I saw that the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation
out in South Dakota recently voted to allow the sale of liquor. It’s the least bad of two bad options, I
suppose. For decades tribal elders have
sought to keep the curse in abeyance, but. . . .
A few years back, I was crossing this
same reservation. Although I have been
on many Indian reservations it’s always a shock when I enter the Third World. Most folks, I’m sure, are not prepared for
what they encounter when they stray onto virtually any “rez” in the West.
Straddling the Pine Ridge Reservation
to the south in Nebraska is a squalid collection of shacks and huts. Since the
tribal leadership would previously not allow the sale of liquor on the
reservation, wily entrepreneurs set up shop just yards away to supply the
demand. The scene looks like something right out of Africa or Bangladesh, with
a hopeless cast of derelicts, drunks and beggars slowly milling about.
Although there was not much traffic
on the small road I passed over, few of these long-haired people bothered to
even glance up as I passed. Some were gathered around a large barrel with a
fire in it, trying to keep warm on this bone-chilling day. Everyone, women
included, seemed clad in dirty, greasy denim that had the look as though it had
been slept in a hundred times or more. The clouds above were cold and gray, the
land below was cold and gray, and the beings caught somewhere in between seemed
cold and gray.
As I passed, a scrubbed and polished white man was just getting out of his SUV and with rather wide eyes he was walking up to a group of these gray red men and red women. Perhaps he was from Europe-–for there was that certain something about him--and had never seen Indians before and was excited about this, his first encounter. Perhaps he was coming to these people to learn of their religion and their soaring spirituality and deep mysticism and discover from them the true meaning of life. If that was the script, then I can safely guarantee that even if the white man did not find the spirit he sought this day, after his first $5 donation, his hosts did.
This sordid jumble of shacks, officially known as White Clay, has another name. In fact, it has several of them. At dawn, before the doors open, it's called "Jittersville." In the afternoon, it's known as "Party Town." After the sun goes down, it's name is "Oblivion City." With four of its five business establishments pumping poison, this greasy spot in the road, population 22, is responsible for several million dollars in sales per anum.
Deep into the reservation matters improved somewhat, but not much. Several times I saw five or six modular homes clumped together, as if wagons circled for protection. "Neighborhood Watch," the signs read. In Sitting Bull's day, a hundred and fifty years ago, the mark of wealth was how many ponies a man owned. Today, the symbol of poverty seems the number of junked cars in one's yard. I did see a young man riding his horse at a trot near the road. By his smile and the look of pure joy spread across his face, he seemed this day to be very rich indeed.
As I passed, a scrubbed and polished white man was just getting out of his SUV and with rather wide eyes he was walking up to a group of these gray red men and red women. Perhaps he was from Europe-–for there was that certain something about him--and had never seen Indians before and was excited about this, his first encounter. Perhaps he was coming to these people to learn of their religion and their soaring spirituality and deep mysticism and discover from them the true meaning of life. If that was the script, then I can safely guarantee that even if the white man did not find the spirit he sought this day, after his first $5 donation, his hosts did.
This sordid jumble of shacks, officially known as White Clay, has another name. In fact, it has several of them. At dawn, before the doors open, it's called "Jittersville." In the afternoon, it's known as "Party Town." After the sun goes down, it's name is "Oblivion City." With four of its five business establishments pumping poison, this greasy spot in the road, population 22, is responsible for several million dollars in sales per anum.
Deep into the reservation matters improved somewhat, but not much. Several times I saw five or six modular homes clumped together, as if wagons circled for protection. "Neighborhood Watch," the signs read. In Sitting Bull's day, a hundred and fifty years ago, the mark of wealth was how many ponies a man owned. Today, the symbol of poverty seems the number of junked cars in one's yard. I did see a young man riding his horse at a trot near the road. By his smile and the look of pure joy spread across his face, he seemed this day to be very rich indeed.
______________________________________________
After my last post on “Lusty
Lesters,” little did I imagine that the thick rubber gloves I spoke of when
going hands-on with these steaming dog piles, aka beach perverts, might be needed
so soon by myself.
Yesterday, I had stopped to take a
blow and flatten out on a bench at Indian Mound on my half-way home sweat stop. It was the rarest of all days on Lemon Bay as
there was absolutely no other humanoids in the park save some old character who
was snooping through a garbage can. All
else were sea gulls and shore birds.
Just as I shed my shirt and bandanna
and prepared to flop on the bench, I looked over across the park to see the
same trash snoop now seated on a picnic table under a shelter. He was looking my way. I’m not paranoid but of the 360 degrees on a
compass that a person can face, when it is the one degree you occupy of that
compass that they stare at, you begin to wonder.
Sure as hell, I had not been lying
there five minutes when I was startled by a “hi.” Of course, I looked up to see this stereotypical
perv face—gray skin, gray stubble, thinning gray hair, poochy, saggy face--smiling
down from his bike. Reflexively, I
managed a “hello.” When the chap quickly
commented, “Nice and warm in the sun,” and acted like he wanted to stay my
reply was an even quicker “Yep,” spit in a tone of voice that actually said, “Back
it up bucko and fast or the next fuckin’ sound you hear will be screaming gurgles
as I hold your head under water and drown your filthy ass in the bay.”
Fortunately for both of us—no way
did I want to touch this vermin—the park perv moved off. Now, this was no simple misunderstanding on
my part. To pass by the three or four benches
that line the bay, one has to deliberately approach them. This had never happened before, nor had I
ever before seen this creep.
But anyway, I think most folks—myself
included—are amazed at how bold and aggressive these dirty wretches are. I’m sure that only my no-nonsense reply and
the possibility of a beat-down was all that made the pervert move on.
First stupid teenagers and their
ridiculous sexy “Bandana-Manna”; now lurking, leering degenerates . . . . Is there no where I can
run? (sigh) It’s tuff being an object of carnal desire.
