Sherman Alexie - The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven

We both leaned further back into our chairs. Silence. We watched the grass grow, the rivers flow, the winds blow.

“Damn,” Adrian asked. “When did that fucking traffic signal quit working?”

“Don’t know.”

“Shit, they better fix it. Might cause an accident.”

We both looked at each other, looked at the traffic signal, knew that about only one car an hour passed by, and laughed our asses off. Laughed so hard that when we tried to rearrange ourselves, Adrian ended up with my ass and I ended up with his. That looked so funny that we laughed them off again and it took us most of an hour to get them back right again.

Then we heard glass breaking in the distance.

“Sounds like beer bottles,” Adrian said.

“Yeah, Coors Light, I think.”

“Bottled 1988.”

We started to laugh, but a tribal cop drove by and cruised down the road where Julius and his friends had walked earlier.

“Think they’ll catch them?” I asked Adrian.

“Always do.”

After a few minutes, the tribal cop drove by again, with Julius in the backseat and his friends running behind.

“Hey,” Adrian asked. “What did he do?”

“Threw a brick through a BIA pickup’s windshield,” one of the Indian boys yelled back.

“Told you it sounded like a pickup window,” I said.

“Yeah, yeah, a 1982 Chevy.”

“With red paint.”

“No, blue.”

We laughed for just a second. Then Adrian sighed long and deep. He rubbed his head, ran his fingers through his hair, scratched his scalp hard.

“I think Julius is going to go bad,” he said.

“No way,” I said. “He’s just horsing around.”

“Maybe, maybe.”

It’s hard to be optimistic on the reservation. When a glass sits on a table here, people don’t wonder if it’s half filled or half empty. They just hope it’s good beer. Still, Indians have a way of surviving. But it’s almost like Indians can easily survive the big stuff. Mass murder, loss of language and land rights. It’s the small things that hurt the most. The white waitress who wouldn’t take an order, Tonto, the Washington Redskins.

And, just like everybody else, Indians need heroes to help them learn how to survive. But what happens when our heroes don’t even know how to pay their bills?

“Shit, Adrian,” I said. “He’s just a kid.”

“Ain’t no children on a reservation.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard that before. Well,” I said. “I guess that Julius is pretty good in school, too.”

“And?”

“And he wants to maybe go to college.”

“Really?”

“Really,” I said and laughed. And I laughed because half of me was happy and half of me wasn’t sure what else to do.

A year later, Adrian and I sat on the same porch in the same chairs. We’d done things in between, like ate and slept and read the newspaper. It was another hot summer. Then again, summer is supposed to be hot.

“I’m thirsty,” Adrian said. “Give me a beer.”

“How many times do I have to tell you? We don’t drink anymore.”

“Shit,” Adrian said. “I keep forgetting. Give me a goddamn Pepsi.”

“That’s a whole case for you today already.”

“Yeah, yeah, fuck these substitute addictions.”

We sat there for a few minutes, hours, and then Julius Windmaker staggered down the road.

“Oh, look at that,” Adrian said. “Not even two in the afternoon and he’s drunk as a skunk.”

“Don’t he have a game tonight?”

“Yeah, he does.”

“Well, I hope he sobers up in time.”

“Me, too.”

I’d only played one game drunk and it was in an all-Indian basketball tournament after I got out of high school. I’d been drinking the night before and woke up feeling kind of sick, so I got drunk again. Then I went out and played a game. I felt disconnected the whole time. Nothing seemed to fit right. Even my shoes, which had fit perfectly before, felt too big for my feet. I couldn’t even see the basketball or basket clearly. They were more like ideas. I mean, I knew where they were generally supposed to be, so I guessed at where I should be. Somehow or another, I scored ten points.

“He’s been drinking quite a bit, enit?” Adrian asked.

“Yeah, I hear he’s even been drinking Sterno.”

“Shit, that’ll kill his brain quicker than shit.”

Adrian and I left the porch that night and went to the tribal school to watch Julius play. He still looked good in his uniform, although he was a little puffy around the edges. But he just wasn’t the ballplayer we all remembered or expected. He missed shots, traveled, threw dumb passes that we all knew were dumb passes. By the fourth quarter, Julius sat at the end of the bench, hanging his head, and the crowd filed out, all talking about which of the younger players looked good. We talked about some kid named Lucy in the third grade who already had a nice move or two.

Everybody told their favorite Julius Windmaker stories, too. Times like that, on a reservation, a basketball game felt like a funeral and wake all rolled up together.

Back at home, on the porch, Adrian and I sat wrapped in shawls because the evening was kind of cold.

“It’s too bad, too bad,” I said. “I thought Julius might be the one to make it all the way.”

“I told you he wouldn’t. I told you so.”

“Yeah, yeah. Don’t rub it in.”

We sat there in silence and remembered all of our heroes, ballplayers from seven generations, all the way back. It hurts to lose any of them because Indians kind of see ballplayers as saviors. I mean, if basketball would have been around, I’m sure Jesus Christ would’ve been the best point guard in Nazareth. Probably the best player in the entire world. And in the beyond. I just can’t explain how much losing Julius Windmaker hurt us all.

“Well,” Adrian asked. “What do you want to do tomorrow?”

“Don’t know.”

“Shit, that damn traffic signal is still broken. Look.”

Adrian pointed down the road and he was right. But what’s the point of fixing it in a place where the STOP signs are just suggestions?

“What time is it?” Adrian asked.

“I don’t know. Ten, I think.”

“Let’s go somewhere.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know, Spokane, anywhere. Let’s just go.”

“Okay,” I said, and we both walked inside the house, shut the door, and locked it tight. No. We left it open just a little bit in case some crazy Indian needed a place to sleep. And in the morning we found crazy Julius passed out on the living room carpet.

“Hey, you bum,” Adrian yelled. “Get off my floor.”

“This is my house, Adrian,” I said.

“That’s right. I forgot. Hey, you bum, get your ass off Victor’s floor.”

Julius groaned and farted but he didn’t wake up. It really didn’t bother Adrian that Julius was on the floor, so he threw an old blanket on top of him. Adrian and I grabbed our morning coffee and went back out to sit on the porch. We had both just about finished our cups when a group of Indian kids walked by, all holding basketballs of various shapes and conditions.

“Hey, look,” Adrian said. “Ain’t that the Lucy girl?”

I saw that it was, a little brown girl with scarred knees, wearing her daddy’s shirt.

“Yeah, that’s her,” I said.

“I heard she’s so good that she plays for the sixth grade boys team.”

“Really? She’s only in third grade herself, isn’t she?”

“Yeah, yeah, she’s a little warrior.”

Adrian and I watched those Indian children walk down the road, walking toward another basketball game.

“God, I hope she makes it all the way,” I said.

“Yeah, yeah,” Adrian said, stared into the bottom of his cup, and then threw it across the yard. And we both watched it with all of our eyes, while the sun rose straight up above us and settled down behind the house, watched that cup revolve, revolve, until it came down whole to the ground.