Nebula Awards Showcase 2019 Read online

  “Our last name’s not Trueblood,” she complains when you tell her about your nom de rêve.

  “Nobody wants to buy a Vision Quest from a Jesse Turnblatt,” you explain. “I need to sound more Indian.”

  “You are Indian,” she says. “Turnblatt’s Indian-sounding enough because you’re already Indian.”

  “We’re not the right kind of Indian,” you counter. “I mean, we’re Catholic, for Christ’s sake.”

  What Theresa doesn’t understand is that Tourists don’t want a real Indian experience. They want what they see in the movies, and who can blame them? Movie Indians are terrific! So you watch the same movies the Tourists do, until John Dunbar becomes your spirit animal and Stands with Fists your best girl. You memorize Johnny Depp’s lines from The Lone Ranger and hang a picture of Iron Eyes Cody in your work locker. For a while you are really into Dustin Hoffman’s Little Big Man.

  It’s Little Big Man that does you in.

  For a week in June, you convince your boss to offer a Custer’s Last Stand special, thinking there might be a Tourist or two who want to live out a Crazy Horse Experience. You even memorize some quotes attributed to the venerable Sioux chief that you find on the internet. You plan to make it real authentic.

  But you don’t get a single taker. Your numbers nosedive.

  Management in Phoenix notices, and Boss drops it from the blackboard by Fourth of July weekend. He yells at you to stop screwing around, accuses you of trying to be an artiste or whatnot.

  “Tourists don’t come to Sedona Sweats to live out a goddamn battle,” Boss says in the break room over lunch one day, “especially if the white guy loses. They come here to find themselves.” Boss waves his hand in the air in an approximation of something vaguely prayer-like. “It’s a spiritual experience we’re offering. Top quality. The fucking best.”

  DarAnne, your Navajo co-worker with the pretty smile and the perfect teeth, snorts loudly. She takes a bite of her sandwich, mutton by the looks of it. Her jaw works, her sharp teeth flash white. She waits until she’s finished chewing to say, “Nothing spiritual about Squaw Fantasy.”

  Squaw Fantasy is Boss’s latest idea, his way to get the numbers up and impress Management. DarAnne and a few others have complained about the use of the ugly slur, the inclusion of a sexual fantasy as an Experience at all. But Boss is unmoved, especially when the first week’s numbers roll in. Biggest seller yet.

  Boss looks over at you. “What do you think?”

  Boss is Pima, with a bushy mustache and a thick head of still-dark hair. You admire that about him. Virility. Boss makes being a man look easy. Makes everything look easy. Real authentic-like.

  DarAnne tilts her head, long beaded earrings swinging, and waits. Her painted nails click impatiently against the Formica lunch table. You can smell the onion in her sandwich.

  Your mouth is dry like the red rock desert you can see outside your window. If you say Squaw Fantasy is demeaning, Boss will mock you, call you a pussy, or worse. If you say you think it’s okay, DarAnne and her crew will put you on the guys-who-are-assholes list and you’ll deserve it.

  You sip your bottled water, stalling. Decide that in the wake of the Crazy Horse debacle that Boss’s approval means more than DarAnne’s, and venture, “I mean, if the Tourists like it . . .”

  Boss slaps the table, triumphant. DarAnne’s face twists in disgust. “What does Theresa think of that, eh, Jesse?” she spits at you. “You tell her Boss is thinking of adding Savage Braves to the menu next? He’s gonna have you in a loincloth and hair down to your ass, see how you like it.”

  Your face heats up, embarrassed. You push away from the table, too quickly, and the flimsy top teeters. You can hear Boss’s shouts of protest as his vending machine lemonade tilts dangerously, and DarAnne’s mocking laugh, but it all comes to your ears through a shroud of thick cotton. You mumble something about getting back to work. The sound of arguing trails you down the hall.

  ◉ ◉ ◉

  You change in the locker room and shuffle down to the pod marked with your name. You unlock the hatch and crawl in. Some people find the pods claustrophobic, but you like the cool metal container, the tight fit. It’s comforting. The VR helmet fits snugly on your head, the breathing mask over your nose and mouth.

  With a shiver of anticipation, you give the pod your Experience setting. Add the other necessary details to flesh things out. The screen prompts you to pick a Tourist connection from a waiting list, but you ignore it, blinking through the option screens until you get to the final confirmation. You brace for the mild nausea that always comes when you Relocate in and out of an Experience.

  The first sensation is always smell. Sweetgrass and wood smoke and the rich loam of the northern plains. Even though it’s fake, receptors firing under the coaxing of a machine, you relax into the scents. You grew up in the desert, among people who appreciate cedar and pinon and red earth, but there’s still something home-like about this prairie place.

  Or maybe you watch too much TV. You really aren’t sure anymore.

  You find yourself on a wide grassy plain, somewhere in the upper Midwest of a bygone era. Bison roam in the distance. A hawk soars overhead.

  You are alone, you know this, but it doesn’t stop you from looking around to make sure. This thing you are about to do. Well, you would be humiliated if anyone found out. Because you keep thinking about what DarAnne said. Squaw Fantasy and Savage Braves. Because the thing is, being sexy doesn’t disgust you the way it does DarAnne. You’ve never been one of those guys. The star athlete or the cool kid. It’s tempting to think of all those Tourist women wanting you like that, even if it is just in an Experience.

  You are now wearing a knee-length loincloth. A wave of black hair flows down your back. Your middle-aged paunch melts into rock-hard abs worthy of a romance novel cover model. You raise your chin and try out your best stoic look on a passing prairie dog. The little rodent chirps something back at you. You’ve heard prairie dogs can remember human faces, and you wonder what this one would say about you. Then you remember this is an Experience, so the prairie dog is no more real than the caricature of an Indian you have conjured up.

  You wonder what Theresa would think if she saw you like this.

  The world shivers. The pod screen blinks on. Someone wants your Experience.

  A Tourist, asking for you. Completely normal. Expected. No need for that panicky hot breath rattling through your mask.

  You scroll through the Tourist’s requirements.

  Experience Type: Vision Quest.

  Tribe: Plains Indian (nation nonspecific).

  Favorite animal: Wolf.

  These things are all familiar. Things you are good at faking. Things you get paid to pretend.

  You drop the Savage Brave fantasy garb for buckskin pants and beaded leather moccasins. You keep your chest bare and muscled but you drape a rough wool blanket across your shoulders for dignity. Your impressive abs are still visible.

  The sun is setting and you turn to put the artificial dusk at your back, prepared to meet your Tourist. You run through your list of Indian names to bestow upon your Tourist once the Vision Quest is over. You like to keep the names fresh, never using the same one in case the Tourists ever compare notes. For a while you cheated and used one of those naming things on the internet where you enter your favorite flower and the street you grew up on and it gives you your Indian name, but there were too many Tourists that grew up on Elm or Park and you found yourself getting repetitive. You try to base the names on appearances now. Hair color, eye, some distinguishing feature. Tourists really seem to like it.

  This Tourist is younger than you expected. Sedona Sweats caters to New Agers, the kind from Los Angeles or Scottsdale with impressive bank accounts. But the man coming up the hill, squinting into the setting sun, is in his late twenties. Medium height and build with pale spotty skin and br
own hair. The guy looks normal enough, but there’s something sad about him.

  Maybe he’s lost.

  You imagine a lot of Tourists are lost.

  Maybe he’s someone who works a day job just like you, saving up money for this once-in-a-lifetime Indian Experience™. Maybe he’s desperate, looking for purpose in his own shitty world and thinking Indians have all the answers. Maybe he just wants something that’s authentic.

  You like that. The idea that Tourists come to you to experience something real. DarAnne has it wrong. The Tourists aren’t all bad. They’re just needy.

  You plant your feet in a wide welcoming stance and raise one hand. “How,” you intone, as the man stops a few feet in front of you.

  The man flushes, a bright pinkish tone. You can’t tell if he’s nervous or embarrassed. Maybe both? But he raises his hand, palm forward, and says, “How,” right back.

  “Have you come seeking wisdom, my son?” you ask in your best broken English accent. “Come. I will show you great wisdom.” You sweep your arm across the prairie. “We look to brother wolf –”

  The man rolls his eyes.

  What?

  You stutter to a pause. Are you doing something wrong? Is the accent no good? Too little? Too much?

  You visualize the requirements checklist. You are positive he chose wolf. Positive. So you press on. “My brother wolf,” you say again, this time sounding much more Indian, you are sure.

  “I’m sorry,” the man says, interrupting. “This wasn’t what I wanted. I’ve made a mistake.”

  “But you picked it on the menu!” In the confusion of the moment, you drop your accent. Is it too late to go back and say it right?

  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 alright. 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, su
re. 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.

  Not here, though. You still need to work. “How about the bar?”

  “The place from last night?”

  “I get off at 11p.m.”

  ◉ ◉ ◉

  When you get there around 11:30 p.m., the bar is busy but you recognize White Wolf immediately. A skinny white guy stands out at the Hey U.S.A. It’s funny. Under this light, in this crowd, White Wolf could pass for Native of some kind. One of those 1/64th guys, at least. Maybe he really is a little Cherokee from way back when.