Jerry and “Vengeance”

By SoDak

Standing in the open bed of the pickup, looking over the roof of the Toyota, Mike and I were chanting “stock dam, stock dam,” when we suddenly slammed into the passenger cab, as the truck came to an abrupt stop. The ice had collapsed under the front wheels, leaving the truck hanging on the frozen edge. We picked ourselves up, no broken teeth, but it was likely that we would end up with some bruises. We gingerly climbed over the side of the truck, so we could assess the situation. The frame was wedged into the ice sheet. The front tires were suspended in the water, so there was not any possibility for traction. Jerry was behind the wheel, shaking his head and cursing at us. We asked Jerry how Indigo and Dusk were doing? The two young kids, looking confused, were sitting together in the passenger seat, strapped in by the seatbelt. Their parents, Dave and Lindsay, were standing at the edge of the stock dam. “How are the kids?” We gave them a thumbs up. “What the fuck happened?” Mike and I looked at each other, knowing this predicament was our fault.

It was a cold New Year’s Day in the Black Hills—a perfect day for hiking. I was visiting family and friends over my winter break. Jerry and Mike had been wanting to show me a meadow on the backroads behind Piedmont, where there were remnants of a railroad line and trestle. They told me about a hike they had done the previous summer, when they ate delicious apples from a couple trees that they found in the valley close to a cave that used to be a tourist trap. We contacted Dave and Lindsay, loaded into the truck and a car. Once we were on the dirt roads, the dogs were set free, chasing us through the ponderosa pines. When we arrived at the meadow, we started hiking along the old railroad bed. With each step, the snow crunched. Conversations wandered, sharing stories about previous adventures. We ranted about the stupidity of the “War of Terror” and the Bush Doctrine. Jerry and Mike threw snowballs at each other, in a long-established winter routine, laughing at their follies. Lindsay carried Dusk the last half mile of the walk, while Dave held hands with Indigo, pointing out deer tracks. 

After the hike, we placed the kids in the front seat of Jerry’s truck, figuring that they would enjoy the bouncy ride. Mike and I jumped into the pickup bed to enjoy the chilly air. As we approached the turn by the stock dam, we started chanting “stock dam, stock dam,” egging on Jerry. He drove across the ice on the edge of the stock dam. We booed and repeated our chant. Jerry flipped the truck around and headed across the middle of the pond—unfortunately, the ice was much thinner than we had anticipated. 

We were stuck. Not sure how deep the water was, Mike and I stepped off the ice into the pond. We sunk up to our waists, in a mixture of water, ice, and cow shit. The stench made us wince. The carburetor and air intake were above the water. We positioned ourselves to lift the front of the truck, as Jerry dropped it into reverse. The suspended tires and the radiator fan blade, both partially in water, blew liquid crap, as if we were confronting a motorboat, all over our faces, every time Jerry spun up the engine. With each attempt to push the truck up, hoping to get it over the icy lip, to get some traction by the tires, we sank deeper into the muck. Jerry was laughing, as this revenge provided some satisfaction. 

Mike and I climbed back onto the thicker ice, dripping with excrement. Jerry carried the kids to their parents. After considering options, Dave, Lindsay, and the kids headed back to town, so they could call our friend Scott, asking him to bring a tow rope to help us. While we waited, Jerry sat in the truck, smoking cigarettes, talking about how warm and toasty he was. Being stuck prompts telling stories about similar incidents. We took turns, reminiscing about misadventures, while helping each other fill in details. Finally, Scott arrived, as the sun was starting to set.

As Scott collected the rope, he shook his head, commenting that we were screwed. Mike tied the rope to the two trucks. As Scott’s pickup started to get some traction, pulling on Jerry’s Toyota, the rope snapped. Jerry’s truck settled back into the same spot, with the front-end hanging over the icy edge. Jerry stepped out onto the ice, walked around the stock dam. “Fuck this.” He jumped into the cab, put in a New Model Army CD. As soon as the opening notes of “Vengeance” were heard, Jerry threw the truck into gear, drove straight over the edge of the ice, submerging the vehicle almost to the hood in the shitty water, maintaining forward momentum, as if he was a captain on an ice breaker. Slowly, he reached the bank, freeing the truck. Scott, Mike, and I stood in awe, and started to chuckle, as Jerry turned up the music. Mike and I climbed into the bed of the truck, huddling next to each other for the brisk drive back to town. On the interstate, our jeans started to freeze, as we attempted to fight hypothermia. Our teeth chattered, as we stared at the night sky. Through the rear-window, we could hear the music and sang along with Jerry and New Model Army to their antifascist song, “I believe in justice/I believe in vengeance/I believe in getting the bastard.”