

I was all alone late at night in the middle of nowhere on a poverty-stricken Indian Reservation. Yet I felt safer than I had in a long time. Maybe burning all that sage and sweetgrass beforehand was more effective than I thought.

The road in front of me began to twinkle and blur. The wheels of my car swerved further to the right. I was just beginning to nod off when suddenly a bright white light appeared before me. I snapped awake just in time to slam on the breaks. The ball of light exploded in a flash and transformed into a crow taking flight on the road in front of me. It looked at me for just a moment before disappearing into the night.

When I recovered from the shock, I noticed the lights of a gas station flickering close by. It wasn’t there before, but I drove up to it anyway. It looked like it had been abandoned for years. To be honest, I wasn’t even sure it was real. For all I knew, I was being lured into a trap by a trickster spirit. It was no matter. If it was some kind of elaborate death trap, it was a good day to die.

An abandoned gas station on the Rez wasn’t exactly my first choice for a safe place to stay, but it wasn’t giving me MURDER vibes either. Under the circumstances, it would have to do. I resolved to take a short power nap and stop again in a more populated location.

I offered the spirits some tobacco and asked for protection. I left an open bag of chips outside of the car as an offering and smudged with sage again. I crawled into the backseat of my Jeep into my cocoon of blankets. As soon as my head hit the pillow, I was fast asleep.

—

The old tribal cop pulled up to the gas station and looked around. No bodies on the ground, two vehicles in the lot. The first, a semi truck with the driver fast asleep inside. The second, a Jeep he had seen only once before. The cop looked at the bumper sticker on the rear and contemplated “The End.”

His suspicions were confirmed as soon as he ran the plates. So, the Wašíču writer had remained a loyal ally after all. He knew she was a keeper when he met her at Wounded Knee. But what the hell was she doing here at this time of night?

The cop wondered if the vehicle was stolen and decided to investigate. The name RUSSELL flashed across his badge as he climbed out of the car. He checked on the semi again before approaching the Jeep with caution. He put his hand on his gun, his heart pounding as he crept closer.

He looked through the window and gasped. Asleep in the back was the same beautiful young woman he had met before. Accompanying her was a wild assortment of her belongings. She looked like she had been living out of her car for sometime.

The cop shook his head. He didn’t know what she was doing out here, but he knew she had to be protected. Now he understood why he’d suddenly been called all the way out here at this time of night.

He picked up the tobacco and bag of chips off the ground, then returned to his vehicle to keep watch. He kicked the seat back and put his boot heels up on the dash, singing to himself softly as he ate his snack and smoked his pipe.

—

When I woke up again, I saw the cop car and panicked immediately. I didn’t even take the time to consider who or what I was seeing. I made sure my souvenirs from Colorado were stashed safely In the back and hopped back in the front seat. I took off flying across the reservation and didn’t look back. The cop car followed me until I crossed the border, then suddenly vanished into thin air.

STORY: Jancita Eagle Deer

Posted on Posted in Short Stories, Travel TalesTagged , , , , , , , , , , , , Leave a comment

The sun was just beginning to set as I rolled into the reservation. I stopped at the gas station to refill my tank, taking a moment to study my surroundings.

Traffic whizzed through the intersection. A family of four piled into an old station wagon with Pow Wow gear stashed in the back. Two rez dogs sat outside on the corner like Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back. To a well-trained eye, everything appeared to be completely normal.

I finished pumping the gas and walked inside to pay. The walls were decorated with a mural of Paha Sapa (the Black Hills) and the bathrooms were labeled in Lakota. The fliers on the bulletin board advertised church services, drum circles, and addiction support groups.

The voice on the radio encouraged residents to join him at the community center this weekend for a family event day. There was going to be an ice cream social, live entertainment, even a moonbounce for the kids. It sounded like a great time. If I hadn’t known any better, I would have forgotten I was practically standing in a third world country.

Three women stood at the counter, one of them still breastfeeding her child. Their lively chatter stopped as I approached them. They stared at me judgmentally. I was probably the first Wašíču they had seen in weeks.

“Híŋhaŋni wašté!” I said cheerfully, lying my cash out on the counter. “How are you today?”

The woman behind the counter said nothing. It was practically impossible to place the expression on her face. I realized it was quite possible she hadn’t understood me one bit.

“Pump five, please,” I continued.

The woman looked at the cash on the counter and back at me before punching in the keys on the register. Her eyes motioned to the total on the screen. I sorted out the money and she gave me the appropriate change. The other two women continued to stare at me silently.

“Thank you!” I chirped brightly. “Have a good evening!”

As I turned to go, one of the women stopped me in my tracks.

“Are you traveling through here alone?” she asked.

“I’ve been traveling alone for as long as I can remember.”

She looked at me and nodded her head knowingly.

“Stay safe out there,” she said quietly.

“Thank you.”

I looked around behind me as I walked back to my car, ever vigilant of my surroundings. I saw a few more people staring at me, but no one who made me feel particularly uncomfortable. I hopped back into my Jeep and headed East on Highway 18. The sun was just behind the horizon now, and I still had to drive the rest of the night.

I first encountered the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation in a Native American History class my first semester at the University of South Dakota. The second time was my last semester, when I chose the 1973 Occupation of Wounded Knee as my research topic for a Historiography paper.

This was my third visit to the Rez in the two years since graduation. It seemed like everything I’d learned was only now starting to sink in. Thanks to my white privilege, I knew very little about Natives and even less about their history. Everything I thought I knew was just a carefully crafted lie to make the patriarchy look good on paper.

The history of Natives in the United States is a long and difficult one. The plight of the Oglala Lakota is particularly tragic. As it is not my job to whitesplain to you what happened, I urge you to take the time to learn their history from the people themselves.

What I can tell you is that the research I undertook for my project fundamentally changed me as a person. I suppose nobody who ever willingly immerses themselves in another culture ever really comes out the same, but for me the change happened on a deeply spiritual level.

To be honest, I expected that. That’s why I was there. I wanted to be transformed. Everyone knows the only way a rich white person can become spiritually enlightened is by hanging out with poor people of color.

I bet if I really tried to be an asshole, I could go on for pages about how much the Native American Indians taught me. I really learned how to embrace my 1/18th Cherokee Princess heritage, you guys. I even have my own Indian name. It’s Makes Fun of Privileged White People Who Pretend to Be NDN. You can just call me Sounds Like Asshole for short.

Truth be told, I decided to research Wounded Knee because my first topic fell through. Then I figured, since I was in South Dakota, I might as well learn some more about Native Americans. Since Historiography is the radical idea that there’s more than one version of history, it seemed like the Native perspective was the best way to go.

So, I got an internship at the South Dakota Oral History Center, checked out a bunch of books and DVDs from the library, and settled in to learn about that one time a group of militant Indians literally took over the tiny little town where their ancestors were mercilessly slaughtered and held it in a standoff with the US Government for 73 days.

You wanna talk about multiple versions of history? Oh boy. I can honestly say that I never heard the same version of that story twice. It seemed like everyone had something to say about Wounded Knee, especially the people who weren’t even there.

The experience of researching the paper was definitely better than the paper itself. I had a lot of trouble cramming everything I was learning into just 20 pages. It just seemed like it was a better idea for a book. There were so many equally fascinating people to interview, so many interesting and unique characters. It was impossible to know where to start and when to stop.

Truth be told, it wasn’t my best work, but I did the best I could under the difficult circumstances. It’s clear that while I went well beyond the bounds of what’s traditionally considered academically “appropriate,” I definitely did all of my research. Sometimes you have to think outside the box when approaching a new historical narrative.

Professor White Male Privilege, however, did not feel the same way. This was how The Controversy started.

While I agree with his criticism of my overreliance on one secondary source for summarization purposes, I do not agree with his mansplaination of why the source itself was inappropriate.

The source in question was a book called “In the Spirit of Crazy Horse” by Peter Matthiessen. My professor believed the using a source written from the Native American “point of view” about Native American people on a Native American reservation fighting for Native American civil rights was “bad history.” It was overly biased, you see. Unlike traditional Western history, which is told exclusively from the point of view of rich, white males and focuses solely on their achievements at the expense of just about everyone else.

“Is this not the entire point of Historiography?” I implored. “To show that there is no one perfect version of the story because everyone has their own point of view?”

“Yes…”

“Then wouldn’t you say I understood the assignment quite well? I studied one event through multiple perspectives and biases. It looks to me like I completed the assignment.”

“No,” the professor said, “And I’ll tell you why. You didn’t do your research. This source is unreliable.”

“All of the sources are unreliable,” I said. “That’s the entire point. You are the person who told me to use this source in the first place.”

“I told you that the author of this book was sued by my close, personal friend, Governor Bill Janklow.”

“You also told me to check out a box of Janklow’s personal papers from Special Collections and ‘decide for myself’ what I thought about the lawsuit. That’s exactly what I did.”

“So why did you use the source?” he asked angrily.

“You failed to mention that Janklow’s lawsuit was dismissed multiple times in multiple courts in multiple states because of the First Amendment.

“You also failed to mention that the subject of the dispute was a woman named Jancita Eagle Deer. She was only sixteen years old when Janklow drove her out into a field and raped her. He gave her $20 for babysitting his kids and dropped her back off at school where she belonged. She gave the money away without a second thought and left the Rosebud Reservation forever.

“By the time the American Indian Movement tracked her down, Janklow had moved on from scamming Natives and was running for public office. Jancita Eagle Deer came forward with her story. The media tore her apart. Before the election, she was mysteriously killed in a car accident. When her mother tried to seek justice for Jancita’s murder, she was found beaten to death. Both murders remain unsolved to this day.

“This story appeared in multiple sources. Sources that didn’t gain nearly as much media attention as Crazy Horse. Sources that Bill Janklow didn’t file high-profile lawsuits against. To me, that doesn’t sound like the behavior of someone who’s innocent.

“I’m not saying it’s a perfect book. Sure, there’s a lot of shady stuff in there about Leonard Peltier, but who even knows what’s really going on with that guy anyway? My paper clearly didn’t have enough pages to open up THAT can of worms.

“I made a judgment call based on my own research. I spent hours in Special Collections pouring over Bill Janklow’s personal papers. It looked to me like there was plenty of proof Jancita Eagle Deer was telling the truth.”

“Listen,” he said impatiently. “Bill Janklow was a friend of mine. He would never do anything like that.”

“We are talking about the same Bill Janklow who killed a motorcyclist in a drunk driving accident outside of Trent, South Dakota, yes?”

“That was different!”

“I’m sure it was,” I said dryly. “Listen, I’m not actually from here. I’m from Washington, D.C. I had literally never heard of Bill Janklow before I started this project. I don’t have any kind of personal or political agenda against him. All I know is that everyone, literally everyone, I’ve talked to has said he was a crook. Even people who liked him say he was a crook! It’s not exactly difficult for me believe a guy like that raped a sixteen year old girl.”

“I don’t know what proof you think you have, but I’m not accepting this as legitimate source material.”

“Look,” I said tiredly. “I know what it feels like to be raped. It’s happened to me before. I know what it feels like to have your story and your feelings dismissed while everyone is shouting in your ears and shining the spotlight in your eyes. The transcript of her interrogation reads just like mine.”

At this, he was infuriated.

“You’re wrong!” he shouted angrily, and promptly started spamming my inbox with his own “evidence.” Needless to say, I wasn’t convinced by the stream of testimony from Janklow’s family and “friends” proclaiming his innocence.

After reporting my professor’s inappropriate behavior to my academic adviser, we both decided not to waste any more time on him with a hearing and move on with our lives. I just wanted to graduate, and she understood. She confided in me that I was not the first female student to file a complaint against him, and she was confident I would not be the last. It was only a matter of time before he brought himself down.

When I got the C+ back on my transcript, I knew it was personal. That was when I learned everyone really does have their own version of history. I thought of the professor’s smirk at graduation and sighed. It all seemed so far away now.

I thought to myself that if I ever wrote a book about my adventures out here in the West, I’d dedicate it to her. So I said a prayer for Jancita Eagle Deer and turned my attention back to the road.

STORY: Chocolate Milk

Posted on Posted in Short Stories, Travel TalesTagged , , , Leave a comment

VICTORVILLE, CALIFORNIA – I sat in the lobby of the cheap, seedy, run-down motel, patiently waiting for the front desk guy to get off the phone. I’d once again managed to lock myself out of my room in my rush to pick up a forty from the gas station across the street.

I heard the door chime and looked up to see what sort of character had wandered in. The man was tall, skinny, and strung-out as fuck. I guessed from the way he was twitching that he was high on meth. He took a moment to survey to room slowly before zoning in on me and wandering over. The front desk guy raised his eyebrow at me. I could tell we were both thinking the same thing.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey.”

He looked around to make sure the walls weren’t listening and leaned in to share his knowledge with me.

“You wanna know the secret?” he asked.

“What secret?”

“You know…” I wasn’t sure if he was winking at me or if his eye was just twitching a lot. “The Secret…

“Ohhh,” I said, stalling for time as I reached for my notebook and pen. “The Secret. The Secret to Life, the Universe, and Everything?”

“No. The Other Secret.”

I looked up at him with my pen poised ready in hand.

“Spill.”

He continued nodding at me for a few minutes before his eyes suddenly became wide and glossy.

“You wanna know the secret?” he drawled again. “The secret… is chocolate milk.”

“What?”

“Chocolate milk,” he repeated. “It’s chocolate milk! Chocolate milk! Cha-co-lette milk.”

“Chocolate milk?” I raised my eyebrow skeptically.

“That’s right. Chocolate milk. I work out on the oil fields, see? When me and my buddies are working out there 97 hours a week, chocolate milk is the only thing getting me through.”

“I believe you.”

“If you think about it, it makes a lot of sense,” he said reasonably. “It’s tasty, nutritious, and cost-effective. You can just get a whole big gallon of it as the gas station for just three-ninety-nine.”

“That’s amazing!”

He looked around shiftily and took out a small bottle of Tru Moo from his pocket. He took a quick swig before showing me the details on the package.

“Now see, this one here is pint-sized. Portable. Perfect for on-the-go. I got this one awhile ago for about a dollar twenty nine. I just refill it from the big one I got in my fridge at home.”

“Where do you live?” I asked.

“Somewhere over there,” he said, motioning in the direction of the setting sun over the hill. “I’m just out for my evening walk.”

“That’s lovely,” I said.

Suddenly, my new friend whipped his head around and stared in horror at the wall behind him. He started sweating and his eyes began bugging out.

“They’re here!” he hissed. “They’re listening in on me again. I can’t let them know. I have to protect the secret.”

“You go,” I said dramatically. “I’ll stay here and hold them off until you can get away. I won’t let them know the secret. I’ll fight to protect it to the death.”

He gave me a creepy, twisted smile and bolted out the front door. Luckily, right at that moment, the front desk guy got off the phone.

“Sorry about that,” he said. “That guy comes in here all the time. He’s a tweaker. My apologies if he was bothering you.

“It’s okay,” I said. “He wasn’t bothering me at all. I’m a writer. I got a good story out of it.”

“Is there anything else I can do for you, Miss?”

“As a matter of fact, there is,” I said, promptly getting back to business. “I’ve locked myself out of my room again…”

Sometime later, I was shopping in the dairy aisle at the grocery store when I heard his voice calling to me again.

“The secret… is chocolate milk. It’s the only thing that keeps you going when you’re out there working 97 hours a week.”

I picked up a gallon immediately. To this day, when you see me sitting outside my apartment with a red solo cup in hand, there’s a 99% chance I’m drinking chocolate milk.