Sherman Alexie - The Toughest Indian in the World

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.”

SEYMOUR 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.