“Well, son,” says Ittura, “my chest is smooth because hair can’t grow on steel!” Ittura breaks into laughter. “A Native guy told me that once. Funniest thing anyone ever said to me.”

I shake my head, “And when was that? After you killed his brother so you could get his wife?”

Ittura takes me seriously. I didn’t mean to be misunderstood, but here we are. He leans close to me and says in a low voice, “Number One: We’re not ghosts. We’re anirniq—spirit. Number Two: I did what I had to at the time. Number Three: If you’re gonna learn one damn thing today, it’s to listen! I’m the teacher. You’re the student and you can’t hear nothin’ when those gums keep flapping. Got it?”

“Well teach, what do you think I’ve learned today? I’ve learned that I should have never touched your hand. I learned that Eskimo Heaven is a McDonald’s restaurant. I’ve learned that you love all women, and the younger they are, the harder you fall. I’ve watched you lie to a bus driver—K-Days, my foot. And now, here I am in a dirty blues bar. Let’s just say your ‘teaching’ requires more finesse.” I say all this while leaning across the table. I’m staring deep into his eyes, trying to get in his face. I’m trying to go with it all, but a part of me just can’t.

Ittura takes up the challenge. He places his elbows firmly on the table and leans in toward me. With every word, his worn face gets closer to mine.

“Another one of the problems is how you white guys don’t think beyond your lily-white noses! A whole lot of teaching went on so far today, but you just can’t see it!”

Ittura is getting riled. For as long as I’ve worked with the Inuit, seeing them get angry does not happen. It’s just not in them. Our nose tips are locked into a duel. Whoever pulls away first is the loser. We stay nose to nose until the server comes along.

“Hey, you guys must be going to K-Days! What would you fellas like to drink today?” Her voice breaks up our nose fight. We both pull back at the same time. It’s a draw. Nobody wins.

“I’ll have a ginger ale,” I say, “and so will my friend.” I look at Ittura in complete disdain.

“Oh, no, sweetie, no ginger ale for this old Inuk. I’ll have a cherry whiskey on ice.” Ittura keeps his eyes stuck on me and adds, “Make that a double!”

The music is blaring against the smoke-filled walls in the blues bar. A bald man with a harmonica is singing about how we all come from Africa. His lyrics are telling us over and over again to go back to Africa. The over-fifty crowd are attempting to gyrate their ancient hips to the rhythm of African drumbeats. I find myself thinking that there is nothing worse than watching old people trying to dance.