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Drowning In Pheromones On A Greyhound Bus
Ramtidings, dear friends! It is I, your dutiful lord and master, the eternal GM. My sabbatical proved most fruitful, having figured out some depth mechanics for 3 dimensional combat in my pet project, Blood & Thunder, a maritime piracy RPG that has been both a joy and a nerve-wracking nightmare to create. If you want to see what's going on with that, you can swing by patreon.com/BlackFlagPrintingPress to take a look or support my endeavors. But I digress, because I did not come here today to talk about Blood & Thunder, no. I came here with something else in mind, good friends, for while I have been writing my bread and butter, you have gone without your beard and butter, and this is unacceptable! And so, I have trawled the depths of my memory to bring you yet another TAAAAAALE FROM THE TABLETOP, lovingly subtitled A Prologue Into Poverty. Life is not an easy thing. There was a time when life was very difficult for me. I had far less than most, and I went without frequently, my entire life loaded into a backpack of bare necessities. Joys were few and times were hard, but I made the best of it. I traveled the countryside, mostly alone, making friends where I could amongst the other forgotten souls who haunt the streets of the United States. I met a good number of people, many of them listless drifters in their own right, who became fast friends. We would hang out for a time, but like all drifters, we would eventually part ways, called to different places to do different things. I had just come from North Carolina. I had been in Asheville, playing bluegrass to make money with friends who eventually proved dishonest, and so I parted ways with them. While in Asheville, I had met a girl, also on the road like myself, and I developed a massive crush on her. Fortune would have it that our time together was short lived, as she disappeared on a freighter down the train tracks, and I layed curled up in a bush sick as a dog for the next 3 days. You can't get a ride from a freighter with 8 people without getting pulled off by johnny law. Our group had fractured, and myself and one other soul continued on our own, until we parted ways in Atlanta. Now, on my own, clueless and green, I wandered aimlessly, until a friend of mine at the time reached out to me by way of the internet. He had work for me, back in California, if I could just make it there. What's 3000 miles? I've got this. I walked out of Atlanta, hitched a series of rides to Arkansas, and then caught a freighter myself, all the way back to the west coast while UP did the driving. I laid on the back of that train for 3 days until I finally ran out of water and decided to get off. I was in Los Angeles. After a bit of panhandling, I got a bus into the central valley, and my friend came and scooped me up. I worked on my friends farm for a bit, building green houses and stacking money until the time came for me to once again depart. During that time, my crush from North Carolina had found me on Facebook. We got to talking. She told me she had gone back home to Wisconsin and was working in some greasy spoon trying to save up money to afford a bus. She'd been back for awhile now, but wasn't making any headway. Her vices were getting the best of her, and she couldn't seem to get ahead. I told her she needed to knock that shit off and clean up her act. After a long enough time talking, however, things started to get flirty and dirty. I wanted to see her, and it's actually amazing what a guy will do for love. You're how far away? Piece of cake. Hold my beer. With the work season coming to a close, I took my pay and my leave of my old friend, and he dropped me off in Modesto at the Greyhound. On the way out, he loaded me up with gifts for my travels - a new backpack, socks, a sleeping bag, some snacks for the ride... and naturally, he gave me a gift that I always treasure. He gave me a set of RPG dice. I gave my boy a hug, wished him well in his endeavors, and promised I'd be back in the fall to help him with the harvest and gathering firewood. So I went on my merry way. I absolutely despise Greyhounds. Have you ever been on one? It's miserable. There's no room to stretch out unless you sit in the back, right by the toilet. Some asshole is always blaring garbage mumble rap on his phone all day long. It doesn't matter who you are - at the end of the trip you exude the pungent aroma of a neckbeard. This didn't bother me too much - personal hygiene suffers when you have no way to bathe regularly, so I was used to being dirty, and my friends from the road were usually very dirty people in their own right at the time, so I could handle a certain degree of grossness... within limits. I did shower at my friend's farm before I boarded that bus, though, and was feeling rather spiffy - clean body, clean clothes. Life was good and I was on my way to see my woman. I did my best to zone out. I tried to sleep as much as I could and ignore the general atmosphere of the bus, but that was no longer an option after a layover in Las Vegas. We boarded the bus once more after an almost 24 hour delay on our schedules, and finally got moving again. I sat in the back near the toilet, as I was no stranger to this game and wanted that bench seat, and foul smells at the time didn't bother me much... or so I thought. With the bus filling up and the seats reducing to slim pickings, it dawned on me that my coveted back seat bench was going to get shared. Then, I saw him... the Busbeard. I'm usually a pretty nice person, but I did not want my coveted backseat benchseat getting taken up, let alone by this massive lardass that now lumbered towards me. I did everything in my power to seem as big and hostile as I could. This was all in vain, however, as some people cannot read social cues. I stared at him, dripping hostility, mentally repeating sit somewhere else like it was a Zen mantra. However, nobody wanted him to sit by them either, and so, he made his way, closer and closer, as he asked people if seats were taken until he got to me at the back. He shifted to sit into the seat, angling his ass in the general direction of my face. The smell of soggy feces-laden underwear wafted up as he slid his bulk onto the bench. Did I mention that personal hygiene suffers on a greyhound bus ride, especially when you've been riding for days? I've taken my fair share of Greyhounds, and it's unlikely that this new arrival had been riding for awhile. He was eastbound, like the rest of us, and we were in Las Vegas. His point of origin was... not very far east. I had only been on the bus for approximately a day so far, minus the extended layover time of course, so I was getting a ittle sweaty myself, but this guy smelled as if he not only lived on this bus, but was born in the blue poop goop of the latrine. It was a question worthy of debate as to whether this man had actually employed the use of a speed stick in his life. His patchy jowels jiggled at me as he said, hi. I responded with a gruff and monotone hello, and then turned my attentions to the window, watching the bus depot workers loading up suitcases beneath. My fate was sealed. This man was to be my travel companion all the way to Denver. I decided then that maybe it would be best to ignore him. I plugged in my phone, booted up an emulator I had downloaded, and started to play some Pokemon to whittle away the hours. It didn't take long, however, before I could feel his olfactory looming become physical looming as he examined the screen upon which I played from over my shoulder. Busbeard: Pokemon? I fucking love Pokemon! I didn't know you could play it on a phone. How are you doing that? His heavy respirations were like an infusion of green spearmint and halitosis. GM: Emulators. I went back to my game, trying to angle myself away from him in such a way that he couldn't lean over my shoulder and watch me as I trained my team, but I was effectively sandwiched between him and the wall, forced to sit straight as he leaned over and watched me play. I debated then, what I ought to do. Playing Pokemon would make the time fly, but I would be crushed between the window and a sweaty fat man. Not playing Pokemon would save me the physical agony of being squished, but I would be painfully bored for seemingly endless miles, and he may use it as an opportunity to interact further. A decision needed to be made. I shut the emulator off and put away my phone, turning my attention back out the window as the bus pulled out of the Las Vegas terminal and began down the freeway. It was not long after we had pulled out of the station, however, when that wheezing, rasping voice chirped up again. Busbeard: So where are you going? I ignored him, focusing on the casinos towering in the distance of the skyline, pretending as if I hadn't heard the question, or as if it weren't addressed at me. With insistance, he repeated his question at my turned back again, searching for a response within my stony exterior. I mumbled, the Midwest, and he questioningly grunted, and asked me to repeat myself. I guess we're doing this. GM: I'm going to the Midwest. Busbeard: Where in the Midwest? GM: Wisconsin. Busbeard: I've never been to Wisconsin before, but I know they got really good cheese! Hyuk hyuk... Is that why you're going there? Judging by his smell, he must have been an excessively avid connosieur of fine Wisconsinite cheese. However, cheese was the last thing on my mind at the time.I was enamored with my lady love. GM: I'm going to see an old friend. Busbeard: Oh, that's cool... who is it? The odds of this man knowing the person who I was on my way to visit were astronomically low. Your odds of getting struck by lightning, winning the lottery, and becoming president in the same day were probably higher than this cretin knowing the one specific person whom I was going to go visit in some backwater Wisconsin town. Still, I humored him, and in the same flat voice, answered his question, and told him I was on my way to see my sweetheart. This caught Busbeard's attention. For a grown man in his mid 30s, he let out a loud "oooooooo" like a middle schooler would when he finds out his friend has a crush. I contemplated execution methods and the subjective severity of their barbarism as he excitedly asked me where she was from. GM: Wisconsin. Busbeard: Yeah... but, where in Wiconsin? GM: Fuck off, dude. I'm not going to tell you the town where she lives. Busbeard: Heh! I'd be terrified of telling a superior male like me where my girlfriend lives, too. A little kid like you wouldn't stand a chance next to a man like me. Her panties would hit the floor from one whiff of my pheromones. It happens all the time, bro, I swear. I could have any woman on this bus. They just can't resist me. They can sense my manhood, I know it. I shouldn't stir the pot. All common sense tells me that I should just stop myself while I'm ahead, but sometimes... sometimes I just can't help myself. I've always been a pretty reserved and self-contained person for the most part, and I just want to be left alone 90% of the time to do my thing. Apparently, that's a lot to ask, because every now and then, somebody comes and invades my personal space with their protruding belly, bad breath, and self-aggrandizement, and then I find it really hard to resist my inclination to fuck with them. I know, I know, it's wrong of me to do that, but I'm human, damnit, and something good was cooking in the kitchen. What's the harm in dipping a spoon into this self-important concoction of body odor and bravado? GM: Any woman, huh? Tell ya what, Busbeard, I just got paid, and you seem really confident in the power of your, ahhhhh, pheromones, so... how about a wager. I laid out the terms of my devil's bargain. With a wager of 100 dollars, I would pick a lady on the bus at the next break. Busbeard would then have to seduce her. He MUST "present" his pheromones to her, naturally. If he recovered her phone number, or anything in excess thereof, like a kiss or a consensual toilet stall consummation, it would suffice to meet my criteria and loose my grasp from the freshly printed Franklin in my wallet. He agreed enthusiastically to my terms, insisting I was going to loose and he was going to get his dick sucked in a Greyhound portajohn "blumpkin style". We rode along in silence for the next hour or so. The sun was high in the sky when we made our next stop at some gas station in Utah, and everyone filed off the bus to stretch their legs and get their snacks. I wandered around, huffing down my smoke, chatting it up with people and making friends, seeing just who they were, asking them questions - where they were going, who they were going there with. I got to talking with one guy and his girlfriend. The guy, who we will call Sarge, was built like a brick shithouse and was a former infantry man who served 2 tours of duty in the middle east. He was traveling with his wife, a young and pretty little thing who we will call Alexandra. They were on their way back to the east coast to stay with family. Alexandra's mom was getting old and had asked them to move in to help take care of her. They were on their way out there to steward her aging mother's estate. I remarked that that was awfully kind of them, and sincerely wished them the best on taking care of Alexandra's aging mom. I told them a little bit about myself, as well... that I was effectively living on the road, playing life by ear, and on the way to see a loved one of mine for a bit before the wind blew me somewhere else. Eventually, the bus driver gave everyone a 5 minute warning before departure, and we all filed on board. I moved back to my seat and waited for Busbeard to arrive. He came back, cradling piles of gas station sandwiches, bags of chips, and a couple of sodas in his massive paws. He sat down beside me with a loud "oof" and offered me a drink, saying that it's the least he could do before he took my money. I took that beverage. It was both cold and delicious. GM: Well, Busbeard, I've done my rounds, and I've come to a decision. Busbeard: Who is it? She better be hot. I swear to God, if you make me waste my time on some dried up roastie, I'm gonna be so fucking pissed at you dude. GM: Why would I do that dude? Naturally, I only want the best for you. No, she's very pretty. You see that girl over there, in the aisle seat? That's the one. Make your move whenever you're ready. I pointed out Alexandra to him. I already knew this was going to end very poorly. There was no way in Hell that Alexandra would express any interest in this disgusting lardass whatsoever when she had a stable and solid man like Sarge, and Sarge wasn't about to take guff from anyone. Add on to it that Sarge was easily the size of, if not bigger than, the prodigious Busbeard himself. Sarge was also trained to kill and hardened by years of combat in the graveyard of empires. I can fight - I've fought a lot - and I would not want to square up against him under any circumstances. Busbeard was going to get the snot beat out of him and pay me 100 dollars for that privilege. The bus took off and I listened to the disgusting sounds of Busbeard inhaling the equivalent of 5 pounds of gas station food. I was only halfway through my soda, when Busbeard emitted a satisfied belch that rumbled the seats, and the feeding frenzy had ended in an effervesence of curdling bile and preservatives just as fast as it had begun. He then started to pump himself up for the task at hand. He started to sweat with excitement and latent cardiac arrest as he prepared his pheromonal aura about himself, and then with a gruff, alright, let's do this, he stood up from his seat and waddled down the aisle, his greasy belly bumping into everybody who had chosen an aisle seat. He approached Alexandra. They were near the front end of the bus, and so I couldn't hear a word that they were saying. I watched Busbeard as he extended an arm and held on to the overhead luggage rack, exposing the damp miasma of corn-syrup infused armpit sweat to his unsuspecting victim. His pheromones were beginning to work their magic over the unsuspecting Alexandra who would soon be enraptured by its juicy spell. I waited, leaning forward intently, when a loud shout broke the silence. Sarge: BACK THE FUCK UP. Alexandra started to shout, too, yelling "get the fuck away from me!" The driver turned back and yelled for everyone to sit down and shut the hell up or he would pull the bus over. Sarge: Please do! I'm gonna beat this fucking lardass into the pavement! Saying shit like that to my wife? Who the fuck do you think you are? The bus driver repeated his warning, and Busbeard began to shout his protests, insisting upon his innocence. Busbeard: B-but, I was put up to it! It was that guy, in the back seat! He said--- He pointed back at me. I yelled back, I don't fucking know that guy. The bus driver meant his threat, and pulled the bus over. We were on a long and empty stretch on the I-15 somewhere in rural Utah. The last town I had seen was about 20 miles back. It was late spring, and it was getting hot outside that afternoon. The bus driver got out of his seat, walked up to Busbeard, and told him to get the Hell off of his bus. Busbeard kept protesting, when Sarge moved past his wife, and started forcing Busbeard towards the front door. I've heard the threat of getting kicked off maybe a thousand times on a Greyhound, but I had never seen it play out before. Busbeard was thrown off the bus. Sarge did not join him outside and pummel him into the asphalt, regrettably, as I would have loved to have watched it. Busbeard kept pleading with the bus driver as the driver shut the door on him, sealing him out on the shoulder of a lonely stretch of highway. I breathed a sigh of relief, and stretched out my legs. It was another 15 miles before we saw signs of civilization. A part of me felt bad for Busbeard, but the other part of me said, "if I can walk 20 miles in a day with 60 lbs of shit on my back, he can do an unencumbered 15 and be fine." The ride continued on in sweet, reclined silence for me until we reached Denver, werein there was another changeover, and this bus was much, much more desolate. The rest of the Greyhound voyage passed without incident, and I spent my time flirting with my lady love and training some Pokemons. At long last, I finally arrived in Wisconsin. She came to pick me up at the bus station, and when we approached each other, we made out like long lost lovers for a good 5 minutes before we finally caught our breath enough to say hello. I got in her car, and spent maybe a week or so with her, before it was time to take my leave. I couldn't live there forever, and so, as fast as I had drifted into her life, once again, it was time for me to disappear. We said goodbye, and she dropped me off at a lonely interstate overpass on the edge of town. I put my thumb out to catch a ride to Anywhere But Here USA. I planned my next move, and I figured that there were some friends of hers and mine that lived not too far away in the Dakotas, and maybe I would pay them a visit next. I was in the neighborhood, and figured that I might as well say hello. I reached out to them online, and then made my way west again. They were excited for me to come see them. It was only a day into the voyage when I received a message from Janet. It said, "wait for me, I'm catching up." She had packed her backpack again, and was coming after me, hot on my tail. I told her we could meet up at our mutual friend's house. I dialed ahead to our friends, who we shall call Sarah and Queenie. Sarah used to travel together with Janet for many months before she stabilized, and then settled down. Queenie was one of my friends from North Carolina. He was a loveable chucklefuck of a drifter, missing a few teeth, wore a skirt, and spoke in the most haggard voice you could imagine. Still... he insisted on being called Queenie. He had settled down with Sarah after they hooked up, and they were living at Sarah's house. He was on thin ice there, however, and she was threatening to kick him out. I arrived at Sarah's and Queenie's, and spent the next few days waiting for Janet to come up on my heels. During that time, Queenie and I played a lot of Magic (he had just gotten into it), and I remembered the dice that my friend in California had given me that were laying unusued in my backpack. I asked him if he had ever played tabletop RPG's before, to which he answered no. I told him that, maybe next time I see him and I'm in a better spot, we could run a game. Eventually Janet caught up, and we prepared to leave Sarah's for good towards our own new horizons. Queenie, however, had finally broken through the thin ice upon which he skated, and was getting thrown out. On the day of our departure, we asked him if he wanted to join us in our travels so he wouldn't have to go it alone. Thus we began from Sarah's house out into the unknown once again, a cheerful trio, and true to my word, I began to teach not only Queenie, but Janet as well, the joys of tabletop RPGs. As I'm sure you can surmise, dear friends, that this is not the end of our story, but only the beginning of another chapter. Is Busbeard still alive? What does the future hold for Ramtide's love life? How do a gaggle of vagabond drifters play tabetop games without a table? Some of these questions will be answered, my dear friends, in our next installment of TAAAAAALES FROM THE TABLETOP. A shoutout to my lovely patrons, Tatoferret and Sillibits. You guys are wonderful. Thank you for believing in the dream.
Winter had sucked all the color out of the world. The prairie in the glory of midsummer had been a surge of green, summer winds sending pulses through the tall grass, causing it to wave like an underwater kelp forest in a strong current. Now, however, it had relinquished its blooming majesty, its former radiance dulled to straw the color of a deerhide. The flowerheads were stripped of their colorful identities, appearing like sepia photographs of themselves; the ghosts of summer past. The sweetclover, which had extended from one horizon to the other back in June, covering the prairie in a blanket of gold, was now skeletonized, its broken-off stems rolling like tumbleweeds in the winter gales. Trevor was over it. Another South Dakota winter, another four months until the snows would cease and the ice would melt in the creek. In March and April, the spring blizzards would bury the world and on the subsequent sunny days, the combination of blue sky and white land would be startling, like finding oneself living in the center of a bicolored flag. But for now, a capricious midwinter thaw had left snowdrifts only in the prairie draws, on the north-facing ridges, in the shadows of the ponderosas that speckled the hills. And around the trailer, mud. In a few nights, a deep freeze would turn the sides of the tire ruts into knife edges, testing the suspension of any vehicle that took the approach too fast. Still, that was better than the loamy mud, which could imprison even a 4x4 until freezing cold or drying winds finally freed it. The view from the front porch could be gorgeous. Back in July, when the church group from Virginia had constructed a wheelchair ramp for the trailer, the evening sun had set the prairie on fire, its light reflected by a thunderstorm hanging in the sky as if by a puppeteer’s strings. “God almighty,” the youth pastor had exclaimed. But now, grays and browns mingled in a decidedly drab palette. Over at the little bird feeder, the goldfinches were no longer yellow-and-black exclamation points, but had acquiesced to dullness, dressed for a time of year when vibrant color seemed to be outlawed by some unseen authority. Trevor stared at the expanse of mud that spooled out from in front of the trailer and unwound into a ribbon that led over the hill toward the old sundance ground and, eventually, the paved road. He wondered if he would get out today. Always a calculation this time of year. Driving on the muddy channel that was his approach was out of the question; he would set a course across the grass, which would provide enough barrier to keep his tires from sinking in again. Two-tracks radiating out onto the prairie showed how many times he and his family had taken this course of action since the last snow. It felt ironic that their approach took them by far the long way around – heading north to go south; harder than it needed to be, like so much of life around here. But the way south was blocked by Roanhorse Creek. This wasn’t all bad; the creek provided nice wading in the summer and water for the horses for most of the year. It also gave rise to the only trees on the property, although the cottonwoods whose leaves whispered in the summer breezes now stood dumb and impassive, and resembled skeletal wraiths at nighttime. A horse would make it, of course. He could saddle up the buckskin, ride cross-country and be in town in twenty minutes. But that would be silly…he snorted at the ludicrousness of this thought. First of all, he had to go way beyond town today. And even if he were just going to his old job at the tribal building, was he supposed to just hitch it up outside for the day? Tie its reins to one of the smokers’ benches by the entrance? What was this, 1895? No, better not to risk TȟatéZi getting stolen or having some gang sign spraypainted on it or some shit. Besides, he needed to pull into his job interview looking halfway decent, not spattered with mud and smelling like horse sweat. Trevor regarded his truck, sitting smack in the middle of the sloppy mess. Fuck, he thought. Still, he didn’t really have a choice today. No job interview, no job. No job, no funds. Another calculation, but this one was straightforward. He went back into the trailer and made his way to his bedroom in the back, passing his brothers in the living room. One was sleeping on the couch and the other was crashed out in the recliner, oblivious to the flickering hearth of the muted TV. Let ‘em sleep today, Trevor thought. In the bedroom, he stepped across piles of clothes – some clean, some dirty – and over the miscellany of his life; a pile of old DVDs, a defunct gaming console, a canister of Bugler and squares of broadcloth for the tobacco ties he was supposed to make for ceremony, a scattering of empty Mountain Dew cans, a 24-pack of ramen, a basketball. He hunted around in his closet for the dressy clothes that he knew were there. He had worn them once, on the day of his high school graduation, three years before. And there they were; a purple button-down shirt, a solid black tie, and black chinos. Further rummaging found him a pair of brown loafers and a tan braided belt. He would look sharp for this interview – couldn’t hurt. Trevor took a quick shower. The hot water always took forever to come and once it did, didn’t last long. He got dressed hurriedly, glad the tie that had come as a set with the shirt was a clip-on, and ran a comb through his hair. It wasn’t long enough to do much with other than backcomb it a little with some hair gel, but he figured that looked better than not. He considered putting in big stud earrings to look extra fly, but decided again it; might not be the right look for the occasion. Now fully dressed and ready, Trevor took stock of his appearance. His summer tan was long gone and his skin was as pale as the white kids he had met during his one semester of college. The same change of season that had desaturated the prairie and garbed the birds in dull colors had undone all those days spent out in the badlands sun – working with the horses, swimming at the dam, helping keep fire at sundance. Too many French fur traders in his lineage. He recalled the book that his eighth grade teacher had assigned them – Part-time Indian or something – and thought, Yup, that’s me. Indian in the summer and wašiču in the winter, like changing plumage. Trevor envied his brothers their melanin. He had learned that word in one of his college classes and now thought of it nearly every day. Travis was a rich brown complexion even in the dark days of midwinter. Trenton was in between the two but had jet-black Lakota hair and definitely looked “ethnic,” enough to be followed around stores in the border towns. Trevor knew it was his privilege to be exempt from such treatment, but it bugged him nonetheless. He hadn’t asked to be light-skinned. His brothers called him žiží – a reference to his tawny hair. They had gotten into scraps over this, and Trevor even bloodied Travis’ nose in one such altercation. Once one of them had even called Trevor a “half-breed” but Trevor retorted with “Fuck you, boy, you got the same blood as me. Fuckin’ dumbass.” This seemed to put the issue to rest. Trevor’s brief stint at college had been at an out-of-state school, which now struck him as an ill-advised decision. At least South Dakotans had some experience with Natives. Even the East River kids had at least crossed paths with one at some point, and didn’t think of Indians as something from the pages of a dime novel. Trevor was the first Native in many years – maybe ever – to attend the small-town liberal arts college in a neighboring state. He thought the fact that the college was reasonably selective would mean that the students were smart enough not to ask dumb questions. He was wrong. The queries were predictable enough, clichéd even; Are you really Indian? (Yes) Do you speak your language? (No) Did you get in because you’re Indian? (Who knows? I’m pretty smart and got good grades.) Does the college have admissions quotas for Indians? (If it did, you’d think more would go here.) What’s it like on the reservation? (I don’t know; different.) Do you prefer “Native American”? (I find the question annoying, to be honest.) Do you like Leslie Marmon Silko? (Who?) Have you seen Dances with Wolves? (Some of it.) Do you know a guy from Pine Ridge named Verdell? He used to work with my dad. (Maybe) His last name was something Horse. Running Horse? (No) Fielding these questions was exhausting and added another layer of weariness and alienation to his college experience. He found himself having to answer such inquiries from his roommate, classmates, professors, his R.A…Sometimes they were cloaked in well-meaning concern (I bet you get tired of all these questions, huh?) but they were always there. Most evenings, Trevor would retreat to his room and call his mom. His roommate, Skyler, a cross-country runner who was handsome in an unspectacular way and who monitored his water intake religiously, was hardly ever around. He seemed to have no trouble making friends in college and reveled in the social opportunities around him. In his phone calls back home, Trevor found himself experiencing a homesickness that inhabited the pit of his stomach like a hunger pang. He had never been gone from home for that long. Really, his only trip away had been the summer before his senior year, to a weeklong STEM camp for Native kids that one of the state colleges had put on. But that had been with a half dozen other students from his high school. Here he was alone. The subjects of their conversations would leave Trevor feeling a gravitational pull toward home: Trenton got into a fight at school and got suspended. Travis is drinking again. We had sweat for your auntie because they have to amputate her leg after all. Those dogs were back again. Everett hit $200 at the casino on Tuesday night but of course he put it all back in. They’re having a basketball tournament for that boy who got paralyzed in that wreck. Our hot water heater went out but uncle came and fixed it. They still haven’t found that Two Arrows girl that went missing. Travis wants to go up on the hill this spring – maybe that will get him to quit drinking. Good news, bad news, mundane news…The latter tugged at him the most. Like many who grew up on Pine Ridge, he had a love-hate relationship with the reservation. It was the home of his people after all, and could be so beautiful (“God’s country,” as it was called by even those who had no time for the white man’s God). But the hardships, the tragedies, the death…it all wore away at your spirit, hardened you. Still, the news of day-to-day life going on in his absence; a school powwow, a bingo tournament, tribal council drama, rumors of a Dairy Queen opening. It made him miss home in an ineffable way. The last vestige of his indecision evaporated after a particular conversation in the lounge of his dorm. He had been sitting on a beanbag chair, discussing random topics with two friends (at least, he considered them friends, in some ill-defined adolescent way). They had all left a dull party that hadn’t livened up even after a couple of drinks, but still felt heady and obligated to prolong the night a little longer. So, they were shooting the shit, in a garishly-lit common space that smelled of burnt popcorn, and Trevor was feeling rather collegiate. An off-campus party, late-night conversation; weren’t these the trappings of university life that he had seen in teen movies, if a much more prosaic version? Kayleigh, tipsy off Jäger bombs, started the chain of events that would unravel his college experience with a simple, but pointed question: “How Indian are you, anyway?” Colton snorted at this comment. “Kay, you can’t just ask that!” But he was clearly more amused than disapproving. “You mean like my blood quantum or what?” Trevor asked. “Is that what you guys call it?” said Kay, now playing the innocent party. “I just mean, like, you say you’re Indian, I mean like I know you are, like, I know you are on paper…” The alcohol was causing her to trip over her words but she plowed on. “I mean like, okay, if I were to like, run into you on the street…” Kay was now gesturing expansively, as if the meaning of what she was saying wasn’t explicit from words alone. “Like, I wouldn’t be like, ‘Damn, look at that Indian,’ right? I’d just assume you were a white guy. I mean you know what I mean? Ugh, I’m not making sense.” She was making perfect sense. Colton looked embarrassed, and for a second, Trevor thought he might shut Kay down. But instead, his inhibition similarly worn down by a few shots of German 70-proof, he followed suit. “I think what Kay’s drunk ass is trying to say is, like, your ancestors are Indians, right, like in the history books. Like Geronimo or whatever. But do you consider yourself one of them? Or are you, like, their descendant?” Trevor could feel the ball of rage growing within him, a sea urchin radiating spikes in his gut. Stop talking, he thought. Just stop talking. Colton continued, heedlessly. “Okay, so like I’m Irish but I’m not like Irish Irish, like a leprechaun or some shit. Like my ancestors…” Trevor stood up, his fists balled. He was now stone-cold sober but his anger was its own intoxicant. “It’s none of your fucking business. It’s none of your business what the fuck I am!” He was shouting; he couldn’t help it. He picked up a half-empty can of PBR and threw it at the wall, slamming the door to the lounge on his way out. The sudsy contents of the can leaked onto the ugly orange dorm carpet, as Kayleigh and Colton sat in stunned silence. “Jesus,” said Colton finally. “Just trying to ask an honest question.” After that, Trevor had holed up in his room for a few days, skipping classes and avoiding other students. When he told his mom he was dropping out, she hardly sounded surprised. He knew she would be glad to have him back home; the prodigal son returning. Trevor, the one who had his shit together, who had gone to a STEM camp and was almost salutatorian. He knew she thought that once he got back, he could do what she couldn’t; get Travis on a better path, bring another income to the household, fix what needed to be fixed around the trailer, shoot at the stray dogs when they came around. It would all fall to him. His failure was their blessing; they would lean on him as long as he could stand. So here we fucking go, he now thought, patting his gel-stiffened hair and giving himself one last hazel-eyed glance in the mirror. Gotta get that bread. His brief stint at the tribal building hadn’t panned out. He was a good worker but wet weather made his road too sloppy to get out easily. Too many latenesses had translated into a pink slip. “Shit man we all got bad roads. Gotta leave earlier,” his boss had said. So, lesson learned, he was giving himself extra time getting ready for this interview. Really, the lady had just told him to come by “around mid-morning,” so he’d probably be okay. The job was off-rez, down at the county livestock auction and sale barn in one of the closest border towns, “white towns,” as Ridgers called it. It was mostly going to be paperwork – inventory and itemizing and that kind of shit – but it was decent pay and Trevor hoped that he could transition over to working with the animals before long. On most days, he preferred their company to dumbass people. Grabbing his bag, Trevor stuck the loafers inside with his other miscellany. He would need to wear his cowboy boots across the muddy expanse between the bottom step of the porch and the door to his Blazer so he jammed his feet into them. Outside, he walked gingerly so as not to stain his black slacks with muck. Once in the driver’s seat, he figured he would leave the boots on for the drive, since they were already smearing mud on the floor liner, and in case he got stuck and needed to get out. Trevor knew that the people who worked at the sale barn were as countrified as he was and wouldn’t judge muddy boots under most circumstances, but he also knew that being from Pine Ridge meant he had to put his best foot forward, literally in this case. Trevor fired up the Blazer, put it in four low, and gunned it. His tires found grip and he jerked along, slimy divots of earth spattering his windows and roof like hail. His windshield wipers left a pasty smear that obscured much of his view, but he practically knew the way by feel. As soon as he could, he bumped up onto the grass, gopher holes and clumps of prairie bluestem jolting his ride, testing what was left of his suspension. When he finally hit the pavement, the smoothness was startling as it always was, like a TV being suddenly muted, like silence after a door slamming. He cruised through town, passing the gas station, the other gas station, the commod building, the quonset hut, the old BIA headquarters…and turned south into Nebraska. He tried to ignore the persistent squeal under the hood that had gotten worse lately. The overcast sky reflected the dullness of the land – as below, so above – and Trevor alternated between zoning out and counting hawks on telephone poles. A handful of miles south of the border, the vehicle gave a jolt and Trevor felt a temporary loss of control. He hit the brakes and steered toward the shoulder, but the Blazer was suddenly steering like an army tank. Fuck, he whispered. Once he wrestled Blazer off the road, Trevor got out and popped the hood. He already knew what he would find under the rising steam. “Fucking serpentine belt,” he hissed to the universe. Trevor was good with cars but he didn’t have the tools for this fix. Luckily, he thought, out here in the country, somebody who did would be by soon. Lots of Natives on this road, maybe even a cousin would happen by who could at least give him a ride to town. Trevor thought of calling his dad’s brother Everett on his cell, but figured he’d give it a bit. He hated the thought of owing Uncle Ev anything. Sure enough, in a few minutes, a gunmetal gray truck passed by slowly, hit a u-turn, and pulled up behind him. Trevor felt a twinge of envy over this late-model Dodge Ram MegaCab with duallies. It had county plates on it, so the cowboy-hatted driver was a local guy, and as he got out, his Carhartt overalls and mud-caked boots identified him as a rancher. “Trouble?” MegaCab asked, giving Trevor an easy smile. “Serpentine belt busted,” said Trevor, unconsciously smoothing out his rez accent in favor of a more neutral affectation. Code-switching – another term he had learned at college (by the professor who asked him if he prefers “Native American”). “No shit, huh?” MegaCab considered this information. “I got nothing for that but I could give you a ride somewhere. You call anyone? Someone coming after you?” “No,” said Trevor. “I’m trying to get down to the sale barn for a job interview.” MegaCab looked at Trevor as if for the first time. “Oh ok so that’s why you’re all fancied up. Well, hop in if you don’t mind leaving it here.” Trevor considered this. He was off the rez so there was less of a chance that the Blazer would end up with busted windows or slashed tires. And he was eager to get his interview over and done with. Before he could answer, MegaCab added “I have to stop in Whiteclay first but then I’ll take you down.” This was only a few miles out of the way so Trevor assented and climbed into the rancher’s idling behemoth. It still retained some new-truck smell, mixed with a tinge of manure and rich earth. Really, it was almost luxurious. MegaCab flipped a u-ey again and headed back north toward Whiteclay. Formerly notorious for copious alcohol sales to people from the dry reservation whose border it sat on, Whiteclay’s package stores had been shuttered after the state had revoked their liquor licenses following years of protests over their depredatory business model. Now, it was just a town of a couple small stores and fewer than a dozen permanent residents, its streets empty of vagrants, its ghosts banished. “So, you from Hot Springs?” Trevor momentarily wondered where this question had come from, and then remembered that he had 27-plates on the Blazer – Fall River County, a relic of when he bought the car from a white lady over there. He had kept the off-county registration because the plates were far less likely to get you pulled over off-rez than the infamous 65s of Oglala Lakota County. MegaCab continued without waiting for an answer. “I used to go up to Hot Springs a lot when my dad was in the V.A. hospital up there. Nice town.” “Yup, it’s pretty nice,” said Trevor, wondering if he would have to sustain this small talk the whole way. Luckily, MegaCab took it from there, reminiscing about his high school football team dealing Hot Springs a particularly lopsided loss, and then they were at Whiteclay. Trevor played around on his phone while his driver of the moment went into the little grocery store. He looked up his old roommate Skyler on Facebook (why, he didn’t know; certainly not to friend him) and then Googled “Pine Ridge South Dakota Dairy Queen” just to see if there was any truth to that rumor. MegaCab returned with some mail – Trevor had forgotten that there was a little post office in there – and they turned south toward Rushville. Two miles and five hawks-on-telephone-poles into their trip, MegaCab got chatty again: “I still can’t believe that the state revoked the liquor licenses. They had no legal right to do that of course, but just like everyone else these days, they bowed to the pressure from liberal special interest groups. Those store owners – my brother was one of them – followed the damn law to a T but still got their rights taken away. They’re the real victims in all of this.” Trevor, whose father was found dead in Whiteclay when Trevor was ten years old, didn’t answer. “You know it’s just going to push the problem down the road. These Indians are gonna get their liquor one way or another. You guys must see that all the time up in Hot Springs.” These Indians. You guys. Trevor suddenly recognized MegaCab’s presumption, and wondered when if he should correct it. “If they wanted to buy millions of cans of beer in Whiteclay every year and drink themselves to death, shit, I say let ‘em. It’s a free country, right? Those AIM types are always going on about Native rights and shit, y’know? Well shit, you have the right to drink and die if you want. Not saying that I want that for those people or anything, but the nanny state can’t be protecting everyone from problems of their own making.” Trevor, whose brother had first gotten jailed for drunk and disorderly at age 14, two years after their father died, said nothing. MegaCab continued to rhapsodize about “the Indians” and their problems, adopting the tone of an expert, one who knew all about them. Trevor felt the blood rise to his face. Some coloration at least, he thought darkly. In the pit of his stomach, the sea urchin had returned to stab at his insides. What must it be like, he wondered, to live a life in which people aren’t constantly telling you who you are, naming your characteristics like symptoms, trying to trap you like a spirit in a photograph? The Blazer came in sight on the shoulder ahead. “Can you let me out at my ride?” Trevor asked, his voice hardly recognizable to his own ear, like hearing himself talk underwater. “Sure, you need to grab something out of it?” said MegaCab, reluctantly pausing his diatribe. “No it’s okay,” replied Trevor, “I’m gonna call someone to come help me fix this after all.” He fiddled with his phone as if to underscore this intention. “Well, if you’re sure,” said MegaCab. “And hey,” he added as Trevor stepped down onto the running board. “You be careful around here. One of these rezzers might see you here all by yourself and try to mess you or your car up. And watch out for drunk drivers. You just never know with these Indians.” MegaCab gave a serious nod to accentuate this show of concern. Then he wished Trevor luck and drove off. Trevor watched the truck recede into the distance until it was merely a gray speck between the monochrome earth and the steely sky. He sat down in the cold front seat of the Blazer and looked into the rearview mirror. Hazel eyes stared back at him under a pale forehead. Fuck it, he thought; people are dumbasses. Let ‘em believe what they want; that he was from Hot Springs, that could be was related to that Apache, Geronimo, that he was only Indian on paper. Trevor saw what they didn’t; the hidden depths beneath the surface, and in their faces, in the spaces between their words, their ignorance displayed like a tattoo. In another minute or two, he would call Uncle Ev for a ride. In another hour or two, he would be offered a job at the sale barn that would bring another income into his household (and buy him a new serpentine belt). In another day or two, he would finally finish the tobacco ties for ceremony, at which he would pray for Travis’ sobriety and his auntie’s diabetes. In another month or two, the lengthening of the days would be unmistakable. Spring would come as it always had, first heralded by a single meadowlark piercing the predawn silence with his song. This would be followed by a green sprig on the prairie, pushing up, perhaps, through snow. Then a cluster of pasqueflowers appearing suddenly on a hillside, a skein of geese overhead, sheet lightning on the horizon. Small miracles, one after another. Finally, color would surge back into the world like paint scintillating on a canvas, causing goldfinches to glow like stars and evening thunderheads to stand like towering fires. The brilliant Dakota sunlight would stoke the melanin in Trevor’s skin, and nobody would mistake who he was. He would go up on the hill for two days and nights with Travis that spring, and Trenton would keep fire for them. He would pray for the coming year, for the survival of his people, for enough blessings to outweigh the hardships. And there, among a sea of undulating green, facing the crimson blaze of sunrise, he would again know himself and find the strength to carry on, in the face of all the peculiar indignities of this world.
Crazy prediction: COVID-19 will seriously hurt the US standing in the Global Economy
So we know that the American response to COVID-19 has been bad. Competing for the Darwin awards bad. The only first world countries that have a higher per-capita infection rate are Spain, Belgium and Iceland, all of which have a significantly fewer new cases per day today compared to their peak infection rate. https://gisanddata.maps.arcgis.com/apps/opsdashboard/index.html#/bda7594740fd40299423467b48e9ecf6 (Click on the countries to the left to see how many new cases are reported compared to the peak) https://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2020/world/coronavirus-maps.html (Change view to per capita cases) Evidence of the continued spread in the USA can be seen in the rising of cases outside of NY. https://www.nytimes.com/2020/05/05/us/coronavirus-deaths-cases-united-states.html This also takes into account the testing rate, since new deaths are dropping in NY, yet the rest of the countries total deaths remains nearly constant. https://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2020/us/new-york-coronavirus-cases.html (scroll down to reported deaths). vs https://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2020/us/coronavirus-us-cases.html (scroll down to reported deaths). Since there is a lag in data, about 1-2 weeks for new detected cases and 4 weeks for deaths, it means that the non-NY social distancing measures between ~4/10-4/24 were insufficient to control the spread of the virus. With the loosening of state restrictions, it means the R0 number today will be higher than it was in the two weeks of 4/10-4/24, meaning there will be more new infections per day outside of NYC in 1-2 weeks then there are today. So, what does this mean? The US may "flatten" the curve, but not control the spread of the virus. In other words, the virus will continue to spread for the foreseeable future in an uncontrolled fashion (with an R0 value very close to 1 meaning daily new cases/death counts remain mostly the same). That doesn't necessarily mean there will be another spike in infections (although that is possible). Why is this? Well, here are the key differences between the USA and (most) other first world countries
Lack national contact tracing program
Insufficient testing - especially for rural communities
Insufficient PPE for hospitals and essential workers
Lack of national quarantine plan
A desire by a minority (~5-10% of the population - anti-vaxxers and the like) to ignore most safety recommendations (masks, no visiting family, etc) - and no repercussions if safety recommendations are ignored
Reopening Super-spreader locations (Churches, factories, and salons) where spread can continue even with
A refusal by top leadership (Trump Administration) to coordinate an international response - Reduces the ability of countries to coordinate responses such as short term travel bans to hotspots, share PPE, share ventilators, share information, etc.
A refusal of top leadership (Trump Administration) to coordinate an national response - Reduces state-by-state differences and leverages the best scientists to create a baseline plan for the country.
Growing partisanship about the response creating a lack of a response (mostly noticeable in mask wearing). This increases the spread as many anti-vaxxer types see wearing a mask/social distancing as a "liberal" issue rather than a "national" issue, meaning the virus spreads more.
There are a lot of big economies (France, Germany, China, Japan, South Korea, Italy, Australia, Switzerland, Spain, Netherlands, and Turkey) that have reduced the number of new infections to controllable levels. https://gisanddata.maps.arcgis.com/apps/opsdashboard/index.html#/bda7594740fd40299423467b48e9ecf6 (Click on the country in the left pane and click on the daily cases in the bottom right window). Since the new infection rate is low, that means if they determine a person is infected, they can perform contact tracing on that person, determine who they were in close contact with, and then quarantine everybody who they were in close contact with. This can reduce the number of new infections by a significant amount (I'm guessing reducing the likelihood of another infection by 75% - bringing the R0 value down significantly below 1) without social distancing efforts. There is no indication that the US will have any of this type of capability for at least 3 months. Probably closer to 6. The issue being a lack of national leadership. States may implement this, but many slow states such as Florida, Georgia, North Dakota, Kansas may not have the resources or political will to get something like this going quickly. Okay, so what does all this mean for businesses and stocks and investments. If you live in one of these countries where new infection rate are low with contact tracing, you are free to go out and spend money without worrying about getting infected. Higher confidence = higher spending. Additionally, these countries are going to be looking to fully re-open their economies (football games, bars, casinos, etc). With that, they'll be stuck between two options. One, keep their economy open to the US and risk a new outbreak (and thus the economic hit) or close their economy to the US and take the economic hit until the US gets the virus under control. Essentially, a travel ban of people traveling from the US (and other countries that don't have the virus under control - Russia, Canada, UK, etc in that list) could be possible. Another affect of this, which is more important for us, if the US has an uncontrolled spread of the virus, that means factories will be shut down at random (as an outbreak occurs in a factory) in the US for a period of 3-6 months where other country's factories are humming along. With a reduced demand rate, that creates a huge competitive advantage for other countries to provide reliable supply. That means that buyers of products will look for alternative supplies outside of US. This means that big businesses such as GM, BA, F, GE, etc lose long-term market share to competitors in other countries. This can hit other places such as entertainment where no new US movies are produced, and no US sports are produced. To me, this points to not just a slow L shaped recovery. It means that the GDP of the USA will be lower in 2021-22 than it was in 2019. Other countries (Japan, China, South Korea) could see a full recovery by the beginning of 2021. Tell me I'm wrong. I really want to know if I'm completely off base here.
Family attempting to uproot 75 year old grandmother from home of 30 years to move somewhere cheaper in the middle of nowhere because they can't afford it without her.
I am beside myself right now, so I apologize if my thoughts are all over the place or if I leave out important info. My father and his brother are working on convincing my grandmother to sell her home (the one her late husband purchased and made additions to, including a rental unit to bring her income after his passing 4 years ago) to move to the middle of nowhere. It doesn't seem like they have a serious plan or idea about where they want to go, as she mentioned the guys were looking in Oklahoma, Kansas, and her home state of North Dakota. So far she has started to clean and sent me boxes of the things my mother dumped there, possibly getting the house ready for showings. I heard her mention a few months ago rising taxes in CA as a reason to leave, but all I can find is a split-roll measure that would completely exempt residences. She gets the homeowner's exemption and is taxed at an assessment 350k-400k less than the home's estimated value because it hasn't been reassessed since it was sold, and the assessed value can only rise a maximum of 2% each year. I know that the 290k the house is being taxed at could purchase quite a lot of home in a cheaper place, with hundreds of thousands left over, but she wouldn't have the rental income. Nor does it seem like she has a plan for the leftover money (she could purchase another property and make that a rental, of course, but it's a hell of a lot of trouble for her just to get around. Vetting tenants and properties for this purpose would be a huge undertaking, as she's mentioned just moving would be as much). She said she absolutely loves the tenant living above her right now. Grandma hasn't raised the tenant's rent because of how much she likes her tenant, and while she would prefer not to, understands that would be an option. I guess I should mention to her that anybody who buys the property would raise rent on her in a second, she pays at least 600 bucks less than what most places would charge. There are a lot of reasons why moving to a place like this would be a bad choice for her, and I'm hoping reddit can help me convince her to consider what is best for her in this situation. She has mentioned how hard the harsh winters of her home state were, and that she couldn't weather them now, with her arthritis. Besides that, two of those states are famous for their tornado and hurricane seasons. She was aware and said she'd be sure any place they moved had an adequate basement, but the inconveniences of severe weather extend far beyond safety. She can't even see well enough to drive past dusk in the city, and I know for a fact there are sometimes whole miles between functional streetlights in the lesser populated areas (if they are there at all). Towns and cities are spread out over huge swaths, and even she admits that her current car is a complete lemon. The last shreds of her independence would go up in smoke with this move, alongside the comforts and conveniences of the cozy suburb they live in now. No more walks with friends, no more fishing trips or angling for the giant mackerel by the pier. She seems to think her life has no value over what they want, because she hardly does anything aside from cook and clean for her two sons. She wouldn't be giving up anything except her basic comfort, in her eyes, and it's really hard to get her to consider that important. I feel fucking horrible that she gave away her entire life to slaving over a hot stove and now that she doesn't have a husband to look after she's still chasing two grown-ass men to do their laundry and keep the house orderly. She deserves some peace and time to do what she wants, instead of pulling weeds in the garden and making daily trips to the grocery store (weekly now with COVID, she said. Seemed sad she didn't get out of the house as much). For goodness' sake, she eloped with a foreign man that spoke not a word of english fifty years ago! She's just not that person. She's a lot more than that. I've been trying to place emphasis on giving her other options, and not feeling forced into this. She told me "the virus" is making my uncle uncomfortable, and that my dad outright hates CA (My father had talked at length for months before the outbreak about moving out of grandma's house, where he lives with his girlfriend, to North Dakota or somewhere else out of state). All three of them have continued to work all throughout the stay-at-home order, continually putting my grandmother at risk despite living with her and not having rental expenses. Dad and uncle each own a business, and my dad also works for my uncle's business on the side. Their business could certainly be considered essential, as they keep people's homes in liveable condition, however they are required to enter other person's residences to do so. I understand that my uncle has expenses owning a business and can't necessarily afford to cease operations and keep the business, but if he's moving then he has no intention to keep it anyway. He has said it would be better to operate somewhere more rural, as they would only be going into individual homes rather than servicing several places in the same building. I don't see how this makes more sense, as to make the same money he would have to enter the same number of unique residences and do the same number of jobs at the same price. While cost of living might be lower, he wouldn't be able to charge the same as he does now. I have a feeling it may be something to do with his former employer having a monopoly on single-unit homes in the area, as they've been around decades and have widespread local marketing. Dad is just self-employed, and works with his brother on jobs, no obligation to his business as he doesn't employ anyone else. Dad's GF is helping to remodel the bar she works at while it's closed. I have a lot of suspicions about the reasons behind their desire to leave, in addition to what I've mentioned. Leaving was my father's plan to begin with, but he still has not saved the required assets to do so, for various reasons. Some are in his control, some aren't, I understand. He tried this once before, with me (moving to a much cheaper state in the south), and we ended up homeless, penniless, then back home dependent upon my grandmother and grandfather. This has been the case each time my father and uncle have moved out, either alone or with someone that they are romantically involved with/married to. They have not supported themselves since I was born, and likely for years before that. I don't trust their ability to make smart decisions and take adequate care of her, as they have failed to do so for the entirety of this pandemic. The SAFEST and best thing for her right now would be if they all packed up and left, instead of continually exposing her to the same things they expose themselves to, and this is one of the reasons I so firmly believe they don't have her best interests at heart at all. The worst part of me believes they know I wouldn't let them sell the house and split up the money when she eventually passes away, so they're trying to liquidate it now and get some while they can/get a free house out of it. All while putting her in danger. She has expressed that she tries to keep distance as best she can, but can't, as they are "at the same dinner table." She also said that my dad's girlfriend is looking forward to going to the casino when it reopens next week. It's obvious they don't give a rat's ass about keeping her safe, and likely haven't even considered renting somewhere for her to stay while they contaminate the place. I am trying to get her to advocate more for herself on this front as well, but it's very hard for her to stand up for herself. This is a hugely complicating factor in the current situation. All I have ever wanted is for the house to be the same safe landing pad it's been for the members of our family for years. I want there to be a place for my dad and uncle to come back to if things get rough, and I want there to be a safe place for my siblings, my little cousin, the next generation, to end up if they run into hardships. This is in line with the intent behind all of my grandfather's work. These two are selfish enough to partake their whole lives, and yank away the opportunity from their children and nieces and nephews at the first chance they get with their father no longer around to put a stop to it. I have a home across the country and have been away for five years, so while my place isn't there now, it's been a home to our family for three decades. That's almost half the time my grandfather even spent in this country. I have some questions for her, and I would welcome more comparisons and talking points from everyone so that I can be more prepared when I talk to her again. So far, all I have is:
If your sons/sons GF were not living with you, would you be more or less at risk?
If they weren't already living with you, and let you know they were buying a home together out of state, would that be enough reason to uproot your life and go live with them?
If needing someone in the family nearby is enough reason to pick up and move, would you do it if I were living in the house/renting somewhere in the neighborhood?
I want her to understand what the options would look like if they actually had her interests at heart. As far as COVID-19 is concerned, they are proposing to move to places with less infrastructure, regulation, and with worse responses to the virus compared to their current home, while making no efforts to curb the exposure she receives. More remote areas may experience a slower spread, and therefore are likely still in earlier stages with regard to its progression/containment. She really was in the safest place in the country to be when all of this began. I have already talked with my partner, and I am willing to pack up and move back to CA to stay with her until he can find a job in our city and we can live together nearby. I feel it's a small price to pay to keep her comfortable, as much as I love my new city and have put down roots. I also brought up the idea of her moving to a smaller home here in my state, as there's a lovely neighborhood she could afford and still be a little closer to the action. We do have winter here, but not ND winter. No tornadoes either. Thoughts, comments, ideas all welcome. We are in US, if post didn't make that clear. Thank you so much for reading, and I will answer absolutely any questions to the best of my ability. Thank you again.
North Dakota tribes concerned over e-tabs growth. February 28, 2020. North Dakota Indian gaming has been negatively impacted by the state's legalization of electronic pull-tabs, or e-tabs. Tribal leaders say the e-tab machines are competing for gambling dollars against North Dakota Indian casinos. Discover The Online Casinos In North Dakota Where You Can Play Real Money & Free Gambling Games. Find Local ND Casino Resorts Near Me. Las Vegas Casinos. Casinos in North Dakota USA. Casinos in North Dakota have an established place in the state. Even though it may be the USA’s least populous state, North Dakota has hundreds of charitable gambling operations, tribal casinos, a state lottery, and horse racing tracks. Moreover, ND has claim on the title of the highest concentrations of gaming venues Online casinos are not legal in North Dakota. Residents and visitors may be able to access any number of offshore online casinos from inside the state. But know that gambling is against the law outside of the race tracks, charitable gaming operations, tribal casinos, and lotteries. North Dakota does have a state lottery, which can indicate an openness to other forms of betting. The nearest online casinos will be in Nevada, which has online poker through WSOP. But, you can still register with a legal online casino while you're in North Dakota. Top North Dakota Casinos: See reviews and photos of casinos & gambling attractions in North Dakota on Tripadvisor. 2402 1st Ave W 58801 Williston. See this casino. The State of North-Dakota (ND) is located in the North of United-States on the Canadian border. The “Peace Garden State” has a population of nearly 700,000 and its main city is Fargo. North Dakota casinos maximum bet limits are as follows: blackjack-$100 (though if there are two tables in a casino they sometimes have limits up to $250), roulette-$50, slots/video poker-$25, craps-$60, and poker-$50 per bet, per round (maximum of three rounds). Check out a few of the North Dakota casinos online we listed to see what we mean! List of Land-Based Real Money North Dakota Casinos. Today, North Dakota has a large and prosperous land-based real money gambling market. Many individuals in this state still prefer to make their wagers the old-fashioned way. Does North Dakota Have Land-Based Casinos? Yes, North Dakota has 8 land-based casinos and 18 more poker rooms. North Dakota’s full casinos are located in Belcourt, Fort Yates, Hankinson, New Town, Saint Michael, Spiritwood, and Trenton.
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