Pudgy Indian

"The hair," she said,
motioning to the back of her head.

It's always the hair.
What the fuck is it with my hair.
I'm a fat, flat assed Indian with long hair.
Big fucking deal.
I'm not particularly attractive.
I'm no Italian model on the cover
of a romance novel.
I'm NOT particularly attractive.

But she wanted to see my hair
in a braid.

She is attractive.
Petite, dirty blonde, looks great in a mini-skirt.
What the fuck does she see in me?
Why can't she leave me alone?
I have enough bullets to dodge
at home.

I didn't want to do it,
but the wife told me
"we need this job."
So I gave into racism,
and lost my soul.
Never had I felt so destroyed
as I did
at that moment
on the back deck of our house
with our friends
with nature
with the Tualatin River in our backyard,
my soul was stolen.
I had to give into racism
to dodge the bullets coming my way
at home.

I forced the issue
they had to write up a policy
so everyone had to wear a braid.
If the bosses wife
who was also my boss
wanted to see this fat,
flat assed Indian in a braid,
damned well all long hairs at the place
were going to be forced to wear braids.
That's how they lost their best
white man
employee.

The first day,
it was weird.
She was standing on the dock.
She never stands on the dock.
The dock
had only been a place
to walk across as she headed to her office
or as she walked from the building
to smoke a cigarette
on the sidewalk.
It was not a place
where she had ever hung out
in the last 10 months that I had worked there.
But she was waiting
and watching me...
I could see her out of the side of my eye
and she watched...
and waited.
I kept her in my peripheral vision
so she couldn't see it,
but she moved...
she moved to a position behind me
and I turned my head enough
to see her staring at me.
Why me?
I'm not particularly attractive,
and I have enough bullets to dodge at home.

If I was single,
I probably still wouldn't have taken the chance.
Boss man probably knew people
who would kill me
for fucking his wife,
but there isn't a whole lot of possibilities
of hooking up with her that way
anyway.
Why me?
There are a lot better looking guys
working on the dock.
"The hair..."
I'll never forget her words.
"The hair.
You have to wear your hair
in a braid."
"The hair."

She wore mini-skirts
to show off her fine legs
and she hung out on the dock
for the next two weeks
as I worked.
Almost everytime
I was on the dock
she would be present
in a mini-skirt,
which she didn't wear all the time
but suddenly was wearing everyday.
Her tight clothes
outlining her fine body.
But this was just too weird.
Harmless fun flirtation
is more my style.
Not somebody who wants to see my hair in a braid
and starts wearing a mini-skirt
around me
everytime I'm working.

After putting out the word
of my discomfort
to my fellow employees,
her behavior finally stopped.
No other words had been exchanged between us
other than her
telling me
I had to wear my hair
in a braid.

It would have been easier to handle
had I not so many bullets
to dodge daily
at home.
Maybe,
I could have even had some fun,
and turned it
into harmless flirtation,
and ended my discomfort
from this odd type of
sexual harrassment.
I didn't understand.
There are much better looking men
that I work with,
and I am not particularly attractive.
"The hair..."

But this is not a poem
about this odd interaction
between my former bosses wife
and I.
This is not a poem
about how unattractive
I believe I am.
This is not a poem
about my hair.
This is a poem
about a woman
who found me attractive enough
to behave in such a manner
toward me.
This is a poem
about a man
someone found
attractive enough
to behave in such a manner.
This is a poem
about a woman
who told me
I had to give into racism.
This is a poem
about a man
who in finding his soul
destroyed by giving into
something
I had fought against
my whole life.

This is a poem
about a man
who found
at that moment
of the destruction
of his soul
discovered the power within
to leave the firing range
and eventually
get out of the way
of all the bullets
heading my way.
For in my destruction,
I found myself reborn,
and now live a life
much more conducive
to happiness
as going home everyday
after work
to dodge bullets.

My bosses wife
lead me down that path,
and although I don't condone her behavior
toward me
for those brief
few weeks,
I thank her
for giving me that gift
that lead me to the strength
to leave the firing range
I found myself on
every day when I went home.

Thank you
my bosses wife
for the gift
you may never know
you gave me.