Where The Wild Strawberries Once Grew

Sallyanning {verb: thrift store shopping}, strobe lights, and shots.

Liberty Rose PoV.

I love the city so much, the bright lights, the electric energy that comes out only at night, the rowdy pubs on East Hastings which by the way, will let anyone in. Including me. After panhandling I would head to my favorite spot and order up a jug of BC's finest draft. One glass for me and one for my cousin visiting me, Penelope Rose Bell. She's my best friend and we've been through everything together. More bad than good so we've been trying to balance it out and party hard making up for life's crappy choices. She brought her make-up bag and hairspray as well as my leather coat which I left at her place, back on the rez. We've been sleeping in her car by the ocean side. Tonight though, she's vowed she would find us a couple of guys and bring the party to their place, a place for us to crash until we can figure out what we'll do next. 

Earlier today we ventured onto the streets looking for thrift stores. Yes, we window shopped the big malls but our comfort tends to bring us to what we've been raised by... the thrills of finding deals in second hands. We searched for matching outfits, like we always have, and today we scored big. Only we didn't have enough money nor did we want to spend our pilfers and tithes on duds and kicks so our fingers did the work. My moral compass kicks in quite a bit and I've only stolen once. I was shopping with my Granny in Zellers and even though she offered to buy me what I whined for, I decided to stick that strawberry scented chapstick into my pocket and nonchalantly exit the store. My friends stopped me though, Mr. Security One and Two. After my incessant crying died down I was able to tell them I was with my Granny [no mention of my mother] and after she pulled out a Zellers credit card they released their horrible hold on me and pushed me at my savior. She pulled out her white hankie with the red rose stitched into it and knelt down to my level. I couldn't look into her eyes, her sweet tender broken heart poured out it's love to this wretch making me tear up all over again. She moistened her handkerchief by her sweet mouth and wiped the lipstick stains off of my lips. She lifted her head high and squared off with the store manager and security and with her silken authoritative voice she made things right. After that, I never stole again. I vowed to never ever be in the receiving end of making the grandmother disappointed in me again. I left of means of theftery to dear cousin sticky fingers. And she had no problem with that. 

Penelope found the perfect attire for us, we rocked the clean cut version of street walkers mighty fine. The clothes she picked out for me though seemed to fit me a bit small, but whatevs. We found outdoor cement public washrooms across from Pigeon Square and changed and applied our makeup for our night out. We stuffed our bags and backpacks into the nearby bushes deep down until they were well hidden. She stuffed all of our money into her right sock, as usual, every time we went out bar hopping this is what she'd do. 

This night was different. She made a friend who smoked up and feeling the need to fit in, I took a hoot when it was passed to me. I've never done this before... I grew up in a house filled with the stench of this crap. I vowed to never become like my step daddy. I would never be a pothead. Something deep inside of me was rumbling, wanting release. Maybe my subconscious decided for me... a band aid is needed to protect the festering sores inside my mind. I don't want to feel, I don't want to remember. 

We tried to get into a few bars. Grungy, scary places. But nothing could rival the angst and fear of pending rejection at the nightclubs back at home. Back home, behind the bar, are many vats of booze and beer. They have one particular concoction. It's filled with the bottoms of old tanks mixed together and that is what's served to us Indians. The only way one can get a real drink is if we get a white to order for us and then bring the drinks to our table. That rarely happens though... the friendly's get barred for doing that kind of shit. Someone should open an Indian bar. Then we can drink whatever we want. That's what Penelope wants to do. One day. 

The band is lively and sounds pretty good. We dance together and laugh the night away. When we returned to our table there were two guys sitting there, smiling. One guy lights up a smoke and passes it to Penelope. She then passes it to me and grabs his pack taking a handful of cigs and laughs all the while making eye contact with him with a twinkle in her eyes. She rubs his hand over and over again whispering "thank you, we owe ya." Great. It's done. Two stringy, gangly brownies are our dates for the night. She tells me "suck it up princess, they're buying our drinks tonight" and I feel like dying inside, again. I yell out, "SHOTS!"

When I wake up she's in the motel bed beside me with the good looking one and here I am lying beside the guy with pouches all over his face and the worst breath ever. Then she whispers to me, "grab his wallet, throw it to me."

We slip out of the room, it's getting hot and the city is coming alive once again with all the busy traffic, all the working people racing to their nine to fives. We wobble along, barefoot, tired but at least we showered before we bolted from their room, money shoved in my socks too. The charade was on repeat until we both cried for home. And home we headed to, back to the reservation and a new cycle of shit began.