Authors: Beverley Andi
“You’re on time.” He gives me a slight smile.
“I think it’s rude not to be. I hate to be kept waiting.
I’m sure everyone feels the same.”
He hands me a helmet and puts one on himself.
“Oh? This is your motorcycle?”
“Hmm.”
“I’ve never ridden on one. This will be my first time.
Is it safe?
I have a rental car
, we could take that
.”
“You’ll be fine. Just hold on to me.” He gives me that sli
ght smile again and
I cave.
Knowing no
alcohol i
s allow
ed on the reservation, I figure
we
have to go to Flagstaff.
Jay rides
to a little ro
adside café along the highway that’s about fifteen minutes away.
When we dismount, h
e
asks how I liked the ride.
“
I like th
e feel of the wind blowing through
my hair and the scen
ery rushing past and the way the bike
corners
with your body
,” I say
,
but I don’t mention that I like holding
on to his firm
body
,
too
.
Kate, I tell myself, it’s been too long since you’ve had a BF.
When I take off the helmet, I realize my long hair is dry already so I give it a quick brush.
We walk
into a rather
seedy looking bar with some pretty rough Native characters hanging around.
All heads
turn and stare
at
me,
the only
non-Native in the place
.
It’s dark inside with some overhead fans whirring. There are some
flashing neon signs and the juk
e box is playing country.
“Why don’t you grab a couple of beers and
we can sit outside,
”
I say
to Jay.
I’m not a
beer
drinker
, wine is more my style
,
but this wasn’t the place to be di
fferent.
Thankfully,
I’m not
a bl
onde
.
My
dark hair blended in with the other women.
But there’s nothing I can do with my blue eyes and freckles.
We walk outside and si
t a
round a rusty wire table
.
It is still hot but there
are
warm breeze
s
blowing.
“Those are pr
etty mean looking dudes,” I say
,
as I nod
toward the bar.
“Oh, they’re Navaho.”
He smiles
.
“
The
y’
re not from my
rez
.
”
“Do you hang out here often?
”
“Me? No
, this doesn’t do much for me.
I’d rather be in the mountains on my bike.”
“Hm
m, that sounds
cool
especially
on a hot
evening
like tonight.”
“Tell me about yourself, Ms. Manhattan.”
“
How do you know I come from NYC?”
“
That i
sn’t hard to figure out. You sure don’t look like anyone from these parts.” He has his half smile on again.
“
Wait a
sec,
I’m wearing jeans and
cowboy boots like everybody else
.” Of course, I know mine are designer jeans and the
boots are a
bit trendy
,
but still
.
He stifles a laugh.
“Yeah, but yours are
spankin
’ new and I bet pretty expensive.
We’re all in faded jeans and worn boots
, see the difference?
”
I have to laugh. “OK, point well taken. Next time I come
,
I’ll remember to pack my grubby clothes and forget about buying new clothes for the trip.”
I take a swallow of beer as Jay’s eyes smile at me. “What?” I feel like his eyes can see right through me.
“Oh, I was just imagining you in your grubby clothes.
Now tell me about
yourself
,
”
he says with his
quiet voice
.
“
Well, my name is
Kate Knig
h
t
ly
as you may have found out already from the motel
.
I work for the
American
Museum of Art
in Manhattan
or
AMA as it’s called. I’
m an assistant curator.
”
“Hmm
, impressive.”
He nods and give
s
that slight smile again.
“
It sounds like a wonderful position and it is
,
but
,
remember
,
the museum is huge
and has many curato
rs and many assistant curators.
I have always been interested in art and history.
” I stop and take a swallow of beer as his gaze unsettles me.
“
I guess I
began reading about the Anasazi
in my early twentie
s
and became fascinated with the beauty of their pottery and their my
sterious disappearance
.
M
y first trip
was
to the Four Corners Area
to visit the cliff dwellings
.
Of course, in doing so I fell head over heels in love with the beauty of this land.
So every vacation I can, I end up back here learning a little bit more about the c
ulture. That’s why seeing the
K
a
china
da
nces is
so important.
Your
people are the descendants of the Anasazi.
I am trying to understand the
society.
Oh
,
and one more thing…I’m not the kind of woman who
usually goes off with men I’ve
j
ust met, especially on the back
of motorcycles.”
My words rush out; I talk fast when I’m nervous.
“So why did you come?”
“
Hmm, good question.
Well
,
let’s just say I had a h
unch you weren’t like those guy
s inside.
Ther
e’s something about you…”
I ta
k
e
a breath.
“
I sense an artist
ic
nature in you, am I right?
”
“So it shows…you are
very clever.”
He
gi
ve
s
that
slight smile
.
“Yes, I am a painter.
”
“A painter!
I knew it.
Your hands gi
ve you away.
You have rema
rkable hands for a man.
They foretell
your art
istic nature even before you speak
.
There’s something else…
your voice
..
.”
I stop, trying to find the right words as he gazes at me with a quizzical look.
I sit up in my chair more animated, more
excited
.
“I
know what it is.
Your voice is soft but
has a sensitive quality to it.
I can image you reading poetry or even playing a guitar
and singing
…”
“Whoa, you do get carried away.” He grim
aces
and drops his head.
“Sorry,” I say softly, knowing I’ve embarrassed myself. “Have you ever been to New York?”
He looks up.
“Yeah,
I worked in Manhattan for a
while in my twenties
,
as an art handler for some of the galleries in SOHO.
That was right after my
two years at community college.
Something I did for my mother.
She wanted one of her son
s to go to college so I went.”
He takes
a swallow of beer. “That’s when I first knew I had to paint…tha
t first college painting class.
I was never much good at expressing feelings in words but once I got a paint b
rush in my hand I could talk.”
H
e smiled
ever so
slightly
again
.
His voice is soft; his manner is calm.
“Did you go to New York to study painting?”
“
No, I couldn’t afford classes.
I could hardly live on what they pa
id me.
No, I was young and foolish and thought I
’d take the art world by storm.
It didn’t happen and
I felt suffocated after
a while
by the city.
I couldn’t see the sky, some
thing a Hopi needs to breathe.
So I came home.”
He drinks his beer and looks off in the distance.
“
I’
m sorry;
I guess we all have those knoc
k-
em
-dead daydreams in our twenties
.
There’s more to your story
, would you go on…single?
m
arried
?”
I feel myself drawn in.
I sip my beer and wait.
“Divorced.
Well, painte
rs can’t live off their paintings
unless their work
hangs in
mega
museums like yours.
So I work at the Hopi Cultural Center in th
e s
ummer and do odd jobs around.
S
ometimes I work for galleries
in
Flagstaff, Se
dona, and even Santa Fe.”
“So you’re a bit of a drifter
.”
“Or a
wanderer
.”
“That looks like quite an expensive bike you’re riding
.
I would guess you’re not in the poor house.”
He lau
ghs and his brown eyes twinkle.
“The bike is my Nirvana.
My escape.
My freedom…and it’s good on gas!”
“
Of course.”
I laugh, too, noticing how
relaxed I feel
now
. “
I’m going to be around here until the weekend
.
If it doesn’t seem like I’m imposing could I
see some of your paintings? Or
you
could show me slides?
”
Jay looks surprised.
“Sure, you can see them.
I have a series that I just finished that I’m
kinda
’
excited about. I’d appreciate your feedback.
Nobody here has ever asked me about my work.”
We sit and talk
for a few hours
.
We have
more
in common then we both realize
bec
ause of our art connection.
We discuss artist
s
we
like, exhibitions we’ve
see
n
and interesting people we’ve met along the way
.
We have
another beer and when he
suggest
s
dinner,
I say
Dutch treat.
We go
to a din
er and
continue our
talk
, order
coffee and talk until he looks
at his watch.
“I better get yo
u home.
W
e have to leave at 5:00
a.m.
tomorrow morning if you want to see the
K
achinas
come out of the k
iva.”