It isn't a rez van - too new.It isn't a rez van - too new. It has to be Wasichu, and that usually bodes ill for us reservation inhabitants. Too many kids joyriding and shooting up the place; too many drunken rednecks wanting to assert their macho image by driving through The Rez and picking fights. As I approach, I notice three things. First, the car carries tags from the local state university. "Oh, shit! Another damned anthro!" Second, from the size of the oil stain on the ground, the vehicle isn't going anywhere. Third, the rounded buttocks under the soft skirt sure as Hell do not betoken any macho redneck bullshit from this visitor! I must have made a noise because she straightens at the same time I catch sight of her sweet ass. "Hello. Are you going to shoot me, or help me?" she asks. Her voice is soft and husky, breathless with her exertions. "Haven't made up my mind yet. Do you have a preference?" I am rewarded with melodious laughter. "At this point, no. Just as long as you shoot the damn car first!" "Car isn't going anywhere. I don't shoot helpless vehicles." I walk past her, stoop, and enter my lodge. I cross to a pile of wood and begin selecting branches for a fire. Cedar shavings and tobacco, a little sage, and a fire is soon burning in the pit in the center of the teepee. "Mind if I come in?" She stoops in the doorway. When I don't answer, she enters. Her knowledge of Indian etiquette surprises me as she walks sunwise around the fire, passing behind me, and seats herself in the "Woman's Place" at my left hand. "My name is Sylvia Pettrow and I work for Doctor Wilson at the university." She knows enough not to extend her hand. "Are you hungry?" Taking my silence for assent, she continues, "I could fix some supper if you'd like." I motion at the kettle behind her. I rise and, taking the bucket from just inside the entrance, walk to the stream for water. "It's good," I say as I reenter and hand her the bucket. |