By J. S. O’Keefe

“Nice store, ma’am, you’ve got some real good stuff in here.”

“Thank you, sir. We take pride in our merchandise.”

“Made in Canada, I hope. All of ‘em things?”

“Yes, but we’d like to think of the world as one big home to humankind. There’s no other home for us. We best ignore borders, they don’t make much sense. We’re eight billion people connected by billions of threads.”

“Kinda agree with ya on the border. What blows my mind especially, why is it necessary to have a border between Canada and the U.S.? My opinion, a friggin’ state line would suffice. And don’t get me started on those grumpy dorks at the Sweetgrass-Coutts crossin’. Border service officers or whatever they call themselves. Gigantic pain in the ass, if you ask me.”

“I’m truly sorry, sir, if you had a bad experience. How can I help you?”

“That big dreamcatcher on the wall is handmade, I assume?”

“That’s correct, sir.”

“And the photo of the Injun woman next to it who made it?”

“Indigenous person.”

“Pardon?”

“The artist who made the dreamcatcher is an indigenous person from this province, not from India. But yes, it’s their photo on the wall.”

“Their photo? I only see one indigenous person and it’s a woman, fairly young, quite a looker.”

“Frankly, sir, I’m not really comfortable discussing another person’s gender even in their absence. But I’m going to tell them you liked their art when they come next time to the store. Once or twice a month they bring their work to us.”

“They, you mean the entire tribe?”

“No, only they, the indigenous person.”

“Anyway I am buyin’ it, here’s $180 Canadian, which is about five bucks in real money. That’s what I paid south of the border in Montana for a small one, which turned out to be made in Red China.”

“People’s Republic of China.”

“I don’t care whose republic it is, the peoples over there make crap products. A light bulb used to last a lifetime, now it burns out in an hour.”

“Sir, I have other customers to attend to, please.”

“No problem, here’s the dough, nearly worthless pieces of paper. When the squaw comes in next time, please put in a good word for me.”

“Squaw!?”

“Yeah, the Injun broad. She got nice facial features, shapely tits, and I secretly hope her butt ain’t the size of Mount McKinley. Frankly, if my wife wasn’t here with me I would stick around just to strike up a conversation with her. I wouldn’t mind givin’ her the physical in the comfort of her teepee.”

“Sir, let me stop you right there. If you continue, I’m going to tell them what you said.”

“Who’s them now? The squaw?”

“No, your partner over there, she’s waving to us.”

“That’s my wife, not my partner. My partner’s a tubbo Irishman who keeps remindin’ me day in day out he’s got sixty percent of the business and me only forty. With his equally chunky wife they produce another red-haired mick kid every year. Mystery to me how they connect physically, you know, down there in the erogenous zone. They must be secret acrobats.”

“Sir, please leave. And I’m not selling you the indigenous art. It’s quite possible you’ve blundered into the wrong store. Why don’t you tell me what you really want? For example, white hoods, bedsheets.”

“Bedsheets! Why would I need bedsheets? We’re stayin’ in a hotel and the bedsheets were fresh and clean when we checked in.”

“I was referring to KKK gear. You know, masks and robes and such.”

“Now I’m completely lost at sea. What’s KKK? A chain store that sells garments, or fabrics by the yard?”

“Never mind, sir. Please, leave.”

“That’s okay, ma’am, I’m leavin’. Great discussion on culture and stuff.”

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