Sherman Alexie - The Toughest Indian in the World

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.

I’m not sure I want to kiss you again, said Seymour. He said, But I will kiss you if you want it, because I don’t want to hurt your feelings.

My feelings are my feelings, said Salmon Boy, they belong to me, and you don’t have to worry about them at all.

All right then, we won’t kiss no more. At least, not until we’re sure about it.

Salmon Boy said, I believe in love.

Seymour and Salmon Boy climbed back into the car and drove down the plowed road toward the farmhouse. On both sides of them, the snowbanks rose high into the blue sky until it felt like they were driving down a tunnel.

Salmon Boy remembered the time his father won a free trip to Disneyland. They got half of the prize money and the whole family jumped into their blue van and headed for California. They were supposed to get the other half once they got to Disneyland, but something went wrong. There was nobody there to greet them and nobody answered the telephone back home. Salmon Boy and his whole family walked up to the gates of the Magic Kingdom and peered through the bars.

Inside, white people were having more fun than any Indians had ever had.

Salmon Boy remembered how all his family members counted up all the money in their pockets and discovered they carried enough coins for one loaf of bread and a package of cheese, and maybe, just maybe, enough gas to get them back home.

For twenty-six straight hours, Salmon Boy’s father drove through the night and day, drove through a tunnel of sun, drove through a tunnel of stars, and laughed like crazy when he drove over that bridge that marked the entrance to the reservation.

My father loved me, Salmon Boy said to Seymour.

Well, then, said Seymour, that’s a good thing to tell the police when they finally catch us. It will explain everything.

You think they’re still after us? asked Salmon Boy.

The police are always, always minutes behind us.

They knocked on the front door of the farmhouse. Seymour held his unloaded pistol in his front pocket. He felt like somebody might know how to save him.

An old white woman soon stood on the other side of the open door.

Who are you? she asked.

We are two desperate men on a nonviolent killing spree, said Seymour.

And we’re doing our best to fall in love, said Salmon Boy.

With who? asked the old woman.

With each other, said Seymour.

Well, then, she said, you better come in and get yourself something to eat and drink. You’re talking about some hard, hard work.

Seymour and Salmon Boy sat at her table while she made them lemonade and ham sandwiches. Her husband had been dead for ten long years, years that hung like lace in the attic, like an old quilt on the bedroom wall, like a coyote nailed to a fence post.

My husband, she said, he’s buried out there, back behind the barn. You can’t see his grave right now, but it’s there, right there beneath the snow.

The lemonade was sweet and the ham was salty and everything was near-right with the world.

We only had one child, she said, a son, and he stood up one day, walked out that door right there, and has never returned.

The old woman’s eyes filled with tears. She asked, Didn’t you go to high school with my son John?

Which one of us are you speaking to? asked Seymour.

I’m talking to both of you, she said.

Well, then, I have to say, said Seymour, that I don’t remember anybody named John. I didn’t even go to high school.

How about the Indian? asked the old woman.

His name is Salmon Boy.

Surely, you didn’t go to school with my son, she said, because I would have remembered a crazy name like that.

She walked around on old legs and set an old coffeepot down over a blue flame.