Randy White: Dead Silence

I said, “I wasn’t positive it would work.”

“But it did work. How’d you think of it, that’s what I’m asking. You wrapped a shirt around each hand like a glove, then smacked both hands down hard on the ice. I saw you.”

I said, “After clearing away the snow.”

“Yeah, brushed it away and splashed some water. Only maybe that was accidental.”

“It wasn’t,” I said.

“Then smacked your hands down flat on the ice. After five, ten seconds, you hollered at the Latin guy, ‘Now!’ I heard that clear enough. He used your shoulder to boost himself up. You pulled yourself out, no problem. Then the two of you belly-crawled to shore.”

“That was the scariest part,” I said, “those last few yards.”

“So what was the deal, using the shirts? They gave you a better grip because your hands were warmer?”

I said, “Just the opposite. The temperature’s in the twenties, our shirts were soaked. That’s what gave me the idea. When you were a kid, did you ever stick your tongue on a Popsicle?”

Esterline said, “A couple times every winter, we get a call, some kid’s tongue is stuck to a pole or something.”

“That’s the concept,” I said.

After a few seconds, he smiled. “I’ll be goddamned. I get it. The shirts froze to the ice, huh? Your arms were like the two sticks.”

“Sort of,” I told him.

For the next block, I followed that tangent, explaining the tensile strength of water molecules as they bonded, crystallizing as ice. But what I was thinking about was the kid, in his rodeo clothes, and his smart-assed reply when I ordered him back into the limo.

I wished him well, and hoped he really was as tough as he talked. Young William Chaser would have to be a survivor to endure the nightmare he was living-if he was still alive.

Curled in a dark space he knew was the trunk of a car, Will Chaser had vomited and nearly messed his jeans, he was so scared at first. Now, though, he was numb enough to do some thinking.

Long as I live, I’ll never enter another essay contest, doesn’t matter the prize. I shoulda written the goddamn thing myself.

Which he hadn’t. Not a word. Was amazed, in fact, the contest people never doubted.

“We are pleased to recognize a young Indigenous American who comprehends the complexities of international relationships…”

A line from the official letter of congratulations. Using “Indigenous” instead of “Native,” which was irritating, because Will had to go looking for a dictionary. Then using “comprehends,” like the judges were surprised to discover a Skin who wasn’t too damn stupid.

“You don’t have to be a genius not to be stupid.” A line from his so-called foster granddad, Old Man Bull Guttersen.

As a kid on the Rez, Will had done some dumb things. He’d been kicked out of three schools and arrested twice. Math was weak, his spelling worse. But he wasn’t stupid. Ever.

Will was aware early on it would take a special effort for someone like him to win a statewide writing contest. Five pages, neatly typed? Margins just so, with a title page and numbers at the top? Not with so much competition in a state filled with brainy, corn-fed Minnesotans, half of them know-it-all Splittails with parents who acted like their crap didn’t stink. Faces might crack if they smiled and not because of the damn windchill factor-windchill being Minnesotans’ way of bragging about their shitty weather while sounding smart enough to move south if they wanted.

Great Falls registered the lowest temperature in the nation this morning, 30° below, not counting windchill.

They were proud of that?

“Somewhere in Minnesota, there’s a freakin’ tombstone reads, ‘One below, not counting windchill,’ I shit thee not.” Bull Guttersen again.

On the plus side there were blond girls who showed a warm interest in Will’s dark skin, his rodeo muscles and warrior hair, girls being what had gotten him into this mess to begin with. After the Rez in Seminole County, Oklahoma, blondes appealed to him because they were exotic.

When Will showed Old Man Guttersen the contest booklet, Bull had read aloud, “Win five days in New York City… United Nations tour

… Run for Secretary-General, International Youth Council… Teens from all over the world.”

The old man had tossed the booklet on the table. “Left-wing candy-asses, that’s who’s behind this baloney. Never made a payroll in their lives. What hooked you is them pictures. Splittails from Sweden, Denmark, Berlin.”

Which was true, of course. That was the good thing about the old man, Will didn’t have to lie.

Bull, who was experienced at promotion, had done some thinking. “Know what? You being a half-breed minority Injun might just scratch their itch. A delinquent, too-that can’t hurt. But you ain’t suggesting you write this article yourself?”

Will had replied, “What? You think I’m a dope? There’s a teacher at school who likes me: Mrs. Thinglestadt. I’ll get her to write it.”

Which won the boy a nodding smile of approval from the old man. “Never thought I’d be saying this, considering you once offered to shoot me, but there are times I’d be proud to call you my son. I shit thee not, Pony Chaser.”

Bull used thee and thou, having grown up Amish, driving a buggy and putting up hay, until he went into pro wrestling and became worldly. Pony was a name from a bit on Garage Logic, three hours of radio better than HBO. The old man was a reliable judge of entertainment after years in a wheelchair.

Bull had a bias for TV westerns, which he admitted. Gunsmoke, Roy Rogers, anything John Wayne ever did. All related to his profession, six years wrestling as Outlaw Bull Gutter, four years as Sheriff Bull Gutter. Still had the cowboy hats, one black, one white.

Pony Chaser, Bull told Will, was a decent ring name if Will ever showed an interest. Not as good as Bull Gutter or Crazy Horse Chaser, but better than Shadow Chaser, which sounded like a candy-ass name, or Whiskey Chaser, which risked having a negative influence on teenage boys who didn’t have the benefit of Will’s experience in life.

“Get some size on you-earn it, so to speak-Crazy Horse might be the name that gets you into the World Wrestling Federation. I’ll let you know.”

As the car hummed along, Will was surprised how strong the old man was in his mind. Sour old white guy- Caspers, they called white guys on the Rez, which had something to do with a cartoon ghost. But Guttersen still had backbone even though his spine had been broken doing a cage show in Muscatine.

“Act fearless-the world’s full of cowards eager to believe.” Otto Guttersen, the philosopher.

“Life’s not like poker. Win or lose, attack, keep gambling, because once you cash those chips you’re screwed.” The man could go on for hours and often claimed the boys down at Berserker’s Grill said he should write a book.

Attack. Exactly the way Will had decided to handle this situation.

First thing he did was stop blaming himself. While it was true he’d cheated his way to New York, the moron really to blame was the big, goofy-looking guy wearing glasses.

“Get back in the car!” the man had yelled, an order which Will had obeyed out of respect for being in such a big city. That’s who was to blame for getting him into this mess.

If Will had kept going-helped the woman senator, as he intended-no telling how things might have worked out.

The senator was rich-she had to be-and had a nice smile. She smelled good, too, with interesting curves for a woman so old, which she pretended to want to hide. But she didn’t-not really-wearing her jacket open to give Will a look at her blouse, the way buttons strained, then showing him a flash of black bra as if it were accidental.