17D: The circle/Fat-Stealer Woman/Socialism doesn't work.

The first song they sang was a funeral song, that was the consensus anyway. They performed three or four songs for us, couldn't agree on the words to any of them. They seemed to sincerely believe that the first was for dead ancestors though. I was obliged to take my hat off. Then we sacrificed a cigarette to the subjects of the song.

Then a cigarette was lit and passed around the circle. We all partook. This is the Lakota way. It also happens to be damned convenient for people who spend the day scraping up a dollar-forty at a time. A factory rolled-cigarette must be a rare treat for these men, smoke and drink like gentlemen. Nobody who enjoys the occasional drunk (or a constant drunk for that matter) never smokes. They are the only things in life that are meant for each other. If you're concerned for your health, than by all means do neither, good for you. But the rare strain of freak who drinks but doesn't smoke, something, is just a hater, pure and simple. They kill the comradery. It's like going to a party and seeing the nun who taught me fifth-grade math staring through the window. And don't even get me started on people who smoke but don't drink. Tortured obsessive-compulsives. These are the folks who kill themselves when they try to smoke through their oxygen masks.

The hurricanes went around the circle in the same way of course. Each made about one-and-a-half trips through the eight of us. I took my normal coffee-cup sized swigs, which are considered quite healthy in a college town, and was left feeling quite unfulfilled. These men were clearly on another level. This is what sharing among addicts is. Bryan whispered to Dan to hide one of the cans between the two of them and surely the rest of us wouldn't notice. I longed for the honesty of a rigidly capitalistic meth sale. Everyone gets what they paid for measured out to them at Glock-point. Straight line and a goal.

But never mind. These were affable men, talkative and funny. That counts for everything. Robert let on that maybe he just did have some involvement with AIM back in the day. "I'm on America's Most Wanted" he said. "No, that's just your butthole" said Bryan. We would buy more beer. Whiteclay has a couple of ATM machines, which I must say I found rather surprising. The average customer at Straight Line Liquor doesn't have a bank account. But my surprise is my own fault. I underestimated the place. Mogadishu has ATM's.

So it was off to the Arrowhead for a couple more, and then a couple more and a couple
more until the place closed at about eleven.

Rebecca was receiving special attention. Robert offered her his coat, and I believe they sang a special song just for her. Wasicu-weia, white woman in context, literally fat-stealer woman. A bit offensive to whites? Probably. Though keep in mind that the Lakota had no need for a generic word for white person until granddad came, stole the fat, set it on fire, pissed on the flames, and than claimed the right to shoot anyone who touched the ashes. But I stall.

The billboards came up. "Women are sacred." Robert said that they treat their women like princesses. I told Becky she could be my princess.

Jesus fuck. Yeah. That was me. I said that.

I knew it was stupid almost as soon as I said it. But it is only now that I realize how asinine it truly was. This woman went on a thousand-mile round trip with three casual acquiescences. She drank and cavorted with us without fear for four days. She drank with four old leering strangers with better panache than someone like, say, me, was able to. Princess? Jesus. A fucking warrior she is. I'm sorry Becky. Understand that my only prejudice is against those who aren't me. I don't compartmentalize beyond that.

One of the rez dogs (Sarah?) had made her home in Whiteclay and the our hosts were familiar with her. She was malnourished, but not that dirty. I gave her a pat or two and only got a layer of dust on my hand.

The beers that we bought just before closing time were drank even faster than the rest. "You're spending the night, right?" said Robert. Fat thief concave...

"What do you think Josh?"
"How are you Dan"
"I can drive dude"
"You sure"
"Yeah"
"Well, you wanna go than"
"Yeah"
"We're bringing the guys along right?"
"Yeah, of course."
"Will they fit?"
"We'll make them fit"
"Where are we going."
"Well, Tony said something about Porcupine."

Indeed he had. Apparently his mom cooks a good pot of buffalo stew. We wouldn't know.

We headed back toward Rushville, two to a seat. The low growl of the 92 Honda became a ghoulish moan.