The Toughest Indian in the World (7 page)

“He’s giving you a chance,” Sissy said to me. “You better take it.”

“No,” I said. “I want to fight. I’ll meet you out there. I promise.”

Junior studied my eyes.

“You don’t lie, do you?”

“I lie all the time,” I said. “Most of the time. But I’m not lying now. I want to fight.”

“All right, then, bring your best,” he said and walked out the back door.

“Are you out of your mind?” Sissy asked. “Have you ever been in a fight?”

“I boxed a little in college.”

“You boxed a little in college? You boxed a little in college? I can’t believe this. Do you have any idea who Junior is?”

“No, why should I?”

“He’s a pro.”

“What? You mean, like a professional boxer?”

“No, man. A professional street fighter. No judges, no ring, no rules. The loser is the guy who don’t get up.”

“Isn’t that illegal?”

“Illegal? Illegal? What, you think you’re a lawyer now?”

“Actually, I am a lawyer.”

Sissy laughed until tears ran down her face.

“Sweetheart,” she said after she’d finally calmed down. “You need to leave. Please. Junior’s got a wicked temper but he’ll calm down soon enough. Hell, you come in a week from now and he’ll probably buy you some water.”

“Really?”

“No, not at all. I’m lying. You come in a week from now and Junior will break your thumbs.”

She laughed again, laughed until she had to lean against the bar for support.

“Stop it,” I said.

She kept laughing.

“Stop it,” I shouted.

She kept laughing.

“Sweetheart,” she said, trying to catch her breath. “I could kick your ass.”

I shrugged off my denim jacket and marched for the back door. Sissy tried to stop me, but I pulled away from her and stepped into the alley.

Junior was surprised to see me. I felt a strange sense of pride. Without another word, I rushed at Junior, swinging at him with a wide right hook, with dreams of connecting with his jaw and knocking him out with one punch.

Deep in the heart of the heart of every Indian man’s heart, he believes he is Crazy Horse.

My half-closed right hand whizzed over Junior’s head as he expertly ducked under my wild punch and then rose, surely and accurately, with a left uppercut that carried with it the moon and half of every star in the universe.

I woke up with my head in Sissy’s lap. She was washing my face with a cold towel.

“Where are we?” I asked.

“In the storeroom,” she said.

“Where is he?”

“Gone.”

My face hurt.

“Am I missing any teeth?”

“No,” said Sissy. “But your nose is broken.”

“Are you sure?”

“Trust me.”

I looked up at her. I decided she was still pretty and pretty was good enough. I grabbed her breast.

“Shit,” she said and shoved me away.

I sprawled on the floor while she scrambled to her feet.

“What’s wrong with you?” she asked. “What is wrong with you?”

“What do you mean? What?”

“Did you think, did you somehow get it into your crazy head that I was going to fuck you back here? On the goddamn floor in the goddamn dirt?”

I didn’t know what to say.

“Jesus Christ, you really thought I was going to fuck you, didn’t you?”

“Well, I mean, I just…”

“You just thought because I’m an ugly woman that I’d be easy.”

“You’re not ugly,” I said.

“Do you think I’m impressed by this fighting bullshit? Do you think it makes you some kind of warrior or something?”

She could read minds.

“You did, didn’t you? All of you Indian guys think you’re Crazy Horse.”

I struggled to my feet and walked over to the sink. I looked in the mirror and saw a bloody mess. I also noticed that one of my braids was missing.

“Junior cut it off,” said Sissy. “And took it with him. You’re lucky he liked you. Otherwise, he would have taken a toe. He’s done that before.”

I couldn’t imagine what that would have meant to my life.

“Look at you,” she said. “Do you think that’s attractive? Is that who you want to be?”

I carefully washed my face. My nose was most certainly broken.

“I just want to know, man. What are you doing here? Why’d you come here?”

My left eye was swelling shut. I wouldn’t be able to see out of it in the morning.

“I wanted to be with my people,” I said.

“Your people?” asked Sissy. “Your people? We’re not your people.”

“We’re Indians.”

“Yeah, we’re Indians. You, me, Junior. But we live in this world and you live in your world.”

“I don’t like my world.”

“You pathetic bastard,” she said, her eyes swelling with tears that had nothing to do with laughter. “You sorry, sorry piece of shit. Do you know how much I want to live in your world? Do you know how much Junior wants to live in your world?”

Of course I knew. For most of my life, I’d dreamed about the world where I currently resided.

“Junior and me,” she said. “We have to worry about having enough to eat. What do you have to worry about? That you’re lonely? That you have a mortgage? That your wife doesn’t love you? Fuck you, fuck you.
I have to worry about having enough to eat.”

She stormed out of the room, leaving me alone.

I stood there in the dark for a long time. When I walked out, the bar was nearly empty. Another bartender was cleaning glasses. He didn’t look at me. Sissy was gone. The front door was wide open. I stepped into the street and saw her sitting at the bus stop.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“Whatever.”

“Can I give you a ride somewhere?”

“Do you really want to do that?” she asked.

“No,” I said.

“Finally, you’re being honest.”

I stared at her. I wanted to say the exact right thing.

“Go home,” she said. “Just go home.”

I walked away, stopped halfway down the block.

“Do you have any kids?” I shouted back at her.

“Three,” she said.

Without changing my clothes, I crawled back into bed with Susan. Her skin was warm to the touch. The house ticked, ticked, ticked. In the morning, my pillow would be soaked with my blood.

“Where did you go?” Susan asked me.

“I was gone,” I said. “But now I’m back.”

S
EYMOUR DIDN’T WANT MONEY
—he wanted love—so he stole a pistol from the hot-plate old man living in the next apartment, then drove over to the International House of Pancakes, the one on Third, and ordered everybody to lie down on the floor.

The lunch-hour crowd did exactly as they were told. This was the International House of Pancakes and its patrons were used to such things.

In control, and because he wanted to be charming and memorable, Seymour kicked open the door to the kitchen and told the cooks to keep flipping the pancakes and pressing the waffles, to make sure the bacon and eggs didn’t burn, and keep the coffee fresh.

This was Spokane, Washington, and he wanted the local newspaper to give him a name. Seymour wanted to be the Gentleman Bandit. He wanted to be the Man With Scotch Tape Wrapped Around His Broken Heart.

He was a white man and, therefore, he was allowed to be romantic. This ain’t going to take long, Seymour said to the cooks, and when it does end, everybody is still going to be hungry.

Seymour stood on top of a table. All of his life, he’d dreamed about standing on a table in the International House of Pancakes. He wondered if he would be remembered.

He wanted to be potentially dangerous.

Put your faces down, shouted Seymour to the diners, whose faces were already down. He said, I want you to put your lips on the floor and tell me what it tastes like.

He felt like he was capable of anything, like he might have to buy some bullets for his stolen pistol.

The money’s in the safe, the money’s in the safe, shouted one of the waitresses, but Seymour didn’t need his life to become more difficult than it already was. He didn’t want a thousand dollars or even a million dollars.

All I want is one dollar from each of you, said Seymour. He said, I know how hard it is to live in these depressed times, I just want a little bit of your hard-earned money.

He wanted to be kind.

From the floor, everybody held up a George Washington. On top of those human stems, the green bills bloomed and blossomed.

Good, good, said Seymour as he walked through the garden of money and collected forty-two dollars. Now, what I need, he said, what I need is somebody to run with me.

Where are you going? asked one of the cooks, a man who brought his own favorite spatula to work and carried it back home at the end of every shift.

Arizona, said Seymour, and the crowd oohed and aahed. He knew that everybody loves Arizona because Arizona is potentially dangerous. A man could strap a pistol to his hip and walk unmolested through the streets of Phoenix.

But I need somebody to go with me, said Seymour. He said, I aim to go on a nonviolent killing spree and I need somebody who will fall in love with me along the way.

From the floor, a fat Indian man raised his hand. He wore black sweatpants and a white T-shirt embossed with a photograph of Geronimo.

I’ll go with you, said the fat Indian.

Are you gay? asked Seymour. I’m not gay. Are you gay?

No, sir, I am not homosexual, said the fat Indian, but I do believe in love.

Seymour thought about that for five seconds. And then he asked, You’re an Indian, ain’t you?

Yes, I am, yes, I am. Do you have a problem with that?

Only if you’re one of those buffalo hunters. I can’t have a nomad in my car. You just can’t trust a nomad.

I come from a salmon tribe, said the fat Indian, and therefore I am a dependable man.

Well, then, you’re going with me.

Seymour jumped down from the table and helped the fat Indian to his feet. They stood together in the half-light of the International House of Pancakes.

This place smells like smoke, said the fat Indian.

Salmon Boy, said Seymour, giving the fat Indian a brand-new name, in this cruel world, we’re always going to smell like smoke.

Listen, said Seymour to the patrons still lying on the floor. He said, thank you for your kindness, tell them the Gentleman Bandit was here. Tell them it was the Man Who Was Looking For Love.

Seymour and Salmon Boy raced out of the restaurant and drove off in Seymour’s car, a 1965 Chevrolet Malibu that carried more than two hundred thousand miles on the odometer.

You ever been to Arizona? Seymour asked Salmon Boy.

Once, when I was a boy. I went to a powwow in Flagstaff and lost my moccasins in the river there. My auntie spanked me until I cried like ten Indians.

I am sorry for your pain, said Seymour.

They drove the speed limit down Third Avenue, past four hamburger joints and a liquor store. They stopped at a red light.

Do you think the police are following us? asked Salmon Boy.

If they’re not now, said Seymour, they soon will be.

Well, then, said Salmon Boy. He asked, Do you think we should kiss now?

It seems like the right time, don’t it? asked Seymour. He licked his lips.

Yes, it does, said Salmon Boy. He wished he had a mint.

They kissed, keeping their tongues far away from each other, and then told each other secrets.

Seymour said, When I was eleven years old, I made a dog lick my balls.

Did you like it? asked Salmon Boy.

No, I threw up all over that mutt, said Seymour, and then it ran away.

That’s what happens when you get too far into love.

That’s what happens.

When I was fifteen, said Salmon Boy, I stole eighty dollars from my grandma. My mom and dad never knew. But my grandma must have, she had to have, because she never talked to me again.

And then she died, said Salmon Boy.

Then the light was green and Seymour and Salmon Boy found themselves traveling south along a back road near Enterprise, Oregon. They had not slept in twenty-two hours.

They stopped when they saw a dead coyote nailed to a fence post.

That’s a bad sign, ain’t it? asked Seymour.

Yes, it is, said Salmon Boy.

What does it mean? asked the white man.

I have no idea, said the Indian.

They climbed out of the car and walked through the knee-deep snow to get to them: the fence post and the coyote.

They stared at the coyote the way the last two disciples stared at the resurrected Jesus.

The coyote had been there a long time, maybe for weeks, frozen stiff now, but certainly it had been freezing and unthawing, freezing and unthawing, during that unpredictable winter.

Seymour remembered the time, in the winter of 1966 or ’67, when he walked into his parents’ bedroom and caught them making love. Still naked, his father had jumped out of bed, taken Seymour by the hand, and led him down the hall. The hardwood floor was cold against Seymour’s bare feet. Back in his own little bedroom, Seymour listened as his naked father explained why he was naked and why he’d been doing that strange and wonderful thing to his wife, to Seymour’s mother.

See-See, his father had said to him, I’m doing it the best I can, so that your mother, your beautiful mother, will love me forever.

Salmon Boy, said Seymour as they studied the dead coyote, as they noticed one of his paws was missing, cut off and tucked into somebody’s hatband maybe, or rolling around in some wild dog’s belly perhaps.

Seymour said, My father had ambitions.

Salmon Boy smiled.

Like a good Indian, he knew when to talk and when to remain silent. Like a good Indian, he knew there was never a good time to talk.

We need to find a farmhouse, said Seymour, and we need to terrorize an old man and his wife. That is, he added, if we’re going to do this nonviolent killing spree thing the right way.

Salmon Boy pointed out over the dead coyote’s head. He pointed at the horizon where a red farmhouse sat like an apple on the white snow.

There it is, said Seymour, and Salmon Boy agreed.

Are we supposed to kiss now? asked Seymour, and Salmon Boy shrugged his shoulders.