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$ 141 $ Standing-In for Fritz Scholder and Yoko Ono W hen the Wigwam Club closed at two, it took the parking lot a half hour for all the Indian cars and trucks to clear out, but the word got around that the party was over at Lou Benedict’s house. Armed with a six-pack of Coors, and with a half-pint of Old Crow hidden in the top of the spiffy left cowboy boot of the pair he was sporting, Frank Lawson, out on his own this free-flowing Friday night, easily found his way to Lou Benedict’s place. He’d been there before on similar occasions. He went inside as the small house’s front room was quickly going wall-to-wall Indian. George Strait was crooning on the stereo in the corner, and clusters of people crowded the room and soon flowed on out to the kitchen area. Frank settled into an out-of-the-way corner, near the doorway of a small dining area, where he could listen in and take part in two different conversations at the same time without much effort. On one side, a couple of Navajo guys were talking about cars and pickups, and on the other, three Pueblo girls and an Oklahoma Cheyenne girl, all of whom Frank knew slightly, were kidding back and forth with much increasing laughter punctuated with loud periodic “Ayyys!” A few laughs and digs back and forth with Lou Benedict, a transplanted Pawnee, and Frank was well into his second Coors when he noticed a short, slender woman in her mid-to-late twenties with very long black hair standing across the room, looking at him intently. Frank had never seen her before. Before he knew it, she had walked over to him, a slight smile on her face. 142 $ geary hobson “Are you Fritz Scholder?” she asked. Frank laughed, surprised at the reference to the famous Indian artist who lived and worked in Santa Fe. He didn’t think that he and Scholder looked even remotely alike. “No. I’m Frank Lawson. What’s your name?” She ignored his question. “You sure look a lot like Fritz Scholder.” She looked up at Frank with intensity and playfulness. “Well, you look like Yoko Ono—but a younger, prettier version.” Time for gallantry. “Yeah? What tribe is she?” “You know, the woman who married John Lennon.” “Who’s John Lennon?” He looked at her, realized she was still putting him on, and then laughed when she did. “Oh, I know who Yoko Ono is,” she said. “Well, I meant it as a compliment.” “Good. I’ll take any and all compliments that come my way.” “I’m sure you don’t have to fish for compliments.” “You’d be surprised. Sometimes you guys are so damn self-centered, you never notice women as people.” “Hey, lighten up. I noticed you, didn’t I?” “Yeah, with that Yoko Ono shit.” “Well, you with that Fritz Scholder shit.” They laughed, and she moved to his side and curled a sinuous brown arm through the crook of his, finally to cruise down to a cuddlesomeness that exuded sexuality. Soon his arm was around her waist. Two couples were beginning to slow-dance to a Crystal Gayle song in the crowded living room. “So, what’s your name?” Frank asked. “Jerrie Mimms. What’s yours? Oh, yeah, Frank something—right?” “Yes.” “So you’re not Fritz Scholder?” “Nope. Not even close.” “Yeah, you’re close. You know, with that long brown hair hanging long down to your shoulders, you look like him.” standing-in $ 143 “Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you.” “I’m not disappointed. You look fine to me. You know, I’ve always wanted to go to bed with Fritz Scholder—what do you say, Fritz?” And his eyes got lost in her large black ones, looking intently up at him. “I think that can be arranged—Yoko.” Early the next morning, she surprised him again by inviting him to use her toothbrush. “You don’t mean for me to use your own personal, private toothbrush?” “Sure, why not? Considering all the places our mouths were last night, what’s wrong with sharing a toothbrush?” He conceded that she had a point. And since he was beginning to think of seconds, or fifths, while looking at her completely nude body—slender and supple, with long black hair hanging straight down her back to the narrowness of her...

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