Whizzer did everything wide-open, whether it be rubbing assholes' faces in themselves, or demonstrating respect and admiration for people like Buzz and the Boys. He did so much for them because he felt they'd done so much for him and everybody else. He loved them like favorite uncles, talked about them all the way to the turnoff to the shortcut he insisted we take. It started south of Nespelem, and was perhaps a few miles shorter, but the roads were poor and it would've taken us longer to get to GAEA even if we hadn't hit the roadblock.

A spur road, central hump bristling with weeds that scrubbed the van's belly; a typically primitive, one-lane dirt road, that's what led us to the road with the block--much more of a road, this one, smoother and twice as wide, meandering like a stream of hardpan through angry and rocky terrain.We crested a rise, into view of a big black Ford sedan parked in the way, canted enough that there was no way the van could squeeze by. It was pointed north, same way as us. Both front doors were open. The driver had apparently been trying to get out, the passenger trying to get in. I stopped thirty feet away, afraid we might've stumbled upon a double homicide.

Whizzer said, "This looks bad." I shut off the van. Wind gusted from the north, edge effect of a squall kicking up over Omak lake. Odor of skunk poured past our rolled-down windows.We gazed at each other a moment, wondering what to do.

"Did you move over here 'cause you like skunks?"

"I didn't know there were so many around."

We got out without bothering to shut our doors. And as we stood side-by-side in front of the van, ready to approach, a skunk jumped from the front seat of the Ford, driver side. The wind was apparently keeping the skunk unaware of us. Near the head of what we could see was an Indian man, the skunk started scarfing down on something. The man barked incoherently and waved his arm around as though warding off mosquitos. The alarmed skunk spotted us, and sprayed the man in the face point blank before scrambling away. Garbled obscenities poured from the man as that arm flailed around. Then he fell still. We were all caution, approaching the passenger side, where a woman of about fifty sat back on her haunches, head against the seat, arms spread over the floorboard. Evidently, she'd gotten out to piss beside the car, pulled down her pants, squatted, and passed out. So now she looked like the wind might topple her, piss all over her pants and darkening the dirt beneath her. She'd also vomited pizza, mostly onto her arms and the floorboard. I've never seen anyone frozen in a more unlikely position. I confirmed she was breathing, and was suddenly overwhelmed with shame and pity bursting from an eerie bond I felt with both of these people. Empathy over their condition almost knocked the wind out of me. I glanced at Whizzer, crimping his humor with the look on my face. An empty Pizza Hut box lay open on the front seat.Whiffs of alcohol bled from the car. The odor of skunk was nothing like it would've been without the wind.

Compassion conquered my aversion to touching the woman. I slipped my hands under her arms, and lay her out flat on her back--careful to keep her head from slamming the ground.

Whizzer couldn't resist picking at the situation for humor: "Thinkin' about a little native pussy?"

I opened my mouth to tell him to fuck off . . . the words stalled in my mind. I stood up and wiped my hands on my pants. Staying upwind, we proceeded around the front of the Ford to observe the man from ten feet away. He'd fallen out, but a foot caught under the brake pedal kept the lower third of his body in the car. Another terribly unlikely position. He'd pissed his pants, and evidently spouted pizza like a geyser after falling out--that's what the skunk was eating, used pizza. The man's tomato-sauced face shined with drizzles of fresh skunk oil amid cheese and chunks of crust and pepperoni. Whizzer chortled, "Good thing for everybody they don't need CPR."

For me this situation was devoid of humor. Shame is what I felt most, totally new complexities of shame.This time my words made it out, command style: "Let's go."

We hurried through wind rank with skunk vapors. And despite the trailer making it a squirrely nightmare, I backed up for at least five minutes before we came to a place wide enough to turn around.