THE TRADING POST
The Toadlena Trading Post was built in 1909, the same year the great Chiricahua Geronimo died. Rachael’s house was four miles away, so Charles figured he could get in the best shape of his life by running back and forth each day. He would take off around 9 am after the few cars had left the dirt road, running at an eight-minute-mile pace. His goal each time was to get there in less than 30 minutes. The days the temperature was below freezing he never made his goal. One day when it was snowing he gave up halfway and turned around, afraid of becoming hypothermic in the below-freezing weather and near whiteout conditions. The site of a bilagaana running in Navajo country seemed odd at first, but soon he was part of the landscape. Locals waved as they passed him in their pickup trucks recognizing his presence as Rachael’s friend, and therefore their friend.
Once he made it to the post, he warmed himself by the old potbelly stove, the main source of heat. Often those same individuals that had passed him were there waiting by the stove. It became a daily ritual to tease Bloom about running from his bilagaana spirit. Diné knew better. They walked. The inside of the trading post was just what you would see in a movie. A trading post is a place people buy groceries, sell rugs, trade rugs, and spend time socializing. It is the local 7-Eleven, but instead of using cash, one’s bills are often paid in rugs and jewelry.
At Toadlena, every person who comes into the trading post is treated as extended family. The trader knows their history and all their relatives’ history. He knows if they are a good person, or not. Generally the reason for getting a loan is known as well. “Aunt Evelyn is ill and needs special food.” The owner of the Toadlena Post had been around almost as long as the post and seemed to know everything. He told Charles that in the days of pawn he would keep a piece pawned way past its due day if he thought the person had a chance of repaying him in some way: “You don’t like selling someone’s only heirlooms because they can’t pay for a couple of cans of Campbell’s Soup.”
The soup analogy the old trader had chosen was not lost on Bloom, who was a big fan of Warhol’s Soup Cans series. The irony was, the same cans made Warhol’s reputation and set him financially for life, while the real Campbell’s Soup cans were incrementally stripping the Navajo of what little wealth they had.
Time would fly at the post, hearing the Navajos’ life stories unfold as Bloom had his morning’s freshly baked cookie and more hot coffee. Charles loved watching the grandmothers come in with their little brown weavings. He knew little about Navajo rugs but could tell by the glimmer in the eye of the old trader if it was a good one or not. The Toadlena trader would take the weavers back into his sparse office and sit down with them on his very worn-out leather couch to listen to the grandmother talk about her latest masterpiece. Bloom was allowed to sit and observe as the old trader felt a companionship with Charles since they both dealt in art: one with wool, and the other with canvas, but both fine art. Most of the time the conversation was in English but sometimes it drifted into Diné and would include more intimate details about what was going on in the family’s life and how much this rug meant to her. How she had worked hard and tirelessly on the piece, and it would help pay for some necessity in her life. When enough small talk had occurred then the price was discussed. Sometimes there were negotiations and other times the trader would simply pay. This interaction between trader and artist had changed little during the last century, a small island of stability in a world of change.
When the grandmother left the back room she was usually smiling with money in her hand or a credit in the store. Occasionally she came out still grasping her rug, as the trader had not been willing to pay her price or the rug was just not up to snuff. In these cases, little talk occurred after the impasse. The weaver would just leave, saying something in Navajo that was not very complimentary with regards to the post and its longtime owner, or sometimes vowing to do better next time. The trader always offered a candy bar or gum to the weavers regardless of the negotiation’s outcome.
The trading post was a central place for gatherings of the local families. It was clear when tourists came in. They looked so out of place, often loud and sometimes rude but always good for business. Bloom could relate to this as he had seen the same type of people in his Santa Fe gallery. Many tourists thought they were in some third-world country and took pictures of everything as if they were at a Disney attraction of the old West: the stone building at the end of creation with real live Indians. Bloom loved the interaction at the post. He also enjoyed the interplay and not having to sell. Not having to sell was a treat after being in retail so long.
Bloom was young by art-world standards: 46 years old. He had launched his gallery straight out of college. Now he had been in retail for over 20 years. He was so naïve when he first started, thinking Bloom’s was going to set the art world on fire. The youngest art dealer in Santa Fe with a gallery on Canyon Road thanks to supportive family backing and his own optimism.
It was amazing how retail had taken the love out of the art the last few years. The art business is just that. A business. A product (art) is made and hopefully sold and a profit is made. This was how many art dealers felt about the business; it could have been shoes. For Charles Bloom it was different. He hated thinking of himself as a salesman, even though he knew that was exactly his title, “art salesman.” Relationships were what he had tried to develop, not sales technique. The fact that sales occurred was just a bonus, or at least that’s how it had been, especially with Yellowhorse. He wanted his gallery artists to be close to him—a family—not just vendors of artwork.
The gallery business had changed from his initial idealism. It started when the dealer Phillips from New York stole his best artist and friend. From that moment on, things were different. He had never been screwed out of his main livelihood; it was unexpected and shocking. Not only by a supposed fellow art dealer, but also by a friend, Yellowhorse. He couldn’t blame Yellowhorse too much as the money was more than he could ever hope to match, but the whole thing left a bad taste in Charles’ mouth. It had changed his perception of what he envisioned a reputable art dealer was, this blatant stealing of an artist. Being a great artist was no different than being an A-list actor. Some poor schmuck finds the person, promotes them, then bang, they leave—too good for you.
Watching the post with the weavers gave Charles hope that it didn’t always have to be so cutthroat. Maybe family, trust, and long-term relationships did still matter in some places. The reservation’s Toadlena Trading Post seemed to be such a place. Make a deal, shake a hand, and do your best, was still the theme. Work as a team; both parties win and enjoy a piece of candy on the house.
Two weeks of running and spending most of the day at the historic post had given Charles back his hozho. He was starting to feel more balance in his life. It may have been the lack of stress or the increased exercise, but mostly he attributed it to Rachael. Her face was stenciled on his subconscious. A constant kaleidoscope of images came at him throughout the day. She had hooked him and it was a deep gut hook with no escape. As a confirmed bachelor he understood the ramifications of his serious predicament. Part of him just said, “Don’t do anything, pack up and leave.” Just like Willard, this attraction was an area not to be broached. He could have probably escaped, never having kissed, touched, or taken a step toward a new destiny, if it wasn’t for a freaky warm spell.