Sherman Alexie - War Dances

“Yeah, they’re great,” I said. “But you know the best thing about them?”

“What?”

“I love that McDonald’s fries are exactly the same everywhere you go. The McDonald’s fries in Washington, DC, are exactly like the fries in Seattle. Heck, the McDonald’s fries in Paris, France, are exactly like the fries in Seattle.”

“Yeah, so what’s your point?” Jeremy asked.

“Well, I think the McDonald’s fries in North Bend are also exactly like the fries in Washington, DC, Paris, and Seattle. Do you agree?”

“Yeah, that seems reasonable.”

“Okay, then,” I said. “If all the McDonald’s fries in the world are the same, why did you drive me all the way up into the mountains to buy fries we could have gotten anywhere else in the world and, most especially, in Seattle?”

“To celebrate capitalism?”

“That’s funny, but it’s not true,” I said. “What’s really going on?”

“I have something I need to tell you,” Jeremy said.

“And you couldn’t have told me in Seattle?”

“I didn’t want anybody to hear,” he said.

“Oh, nobody is going to hear anything up here,” I said.

Jeremy stared out the window at Mount Si, a four-thousand-foot-tall rock left behind by one glacier or another. I usually don’t pay attention to such things, but I did that day. Along with my best friend, I stared at the mountain and wondered how old it was. That’s the thing: the world is old. Ancient. And humans are so temporary. But who wants to think about such things? Who wants to feel small?

“I’m getting bored,” I said.

“It’s beautiful up here,” he said. “So green and golden.”

“Yeah, whatever, Robert Frost. Now tell me why we’re here.”

He looked me in the eye. Stared at me for a long time. Regarded me.

“What?” I said, and laughed, uncomfortable as hell.

“I’m a fag,” he said.

“What?” I said, and laughed.

“I’m a fag,” he repeated.

“That’s not funny,” I said, and laughed again.

“It’s kind of funny.”

“Okay, yeah, it’s a little funny, but it’s not true.”

“Yes, it is. I am a fag.”

I looked into his eyes. I stared at him for a long time. I regarded him.

“You’re telling the truth,” I said.

“Yeah.”

“You’re a fag.”

“Yeah.”

“Wow.”

“That’s all you have to say?”

“What else am I supposed to say?” I asked.

“I was hoping you would say more than ‘Wow.’”

“Well, ‘Wow’ is all I got.”

“Damn,” he said. “And I had this all planned out.”

He’d been thinking about coming out to me, his unveiling, for months. At first, he’d thought about telling me while we were engaged in some overtly masculine activity, like shouting out “I’m gay!” while we were butchering a hog. Or whispering, “I’m a really good shot — for a homosexual,” while we were duck hunting. Or saying, “After I’m done with Sally’s vagina, it’s penis and scrotum from now on,” as we were screwing twin sisters in their living room.

“I’m not gay,” I said.

“I know.”

“I’m just saying it, so it’s out there, I’m not gay. Not at all.”

“Jeez, come on, I’m not interested in you like that,” he said. “I’m gay, but I’m not blind.”

“That’s funny,” I said, but I didn’t laugh. I was pissed. I felt betrayed. I’d been his best friend since we were five years old, and he’d never told me how he felt. He’d never told me who he was. He’d lied to me all those years. It made me wonder what else he had lied about. After all, don’t liars tell lies about everything? And sure, maybe he’d lied to protect himself from hatred and judgment. And, yes, maybe he lied because he was scared of my reaction. But a lie is a lie, right? And lying is contagious.

“You’re a liar,” I said.

“I know,” he said, and cried.

“Ah, man,” I said, “don’t cry.”

And then I realized how many times I’d said that to girls, to naked girls. I mean, don’t get me wrong. I’d seen him cry before — we’d wept together at baseball games and funerals — but not in that particular context.

“I’m getting sick to my stomach,” I said, which made him cry all that much harder. It felt like I was breaking up with him or something.

Maybe I wasn’t being fair. But all you ever hear about are gay people’s feelings. What about the feelings of the gay people’s friends and family? Nobody talks about our rights. Maybe people are born gay, okay? I can deal with that, but maybe some people, like me, are born afraid of gay people. Maybe that fear is encoded in my DNA.

“I’m not gay,” I said.

“Stop saying that,” he said.

But I couldn’t help it. I had to keep saying it. I was scared. I wondered if I was gay and didn’t know it. After all, I was best friends with a fag, and he’d seen me naked. I’d seen him naked so often I could have described him to a police sketch artist. It was crazy.

“I can’t take this,” I said, and got out of the car. I walked over to a picnic bench and sat.

Jeremy stayed in the car and stared through the windshield at me. He wanted my love, my sweet, predictable, platonic love, the same love I’d given to him for so many years. He’d chosen me as his confessor. I was supposed to be sacred for him. But I felt like God had put a shotgun against my head and pulled the trigger. I was suddenly Hamlet, and all the uses of the world were weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable.

Jeremy stared at me. He waited for me to take action. And yes, you can condemn me for my inaction and fear. But I was only sixteen years old. Nobody had taught me how to react in such a situation. I was young and terrified and I could not move. Jeremy waited for several long minutes. I sat still, so he gave me the finger and shouted, “Fuck off!” I gave him the finger and shouted, “Fuck off!” And then Jeremy drove away.

I sat there for a few hours, bewildered. Yes, I was bewildered. When was the last time a white American male was truly bewildered or would admit to such a thing? We had taken the world from covered wagons to space shuttles in seventy-five years. After such accomplishment, how could we ever get lost in the wilderness again? How could we not invent a device to guide our souls through the darkness?

I prayed to Our Father and I called my father. And one father remained silent and the other quickly came to get me.

In that North Bend parking lot, in his staid sedan, my father trembled with anger. “What the hell are you doing up here?” he asked. He’d left a meeting with the lame-duck mayor to rescue me.

“Jeremy drove me up.”

“And where is Jeremy?”

“We got in a fight. He left.”

“You got into a fight?” my father asked. “What are you, a couple of girls?”

“Jeremy is a fag,” I said.

“What?”

“Jeremy told me he’s a fag.”

“Are you homosexual?” my father asked.

I laughed.

“This is not funny,” he said.

“No, it’s just that word, homosexual; it’s a goofy word.”

“You haven’t answered the question.”

“What question?”

“Are you homosexual?”

I knew that my father still loved me, that he was still my defender. But I wondered how strong he would defend me if I were indeed gay.

“Dad, I’m not a fag. I promise.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

We sat there in silence. A masculine silence. Thick and strong. Oh, I’m full of shit. We were terrified and clueless.

“Okay, Dad, what happens next?”

“I was hoping to tell you this at a better time, but I’m going to run for the State House.”