The Fancy Dance Fire

by Jake Arrowtop

            “Oki, Niskunni, Indigenous Jim coming at you with another hair teaching,” the man said into the void. He unfurled his long, unbraided hair. The phone, placed on a tripod, haloed in set-lighting, rested in the living room reflecting back Indigenous Jim’s Indigenous excellence. He altered his voice, made it deep and halting.

            In a smooth, sensual motion, Jim ran the ivory comb through his black hair, head tilted to the side. He scanned his features; his high cheekbones were holy ridged, phenotypical perfection. 

            His pleased focus was drawn to his full brown lips as he continued:

            “In our ways, your hair is an extension of your spirit. It has a power…” the comb snagged on a stray knot, interrupting his flow. Indigenous Jim ceased speaking, eyed his frustrated face in the reflection on his phone. 

            Take twelve. He started again. 

            After posting, Jim replayed the recording for the fourth time. The angle was perfect. No double chin. That was good. He played it again. Poured over the performance. Checking and rechecking the engagement was a part of the ritual.

            The marginal uptick after each viewing was proof-positive that Jim had been received, perceived, and even loved which was made apparent through the floating hearts cascading down the phone’s screen.  

            Jim lived for those virtual little hearts.

            His existence was his resistance as he spent his days miming new social media trends or filming himself doing something that could be easily categorized as Indigenous. Additionally, Jim would often wax philosophical about Indigenous issues. He’d pore over Wikipedia for fast facts to share and get his brand out there. “On this day, 269 men, women, and children were killed by the US Government” the robotic AI would say as the camera shot focused on his heartbroken and stoic face. Sometimes he’d braid his air as images of dead Indians faded in and out.

            There was a formula for sure, a cold calculation made every time Jim produced content. He knew what the people wanted as he rendered cultural expression to a mathematical equation. Timing was everything. Indigenous People’s Day and The Battle of Little Bighorn were primo days for engagement. You could even scam a few bucks out of some guilty white woman too, to boot. Countless massacres (mostly women and children) were so commonplace, Jim just had to do a little bit of homework to make any date relevant. The possibilities were endless. When your society was built on the bones of dead Indians, every day was a good to be Indigenous. At least from Jim’s perspective.

            Over dinner that evening. Jim’s mother asked how his little videos were going.

            “Great, ma,” Jim replied. “Hitting them with the real to get them in the feels.” He didn’t speak with an accent like in his videos, his normal reply was monotone and unaware.

            “That’s nice, honey,” she said flatly.

            Mom wasn’t Jim’s biological mother, that was obvious. She was slightly built compared to Jim and loved him dearly but the love of a white woman only gets you so far.

            It goes without saying that Jim wasn’t born on the reservation, did not grow up in his traditional community. Like so many Indian kids throughout history, Jim was swept up into foster care, moved across the state and saddled on a white couple that did not understand what he actually needed.

            Jim had seven white siblings, all grown and gone. Jim should have been grown and gone too but he still lived at home with his mother and father, who were decomposing in real time.

            “Ma,” Jim said through a mouthful of food, “when’s dad gonna be home?”

            “It’s ‘going to,’ honey and he’s at the office late again,” she replied while scrunching her nose at her son’s loud chewing.

            “Damn, he’s supposed to pick me up a new charger.”

            “Language, honey.”

            “Ma, I’m 22 years old.”

            His retort was answered with a strained silent smile and sharp clanking silverware squeaks so Jim left it at that.

            Jim, the youngest, served as exotic punctuation for the Mormon household and it’s all he ever knew. Complaints about how dark he got in the summer and the odd comment to “clean your knees” persisted in childhood and had mutated into silent disapproval.

            It wasn’t all bad though, at least they had money.

            Now that Jim was an adult and found his calling as a hopeful internet ndn, the silent disapproval again morphed into “at least he’s keeping himself busy” where movement, any movement, was silently expected. And there was money to be made. Sponsorships and ad revenue were on the table! If Jim played his cards right, he might also bag himself an Indigenous baddie.

            In his mind’s eye, her jet-black hair was adorned with a floral scarf as dentalium earrings hung low to her shoulders. Wrapped around her, would be a shawl, handmade and gorgeous, encasing a faded blue jean jacket. She’d be squinting her eyes, as if applying makeup in a mirror and she would be perfect. This fantasy consumed Jim as he put his feelers out whenever he could. He was a DM machine, strategically liking any Indigenous thirst trap that came across his page. Like the production of content, this was a delicate dance that required patience and timing. You can’t just flood a baddie’s DM with a misplaced “wat up.” No, the courting had to unfurl naturally, lay some groundwork. This meant liking a post, sending an emoji, and then making direct contact. It was undiscovered country; this digital wasteland and Jim knew in his heart it was a numbers game. Someone would bite, eventually.

            “Honey?” mom’s flat voice carried across the table, jolting Jim out of his imagined conquests. “I was supposed to wait until your father got home but he left you something in our bedroom. I think it’s a costume for your videos” 

             Jim hit the light to his parent’s bedroom. Much care and focus had been taken regarding the decorum of the room. Above the king-sized bed, hung a family portrait featuring what mom described as her “little blended family.” Centered, the seven Nothing-face white children stared vapidly, as mom and dad hovered above. To the left, a little too far left, child Jim sat Indian style, beaming. A stark contrast to the phantoms in the photo. Below the portrait hung the ancient white prayer: LIVE LAUGH LOVE.

            On the bed, encased in protective plastic, rested Jim’s present. Jim’s eyes widened as recognition surfaced. It was a men’s fancy dance outfit. Jim tore into the plastic and the regalia’s vibrant color revealed itself. The yellow headband, with the beaded disk front and center, held an image of a massive bear and Jim felt the symbolic power in his bones. His twin bustles, one for his hips and the other to hang above his shoulders were also yellow while fire red, ribboned fringe hung loosely. He imagined the ribbons in motion, his lighting steps making them dance in the wind. He would step proudly, swiftly and to any onlooker, he would appear as nothing more than a veritable blur of yellow and red. He would be Indigenous art in motion.

            Jim felt a presence in the doorway. He turned to look and found his mother, leaning to the right, smiling. “It’s not the whole costume, honey. You’ll need shoes and something to wear underneath.”

            The possibilities were already racing through his mind. Matching beaded moccasins to accompany his fire themed outfit. He always daydreamed about owning a real pair of moccasins and soon, and with dad’s money, it would be a reality.

            While lying in bed, doom-scrolling, Jim continued to consume all the Indigenous content he could. Taking note of the trends was crucial to remaining relevant. Jim poured over the powwow videos, studied the fancy dance steps. Step, step, SPIN! Every movement was timed to the life-giving drum beat. Jim was in awe of the dance; every move was moving poetry.

            “Wyd?” The message drop box from someone called Blackfeet_Barbie interrupted Jim’s powwow consumption. He fumbled the phone in an attempt to open his messages and dropped it on his face. The phone’s corner cracked the bridge of his nose and his eyes began to water. He wiped away the tears, and to his horror, his clumsy face had video called the stranger.

            Before him on the screen, sat a young woman, wordlessly peering back at him.

            “Oki, niskunni,” Jim managed to get out before the screen abruptly went blank, back to the original DM. Jim didn’t know what to make of the awkward interaction as he lightly touched his nose to make sure no boogers were hanging out. Jim then saw the ellipses symbol begin to move. The incoming message filled Jim with anticipation as it fluttered at the bottom of the screen.

            “Sorry lol, that was weird.” The profile icon depicted a gorgeous woman wearing a floral-patterned blanket in front of a snowy mountain. Jim didn’t know where the girl was located but it felt pretty sacred. Jim pulled at the crotch of his sweats, readjusting himself.

            “For sure, my bad. Didn’t mean to call you. Wat up?”

“Nothing, just saying hi. You speak the language?” her message was accompanied with a flame emoji.   

            “Lol, I’m fluent.” Jim lied. Just as the message sent, the phone screen went black for a moment as static energy jolted up Jim’s arm. He thought it odd and when the DM screen re-appeared he read her reply. A row of hearts was exactly the answer Jim craved.

            Over the following days, Jim was glued to his screen, even more so than before. He told Blackfeet_Barbie all about his new fancy dance regalia, how excited he was to dance powwow. He sent her funny ndn memes, interesting Indigenous articles and of course, the odd racist Karen video just to lighten the mood. Of course, he waxed Indigenous about all the times he had gone to ceremony, how he was one particular elder’s right-hand man. He chose a strong spirit name and presented it to Blackfeet_Barbie: Shadow Bear, he proclaimed with pride (he claimed it was much too sacred to utter in the language, a lie she ostensibly accepted).

            Jim was smitten. The nightly ritual had morphed into obsessively checking his DMs for any communication from Blackfeet_Barbie. One evening, after dinner, Jim opened the app to tell her they had eaten a bison roast (bought at the store), and that had to get him some Indigenous points.

            “wat up,” Jim lazily messaged.

            “Not much. U?” Barbie was playing coy.

            “Had some bison meat for dinner. P tasty!”

            “Do you hunt?”

            “Yeah, every year.”

            “hmm” came the ominous reply.

            Like lightning, Jim’s phone began flashing. On and off, on and off, creating a strobe-like effect that made the text dance in a wave. Jim long-pressed the power button but nothing was happening. He studied the moving image, the way the “hmm” fluttered across the screen like a flag in the wind. Then suddenly, the phone switched off. Dead battery.

            Jim moved across his room to find the charger and plugged his phone in. That was really weird, he thought. When power returned to his phone, he opened the app to find his messages. He momentarily thought about telling her that he didn’t actually hunt and that he was just trying to impress her. But Jim ultimately decided against it, thinking that the myth was better than the reality.

            “Sorry, my phone is being weird,”

            No reply.

            Jim waited, nothing came in. He logged out and then back in, again, silence. Jim hated that. The drop-in, drop-out nature of direct messaging. She should want to talk to him and he could not understand why it wasn’t the case. Jim decided to make himself busy.

            Jim had been practicing his fancy dance steps for some time. After putting his phone down, with a fresh song in the que, he donned his attire and just moved. This was practice but the steps, perfectly timed, found him feeling like he could float. The power of the beat, blasting from his ear buds pulsated in his head as flowing fringe and ribbon took a life of its own through carefully coordinated pirouettes. It was a timeless rhythm connecting him to earth, to everything. He danced his ass off, in time to the music only he could hear. After the wicked sesh, Jim sat down on his bed and took a long greedy gulp from his water bottle. He thought about sharing his newfound talent with the world. He wanted everyone to know he was a bona-fide fancy dancer, now. All in due time though, he wanted it to be perfect for her.

            Barbie was a good listener, Jim had decided but as the back-and-forth messaging progressed, he realized he hadn’t learned much about her. Determined to remedy this fact, Jim scrolled to her profile.

            “How old are you? Sorry, weird question.”

            “Wdym?” came her instant reply.

            “Like, your age. How many winters have you been on Turtle Island?” Jim smiled to himself; he was a slick one.

            “Long time,” came the message.

            “Hell yeah! Luv me an older chick! #auntie-status!”

            There was no reply.

            Jim’s phone screen again fluttered black momentarily as if some invisible force of energy crashed the entire application. Jim had to restart his phone to get it to quit bugging. After the phone’s reboot, Jim navigated to the app and searched up Blackfeet_Barbie’s profile. It was gone. There, a blank avatar replaced her profile pic which usually signified that she had deleted her account. Their conversation history was still there but it was clear she was not active.

            Jim’s heart dropped. He entered her name into the search bar. Nothing. He took it a step further and googled her online handle to see if she was on any other sites. No such luck. Jim closed the app and pondered his predicament. Had he done something wrong? Nothing immediately came to mind. In fact, Jim was certain that he had played it pretty cool. He proudly proclaimed his heritage, humbly too, to boot. He checked off all the Indigenous boxes: Holy tight braid? Check. Powwow regalia? Check. Fluent? Might as well be a check. No, Jim could not wrap his head around why Blackfeet_Barbie would have ghosted him. In the end, Jim decided he was probably just another profile in a sea of DMs. In fact, it didn’t take much to imagine her messaging another beautiful Indigenous buck. A thought that made him angry.

            Still, Jim couldn’t wrangle his thought in regards to the mysterious Indigenous baddie. Who was she? Where did she come from? Why didn’t she want him? These were questions he’d probably never get any answers to. Confronted with unresolved finality of the para-social relationship, Jim made a snap decision. He opened up the app again and found the message history. He offered a courtesy “hey” before sending an unsolicited pic of his uncircumcised, Indigenous hog. There, he thought, now she really knew what she was missing. 

            Some weeks later, Jim found himself in the familiar ritual. Scanning profile after profile and taking note of what the other public-faced Indigenous accounts were up to.

            “Honey!” Mom’s voice rang through the house.

            “What, mom!”

            “There’s a delivery here for you!” She yelled in answer.

            The faded shoe box was light in his hands. There was no return address and Jim gingerly shook it while putting it close to his ear as his mother looked on. He opened it up. Inside, wrapped in foil paper, were a pair of fire red moccasins. The orange beaded shading gave the impression of flames wrapping around the heel. Jim was immediately impressed and thought they were perfect. He dropped to the floor on his butt, slipped off his tennis shoes and began pulling the moccasins on, carefully tying the buckskin laces tight. They were a perfect fit, like they were made for him.

            “Ma,” Jim said, “where did dad order these? They’re fire!”

            “I don’t know honey; he didn’t tell me he ordered anything.”

            “Really?” Jim asked

            “Yea, hon,” Mom looked confused, “Maybe you have a secret admirer?”

            Jim turned a little redder than usual, his thoughts turned to Blackfeet_Barbie as he quickly gathered up the box and its contents and fled to his room.

            She sent me mocs? Jim pondered. Jim reevaluated every conversation, trying to remember if he ever told her that he needed a pair. He couldn’t recall. He grabbed his phone and opened the app. She was still inactive. Welp, better stay busy, he thought.

            Jim had maintained the constant stream of content. In fact, it was almost the anniversary of the Bear River massacre so Jim was busy, busy, busy wrangling relevant information. Studying history for a specific purpose came easy to Jim. He could shrug off passages of dead babies in the winter snow and any personal feelings he had on the subject matter was quickly swallowed up by the digital validation that he would inevitably receive. But Jim’s numbers had dropped, he had noticed. The cascading hearts, his personal dopamine shots, had all dried up and Indigenous Jim knew he had to do something about it. It was time to break out the big guns.

            Jim pulled his regalia out of the closet. He fastened the bustle securely to his body, wrapped the beaded headband around his head, and lastly, he slipped on his beautiful new moccasins and tied them snug. He reached for his phone; it was time to go live.

            A notification flash came across his screen. Blackfeet_Barbie had returned. Jim felt the butterflies in his stomach stir, then start a dance of their own. Jim’s excitement was cut short when he remembered what he had last sent her. Dread and shame consumed Jim. Maybe she didn’t see it, he thought. The wishful thinking transformed. Or maybe. She likes what she sees…

            Indigenous Jim took a deep, calming breath and opened the message. Below his dick pic, there was a single photo. The photo contained a fancy dance outfit followed closely by a flame emoji. Jim studied the oddly familiar outfit. Then another photo message came in. It was a headband, yellow with the raised beaded image of a bear. Yet another message, again the flame emoji. Recognition came across Jim’s face as he pulled his own headband off his sweaty head. It was exactly the same.

            Another notification. This one was a video of the red moccasins. He clicked on the thumbnail and watched as empty shoes began to move. They fluttered spastically, like fish out of water. It was as if a phantom, completely unseen was making the moccasins move. As Jim stared at the phone, his inbox began to flood with the flame emojis cascading down until the entire screen was obscured by the animated flames.

            Jim felt momentarily strange, his whole body had gone numb. The needle like sensation as Jim tapped at his thigh in an effort to feel something began to worry him. Under no compulsion of his own, Jim began to dance. But this time, he was not the master of his steps. Some unknowing force was compelling him to move, to dance. Jim rose to his feet and began spinning in place. He heard music in his head, a powwow song, steadily increasing in volume. The ancient Indigenous wailing screeched inside his skull. The high-pitched lead was like nails on a chalkboard. Jim clasped his hand against his ears in an effort to drown out the music to no avail. He looked at his palms. Yellow, pus-filled blood stained his brown hands. He felt the tickle of leaking liquid in his ear canal and he began to scream. His scream was primordial, ancient. But he could not hear it, all he could hear was the boom, boom, boom inside his mind. The drumming yet again intensified with Jim’s blood curdling scream. The spinning was endless, Jim had lost nearly all sense of spatial awareness. He was careening out of control.

            Through the constant, intensifying motion, the blurry image of Jim’s mother appeared in front of him, going in and out of sight picture as he twisted throughout the room. Her voice was inaudible as she tried to grab her dancing son. She found purchase, clasped Jim’s wrist as ribbons fluttered in her face. She was swallowed up by the momentum, swept off her feet, and drug across the pristine, white carpet.

            Jim looked on in horror as he realized that it was now his hand clasped around his mother’s wrist and he could not let go, no matter how much he willed his body to do so. Around and around, they went, faster and faster until Jim could not make sense of anything he was seeing. He tried to focus on his mother. She was recognizable through the motion because she was along for the ride. She was face down as vomit spewed from her mouth, leaving a trail of puke staining a perfect circle. Eventually the puke turned red as skin and skull eroded the carpet, revealing the wooden sub-floor which was streaked with a ring of red in an instant.

            Suddenly, the spinning motion ceased, though Jim was still not in control of his body. He released his mother, whose limp wrist fumbled to the floor. She sat motionless under him as he began to high step to the beat of the silent song, the song that only existed in Jim’s head. Jim knew what was coming as his body jigged toward the fallen woman. Jim could not stop his moccasin-clad feet as he stomped down hard upon the back of his mother’s skull. He couldn’t hear it but he felt the sickly crunch under his feet. The beat intensified and so too did Jim’s steps. Crunch, crunch, crunch; he stepped in rhythmic time, unmaking his mother in the process.

            Jim had no concept of time and the dance wouldn’t end, though the uncaring pains of exhaustion began to take hold. Jim struggled to catch air through gasping, fleeting breaths. His feet, caked in blood and brains kept moving to the beat. Tiny chunks of gore trailed the dancing man as he moved through the room, bobbing up and down, with the occasional spin.

            Jim then felt an intense heat centralized on the soles of his feet. A warming sensation began radiating throughout his legs as he yet again increased his momentum. His feet began stepping with an unnatural speed. Smoke began to rise around his moccasins, wafting passed his face. Before recognition could take hold, Jim’s feet inexplicably burst into flames. The flame traveled up his fringed outfit engulfing his entire body like he was made of dried kindling. He screamed his useless scream as his skin began to boil and bubble. The fabric of Jim, his sacred glory, was unwinding in real time.

            Jim moved through the house in a flaming panic, igniting the walls of his home. Jim was danced outside the house, leaving a trail of destruction behind him. As he passed through the front door, he found a single patrol car parked on the curb. An officer was exiting the vehicle with a bewildered look. Jim could not communicate anything other than full on terror screams. And the wide-eyed officer, pail and frightened, drew his firearm. Jim, through unbearable pain and panic, could not make out that the officer was barking commands. There was nothing he could do. Indigenous Jim’s Indigenous body was not his own. He belonged to the song now. And he belonged to the flame.

            Muzzle-flash. Then silence.