Black Widow submits to S H I E L D
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I returned from Center Camp to find that Amanda had started breakfast without me. It wasn't yet nine o'clock, but it was already bright enough that I needed my glacier glasses as I set her large latte down in the dust beside her. "You took forever," she observed as I settled into the cheap lawn chair beside hers, put my small black coffee down, and dug in.
Soon, a precarious assemblage of plates and bowls bearing bagels, cream cheese, smoked salmon, capers, and chopped red onions teetered across our knees. We'd lugged several packed picnic baskets and coolers with us. Hey, just because we're spending a week in the desert doesn't mean we can't eat well.
We were dressed similarly, in patterned sarongs, sandals, and glacier glasses, our torsos bare to catch the last cool breezes before the day's real heat set in. Both of us had various beads, trinkets, and medallions strung around our necks, though Amanda had been given many more than I had by the guys who passed them out-one of the side effects of having tits. Our chairs were positioned at the edge of our camp to face the passing traffic. Behind us stretched the sprawling chaos of RVs, tents, temporary wooden buildings, geodesic domes, tractor-trailers, and military surplus parachutes called Black Rock City.
The Swiss Army knife Amanda had used to chop the onions and slice the bagels was now being used to spread the cream cheese. While I waited for my turn with the knife, I sipped my coffee and surveyed the passing scene. A guy in a motorized easy chair came buzzing by. He wore a top hat and some sort of furry loincloth. Behind the couch was a dusty red Radio Flyer piled with bags of ice. "Mornin'," I nodded as he went by.
He tipped his hat genially. "Mornin', neighbor!"
An Asian woman sauntered by in the opposite direction, wearing only a straw cowboy hat and a toddler tee. Her golden skin glistened with sunscreen as she swayed, her bare feet raising little clouds of dust with each step. Rapt, I watched her bare ass twitch as she made her way towards Center Camp.
Amanda cleared her throat loudly. I looked around. She was holding the cream cheese-smeared knife and grinning. "Spectator!" she accused.
I bristled a little at her suggestion that I was violating Burningman's famous "No Spectators" creed. "No Spectators" doesn't really mean that no one should ever act as an audience- after all, what's the point of a performance or an artwork without someone to look at it? What it means is that no one should be exclusively a spectator. Each participant has a responsibility to add something to the Burningman experience. Some people help with construction, some people do fire safety, some people tool around in elaborately decorated golf carts-it's all participation, and each of those people will spend time enjoying and appreciating other people's work as well. I started to launch into my rant on this topic when I remembered that I had already delivered it to Amanda yesterday, a fact she would happily remind me of if I started in again.
I snorted. "I'm a spectator until I've had my coffee. You done with that knife?"
Amanda passed it to me and, with a hand free, finally picked up her coffee, and took a grateful sip. "So, what kept you at the cafe," she asked. "Forget your money again?"
It's easy to forget about money in a place where the only permitted commercial transactions are buying coffee and ice. Carrying a wallet around is generally more trouble than it's worth. "I ran into the guys from Primal Sheep Therapy," I explained, trying to pick capers out of the jar with my knife blade.
"Is that a theme camp or a rock band?"
"Well, it's definitely a theme camp. It may well also be a rock band. They were the guys with the blow-up doll Stonehenge last year, remember?"
"The transvestite pancake guys?"
"Only two of them were transvestites," I objected.
"Well, that was enough to make an impression. Where are they camping this year? I promised I'd bring them some Bailey's after that great breakfast they made me last time."
That year we were camping with Index Librorum Prohibitorum (Index for short), some Portland folks with a little lending library and a guerrilla storytelling troupe. They would set up in a random public place and tell subversive or obscene folktales-sometimes original stories, sometimes a selection from the nineteenth- century pornographic anthology "Tales from the Beginning," or sometimes something completely improvised.
Their library was similarly eclectic. They tried to keep a lively and subversive collection of literature on hand, but their necessarily lassiez-faire attitude toward the "returning" part of a lending library meant that their collection arrived every year liberally salted with Victorian porn, Loompanics drug manuals, and surrealist manifestoes, but by the weekend mostly consisted of battered sci-fi paperbacks, skateboarding zines, and surrealist manifestoes.
Much, though not all, of Black Rock City was divided into similar theme camps-groups of people with a name and some sort of shtick to contribute to everyone else's experience. Three of them-let's call them Curly, Moe, and Larry-were friends of mine from college.
"They're pretty close by," I said. "You can bring that Bailey's to them any time."
Next to us was a little green-and-tan Kelty backpacking tent that was suspiciously clear of the ubiquitous dust. Muffled sounds from within suggested someone was waking up. "I guess another member arrived last night," I speculated. "Moe said a friend from his yoga group was supposed to arrive yesterday"
A zipper buzzed, the tent shook, and a figure emerged from the far end of the tent. From behind, Amanda and I watched as the dark-skinned woman raised her muscular arms to the sky and stretched luxuriously. Her supple waist twisted back and forth with unconscious grace, her short dreadlocks tossing with her motion. Finally, she turned. Her breasts were high and plump, with big areolas that looked black in the desert's harsh light. Amanda and I tried to look like we weren't staring. I don't think we succeeded.
"Hello," said the newcomer, in a soft, high voice, squinting at us.
"Hhh-Good morning." Amanda found her tongue first. "I'm Amanda, this is Vinnie."
"You must be Tanya," I cut in.
"Yeah," she said, with a radiant smile, "I got in last night." She stepped around her tent. White panties surrounded the dramatic curve of her hips from her trim little waist, and set off the dark chocolate-brown of her skin. Those and white running shoes were all she wore.
Amanda and I spoke at once.
"Welcome to Burningman!" I said.
"You want some breakfast?" said Amanda.
Tanya grinned still further. Despite the merciless light of the late-summer desert, it seemed for a moment like a dark room had suddenly been illuminated. "Actually, could you tell me which way is the closest bathroom? I'm bursting!"
"Center Camp is about two blocks that way," I told her, pointing. "There's a row of port-a-johns there."
"However, if you head outward a couple of blocks," Amanda interjected, "you'll find ones that are cleaner. And this time of day, there probably isn't a line there."
"That's good to know, said Tanya, nodding. "I'm gonna have to pick you guys' brain for more tips like that when I get back."
"Absolutely!" said Amanda.
"We're happy to help!" I added.
Tanya sauntered off in the direction Amanda had indicated. Amanda and I watched her high, round ass sway for a long moment, bagels forgotten in our laps.
Finally, Amanda took a long drink from her latte, then spoke: "What the hell was that?"
"I dunno," I said, "but I want some."
"Race ya."
"You're on."
When Tanya got back, she accepted half a bagel with cream cheese and squatted beside us, unselfconsciously, to eat.
"Did you get to do any exploring last night?" I asked.
"Not really," she admitted. "I'd been driving all day to get here. A couple of people helped me set up my tent and I kinda crashed."
"Then there's no time to waste!" I urged her. "You need to go make your pilgrimage to the Man."
"He looked so cool, all lit up last night," said Tanya. "I could see him for miles coming in."
"I'll come with you if you like," I offered. "I haven't been there during the day yet this year."
Amanda said, "I wouldn't be in any hurry to bother. He'll be there all week. I was gonna walk along Esplanade to look at the new theme camps. Wanna come?"
Tanya thought for a moment. "I think I'd like to go see the Man first," she said politely, "can you show me around later today, Amanda?"
"Sure, no problem," Amanda shrugged.
Through a mighty effort of will, I managed to refrain from doing a victory dance.
After packing up our food and dishes, I threw on an old, formerly white dress shirt to protect against the sun. Tanya put on a turquoise sundress and we set out on the half-mile walk to the heart of Black Rock City, the stylized fifty-foot sculpture that is the Burning Man.
Tanya was curious about how we arranged the trip from the east cost.
"It's nice coming out with Amanda," I explained. "We split the driving, the cost of the rental, we take turns cooking meals. There's definitely inconveniences-even if you buy a lot of stuff in Reno, packing is always a little tight-the two checkins and two carryons apiece have to hold all our clothes, our sleeping bags, both our tents-"
"Your tents? Aren't you guys a... ?" she waved her hand vaguely.
"No, not really," I explained. "We dated for a while a few years ago."
"But it didn't work out."
"Well, she mostly likes girls."
"That must have been rough."
I shrugged. "Yeah, I guess it was.
We walked in silence for a few moments.
"So now you're just friends?"
"Errr... basically."
She cocked an eyebrow. "Basically?"
"Well, if I meet someone nice, or she meets someone nice, we've got two tents. And if we don't, we have sleeping bags that zip together."
"That's sweet."
"I'd like it better if her pickup record wasn't so much better than mine. But it generally works out well," I admitted.
"So, have you met someone nice this year?"
Jeannie
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