Sherman Alexie - The Toughest Indian in the World

As it was, on a cold Thursday, there were only five Indians in the bar, other than the bartender, her old friend, and me.

Two obese Indian women shared a table in the back, an Indian couple danced in front of a broken jukebox, and one large and muscular Indian guy played pool by himself. In his white T-shirt, blue-jean jacket, tight jeans, and cowboy boots, he looked like Chief Broom from One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. I decided he could have killed me with a flick of one finger.

He looked up from his pool cue when he felt my eyes on him.

“What the fuck are you looking at?” he asked. His eyes were darker than the eight ball. I had no idea that “fuck” could be such a dangerous word.

“Nothing,” I said.

Still holding his cue stick, he walked a few paces closer to me. I was afraid, very afraid.

“Nothing?” he asked. “Do I look like nothing to you?”

“No, no, that’s not what I meant. I mean, I was just watching you play pool. That’s all.”

He stared at me, studied me like an owl might study a field mouse.

“You just keep your eyes to yourself,” he said and turned back to his game.

I thought I was safe. I looked down to the bartender, who was shaking her head at me.

“Because I just, I just want to know,” sputtered the big Indian. “I just want to know who the hell you think you are.”

Furious, he shouted, a primal sort of noise, as he threw the cue stick against the wall. He rushed at me and lifted me by the collar.

“Who are you?” he shouted. “Who the fuck are you?”

“I’m nobody,” I said, wet with fear. “Nobody. Nobody.”

“Put him down, Junior,” said the bartender.

Junior and I both turned to look at her. She held a pistol down by her hip, not as a threat, but more like a promise. Junior studied the bartender’s face, estimated the level of her commitment, and dropped me back onto the stool.

He took a few steps back, pointed at me.

“I’m sick of little shits like you,” he said. “Fucking urban Indians in your fancy fucking clothes. Fuck you. Fuck you.”

I looked down and saw my denim jacket and polo shirt, the khakis and brown leather loafers. I looked like a Gap ad.

“I ever see you again,” Junior said. “I’m going to dislocate your hips.”

I flinched. Junior obviously had some working knowledge of human anatomy and the most effective means of creating pain therein. He saw my fear, examined its corners and edges, and decided it was large enough.

“Jesus,” he said. “I don’t know why I’m even talking to you. What are you going to do? You fucking wimp. You’re not worth my time. Why don’t you get the fuck out of here? Why don’t you just get in your BMW, that’s what you drive, enit? Why don’t you get in your fucking BMW and get out of here before I change my mind, before I pop out one of your eyes with a fucking spoon, all right?”

I didn’t drive a BMW; I drove a Saab.

“Yeah, fuck you,” Junior said, thoroughly enjoying himself now. “Just drive back to your fucking mansion on Mercer Island or Edmonds or whatever white fucking neighborhood you live in. Drive back to your white wife. She’s white, enit? Yeah, blond and blue-eyed, I bet. White, white. I bet her pussy hair is blond, too. Isn’t it? Isn’t it?”

I wanted to hate him.

“Go back to your mansion and read some fucking Teletubbies to your white fucking kids.”

“What?” I asked.

“I said, go home to your white fucking kids.”

“Fuck you,” I said and completely surprised Junior. Good thing. He hesitated for a brief moment before he rushed at me again. His hesitation gave the bartender enough time to vault the bar and step in between Junior and me. I couldn’t believe how fast she was.

She pressed the pistol tightly against Junior’s forehead.

“Let it go, Junior,” said the bartender.

“Why are you protecting him?” Junior asked.

“I don’t give a shit about him,” she said. “But I do care about you. You get into trouble again and you’re going to jail forever. You know that.”

Junior smiled.

“Sissy,” he said to the bartender. “In another world, you and I are Romeo and Juliet.”

“But we live in this world, Junior.”

“Okay,” said Sissy. “This is what’s going to happen, Junior. You’re going to walk over behind the bar, get yourself another Diet Pepsi, and mellow out. And Mr. Tap Water here is going to walk out the front door and never return. How does that sound to the both of you?”

“Make it two Pepsis,” said Junior.

“Deal,” said Sissy. “How about you, Polo?”

“Fuck him,” I said.

Junior didn’t move anything except his mouth.

“Sissy,” he said. “How can you expect me to remain calm, how can you expect me to stay reasonable, when this guy so obviously wants to die?”

“I’ll fight you,” I said.

“What?” asked Sissy and Junior, both amazed.

“I’ll fight you,” I said again.

“All right, that’s what I want to hear,” said Junior. “Maybe you do have some balls. There’s an alley out back.”

“You don’t want to do this,” Sissy said to me.

“I’ll meet you out there, Junior,” I said.

Junior laughed and shook his head.

“Listen up, Tommy Hilfiger,” he said. “I’m not stupid. I go out the back door and you’re going to run out the front door. You don’t have to make things so complicated. You want to leave, I’ll let you leave. Just do it now, man.”

“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.