Dancing with Jimmy
A One-Person Show
Written and Performed by Robert J. Hubbard
(The audience enters
the theatre with nothing to see but a bare stage, save a single chair with a
backpack draped onto the back. The show starts when BOB steps up onto the stage. He wears a casual tweed sport-coat and
Prologue:
Research
(BOB pulls
a book from the backpack)
The Black Hills of Western South Dakota play a key role in today’s little drama. Being academically minded, I therefore feel compelled to share with you some of the research I’ve conducted on this small but significant mountain system.
(Holding up
the book) THE BLACK HILLS: GEOLOGICAL FIELD GUIDE SERIES
(Reading from the Book) Major Rock Systems: As one
approaches the
(BOB quickly deposits the first book into the backpack and pulls out a
second)
And now for a cultural perspective:
“Legends of the Lakota.
Man and the
As told by James LaPointe
(Reading from the book) Far back in the
first sunrise of time (so say the stories), all the animals of the earth
gathered here in the
In the
midst of a world filled with predatory animals, a world in which people killed
animals for food, and animals killed people, the people of the time longed for
a way to bring order to the chaotic world. They pondered long and deeply
upon the matter. Then one day they sent out a call to all the animals of
the world to meet. A powwow was held. A memorable event because, in order
to bring peace and order to the world, all present agreed to participate in a
race of immense magnitude. The race was to decide many things. It
would result in the sorting and separating of the animals into their proper
species by the smell of their bodies. It was to be a grand, epic feat of
the ages.
(At this
point, BOB tosses down manuscript and
fully-embodies the performance)
Thus, messengers chosen from among the swiftest animals set out in all directions in order to announce the great event. Other animals sought out a suitable ground for a circular race track, and laid out a course wide enough and long enough so that the many animals who were expected could take part in the race. Every animal deserved a chance, whether small or clumsy, weak or strong.
Since all sorts of animals appeared from every corner of the earth to take part
in the race, heralders in a common language kept the
newcomers informed of the rules. One rule established that once the race
began, all of the racers must keep running, while the sun rose and set, one
hundred times around the course. No stopping allowed. When the sun rose and set
for the one hundredth time, the judges would choose the winners.
As the day drew near for the big race a seething mass of animals covered the
land. Eager and impatient to be off and away, all of the racers sought victory.
And then the fateful day arrived. A voice, unearthly and vibrant as
thunder, shouted: “Hokane!” Your fate is at
hand! The race was on, a test of endurance and stamina. The earth
trembled under the impact of the stomping hooves.
Before
the sun set that first day, the squeals and wailing of the weaker animals
filled the air. Giant animals trampled and crushed smaller ones. The damp earth
lost its moisture under the constant beating of hooves. Pulverized dust
rose skyward, choking and obliterating the flying hordes of birds above, as
they circled with the animal racers down below.
After
many days, the string of racers stretched into a continuous ribbon of animal
flesh, the faster animals overtaking the slower runners. Now, the racers
fell into a wild, rhythmic stomping, like a massive dance as they raced round
and round the course. The earth shook. The air above vibrated.
Animals brayed hysterically, crazed from hunger and fatigue. The din and
stench was nauseating. But the race sped on like a giant serpent chasing
its tail.
As the
endless stream of racing animals moved madly on, lo and behold! The path
of the racers sank crazily under their combined weight. Within the circle
of racing animals a bulge appeared, strangely rising out of the ground. At
first the mound formed slowly. But suddenly, the earth quivered and
groaned like a huge animal in pain. The mound rose faster and faster, and
higher and higher, until, with a thunderous roar, it burst open. Flames
and dense smoke rose skyward, pelting the racers with fiery debris.
The
animal racers lay dead in their tracks, covered with smoldering ashes and
lava. The epic race of the ages ended in a Wakipa
(a curse inflicted by the Great Spirit). So say the Lakota stories. The
winners were never fully determined. But some say that of all the animals
of land or sky, the lowly magpie led the way.
After
the air cleared and calm returned once more, within the rim of the circle of
dead animals a pile of broken rocks stood majestically high in the air.
The Lakota call the mass of broken rocks Paha Sapa,
or
(BOB once
again pulls out the first book)
The
rocks within a twenty-mile radius of the
End of Prologue
(BOB quickly takes off his sports coat and dress shirt to reveal a very worn orange T-shirt.)
It was a
dumb thing to do.
Sweat mixes with churning dust, making me itch under my 1987 AFC Championship
Denver Bronco t-shirt. I am hiking third in a party of three, you know,
the one forced to dodge the rock slides set off by my traveling companions as
we scale the ravine leading to the highest face of white rock in
Near the top, we rub bellies with sandstone and cling to tree roots at an
eighty-degree incline. The thought occurs to me that the process of
coming down may pose some problems. Understandably, I share these
concerns with my friends. Dan, the stoic leader and instigator of the
group, dismissively clicks his voice, “No problem, we’ll just have to find an
easier way down.” He is three years older than me, and in seminary.
I believe him.
Finally, under a blanket of our own heavy breathing, we reach the top. We
collapse on this nest of brown pine nettles that surrounds the jutting
cliff. Lee, he’s the other member of the group, mumbles, “I feel like I’m
gonna puke.” Dan and I share the sentiment but
communicate it only through the strain of our tired faces. Our mutual
exhaustion, all be it temporary, lights within us the
sense of camaraderie—this is the sort of thing reserved for daring, adventurous
people.
For a time, we simply sit and watch the coming dusk shade the sky with
cinnamon. Rested, we move from our perch onto the milky cliff. With
each tentative step towards the edge, the majestic beauty of
“Sure is pretty, huh?”
“Oh yeah, yeah, we should’ve done this a long time ago.”
“You know what I’m gonna miss most about this
place? The fact that there aren’t any bugs up here.
I swear I haven’t been bitten by a mosquito in three months.”
“So, what do you think guys? I mean, I love her and all, but marriage…”
It turned very dark.
“Well, I suppose we should start heading down,” says Dan, standing up, brushing
off his ivory blue jeans faded to the point of novelty. “Looks like we
can head... well, I, you can’t really see it anymore now that it’s gotten so
dark, but before it got so dark, I noticed that the ravine on the left side of
the canyon face kind of knifes over to the right. It didn’t look as steep to
me. Let’s go down that way.”
“Sure is dark,” says Lee.
“Yeah,” I agree.
We make our way off of the rock and into the trees. If there is a moon
this night, it must be blocked by one of the distant canyon walls. The
only visible light emanates from distant stars that freckle the sky in tiny
pinpoints of white. By the time we hit the trees, I literally cannot. .
.Listen, I hate to say this because I know it’s a cliché, but it’s true, I
literally cannot see my hand in front of my face. This poses unsavory
problems when hiking in the forest. With each tentative step, narrow
fingers of branches poke and stab our blind faces.
“This is not good,” says Lee.
“No.” I agree.
Suddenly, the ground becomes dangerously steep. Too
steep to stand. We instinctively drop to our butts and begin scooting
forward like crabs. One of us comes up with the ingenious idea of picking
up pebbles from our hips and tossing them over our toes to locate the drop
offs. Suddenly, the walls of the ravine creep in narrowly around us, so
narrowly you can touch both sides at once. The encompassing rocks seem to
suffocate rather than protect.
“Phhhit.” The sound of rock separating from the earth, kind of an odd sound,
really only in nature. I’ll try again to recreate it. “Phhhit.” A couple of seconds
pass, then a dull “thud.”
"Dan? Dan?" Only the otherwise soothing sound of sliding sand
makes its way up to our ledge. “Dan!” we shout. Lee’s behind me,
above me, the trees in the darkness, I can’t see him.
“What is going on?”
Breaking our panic, Dan’s voice wafts up from below.
"Hello?" it questions. It’s clearly Dan’s voice, but it sounds
as if it’s coming from a source other than Dan.
"Dan, are you alright?"
"Yeah…but
there is warm liquid running down my shoulders."
Suddenly the memory of this
evening that had once been fun seems like this childish dream. Here we
are stuck on this ledge with our friend Dan injured beneath us, the apparent
effects of a concussion play tricks with his speech. He tells us that
he’s, “Fine . . . but not very hungry.”
His answers are so bizarre that Lee eventually musters the courage to ask him,
“Dan, are you, are you putting us on Dan? Are you pulling our leg?”
“What?” replies Dan—deciphering a figure of speech beyond him.
No, no, the distant quality of Dan’s voice and the slurredness
of his speech truthfully signified to Lee and me that this condition is no
joke.
It turned very cold.
Squinting
my eyes, I imagine I see the outline of a pine tree some six feet from the edge
of the ledge where Lee and I huddle. We estimate the drop-off to be about
twenty feet. Because we cannot see what we would land on, the decision to
jump is ruled out. But that, that pine tree…I imagine my self leaping out
to it and shinnying down its spine. I seem to recall a similar scene from
one of the Rambo movies. Is this the only way to reach Dan?
Uncertain, I postpone my leap—not because of the danger (I’m thinking pretty
crazy at this time)—but because of the embarrassment. Could you
imagine? Swan diving out into the darkness, grasping a trunk full of air.
"Dan, are you
cold?"
"No, no, I haven't got a
cold. I got some allergies, but you know, hey, it’s that time of
year."
Being great outdoorsmen, we have one, count it, one jacket between us. Lee, the owner
tosses it over the edge of the ledge in the direction of Dan's voice.
Briefly, we hear it hang on a branch. Stabs of incompetent futility slice
through our minds. "You fool! You mindless fool! Now we're
left with nothing!" But gracefully, the momentum of the denim
carries the jacket beyond the invisible crag, who knows maybe it’s a branch
from that pine tree I think I see, onto a spot on the ground near enough to Dan
for him to find it.
"Put it on, Dan," says
Lee.
"How?" says Dan, dully.
After
talking our graduate friend through the process of putting on a jacket, Lee and
I discuss options. We decide that I will stay with Dan and try to keep him
talking while Lee ventures back up the ravine in hopes of finding an
alternative route down.
"Well buddy, I hope this works." In the darkness, I sense Lee’s
hand. I clutch it. It trembles in my grip-warm with sweat, cool
with fear. Soon, he is gone.
(Throughout
this next section, the phrase, “Keep talking, gotta
keep talking,” is interjected in the monologue)
For the
next hour or so I talk to Dan. We talk about everything: religion, women,
food. I even get him to tell me a ghost story.
Our mouths becomes sticky and dry, you know how they get from talking too much
in cold night air without water. Gradually, Dan's replies become
more precise and intelligible. It appears the effects of the concussion
aren’t as serious as we had feared. I even begin to think things are
going pretty well.
But
then, like an open hand with velocity, reality slaps me in the face, breaking
any delusion of comfort. After all, I am still stuck on this rock in the
middle of the night with one injured friend beneath me and another one openly
tempting death by rock climbing at night. Lee could be at the bottom of
some ravine by now for all I know. I tell you, this little self-inventory
is especially bad because it reminds me of the cold. During the month of
August, the temperature sometimes dips below freezing in the
"Bob?" A voice, above me, behind me in the trees, in the
darkness
"Lee?" I ask, relieved, surprised, disappointed.
“Is that you?”
“Darn it!” Lee makes his way back down the ravine, back to the starting
point. “How did I end up back here? I could have sworn I was below this
point."
“Well, how did it go?” I ask.
"Oh, I nearly died two or three times. No matter how far I went
across, I couldn’t seem to find any ravine that cuts through this drop
off."
"My turn, I guess."
This time I make my way back up the ravine, this time in hope of finding a
completely different way down. You see, the road to
Sliding, scraping, stumbling, struggling-the darkness stands against me like a
gate. Every attempt at sight dissipates into its black sheen. Ah,
the commodity of light. I don’t think I thanked you or appreciated you
enough when you did your job. In your absence, I am useless, unable to
function…an infant. What I wouldn’t give if, just for one second, the sun
would click on and show me where the hell I was.
I do
make it to the backside of the canyon wall. I only know this because my
ascent suddenly becomes a descent. But before long, I butt up against the
mother of all drop-offs. The rock I toss to test the depth seems to hang
in the air like a balloon. After several seconds, the distant tap of
stone on stone signifies its arrival at the bottom.
Again, I
wish for the sun. From here, I bet the view would be spectacular.
After a few
minutes of resting and lamenting, and lamenting and resting, I retreat back in
the direction of Lee and Dan. Broken by the darkness, I do not have the
stomach to scuttle around anymore and risk pushing myself over the edge.
On the way back, I accidentally set off a small rockslide, which I ride briefly
like a go-cart. If not for a scraggly fern I manage to grab, I might have
joined the crashing rocks. The fear of death saws softly on previous
notions of imperious youth. I begin to see what fools we’ve been.
I climb
for what seems like hours. I don’t know, I have a watch, but it’s one of
the old-fashioned kind, it doesn’t have a light, I
can't read it in the darkness. I only hear its worthless ticking. I
scuttle onward, miles from nowhere, the ticking as my cadence. But before
long, whose voices do I hear crawling up the canyon? Lee
and Dan. This unbelievable, Lee and I wander blind in the bowl of
a large canyon for hours, and yet we both ended up in exactly the same spot,
the spot that best symbolizes our mountaineering futility. It strikes me
as the kind of thing we could not have done if we had tried. Don’t get me
wrong. I am happy to hear my friends. Who wants to be alone?
I return
to find Dan in good condition: seems coherent, speech intelligible, bleeding
stopped. He tells us that he’s found a Hefty garbage bag in the pocket of
Lee's jacket and he’s put it over his head and poked his arms through it and
wears it now like a vest for warmth. The garbage bag is left over from
the final day of camp clean-up. How pacifying the image now seems of
passing out hefty garbage bags to little Indian children. “Come on,
kids. Minister to the creation. Preach
unity. Be good stewards of the land.” Dan now wears the vessel of
this instruction; it keeps him warm—his armor against the night.
He tells
us that, “My ribs and my ankle really hurts. And, I seem to be missing a
shoe. But other than that, no problem.” He even convinces us, after
a time, to allow him continue down the mountain by himself. Convinces us. Yeah right, what could we do? The
reversal is strange, as if Dan through blood and pain has somehow earned
passage, while we more or less scarless must continue
a vigil of freezing and waiting and waiting and freezing.
"Don't worry, buddy, we'll be fine," I shout to the sound of Dan
disappearing into the bushes beneath us.
"Say, Lee, do you have a light on your watch?"
"Yeah, it's
"
"It was a long hour and a half," says Lee, meaning it. I am
still sweaty from my hike, but Lee trembles noticeably in the darkness.
"I’ll tell you what. We’ll head back up to the top and we’ll find a
flat spot where we can do some jumping jacks or something to get warm.
And then, and then I guess we’ll have to find a spot to spend the night."
"It needs to be a warm spot.”
We make
our way back up the ravine, up to the top, into the trees, out of the trees, onto
the rock, back into the trees. Remembering remedial Boy Scout training
from way back, we scratch a hole in the earth for our bed, using the edge of a
flat rock. We then go on an expedition for pine branches. Whoever
supported the myth that you can make a bed out of pine branches has never tried
it at least not in the
It
turned very awkward.
Lee and
I decide that it will be acceptable from a real man standpoint to press our
backs against each other for warmth. We are darn cold, but not yet near
death. Full frontal cuddling would serve only as a last resort.
Unceremoniously, we shove our arms inside our t-shirts, press our backs against
each other, and work briefly to find a position that keeps our shoulder blades
from locking.
“Say, Bob?”
“Yeah.”
"This is pretty serious, don’t you think?”
“Yeah.”
“Think maybe we should, we should pray together?" We have been
leading prayers all summer long at Thunderhead Camp. Suddenly, the skill
seems kind of important. I start.
"Dear Lord Jesus, friend, brother. Uh, Lord, Thank you for keeping
us safe so far. Look, Lord, we realize that what we did was not
smart. Nobody would blame you if we froze to death up here, heck, we
probably deserve it. But, Lord please, have mercy on our stupidness. We're morons, but we’re morons who love
you and we know that you love us. Please, Lord, watch over Dan.
Keep him safe. All these things we pray in your Holy Name.
Amen." Lee then says something similar, but more eloquent and we
attempt to drift off to sleep.
Just as eyelids begin to yield to exhaustion, we hear the distant honk of a car
horn, followed by a series of faint shouts.
"Who could that be?"
"I don't know. Maybe Dan got help."
As we make our way out of the trees, the prospect of help receives the first
serious reflection of the evening. Listen, I had assumed that we needed
to be rescued but in actuality, what could be done? Previous events of
the evening suggest rock climbing at night to be a poor plan even with a
flashlight. A helicopter seems unrealistic and unlikely. No, I
think we are stuck on the rock at least until morning. Still, we are
curious to learn if the cheers at the bottom are for us.
As we peek out from the edge of the ledge out onto the cliff, we see the
headlights of a parked car burn on the road below. Shadowy figures move
in range of the glow. They seem so small, miniature people. The
distance, though deep, is not far. I shout down, "Hello!"
"Bob? Lee? Is that you?" replies a familiar and concerned
voice.
"No, somebody else is stuck up here in
"That's not funny, Bob!"
Six dear friends—the rest of the entire counseling staff—have ventured into
After some discussion, we convince them "not to try to rescue us in the
dark." The discussion is made more difficult by our own echoes,
which keep bounding off the far canyon wall and returning to us during their
replies, drowning them out. Sadly, I think we are a little rude and curt
to our friends. They keep asking questions while we curl on our ledge and
freeze. All we want to do is go back to our hole, not stand in the cold
wind of an unprotected cliff.
"We will see later!" I shout as Lee and I sneak back from the edge of
the ledge of the cliff. "We will wait at the foot of this mountain
until morning.” "Don't worry; we'll see you then."
Cold! I wake up a few hours later, teeth chattering like one of those
wind-up skulls they sell in tourist trap gift shops. My heart, my
heart! It feels like it’s pumping ice water. I leap up and start a
doing wild spasms of calisthenics. "Holy
Shit!" I bellow. Lee jerks up, scared by the cold and my
cursing. The frost on the ground makes traction slippery. The two
of us dance, Indian-style, slipping and sliding around our frozen hole, in a
frenzy of semi-voluntary convulsions.
Wait a second... Did the cold wake me... Or was there... A sound in the darkness? There it is again... had I heard
that in my sleep? Uncertain, I peer in the direction of the noise.
As if in response, a shaft of light slices the night some fifty yards away from
us. There’s somebody is on the mountain with us, and that somebody has a
flashlight.
I shout out, "Hello!"
"Bob, Lee? Where are ya guys?"
replies a familiar voice.
The voice belongs to Jimmy Crow—a twenty-year-old friend of ours and member of
the Santee-Lakota Tribe. He’s from a reservation kind of near Yankton,
"Bob, Lee. Oh, cold up here, enit.
Hey, hey, ya want my coat?"
Like a crazed wild beast I rip the jacket off of Jimmy's arms even before he
has a chance to lower it below his elbows. At this point I realize that
Jimmy intended to hand the jacket to Lee who is considerably thinner than me
and probably more in need. Briefly, I consider fighting for it.
"Hey, Bob, Bob, it's okay... I also have a
sweatshirt too, aye."
Sheepishly, reluctantly I hand this precious necessity over to Lee while Jimmy
simultaneously peals off his sweatshirt and hands it to me. He stands
there, resplendent, stripped to a gray tank top and baggy shorts.
"You guys are sure something. Whatcha got,
shit for brains? Yahhaha." He then places his hand on my shoulder and
points in the direction from whence he came: "We can go down this
way, guys. It's not so bad,"
We then
proceed to follow Jimmy, down the same stretch of ravine that Dan had led us up
so many hours earlier. We follow him without hesitation,
reservation: the cold our leader; Jimmy our guide.
(There
is a long pause)
Some
fifteen years later I retain a few distant memories of the descent it seemed to
go so fast and the rest of the night lingered on for so long. I remember
the drastic difference a flashlight makes on those hills. Where it
pointed the world seems to expand as if it never really existed before until
you could see it. I remember Jimmy holding up the light for Lee and
me. I remember sliding on my butt a lot. I remember Jimmy laughing
as he bounced over boulders and logs. He seemed so agile as if the
alcohol had somehow absolved all tension and fear from his
movements. Listen, I do not like to believe that Jimmy Crow was
somehow in better shape for rock climbing at night than a sober person, but you
know what, I think he was. It goes against logic, and prudence, and even
the most modest knowledge of biochemistry, but Jimmy's casual, buoyant
movements seemed safer and more assured than Lee's and my tentative
root-grabbing fumbling. It was as if the creator fixed an invisible string
to the nap of Jimmy’s neck that allowed him to hover effortlessly centimeters
above the rocky terrain like some kind of wigged-out Indian Mary Pippins.
One misstep could have ended him, but Jimmy Crow could fly. As we clung to his
trail down the mountain, I experienced that old combination sensation of
admiration tinged with jealousy.
At last
at the bottom, I motioned to dust off the seat of my faded Levi’s only to
recognize the distinct and unsettling absence of denim. Worn completely through from hips to hamstring. Fibers
of Mr. Strauss’ miracle fabric strewn across the caustic rocks of
I tap on
the foggy windows of the familiar parked car, and repeat the line from a film
of the time, Poltergeist: "They're here." The car doors explode
open, followed by a flurry of hugs, generated by six tired and confused
counselors.
“We didn’t even know that Jimmy Crow went
up after ya.”
“Oh
yeah, sure, he came with us from Thunderhead, but as soon as we got here, he
went on a walk or something.”
Jimmy
loves to talk, but hates to be judged. He could think of better ways to spend
his time than cramming into a compact car all night with six holier-than-thous proclaiming how he could reclaim his life. When
Jimmy disappeared into the night with a flashlight and a bottle, nobody felt
anything other than familiar disappointment. Jimmy does things like that.
The
reunion is sweet. The counseling staff combines to form a single human
hug beside the parked cars. Lee and I become drunk ourselves with
adrenaline and our story. Feverishly, loudly, in tons that challenge
modesty we recounted the events of the evening to our captive band. During the
telling, this wave of communal invincibility overtakes me. I have passed
through a cold, dark hole of danger, a rocky reminder of mortality and physical
frailty. Now, these, these friends – these brothers and sisters in Christ
-- reflect in their eyes and in their faces the undeserved grace of outlived
minutes. Although the only noticeable light by the side of that scenic
highway comes from a dome light through an opened car door, Lee and I, and all
bask in the light of grace.
When, at
long last, we pile into the cars to drive to see Dan in the emergency room in
Deadwood, I noticed that Jimmy Crew is nowhere to be seen. Coming off the
mountain, everyone flocked around Lee and me. In the bustle, Jimmy must
have wandered off.
(During the following
lines, BOB rummages in his backpack, pulls out a
weathered white sweatshirt, and puts it on. It looks about two sizes too small
for him.)
This evening marks our final night in the
EPILOGUE:
Many members of the Lakota and