couldn’t think of anything particularly weird about the way Dan was acting that weekend. Nothing bad had happened, or had it? Maybe the delightful mind-expanding trips I’d been enjoying were killing off brain cells quicker than you could say “Light my fire.”
I made a big bowl of popcorn and took it into the musty sitting room in the farmhouse. I was planning to leaf through some old magazines, maybe read the copy of
The Marble Faun
I’d spotted on the bookshelf in there. But I was startled when Dan popped up from the sofa.
“Oh! I didn’t know you were in here. Would you rather be alone?”
He grinned at me. “No way. Come on in. Let’s rap.”
It cracked me up when Dan used words like
rap.
“Is that popcorn?”
“Yeah. I just made it.”
“Far out. I’m dying for popcorn. And look—we got beer.”
“Are you stoned, Dan?”
“Uh-huh. You?”
“Yeah.”
We polished off the bowl of popcorn in quick order. A few minutes later I thought I heard him humming under his breath, and he was keeping a kind of tom-tom beat on the arm of the couch.
“What’s that you’re singing? Creedence again?”
“No. Remember that hokey song—’Running Bear’?”
That was a blast from childhood. “Yeah. Running Bear and Little White Dove.” AM radio Top Ten stuff. “They were like the Indian Romeo and Juliet. And they committed suicide at the end of the song.”
He chuckled. “My pop had this big job at the BIA. Big fucking bureaucrat job. Sent me and my brother to this tight-assed private school in Tucson. The white kids used to call me Running Bear. Jesus, they were so ignorant. I thought it was funny. But Bobby, my brother, couldn’t take that kind of shit. Wasn’t just those kids, though. He couldn’t deal with much of anything. He was always begging Pop to let us come home.”
“And did he?”
Dan shook his head. “Well, he did finally. But it was too late.”
“What do you mean?”
“Bobby killed himself. After that, he let us come home.”
“God, Dan. I never knew that about you.”
“Yep. Old Bobby. We used to talk about running away to New York. That woulda been funny.”
Dan joined me on the floor then. He rolled a joint, slowly and meticulously, and let me take the first hit.
“Wilt said you and your father don’t speak anymore.”
He nodded. “Right. Wilt and me kind of have a lot in common. I guess we’ve all got bad family stuff to deal with. Like Cliff’s brother getting killed. You’ve got a fucked-up relationship with your parents, too, don’t you?”
“I don’t know about fucked-up. It’s not even fucked-up. I don’t know where they are. I was raised by my grandmother’s sister and her husband. They’re older, but they’re really cool.”
“Me too. I mean, my grandfather took me because of all the trouble between me and my father. He’s great. It’s kind of great being around some old people. Except he’s always after me to do my kiva ceremony.”
“What’s that?”
“You gotta go into a cave, pray and dance and do all kinds of shit. He says I won’t really be a man until I do it.”
“Are you going to do it someday?”
He shrugged. “I guess.”
We smoked quietly for a few minutes until I got a little giggly. “This grass is pretty great. Where’d it come from—Barry?”
“Yeah, the Great White Father of Weed.”
“Barry Running Dog,” I said.
“Yeah, Barry Howling Wolf.”
“Barry Screaming Mimi.”
We laughed and hollered. Then we went quiet for a while. Lord, he’s gorgeous, I thought as I watched him stretch out on the rag rug before the disused fireplace. I relit the joint that had gone cold.
“What are you thinking about, Sandy?”
“I don’t know.”
“Your face looked fantastic just then. Sort of sad. Can I take some shots of you?”
“Shots. What do you mean
—
take my picture?”
“Yeah.”
“No way.”
“Why?”
“I don’t photograph well. I’m—I don’t look good.”
“Bullshit. Come
I made a big bowl of popcorn and took it into the musty sitting room in the farmhouse. I was planning to leaf through some old magazines, maybe read the copy of
The Marble Faun
I’d spotted on the bookshelf in there. But I was startled when Dan popped up from the sofa.
“Oh! I didn’t know you were in here. Would you rather be alone?”
He grinned at me. “No way. Come on in. Let’s rap.”
It cracked me up when Dan used words like
rap.
“Is that popcorn?”
“Yeah. I just made it.”
“Far out. I’m dying for popcorn. And look—we got beer.”
“Are you stoned, Dan?”
“Uh-huh. You?”
“Yeah.”
We polished off the bowl of popcorn in quick order. A few minutes later I thought I heard him humming under his breath, and he was keeping a kind of tom-tom beat on the arm of the couch.
“What’s that you’re singing? Creedence again?”
“No. Remember that hokey song—’Running Bear’?”
That was a blast from childhood. “Yeah. Running Bear and Little White Dove.” AM radio Top Ten stuff. “They were like the Indian Romeo and Juliet. And they committed suicide at the end of the song.”
He chuckled. “My pop had this big job at the BIA. Big fucking bureaucrat job. Sent me and my brother to this tight-assed private school in Tucson. The white kids used to call me Running Bear. Jesus, they were so ignorant. I thought it was funny. But Bobby, my brother, couldn’t take that kind of shit. Wasn’t just those kids, though. He couldn’t deal with much of anything. He was always begging Pop to let us come home.”
“And did he?”
Dan shook his head. “Well, he did finally. But it was too late.”
“What do you mean?”
“Bobby killed himself. After that, he let us come home.”
“God, Dan. I never knew that about you.”
“Yep. Old Bobby. We used to talk about running away to New York. That woulda been funny.”
Dan joined me on the floor then. He rolled a joint, slowly and meticulously, and let me take the first hit.
“Wilt said you and your father don’t speak anymore.”
He nodded. “Right. Wilt and me kind of have a lot in common. I guess we’ve all got bad family stuff to deal with. Like Cliff’s brother getting killed. You’ve got a fucked-up relationship with your parents, too, don’t you?”
“I don’t know about fucked-up. It’s not even fucked-up. I don’t know where they are. I was raised by my grandmother’s sister and her husband. They’re older, but they’re really cool.”
“Me too. I mean, my grandfather took me because of all the trouble between me and my father. He’s great. It’s kind of great being around some old people. Except he’s always after me to do my kiva ceremony.”
“What’s that?”
“You gotta go into a cave, pray and dance and do all kinds of shit. He says I won’t really be a man until I do it.”
“Are you going to do it someday?”
He shrugged. “I guess.”
We smoked quietly for a few minutes until I got a little giggly. “This grass is pretty great. Where’d it come from—Barry?”
“Yeah, the Great White Father of Weed.”
“Barry Running Dog,” I said.
“Yeah, Barry Howling Wolf.”
“Barry Screaming Mimi.”
We laughed and hollered. Then we went quiet for a while. Lord, he’s gorgeous, I thought as I watched him stretch out on the rag rug before the disused fireplace. I relit the joint that had gone cold.
“What are you thinking about, Sandy?”
“I don’t know.”
“Your face looked fantastic just then. Sort of sad. Can I take some shots of you?”
“Shots. What do you mean
—
take my picture?”
“Yeah.”
“No way.”
“Why?”
“I don’t photograph well. I’m—I don’t look good.”
“Bullshit. Come
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