Hill Jack

By Tenzin McGrupp © 2005

Somewhere, Indiana
6 May 2005

An iota of doubt flickered in my mind as I stepped off Northworst Airlines flight #169. Daddy from Snailtrax called me at 5 AM. He had started his tri-state bender off a day earlier than I after raging at a Karl Denson show in Bloomington and slid way past Shittysville during the course of the evening. He left a bizarre and rambling message that woke me up but I was too sleepy to pick up the phone.

"Fuck dude, this is fucking hilarious... (incoherent)... Doc, this is Daddy, man, call me when you are ready to get on the plane.... (incoherent).... I went to Karl Denson and ended up at some house party. I don't know, fuck, where my fuckin' car is parked.... (incoherent)... Call me so you can wake me up...(incoherent)... or otherwise I'm gonna to just gonna fuckin' rush into some houses and wake some motherfuckers up. Aw shit."

Aw shit is right. Five minutes before I boarded my plane I called and left a wake up message. I called two more times before take off... each time getting his voicemail. I did what I could. It was out of my hands.

The flight to Indy was nothing out of the ordinary. I re-read Wil Wheaton's entire book, Just a Geek (minus the Q&As) on my flight.

I quickly made my way through Indianapolis airport. It might have been the quickest navigation I’d ever experienced at major city airport. It took six minutes for me to deplane, piss, check my messages and make my way outside. Six minutes. I called Daddy expecting that he'd be laying face down in a drunk tank and would not be taking my call. I was surprised when he picked up.

"Dude, are you in Indy? Fuck," he said.

As I rode the escalator down towards the baggage claim area, he miraculously appeared at the bottom pointing at me. He made it on less than two hours of sleep. "Welcome to Indiana, Doc. By the end of the night you'll get piss drunk, get in a fight, and fuck a fat chick in order to fully absorb the Southern Indiana Hill Jack experience."

We were ready to get crazy. I was on a mission -- well, several missions. The first mission: Not to touch a computer keyboard for at least 80 hours. No email. No blogging. No Party Poker. Nothing. My second mission was to have fun, live in the moment, and see a kick ass concert. My third and most important mission... was a secret.

Daddy agreed to show me around parts of southern Indiana that I never would have set foot in I had not met him. I slowly slipped into vacation mode as we drove along the back roads. When arrived at his house, Daddy quickly showed me his dog, his banjo, and a framed picture of Hunter S. Thompson from a town hall meeting in Colorado. Mrs. Trax was at work and we would have to postpone our initial meeting for a few more hours.

Daddy lives right next to a golf course, along the fifteenth hole. We decided to hit the links for a round, which would be my first round of the year. He busted out a pair of old clubs for me and we were ready for a little fun in the sun. Daddy grabbed two six packs of Miller Lite from the clubhouse and we drove up to the first hole. No driving range for us. The driving range is for pussies.

Maybe I should have hit at least one ball. My first shot looked ugly after I topped it and my Titleist spurted only a few yards in front of us.

The cold beer helped my golf game. It made me forget about the last shot and focus on the next one. We chatted about all things like baseball trivia, Round Room, the weight of a whale vagina, and the last blogger trip in Vegas. The first nine holes were relaxing. Every now and then Daddy would remind me about the upcoming poker tournament, "6 PM Freezeout."

It seemed that Daddy knew everyone on the golf course. Even his old man, Major Trax, was on the course. It was an honor to meet a true Indiana sports legend and the father of one of the sickest and most demented motherfuckers I know.

The back nine went quick and I’d only had a hot dog to eat all afternoon. I shot much better and stuck to my 3-iron off the tees. My putting was horrible and my short game (40-90 yards out) is still my only strength. I used to play a lot of golf during college when I lived in Atlanta. Since then, it's been hard to find time to play.

Daddy is a pretty good golfer. He's a big guy and ripped a 300-yard drive on one of the par fives. Impressive, indeed. After the round, we headed back to the house and I met Mrs. Trax. Like I suspected, she was a hip, hip lady. During our brief encounter, our conversation jumped back and forth between Cincinnati race riots and Angela's infatuation with Jordan Catalano on the short-lived, yet critically acclaimed drama My So Called Life.

Before I left for the poker tournament, the lovely Mrs. Trax gave me a warning, half in jest and half serious, "Be careful of those Greene County boys."

We headed over to Greene County where Daddy's buddy the Weasel lived. That's were the game was being held... in the heart of Hill Jack country. If you are not familiar with the term "Hill Jack," well it's the equivalent to "Hillbillies." We stopped by the house of one Daddy's other friends to see if he was playing cards too. Unfortunately, he blew us off to watch movies with his girlfriend and her daughters.

We walked over to Aggies, one of Daddy's favorite local watering holes, and entered through the alleyway in the back door. You gotta love a bar with a back door. We ordered a few drinks and Daddy introduced me to this weird fellow named Werner, a German guy with very few teeth. He’s known as the best house painter in the area. He never spills a single drop of paint. Unfortunately, old man Werner blows all his painting money on beer and gets shitfaced. I met a few other people at the bar, all nice folks. Everyone I met in Indiana said the same thing, "Why the hell did you come here from New York City?"

I told them about the third leg to my secret mission. I was on special assignment by the CBC (Canadian Broadcasting Station or C-Boot as I shall refer to it from here on out).

"You see folks, I'm here in Southern Indiana to investigate the subtle art of Donkey Fucking. The people of Canada are intrigued by the Donkey Fucker phenomenon and sent me to find out as much as possible about how some of you whackos participate in the fastest growing hobby in rural America. If you guys have any information, I'd love to buy you a drink and have you tell me everything you know about donkey fucking."

I handed out my business cards. No one offered up any information. Their silence led me to believe that they were covering up. I was on to something. But what?

Tenzin McGrupp is a writer from New York City.