Sherman Alexie - Indian Killer

“Hey, Indian Killer,” the brightest flame taunted the old woman, who wore dark sunglasses and carried a white cane. “Come on, Indian Killer, come on. Show me how tough you are. Kill me, kill me.”

The old woman had no escape. Painfully skinny, her elbows and knees larger than her arm and leg muscles, her head and feet large and out of proportion, she looked more manufactured than human. She raised her fists to the three white flames surrounding her.

“Get away from me!” shouted the old woman. “I ain’t done nothing to you!”

John easily pushed aside the three flames and stood beside the old woman. John faced the three flames. John, feeling as strong as water. The flames wavered in his presence. A small crowd had gathered to watch. Other flames. A few of them shouting protests.

The flame that burned brightest had to smile, raise his empty hands and clap them together. The old woman was startled, but John didn’t react. The flame laughed. He pointed at John, and then all three flames piled into a pickup and drove away. The crowd of white flames that had gathered to watch soon dissipated.

“Hey, cousin,” the old woman said to John. “You showed up just in time. I was about ready to hurt somebody.”

“They’re gone,” John said.

“What tribe you are?” asked the old woman.

“Navajo.”

“Ah, Nah-vee-joe, huh? N-a-v-a-j-o,” the old woman spelled. She sniffed at John. “Yeah, you do smell like the desert. You a long ways from home, enit?”

John didn’t reply.

“You got some place to stay, Mr. Nah-vee-joe? Me, I’ve got lots of places to stay around here. All these white people think I’m homeless. But I ain’t homeless. I’m Duwamish Indian. You see all this land around here.” The old woman waved her arms around. “All of this, the city, the water, the mountains, it’s all Duwamish land. Has been for thousands of years. I belong here, cousin. I’m the landlady. And all these white people, even the rich ones living up in those penthouses, they’re the homeless ones. Those white people are a long way from home, don’t you think? Long way from E-u-r-o-p-e.”

John looked at the white flames around them. Just a few now. It was getting late. He saw flames crossing an ocean of gasoline.

“Hey, cousin, what’s your name?”

“John. John Smith.”

“Well, John-John, you want a drink?”

John looked at the bottle wrapped in a brown paper bag. He was disappointed in the old woman.

“I don’t drink,” John said.

“Heck, John-John, it ain’t a-l-c-o-h-o-l. It’s water. Bottled water at that. You can’t tell anymore what they put in the tap water, you know?”

John knew they could put poison in bottled as well as tap water, but he didn’t want to scare the old woman.

“What’s your name?” John asked.

“Can you keep a secret?”

“Yes.”

“Well,” she whispered. “My Christian name is Carlotta Lott, but my real name, my Indian name is…” The old woman sniffed the air to make sure nobody was close enough to hear. “My Indian name is…are you sure you can keep a secret?”

John nodded.

“Okay. My real name is Carlotta Lott.”

John was confused. The old woman was laughing loudly. She clapped her hands, slapped her belly with unmitigated glee. John reached out and touched Carlotta’s shoulder.

“John-John,” said Carlotta, suddenly serious. “There’s a big difference between what those white people think about Indians and what we know about us. A big d-i-f-f-e-r-e-n-c-e. And there’s even a bigger difference between what Indians think about each other, and what you and I know about ourselves.”

John released Carlotta’s shoulder. She took off her sunglasses and John stared at her dead eyes that were as white as salt.

“You see, John-John, I think I know a little about you. I think I know a little of what you want. I can feel it in here.” Carlotta touched her chest. “You got something special about you, enit?” Then lower and deeper, as if her voice were coming from a different place inside of her. “Real special.”

John nodded. Carlotta reached into her pocket and pulled out a small, rusty knife. Just a small paring knife rescued from a restaurant Dumpster. The old woman found John’s hand and folded his fingers around the knife handle.

“This is my magic,” said Carlotta. “And I think you know about magic. There’s good magic and there’s bad magic. This knife is both.”

John held the knife. It was small and pitiful.

“I think you know about the knife, don’t you? K-n-i-f-e. Silent K, John-John, silent K.”

John tried to give the knife back to the old woman. He didn’t think he needed it.

“No, no, Mr. Nah-vee-joe, it’s my gift to you. From a Duwamish Indian to a guest, a visitor.” Carlotta bowed deeply. “You honor me with your presence. H-o-n-o-r.”

“I have nothing for you,” said John.

“Yes, yes, you do, your ears, John-John, your ears.”

John touched both of his ears, one and then the other.

“Listen to me, John-John. I used to see. I have seen many things. Things that were good. Things that were bad. Things I wasn’t supposed to see. We’ve been good to white people, enit? When they first came here, we was good to them, wasn’t we? We taught them how to grow food. We taught them to keep warm. We was good hosts, enit? And then what did they do? They killed us.

“But we’ll get back at them, John-John. I’ve got me a time machine. And I can show you how to use it. You can go back to that beach where Columbus first landed, you know? You can wait there for him, hidden in the sand or something. C-a-m-o-u-f-l-a-g-e. And when he gets on the sand, you can jump out of hiding and show him some magic, enit? Good magic, bad magic, it’s all the same.”

The old woman pointed in the general direction of the puny knife in John’s hand.

“Magic, magic, magic,” chanted the old woman. “You want to go back? You want to know how to use the time machine?”

“Yes.”

The old woman stuck her right hand in her pocket. She wiggled it around as if searching for something.

“You want to see the time machine?” asked the old woman. “I got it in my pocket.”

“Yes.”

“You sure you want to see it? It’s powerful. And once you see it, there ain’t no going back. N-o.”

“Yes.”

The old woman whipped her hand out of her pocket and held it out to John. It was empty. John could see the dirty, brown skin, the four fingers and opposable thumb. John stared at Carlotta’s empty hand, and then at the knife in his own hand, and understood.

“WHAT’S MY NAME?” ASKED Reggie. He held a tape recorder in front of the white man.

“I don’t know,” sobbed the white man. He was on his knees while Ty and Harley held his arms at painful angles behind his back. They were all on the Indian Heritage High School football field, just a few blocks from Big Heart’s Soda and Juice Bar. It was late. Loud traffic on Aurora Avenue to the west and Interstate 5 to the east. Reggie was recording all of it.

The white man had been camping on the football field, after having hitchhiked into town. He’d dropped out of college a few months earlier and had been exploring the country ever since. He had one hundred dollars in cash, two hundred in traveler’s checks, three ripe bananas, a Jim Harrison novel, and various articles of clothing. Also, a sleeping bag, small one-man tent, first-aid kit, flashlight, portable radio, and an Eddie Bauer backpack.

“What’s my name?” Reggie asked again.

“I don’t know.”

Reggie kicked the white man in the stomach. Hard enough to bruise, but not enough to cause permanent damage. Reggie was good at this. He looked down at the kneeling white man.