“Yeah, let me tell you,” Russell said, “I’ve always been very attracted to straight, suicidal, bipolar anorexics.”
“And I’ve always been attracted to gay, black, narcissistic codependents.”
Both men laughed again because they were good at laughing.
One year after Russell saved Frank’s life, after four months of residential treatment and eight months of inpatient counseling, Frank walked into the admissions office at West Seattle Community College. He’d gained three extra pounds for every twelve of the steps he’d taken over the last year, so he was fat. Not unhappy and fat, not fat and happy, but fat and alive, and hungry, always hungry.
“Can I help you? Is there anything I can do?” the desk clerk asked. She was young, blonde, and tentative. A work-study student or scholarship kid, Frank thought, smart and pretty and poor.
“Yeah,” he said, feeling damn tentative as well. “I think, well, I want to go to school here.”
“Oh, that’s good. That’s really great. I can help. I can help you with that.”
She ducked beneath the counter, came back up with a thick stack of paper, and set it on the counter.
“Here you go, this is it,” she said. “You have to fill these out. Fill them out, and sign them, and bring them back. These are admission papers. You fill them out and you can get admitted.”
Frank stared at the thick pile of paper, as mysterious and frightening to him as Stonehenge. The young woman recognized the fear in his eyes. She came from a place where that fear was common.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
“Frank,” he said. “Frank Snake Church.”
“Are you Native American?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Well, they have a Native American admissions officer here. Her name is Stephanie. She works with the Native Americans. She can help you with admissions. You’re Native American, right?”
“Yes, I’m Indian.”
“If you don’t mind me asking, it’s a personal question, but how old are you?”
“I’m forty-one.”
“You know, they also have a program here for older students, you know, for the people who went to college when you were young — when you were younger — and come back.”
“I never went to college before.”
“Well, the program is for all older students, you know? They call it Second Wind.”
“Second Wind? That sound like a bowel condition you have when you’re old.”
The young woman laughed. “That’s funny. You’re funny. It does sound sort of funny, doesn’t it? But it’s a really good program. And they can help you. The Second Wind program can help you.”
She reached beneath the counter again, pulled out another stack of paper, and set it beside the other stack of paper. So much paper, so much work. He didn’t know why he was here; he’d come here only because his therapist had suggested it. Frank felt stupid and inadequate. He’d made a huge mistake by quitting his Forest Service job, but he could probably go back. He didn’t want to go to college; he wanted to walk the quiet forests and think about nothing as often as he could.
“Hey, listen,” Frank said, “I’ve got another thing to go to. I’ll come back later.”
“No, listen,” she said, because she was poor and smart and had been poorer and was now smarter than people assumed she was. “I know this is scary. I was scared to come here. I’ll help you. I’ll take you to Stephanie.”
She came around the counter and took his hand. She was only eighteen, and she led him by the hand down the hallway toward the Native American Admissions Office.
“My name is Lynn,” she said as they walked together, as she led him by the hand.
“I’m Frank.”
“I know, you already told me that.”
He was scared, and she knew it and didn’t hate him for it. She wasn’t afraid of his fear, and she wouldn’t hurt him for it. She was so young and so smart, and she led him by the hand.
Lynn led him into the Native American Admissions Office, Room 21A at West Seattle Community College in Seattle, Washington, a city named after a Duwamish Indian chief who died alone and drunk and poor and forgotten, only to be remembered decades after his death for words of wisdom he’d supposedly said, but words that had been written by the mayor’s white assistant. Mr. Death, Frank thought, if a lie is beautiful, then is it truly a lie?
Lynn led Frank into the simple office. Sitting at a metal desk, a chubby Indian woman with old-fashioned eyeglasses looked up at the odd pair.
“Dang, Lynn,” the Indian woman said. “I didn’t know you like them old and dark.”
“Old and dark and bitter,” Lynn said. “Like bus-station coffee.”
The women laughed together. Frank thought they were smart and funny, too smart and funny for him to compete with, too smart and funny for him to understand. He knew he wasn’t smart and funny enough to be in their presence.
“This is Mr. Frank Snake Church,” Lynn said with overt formality, with respect. “He is very interested in attending our beloved institution, but he’s never been to college before. He’s a Native American and a Second Winder.”
The young woman spoke with much more confidence and power than she had before. How many people must underestimate her, Frank thought, and get their heads torn off.
“Hello, Mr. Frank Snake Church,” the Indian woman said, “I’m Stephanie. Why don’t you have a seat and we’ll set you up.”
“I told you she was great,” Lynn said. She led him by the hand to a wooden chair across the desk from Stephanie. Lynn sat him down and kissed him on the cheek. She came from a place, from a town and street, from a block and house, where all of the men had quit, had surrendered, had simply stopped and lay down in the street to die before they were fifteen years old. And here was an old man, a frightened man the same age as her father, and he was beautiful like Jesus, and scared like Jesus, and rising from the dead like Jesus. She kissed him because she wanted to pray with him and for him, but she didn’t know if he would accept her prayers, if he even believed in prayers. She kissed him, and Frank wanted to cry because this young woman, this stranger, had been so kind and generous. He knew he would never have another conversation with Lynn apart from hurried greetings and smiles and quick hugs and exclamations. She would soon graduate and transfer to a four-year university, taking her private hopes and dreams to a private college. After that, he would never see her again but would always remember her, would always associate the smell of chalk and new books and floor polish and sea-salt air with her memory. She kissed him on the cheek, touched his shoulder, and hurried out the door, back to the work that was paying for school that was saving her life.
“So, Mr. Snake Church,” Stephanie said. “What tribe are you?”
“I’m Spokane,” he said, his voice cracking.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said. But he wasn’t. He covered his face and cried.
She came around the table and knelt beside him.
“Frank,” she said. “It’s okay, it’s okay. I’m here, I’m here.”
With Stephanie’s help, Frank enrolled in Math 99, English 99, History 99, Introduction to Computer Science, and Physical Education.
His first test was in math.
The first question was a story problem: “Bobby has forty dollars when he walks into the supermarket. If Bobby buys three loaves of bread for ten dollars each, and he buys a bottle of orange juice for three dollars, how much money will he have left?”
Frank didn’t have to work the problem on paper. He did the math in his head. Bobby would have seven bucks left, but he’d paid too much for the bread and not enough for the juice. Easy cheese, Frank thought, confident he could do this.