Sherman Alexie - Ten Little Indians

“No basket!” Big Bill screamed.

“What?” I asked.

“There’s no dunking!” he screamed at me, face-to-face.

“That wasn’t a dunk!” I screamed back and pushed him away. He pushed back. I couldn’t believe it. I was ready to fight, though I hadn’t been in a fistfight in twenty-six years. Scratch a pacifist and he’ll scratch back.

The other lawyers separated us, but Big Bill kept screaming. “There’s no dunking! No dunking! No dunking!”

He was irrational, I thought, and I wondered if he’d gone crazy or if maybe a vein in his head had exploded. But then I realized he was afraid of me. In this Wednesday-night wolf pack, he’d probably been the alpha-male hoopster for a decade. I threatened to demote him to the beta position.

“You dunk again, and I’m going to throw you out myself,” he said.

On a neutral court, I might have argued more. But this was his court and his friends, Steve included. Looking back, I suppose I should have packed up my stuff and left. But he’d challenged me. I couldn’t back down.

“I don’t need to dunk,” I said. “Your ball.”

Angry and stupid, Big Bill decided to dribble the ball downcourt. I let him get to half-court before I stole the ball from him and raced toward the hoop.

“Foul!” he shouted out.

“I didn’t touch you,” I said.

“It’s my call,” he said. “Respect the call.”

I tossed him back the ball, let him dribble a few times, and I stole the ball once more.

“Foul!” he repeated.

Again I tossed him back the ball, and again I let him dribble a few times, and I stole the ball a third time. He didn’t invent a foul that time, knowing he would only embarrass himself, but he chased after me as I drove toward the hoop. Two of his teammates, quicker than I’d thought, converged on me and slowed me down. Big Bill ran a foot behind. It was a one-on-three fast break, but I wanted to score, so I spun left, spun right, went between my legs, and made a left-handed reverse layup that surprised me. That shot was so beautiful, Big Bill’s teammates hugged me.

“No basket!” shouted Big Bill. “No basket!”

“What’s wrong now?” I asked.

“Let it go, Big Bill,” Steve said. The other lawyers also tried to mollify Bill, but he pushed them away.

“That spinning-traveling garbage,” he said. “We don’t play that kind of ball here.”

“What kind of ball are you talking about?” I asked him.

“You know what kind of ball I’m talking about,” he said.

“No, you tell me what kind of ball you’re talking about.”

“I’m talking about your kind of ball.”

Big Bill had pulled out his thesaurus to call me a synonym for “nigger,” a metaphor for “nigger.” Political Correctness has forced racists to become poets.

“Hey, Big Bill,” I said, “why don’t you call me what you really want to call me?”

He blinked. Maybe he lied well for his clients, but he didn’t lie well for himself.

“You know what I’m thinking, Bill,” I said. “I’m thinking you have to work for my kind of ballplayer all day. You have to look at those kinds of ballplayers every day of your life. After a long day in court, sitting next to one ballplayer after another, the last thing you want to see is another one of those ballplayers when you come to shoot hoops with your buddies. Am I right, Big Bill? Am I telling the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?”

He laughed and walked away.

“I think you better go,” Steve said to me.

“What? Am I no longer da bomb?” I asked.

“I’m sorry about all this,” he said. “It’s awful. How about we have lunch tomorrow and talk it through?”

“I want to talk about it now,” I said.

“Come on, man, you’re all hopped up. Bill is hopped up. I’m hopped up. Nothing constructive can happen tonight. Just go home and I’ll call you later. We’ll get a beer. Hell, Bill will probably come with us.”

“Are you trying to counsel me?” I asked.

Steve shook his head and walked away. The other lawyers stared at me. They regarded me. I hated their eyes.

“Hey, Steve, nice bunch of friends you have here,” I said. “I’m so happy you racist white boys are looking after justice in our state.”

Immediately ashamed of myself and angry at my shame, I walked off the court, grabbed my gym bag, and headed for the door.

“Yeah, that’s right, kid,” Big Bill said. “Go home.”

I turned and walked back toward him. Steve stepped between us, but I pushed him aside.

“What did you say?” I asked Big Bill. He was three inches taller, but I was three inches angrier.

“I said go home, son.”

“I’m not your boy,” I said and punched Bill in the face. He fell on his ass. His nose was most certainly broken. My thumb and index finger were broken. He wiped his bloody face and stared at his bloody hand. Incredulous, he stared at me. His friends stared at me. Obviously feeling like my accomplice, Steve sat in a corner and covered his face with his hands. I wondered how long it had been since Bill had been punched, and how long it had been since any of them had seen one man punch another man in the face. Bill’s eyes watered. I don’t know whether he cried from pain or embarrassment or both. And then I realized I had punched a lawyer in front of six other lawyers. What kind of fool was I? I laughed and laughed and laughed and finally left the gym. Driving home, I wondered about lawsuits and assault charges. Bill did sue me, but I settled the civil charges out of court and plea-bargained to a simple criminal misdemeanor. Maybe I should have gone to court on both counts, but I didn’t think I was completely innocent, and I didn’t trust a judge or jury’s ability to separate the connotative and denotative meanings of a basketball game. If you want more details, you can go to the courthouse and look it up. It’s all part of my permanent record.

At night, I lie in bed with my ambition, close my eyes, and imagine the inevitable press conference. Barely ahead in the polls, or maybe trailing by a single percentage point, I face the media and answer the terrible questions: Yes, I hit him, it was a terrible misunderstanding. No, I wasn’t trying to hide my history, I just didn’t think it was relevant. After I hit him, I entered anger-management classes and became a more patient and tolerant person. I was a foolish young man and learned that violence is never the answer. On the night I struck him, I drove to my church, and I knelt and I wept and I prayed for guidance. I had never hurt another person before that night, and I haven’t hurt any person since, and I hope people will understand it was a tragic aberration. Of course I have hurt people emotionally. I have, as they say, broken a few hearts, but I suspect that might be a positive quality in a political candidate. Yes, I punched Bill in the face, and I must admit that it felt good and true. Of course I broke his nose. What else was I supposed to do? He was a racist. If you elect me as your next senator from Washington State, I’ll punch every racist in the nose. Yes, it’s true I’m single. I haven’t found the right woman. I’m searching for my Miss Right. What do I want in a woman? Well, intelligence, wit, beauty, faith in God, and goodness. Would I marry another politician? Only if she were a liberal Democrat! I punched Big Bill because he reminded me of my father. No, I punched him because he reminded me of your father. This country would be a better place if every U.S. president had punched racists in the face. That would mean U.S. presidents would have spent a lot of time punching themselves in the face. Okay, okay, yes, it’s true I broke Bill’s nose, but he was ugly to begin with. Hey, I broke my hand and was never able to use it properly again. My hand aches when it rains, and this is Seattle, so it aches all the time. Yes, I wonder if I’m going to be alone and lonely for the rest of my life. After all, I think we marry our mirrors, if you understand what I’m saying, but I work in rooms where the walls are covered with paintings of great white men. Listen, I hurt myself when I punched Big Bill. His face is fine, but I can barely make a fist, and I can’t straighten my fingers anymore. Okay, yes, her name is Teresa, but I never slept with her. I didn’t think we had a future. I barely knew her. She was only a strong possibility. Look at my hand. See how much it pains me? Can you see how much it hurts to use it? Do you understand I have a limited range of motion?