The man’s lips curl up in a grimace, like you have confirmed his worst suspicions. He shakes his head. “I was looking for something more authentic.”
Something in your chest seizes up.
“I can fix it,” you say.
“No, it’s all right. I’ll find someone else.” He turns to go.
You can’t afford another bad mark on your record. No more screw-ups or you’re out. Boss made that clear enough. “At least give me a chance,” you plead.
“It’s okay,” he says over his shoulder.
This is bad. Does this man not know what a good Indian you are? “Please!”
The man turns back to you, his face thoughtful.
You feel a surge of hope. This can be fixed, and you know exactly how. “I can give you a name. Something you can call yourself when you need to feel strong. It’s authentic,” you add enthusiastically. “From a real Indian.” That much is true.
The man looks a little more open, and he doesn’t say no. That’s good enough.
You study the man’s dusky hair, his pinkish skin. His long skinny legs. He reminds you a bit of the flamingos at the Albuquerque zoo, but you are pretty sure no one wants to be named after those strange creatures. It must be something good. Something…spiritual.
“Your name is Pale Crow,” you offer. Birds are still on your mind.
At the look on the man’s face, you reconsider. “No, no, it is White”—yes, that’s better than pale—“Wolf. White Wolf.”
“White Wolf?” There’s a note of interest in his voice.
You nod sagely. You knew the man had picked wolf. Your eyes meet. Uncomfortably. White Wolf coughs into his hand. “I really should be getting back.”
“But you paid for the whole experience. Are you sure?”
White Wolf is already walking away.
“But…”
You feel the exact moment he Relocates out of the Experience. A sensation like part of your soul is being stretched too thin. Then, a sort of whiplash, as you let go.
The Hey U.S.A. bar is the only Indian bar in Sedona. The basement level of a driftwood-paneled strip mall across the street from work. It’s packed with the after-shift crowd, most of them pod jockeys like you, but also a few roadside jewelry hawkers and restaurant stiffs still smelling like frybread grease. You’re lucky to find a spot at the far end next to the server’s station. You slip onto the plastic-covered barstool and raise a hand to get the bartender’s attention.
“So what do you really think?” asks a voice to your right. DarAnne is staring at you, her eyes accusing and her posture tense.
This is it. A second chance. Your opportunity to stay off the assholes list. You need to get this right. You try to think of something clever to say, something that would impress her but let you save face, too. But you’re never been all that clever, so you stick to the truth.
“I think I really need this job,” you admit.
DarAnne’s shoulders relax.
“Scooch over,” she says to the man on the other side of her, and he obligingly shifts off his stool to let her sit. “I knew it,” she says. “Why didn’t you stick up for me? Why are you so afraid of Boss?”
“I’m not afraid of Boss. I’m afraid of Theresa leaving me. And unemployment.”
“You gotta get a backbone, Jesse, is all.”
You realize the bartender is waiting, impatient. You drink the same thing every time you come here, a single Coors Light in a cold bottle. But the bartender never remembers you, or your order. You turn to offer to buy one for DarAnne, but she’s already gone, back with her crew.
You drink your beer alone, wait a reasonable amount of time, and leave.
White Wolf is waiting for you under the streetlight at the corner.
The bright neon Indian Chief that squats atop Sedona Sweats hovers behind him in pinks and blues and yellows, his huge hand blinking up and down in greeting. White puffs of smoke signals flicker up, up and away beyond his far shoulder.
You don’t recognize White Wolf at first. Most people change themselves a little within the construct of the Experience. Nothing wrong with being thinner, taller, a little better looking. But White Wolf looks exactly the same. Nondescript brown hair, pale skin, long legs.
“How.” White Wolf raises his hand, unconsciously mimicking the big neon Chief. At least he has the decency to look embarrassed when he does it.
“You.” You are so surprised that the accusation is the first thing out of your mouth. “How did you find me?”
“Trueblood, right? I asked around.”
“And people told you?” This is very against the rules.
“I asked who the best Spirit Guide was. If I was going to buy a Vision Quest, who should I go to. Everyone said you.”
You flush, feeling vindicated, but also annoyed that your co-workers had given your name out to a Tourist. “I tried to tell you,” you say ungraciously.
“I should have listened.” White Wolf smiles, a faint shifting of his mouth into something like contrition. An awkward pause ensues.
“We’re really not supposed to fraternize,” you finally say.
“I know, I just… I just wanted to apologize. For ruining the Experience like that.”
“It’s no big deal,” you say, gracious this time. “You paid, right?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s just…” You know this is your ego talking, but you need to know. “Did I do something wrong?”
“No, it was me. You were great. It’s just, I had a great grandmother who was Cherokee, and I think being there, seeing everything. Well, it really stirred something in me. Like, ancestral memory or something.”
You’ve heard of ancestral memories, but you’ve also heard of people claiming Cherokee blood where there is none. Theresa calls them “pretendians,” but you think that’s unkind. Maybe White Wolf really is Cherokee. You don’t know any Cherokees, so maybe they really do look like this guy. There’s a half-Tlingit in payroll and he’s pale.
“Well, I’ve got to get home,” you say. “My wife, and all.”
White Wolf nods. “Sure, sure. I just. Thank you.”
“For what?”
But White Wolf’s already walking away. “See you around.”
A little déjà vu shudders your bones but you chalk it up to Tourists. Who understands them, anyway?
You go home to Theresa.
As soon as you slide into your pod the next day, your monitor lights up. There’s already a Tourist on deck and waiting.
“Shit,” you mutter, pulling up the menu and scrolling quickly through the requirements. Everything looks good, good, except… a sliver of panic when you see that a specific tribe has been requested. Cherokee. You don’t know anything about Cherokees. What they wore back then, their ceremonies. The only Cherokee you know is…
White Wolf shimmers into your Experience.
In your haste, you have forgotten to put on your buckskin. Your Experience-self still wears Wranglers and Nikes. Boss would be pissed to see you this sloppy.
“Why are you back?” you ask.
“I thought maybe we could just talk.”
“About what?”
White Wolf shrugs. “Doesn’t matter. Whatever.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not? This is my time. I’m paying.”
You feel a little panicked. A Tourist has never broken protocol like this before. Part of why the Experience works is that everyone knows their role. But White Wolf don’t seem to care about the rules.
“I can just keep coming back,” he says. “I have money, you know.”
“You’ll get me in trouble.”
“I won’t. I just…” White Wolf hesitates. Something in him slumps. What you read as arrogance now looks like desperation. “I need a friend.”
You know that feeling. The truth is, you could use a friend, too. Someone to talk to. What could the harm be? You’ll just be two men, talking.