Bedside Manner

Somewhere on the highway, I came upon three Navajo men, who were hitch hiking. I picked them up.

They rode for a while in silence. Then one of them leaned over the seat and said:  “Hey buddy, which of us do you want to fuck?”

“What?” I said.

“I recommend that you choose this one,” he said, pointing to the guy next to him. The guy next to him had one eye and the beginning of a beard. “His name is Weasel Dog. We will help you handcuff him. Whole deal will cost you thirty bucks.”

“Aw shit, not the fucking handcuffs,” Weasel Dog said with a whine. He was wearing a hat. It was black and ringed with sweat. It said “Friends Don’t Let Friends Drive Fords.”  

“No thanks,” I said.

“What the fuck?” the first guy snarled leaning forward in his seat.

“I’m not into that,” I said. The three of them didn’t smell too good. They smelled like sweat mixed with dirt mixed with rain. I rolled down the window and we drove for about ten minutes in silence.

“Ok,” the second guy said. “Ok, listen. Twenty-five.”

“It’s not about the price,” I said with a sigh.

“So why did you pick us up?” Weasel Dog asked adjusting his hat down over his eyes.

“I thought you wanted a ride,” I said.

They started laughing at me. They laughed and laughed and laughed, and I was getting pissed off. I pulled over in the rain. The lightning flashed across the sky. It started out straight and then branched into a thousand broken fingers. The whole sky was cold white fire. I could see mesas all around. They shot up out of the high desert floor. They glowed white against the black of the sky when the lightning struck. And then the lightning was gone, but I felt I could still see the mesas. It was like they were burned into the surface of my eyeballs. I knew there were people up there. A thousand feet up in the sky living on the edge of cliffs. They had been up there for a thousand years. Maybe two thousand. Maybe ten thousand. Who can say?  There weren’t any fences up there. I went up sometimes to treat a patient who couldn’t be moved. I watched the children run by the side of the cliff. Little two year olds running on the side of a cliff. Unafraid.

“Get out,” I said.

“Yeah, fuck you,” the first one said and got out of the car on to the shoulder of the highway. The second one followed him. Weasel Dog was last. He pretended to move toward the door but when he got to the edge, he reached out quickly slammed the door shut and hit the lock. “Drive!” he screamed. “Drive!”  I hit the gas.  The tires threw mud up on Weasel Dog’s companions. I heard a couple of profanities and a rock glanced off my back windshield. Thankfully, it didn’t break. My front tire caught on the surface of the highway and pulled us up on to the road. The back end fishtailed a couple of times as the car picked up speed. Lightning struck one more time and I saw Weasel Dog’s companions far behind us now. Two silhouettes against the panorama of mesas.

Weasel Dog sat quietly for about twenty minutes as we sped through the night toward Window Rock. I was wondering what would happen next. Would he ask for a ride to some distant hogan down a dirt road and rob me once we got there?  Was he planning to try to come to my house for a shit, shower, and shave over my wife’s objection?  Did he have any plan at all?  I flipped through the radio dial without success. Finally I put in a mix CD I made a long time ago. Peter Gabriel. I smiled.

Finally Weasel Dog broke the silence.

“So um, I’ll let you fuck me for 25 as long as there are no handcuffs,” he said.

“For Christ’s sake,” I yelled. “I don’t want to fuck you. Ok?!  Is it ok if I don’t want to fuck you?!”

“Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain,” Weasel Dog screamed at me from the back seat. “Don’t you know that he is alive?  That he returned? That he came and walked upon the Earth again?  That flames of fire surrounded his head as he dwelled among his disciples at the Pentecost?  That he said to Thomas, put your finger in the wounds of my hand and the wound of my side?”