A Short Lesson On What Not To Do If You Are In The Witness Protection Program

Hillsboro, ND to Killdeer, ND, 310 Mi.

Dead and dying trees tracked along an old dried out creekbed through a farm. I saw big blonde girl mowing lawn on riding mower with earphones on. I later noted another big blonde later riding a horse with her dog trailing behind. The Nordic peoples were in full effect up there. And clearly they were expanding.

A Northerly wind blew most of the way. I leaned into the ride and passed an all-white cow herd. Only a small calf was brown. Everything else white. Huge irrigation sprinklers covered the open fields, looking like suspension bridges across the plains. Haystacks dotted the farmlands like giant rabbit-food pellets.

I crossed Missouri river. I stopped to work on the throttle lock, which had been giving me a hard time. A couple on a pair of matching bikes kindly stopped to check on me. They told me about the shootings outside Sturgis. Apparently some six people had been shot. But they didn’t know any more details. Note that there’s no helmet law in ND.

On the outskirts of Killdeer I saw an RV park. In a nearby gas station they said it was ok to camp there. I met a guy I’ll call “Bill,” a chubby, friendly sort who greeted me inside, and then when he saw my New York plates outside he started talking and I could hardly shut him up. As he talked he ate a big bowl of chocolate soft-serve ice cream, while his huge-headed Akita watched him from his Suburban. He asked me if I liked North Dakota, and if so, if I wanted to buy his house. “It was selling if for 62 but the Realtor said I should go for 64.” He levied all his complaints against his neighbors for me. Everyone in town was so backwater, except the local restaurant owner, a European. He said the cops hassled him mercilessly since he’d arrived. Particularly one peace officer who felt he’d come to town for nefarious reasons.

“Twelve years later he believes me.” He said. I asked for clarification of this cryptic statement. “Why else would I come here, they said? You must be in the witness protection program, they said.” It sounded like his accusers had a point. After all, who else would willingly move there?

“I first showed up in a big Cadillac,” Bill said. “Everyone respected me. Things were different back then. I got rid of that car and things changed.” People here were so rural, he lamented, they didn’t appreciate art or culture. There was nobody to talk to. He seemed really pleased to have someone he felt he could relate to, if only for a minute or two.

I asked how he makes his living and he got a pained look on his face. Finally he said “disability.”

“But I tell people that and they roll their eyes. They think I’m just bucking the system or they go back to the witness protection thing.” Bill told me he’d gotten hepatitis c from living a wild life in the sixties. Hippie? I asked. “No, just a partier.” Finally, after all that convincing that he wasn’t a former Mafioso turned witness, I asked for a picture of him next to his dog.

This is where things got interesting. His face was the the kind that divulges its secrets, such that after thirty seconds even an obtuse child can read the inner workings of his soul. His face screamed: I don’t want to do this. But the internal conflict was evident—he’d just spent ten minutes claiming that he wasn’t in witness protection, so why should he refuse? I watched him waver for a moment and against his better judgment he began walking to his car. Clearly he felt this was a bad idea, but he was stuck in the awkward position of needing to prove himself to a complete stranger. His resignation was admirable, like one walking to the gallows while trying to keep a straight face. Inside, I imagined him thinking "I never thought when I woke that today was the day I’d risk my life." This was a private little study in a most bizarre and fascinating kind of psychology. He stood for my portrait. I wish I could post the photo here to show the conflict in his face. But I can’t. Just in case he is, in fact, a memebr of the witness protection program I must refrain from showing him as to expose him could lead to his death. However, taken in the above context the photo is really an arresting character sketch. The conflict on his face, the need for acceptance, the firing-squad defiance. It’s really something.

Lest you think I’m some kind of butterfly-wing-pulling bastard who delights in the suffering of others, let it be known I also have an active imagination and this guy was probably just some lonely nobody, and the story is all in my head. That’s the most likely scenario. But on the other hand....

I made camp, did some work, and after it got dark I went to bed just as it started to rain. I fell asleep to the patter on my tent canopy. As I drifted off I wondered if, upon reconsideration of his actions, Bill might try to steal into the campsite later to retrieve the evidence on my camera. But I slept easy. I keep pepper spray in the tent.

posted by goat hill dreamer @ 11:36 AM