(PART 4) How DCI and Star of Indiana changed my life

(make sure you read Part 3 before reading this.)

Insert your favorite expletive (here)! Again, I can't be angry. I'm the quintessential "mooch" in this situation. If Chris did not have a car, I wasn't going to be in Star of Indiana. I had as much to do with running out of gas as anyone. I knew we needed gas to get back to Mississippi. This still doesn't stop me from being hacked off. Now, for some reason, in my head, I'm more mad at Ryan Duvall. I had to displace this anger on(in my mind)the most deserving person. I had come up with the irrational cognitive "concoction" of him sabotaging this whole trip as some sort of demented masochistic mental hootenanny. Logic, even in my silent rage, kept me from believing that someone had the power to control all of this.


We all took turns at swearing in the most ridiculous fashion. It became a sordid contest of who could string along the most unusual juxtaposition of "cuss words" (as we say in the South). I'm now ashamed to say I won this contest. One of my strings of expletives made everyone burst into laughter. The tension was diminished at least by half. It promulgated us to end the willful suspension of the inevitable - we had to get gas. Someone had to trudge through this violent deluge to bring back fuel. Remember: this is 1991. No cell phones, no GPS, no Google Maps, no OnStar and no internet. We were a band of late 20th century "frontiersmen" being held captive by technology yet to be discovered or invented. We knew of one bit of technology we could use - THE HAZARD LIGHTS!! At least this would let every traveler on I-65 South know that we were in distress and it would reduce the chances of someone slamming into the back of us on this waterlogged wasteland that used to be our pathway to opportunity.


"I'm goin' out." Chris Gilmore said. He felt the deepest sense of responsibility to right this wrong because, after all, it was his mom's van. Chris suits up in a rain/winter coat with several layers of makeshift insulation. Oh yeah, I failed to mention (but, I'm sure you've already guessed) this is the mid-west in December, too. The temperature outside was south of 40 degrees Fahrenheit. The wind was blowing sideways and it was raining so hard, you could barely see your hand in front of you. There were no signs of it "slacking up." The funny thing to me was, there was no heroic support moment of "No, man... I'll go!" or a "We should all go together!" No. Absent from this trek designed by Lucifer himself was an "I'm Spartacus" moment. We were not all going to walk the Appian Way! I think I mustered up a, "Dude, be careful..." to bring a faint semblance of humanity to our existence. With no response to my ill-fated attempt at support, Chris opens the driver door and every single person in the van was instantly soaked and freezing. We KNEW not to flinch or show any sign of discomfort. At least we had that much sense. Off Chris went.

Chris was the sole proprietor of manhood on this quest to get us back home. He was a modern day Meriwether Lewis on this "Clark-less" adventure. He may had taken 10 steps until someone pulled over to help! What?? Help? Yes! We see the snow beaten back bumper of a car with flashing lights. All of us lily-livered pansies in the van cheered like we were watching the final minutes of an Indiana Jones sequel! Chris hurriedly sprinted towards the car to quickly make up the gap from where he was. We all anxiously watched. We saw a few hand motions as Chris was talking to our unknown rescuer. All of a sudden, he starts walking back towards our van. What? He came back to the van and opened the door and stuck his head in. Again, the rain came pouring in. "She said she will only take me. She doesn't feel comfortable with all of us in her car." he informed us. "Ok," I thought to myself, "whatever gets us the gas!"

Bond Hall at So. Miss. Often referred to as "Bondage Hall"

Chris returns in what seemed like 5 minutes. I know it had to be longer, but the important thing was - we can now get home. As best as I can remember, the rest of the drive back to Hattiesburg was pretty uneventful. We stopped in Birmingham to drop Ryan off at a relative's apartment. I'll give you two guesses at who was waiting at his "relative's" apartment. Yes, his girlfriend. Glad that we were finally rid of this situation, we left and got back on the road. We finally arrive back in Hattiesburg. I was never so glad to see that prison-esque decorum of Bond Hall at Southern Miss. My journey had ended. I had accomplished my mission. As far as I was concerned, I had slam dunked this project from half court. I WAS A MEMBER OF STAR OF INDIANA!


As the weeks passed, I made sure that I had every note in order for the next camp. I was going to hold up my end of the bargain that I made to Chris Lee, the front ensemble tech. I would be the best guy in the pit if he gave me a definite spot. I would not make Chris Lee regret cutting that vet from Saskatchewan, Canada to make a spot for me. I would have it together. I ran into Ryan Duvall in passing a few weeks later. "Dude, I'm not going back to Star..." he said. After that followed a myriad of excuses and half-cocked lies. I tuned him out; all I could hear in my head was, "I don't have to deal with that crap again!" And, for that I was thankful. I wound up becoming roommates with Chris Prather, the trumpet player from Clinton. As we got closer to camp time, I could get the sense that he didn't want to go back. He kept mentioning how he didn't like putting up with the crap that the soprano tech, Barry Hudson, was giving him. I tried to convince him, but there was no doing it. "Yeah, me and Sean just didn't like it." he added. Me and Sean??? I'm quickly doing the math. That just leaves me and Chris Gilmore. Well, at least it's the guy with the van. Ok. As long as he's on board. 


In the next coming days, I just wanted to do a quick check on old Gilmore just to make sure that everything was cool. I went to his dorm room. I knock on the door. "Come in, it's open," Gilmore shouted through the prison grade thick door of his dorm room. What I saw when I opened the door was my entire world falling down again. I liken it to that scene in "Psycho" when you first see Norman Bates' mother's fully-dressed skeleton sitting in that eerie rocker. There sat Chris Gilmore in a full leg cast and crutches. It was one of those casts that looked like it was from Star Wars; a lot of metal and straps. Time to insert that expletive, again! "Man, so I guess you're not going to the next camp, " I said insensitively. "Nope. Doc says it's gonna be a while until I can get back up," Gilmore answered. 

Now, 21 years later I see where I should have had a better poker face than I did. Again, I couldn't be angry. I was the "mooch" in this situation. The parasite who just can't find a host that will sit still long enough. Now, I'm just a liar. I told everyone of those people in Indiana that had the key to my fate that I was going to be "the man." Now, I'm just another person who shows up and never comes back. A "one-camp-wonder." I made them believe in me. Suddenly, this became less about my desire to be a member of Star, but more about what kind of person I was going to be. I didn't want to be like everyone else. What about Granny? I TOLD her she was going to see me on TV. What about all my friends? I TOLD them I was going to be there. Most of all, what about myself. I TOLD MYSELF I was going to conquer this. 
This WAS going to happen. I would see to it. Nothing was going to stop my journey. But, here was reality putting up a grand road block: No money, no car and no parents to fund this project. 


how? How? HOW?!?!?


(Part 5 - coming soon...)