IN RESPONSE TO TRISTAN’S BUTT-HOLE STAINED UNDERPANTS

(THIS IS WHAT MY CATS REMINDED ME OF, IN ONE OF THE RARE INTERVALS WHEN THEY WERE AWAKE.)

I found Barrus’ “The Boy and the Dog Are Sleeping” in the Daedalus catalog, which specializes in high-end, prize-winning books. We don’t pulp that kind of book anymore. They move through the selling venues like undertow as “used books.” But books are not used up by reading. They don’t fade but resurface on shelves, in minds, even in conversation. They become movies and, years later, re-makes.

I ordered the book because I thought it was by an Indian and I’ve been reading books about and by Indians for a long time because I taught high school kids who were Indian. As soon as I read it, I knew the author wasn’t Indian, but I saw that he knew reservations and boys. I’ve been on and near the Blackfeet Reservation for half a century. I did NOT know that the book was being remaindered because it was considered wicked because the author was not really Indian. He was what I call a “volunteer” Indian. I don’t call these people fakes. Some are more authentic than genetic Indians who play into the stereotypes and conjure up phony woo-woo stuff. Anyway, the real dynamics are in the people who buy, pretend to read, and act like they know all about books about Indians, though they’ve never met any. (They probably have — they just didn’t know it.)

I did not know the book originated in a man’s magazine and that they figured that the combination of an Indian author who could write like that plus a man being tender in a fatherly way would strike a nerve and make money. They were right. But the success of the story attracted two hyenas, one a misery-eater and the other a truffle hunter. The misery-eater was a man who — imitating William T. Vollman but with less skill and insight — went out to travel with poor low-class people for a while so he could write about it, using his credentials as a journalism professor. The truffle hunter was an editor on the search for colorful writing that could be pushed into intense passion.

THIS IS WHAT MY CATS TOLD ME. I DIDN’T LOOK FOR CONFIRMATION.

The journalist didn’t fare so well — his mistake was sentimental praise and wannabe admiration of a person everyone else in Manhattan already knew was a wild trickster. Also, the reviewer was entirely too curious about T’s second wife. He had enlisted one of his students to be his cat’s paw and there’s probably more to that. The kid did an absolutely miserable and inadequate job, not-too-carefully slanted. When the prof’s student realized he’d made a fool of himself, he found an ally in a publicity-hungry and resentful real Indian, and went for the throat. (Can a book have a throat?)

The truffling editor did better and came through with a contract, though not the extravagance people imagine is the reality of publishing. Somewhere between truth and hope is the vivid fantasy of cultural validation. No, wait. There’s no truth to it. Mostly it’s a con to make you eat your spinach, or other less savory things. And to make you get out there to promote because a big part of the money goes to the publisher, not the author. If the author is promoting from a wheelchair with his helper dog alongside, he’s solid gold, catnip for liberals. The editor did not travel. The audiences looked at a mostly Irish guy and saw his long-ago ancestor: “Counselor” a sailor who married a Native American. Not even T. knew about him. The cats probably knew because they often lived on ships.

The editor sort of knew there might be trouble because he was also the agent for that resentful real Indian, who threw in his Native American I’m-being-exploited card. Maybe the editor thought he could just bluff it through like the other wannabes and volunteer Indians who still sell well today, even though they are well-known pretenders. But in truth, I think he was enchanted by the writing. And the writer.

THEN CAME THE RAT

Wikipedia locked onto T. I figured out who and why because I already knew him. He was neither indigenous nor American. He was one of those mysterious editors with a pseudonym, which I recognized because I already knew him. He was an NA Flame War guy. He still hasn’t given up. I am locked out of the Wiki entry. He uses French structuralist theory to create the illusion that he knows what he’s talking about. He’s also interested in sci-fi, human trafficking, and torrenting movies.