Wild, Animal Love

“Come on Julia. That’s ridiculous,” Chris said, and rolled over.

I was sitting in bed, my back against the old fashioned wooden headboard. Chris, the skinny white boy I had been sleeping with for the last six months was laying next to me, staring at the headboard absentmindedly, his finger tracing the patterns in the headboard.

“I just don’t agree, that’s all,” I said, and took his joint from his long fingers and puffed quietly. Chris didn’t look happy. Not just because I was disagreeing with him, as usual, but because I was smoking his joint. He was a giant pothead and rarely offered anybody a hit. So, I always just took it out of his hand after he lit one up, and he let me, because I was sleeping with him.

“You’re just so goddamn political with your identity shit,” he said. I sighed. I had met Chris in an English class that I had taken to fulfill a core requirement. Chris had sat, day after day, in the back of class, his short, irreverent responses to the professor and ripped tee-shirts and jeans and shaved head except for one long brown curl piquing my interest. One day, after class, he came up to me, his black folder stating, “English sucks,” tucked under his left arm.

“It’s just different for you,” I said and he rolled his eyes.

“You could pass for white,” he said and I shook my head.

“Then why did you ask me where I was from when we first met?” I said. “Why does every white person always ask me where I’m from?” I didn’t look at him. I stared at his old wooden dresser. It was covered in dust, coins, roaches, roach clips and other odd objects.

“What? Everybody asks everybody where they’re from,” he said.

“Why did you ask me? Even before you asked my name?”

He was silent and then said, “Look, Julia. Identity just doesn’t matter to me.”

I laughed. “Identity doesn’t matter to you? You’d rather be dead than be caught listening to a… a… Madonna album. Unless you were trying to be ironic.” We were both silent for a while and then slowly, he began to touch me. We had sex, quickly, and afterwards I asked him if it was cool if I jumped in the shower before I split.

“Sure,” he said, and lit another joint.

 

I had been too busy with grad applications to make it to the Center for a few weeks but one night, after realizing that I’d been staring at a spot on the wall of my tiny studio for a good thirty minutes, I realized that I had to get out. The next meeting was Wednesday, and as soon as I walked through the door, there was Justine standing over the food table, piling chicken legs one on top of the other on a paper plate. She turned around and smiled.

“Hey,” I said.

“Hey!” she said, and I was struck again by how beautiful she was. “You’re Julia, right?”

“Yeah.” I walked over to her. “And you’re Justine.”

“Yeah! Didn’t you say you were majoring in History?” She asked.

“I did,” I said, and she bit into a piece of chicken.

“Sorry! I’m so hungry!” she said, eyeing me. “Do you want anything to eat?”
“No… no, I’m fine,” I said.

“Oh, OK,” she said.

“So, uh, where are you from?” she asked. “Are you from a reserve?”
I smiled, thinking back to my conversation with Chris. “No, I’m from a small town in Colorado. But my family are all from Oklahoma,” I said, and she took another bite of chicken.

“Wow! Me too. I mean, not that my family’s from Oklahoma, actually, I don’t really know all of what that means down here, but, I’m not from a reserve either, I mean, a reservation,” she said and laughed boisterously. “Though almost everybody else is here. I feel like such a weirdo! I mean, first of all I’m not from this country and then, second I’m from a city.”

“Really? Which one?”

“Winnipeg.”

“What’s that like?”

“I don’t want to talk about that! Let’s talk about what you’re doing after this.”

“Oh – OK. After the meeting?” I said.

“Do you like to go out?”

“Sure,” I said, going over all of the things that I had caught up on – but thinking about the fact that I had to get up at five again the next morning for work.

“Well, let’s go out after this.”

“Let’s,” I said and we sat down for the meeting. Afterwards, Justine and I walked over to her car. “Why don’t we go over to Solids?” She asked and I nodded. Though I rarely went anywhere but to class, home, the library and work, and I didn’t have any friends, when I went out, I went to Solids. It’s where all the Indians hung out and the only place to dance in Durango. Once, my Sophomore year, I had gotten into Solids with my fake ID, had two Long Island Ice Teas and ended up making out with a Navajo guy in a corner who I’d been dancing with.

In Solids, the music was already blaring. Justine and I went over to the long wooden bar and she asked me if I wanted to order a pitcher. “Yeah,” I said and Justine leaned over the bar and, after catching the bartender’s attention said, “A pitcher please. Of Bud.” She insisted on paying for the pitcher and we sat down.

“This is my first time going to one of those things,” she said, pouring the beer expertly into our glasses and handing me one. I drank and set it down.

“To what?” I asked.

“Oh, I’m sorry! To a Native American organization,” she said.

“Me too.” I took another drink. “So, are you friends with Elyse?” I asked as she drank from her glass, nearly finishing half the beer in one swallow.

“I guess. I can tell she really resents me trying to take control of the organization, but she’s so lazy.

“Her brother’s hot,” I said.

“Keokuk?” she said, looking as if I’d slapped her. “I think he’s a jerk. But maybe I’m wrong. We’re all gonna go out Friday if you want to join us.”

“Sure,” I said, feeling strange. But the feeling passed and we talked so long that we closed the bar.