Sherman Alexie - Indian Killer

“Hey, Wilson!” shouted Eric, who apparently had no control over the volume of his voice or any idea that he always yelled.

“Hey, Eric,” said Wilson as he climbed into the cab.

“Where to?”

“Elliott Bay bookstore.”

“So, you got a reading, huh?” asked Eric. He was a frustrated writer himself who found Wilson particularly interesting, although he had never told Wilson that. “You going to read from one of your old books or something new?”

“I don’t know.”

Eric and Wilson lapsed into silence for five dollars’ worth of city streets, down Capitol Hill to Pioneer Square.

“Hey!” shouted Eric. “You hear about that Indian Killer?”

Wilson nodded.

“Three’s the number, I guess! Two white guys and a little white boy! Indian Killer got them all!” shouted Eric. “It’s about time!”

“The police don’t think David Rogers was murdered by the Indian Killer.”

“Well, whatever, it’s about time!”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, those Indians always get the raw end of the deal! It’s about time for some payback, don’t you think? I mean, there’s all sort of stuff going on! One Indian guy got jumped by white guys with baseball bats! And an Indian couple were about killed by the same guys on Queen Anne Hill! They’re in the hospital. One white guy got beat up by three Indians up on some football field!”

Wilson leaned back heavily in his seat.

“Hey!” said Eric. “You got some Indian blood, right?”

“Yes.”

“Well!” said Eric. “Aren’t you happy about this? I mean, it’ll teach white people not to mess with Indians anymore! I mean, I’m a white guy and I’m not about to mess with Indians now! Not that I ever did to begin with! I mean, Indians are cool, don’t you think?”

Wilson did not respond.

“Hey, Wilson!” said Eric after a long while. “You okay?”

Wilson did not even hear Eric’s question. He was lost in his thoughts, wondering if he could finish his Indian Killer novel before some hack wrote a cheap paperback. Wilson could just imagine the cover of that hack book: an obscenely muscular Indian, bloody knife in his hand; a beautiful white woman in a ripped dress; a horse. It would be called Savage Revenge or Apache Vengeance . Whatever the hack book was called, Wilson knew it wouldn’t be as serious as his.

Wilson was still thinking about his book when Eric pulled up in front of the Elliott Bay Book Company. A crowd of Indians was milling about at the entrance.

“Hey!” said Eric. “Looks like you’re being protested!”

A dozen Indians marched in a circle. They carried picket signs that said things like WILSON IS A FRAUD and ONLY INDIANS SHOULD TELL INDIAN STORIES. A handful of non-Indian spectators had gathered to watch the protest. A few people crossed the picket line and entered the bookstore. A local news reporter was interviewing one particularly vocal Indian woman.

“Why exactly do you dislike Wilson’s work?” asked the reporter, a generically handsome white man.

“Wilson is a fraud,” said Marie Polatkin. “He claims to be Indian, yet has no documentation to prove it. His novels are dangerous and violent.”

“Do you think his novels might have an influence on the Indian Killer?”

“I don’t know,” said Marie. “But I do think books like Wilson’s actually commit violence against Indians.”

Wilson paid Eric, stepped out of the cab, and walked toward the bookstore. He wanted to ignore the whole situation, but the reporter abandoned Marie and deftly intercepted him.

“Mr. Wilson,” said the reporter. “Many people in the Indian community dispute your claim of being Indian. In fact, some think that your books may encourage violence. They say your books might be a prime motivating factor for the Indian Killer. How do you respond to that?”

“That’s ridiculous,” said Wilson. “I’m an ex-cop and I happen to be a member of the Indian community. I am a Shilshomish Indian.”

“Bullshit, bullshit!” chanted the protesters.

Wilson tried to enter the store, but the reporter grabbed his elbow.

“Mr. Wilson,” said the reporter. “These protestors have presented a petition signed by two hundred Indians that asks you to quit writing books about Indians. How do you feel about that?”

Wilson blinked, stunned by the petition.

“Well,” he said, searching for words. “I don’t really know. I mean, nobody has the right to tell me what I can or cannot write.”

“There are two hundred Indians who disagree with that, and Marie Polatkin insists she can get hundreds more to sign her petition. How many signatures would be enough to make you quit, Mr. Wilson?”

“I have no comment,” stammered Wilson as he broke free of the reporter and stumbled into the bookstore. He was reeling. How many would be enough? A hundred thousand? A million? What if every Indian in the country asked him to quit? He was a real Indian himself and had done all he could to help other real Indians. He was on their side. Wilson was dizzy with confusion as Ray Simmons escorted him downstairs, where ten fans waited for him.

Outside, the protest continued. Marie, pounding a drum, led the chants. Her voice was hoarse. Her shoulders and hands ached. She could not hit the drum any longer. As she handed it over to another protester, she noticed John Smith standing all by himself. Huge and obviously Indian, he was automatically a frightening part of the protest, even though he had no idea what was happening.

“John,” said Marie and raised her hand.

He was wearing a clean T-shirt, blue jeans, and a black coat. He was clean-shaven and his hair was combed into careful braids. It was a good day for John.

“John,” Marie said again as she walked up to him.

“It’s me, Marie,” she said.

“I know,” he said. “You’re protesting again.”

“Yeah,” said Marie, smiling. “Protesting this, protesting that.”

The crowd swirled around them. John felt threatened.

“What are you protesting now?” asked John.

“Don’t you know? This writer, Wilson, pretending to be an Indian? Writes mystery novels?”

John nodded, remembering that Olivia Smith had given him one of Wilson’s books as a birthday gift. John had never read it. The book sat in one of the neat piles in John’s room. Now, as Marie talked about Wilson, John saw the anger in her brown eyes.

“Wilson is a fraud! Wilson is a fraud!” chanted the crowd. When Marie raised a fist into the air and jointed the chant, John became fascinated. She was wearing red gloves, and he reached out and touched her clenched hand with his fingertip. Her fist felt hot. Marie grabbed John’s hand and formed it into a fist. Suddenly, John’s arm shot up, his fist above his head. He began to chant along.

“Wilson is a fraud! Wilson is a fraud!”

The protest lasted until the Indians got hungry. They drifted off in pairs, in groups of four or five. The spectators and news crew had left long before. Meanwhile, Wilson’s reading had drawn a decent audience, mainly of people who wanted to see what the fuss was all about. Marie and John were sitting in her sandwich van outside the bookstore when Wilson poked his head out the door, looking for Eric, the taxi driver.

Marie spotted Wilson when the taxi pulled up and he jumped in, eager to get home. Marie decided to follow the cab. John didn’t say a word.

“So!” Eric asked Wilson. “How did it go?”

“It was an adventure,” said Wilson. His audience had peppered him with questions about the so-called Indian Killer: “Mr. Wilson, since you see so clearly into the Indian mind, I was wondering if you might know what this Indian Killer might be thinking?” “Don’t you think the Indian Killer is just another sign that the American culture is spiritually bankrupt? Don’t you think we all need to turn to the Indian religions in order to save our country?” “Are you going to write about the Indian Killer?”