Sherman Alexie - Indian Killer

“Yeah, but I didn’t know it was an Indian school. It was some righteous grass to me. I mean, I knew it was a football field, but I don’t believe in football, you know? I was rolled up in my sleeping bag, sleeping, when these three guys pulled me out and started beating me up.”

“And you’re sure there were three of them?”

“Uno, dos, tres.”

“And did they say anything? Mention any names or places?”

“Hey, man, they were recording me.”

“Recording?”

“Yeah, with a tape recorder, you know, like it was an interview or something, like they wanted to keep a sound track or something. And they kept calling me weird names.”

“Can you remember what they called you?”

“No chance, man. I was out of it by then. I was all dizzy and everything was moving in circles. Everything spinning, and then one dude shoved his fingers into my eyes and here I am in the hospital.”

“Is there anything else you can remember?”

“I think one of them was deaf.”

“Deaf?”

“Yeah, all three were talking with their fingers, you know? Sign language. And one of them had blue eyes. A blue-eyed Indian.”

“You’re positive about that?”

“Yeah, yeah. You know, I was listening to the boob tube and heard something about this Indian Killer. You think these guys have something to do with that?”

“We’re looking into that possibility.”

“It’s so strange. It’s, like, those Indians guys hurt me just because I’m white. But I haven’t done anything bad to Indians. I like Indians, man. I even visited a couple of reservations. The Navajo, the Hopi. Beautiful. And this Indian Killer is killing white guys just because they’re white, right? And he kidnapped that little boy because he was white?”

“That seems to be the motive.”

“And that little dude, what’s his name, Mark?”

“Yes, Mark Jones.”

“Yeah, well, he certainly didn’t do anything bad to Indians. I mean, not every white guy is an evil dude, you know?”

IF A WHITE STRANGER, completely unaware of the year, happened to stumble into Big Heart’s Soda and Juice Bar and heard the music blasting from the jukebox, he might assume that he was living in 1966. Or 1972. Perhaps as late as 1978. The white stranger would see over two hundred Indians dancing. A white stranger might have assumed the Indians were celebrating something special, and they were. Mick had opened the bar, despite the Indian Killer scare, and was pulling in the dough. The Indians were dancing to Hank Williams, Patsy Cline, Roy Orbison, Johnny Cash, Chuck Berry, early Stones, earlier Beatles. Disco had been outlawed by the patrons of Big Heart’s. Black music was rare. World music never made it through the door. Lou Reed and Kiss were favorites, though. Blood, Sweat, and Tears, Three Dog Night, and Creedence Clearwater Revival were revered. But there were no white strangers in Big Heart’s that night, though a few dozen Indians were new in town, just visiting, playing in a basketball tournament, looking for love, lost. All thinking about the Indian Killer. John was there too, neither stranger nor tourist. He had no definition for what he was. Drinking his Pepsi, he sat at the bar.

He felt guilty for having left Marie alone with Wilson and the cab driver, but John had been frightened by his anger. He stood over those two white men and wanted to kill them both. He wanted to smash their faces, break their bones, and crush their blue eyes. The only thing that stopped him was the thought of Marie, who would have witnessed it. She should not be subjected to such things. She was special and deserved something better. John had wanted to trust her, the woman who gave sandwiches away, but her thick glasses were frightening. Her crooked front teeth were absolutely terrifying. John could feel the heat spreading in his belly when he thought of her, the Indian woman with small breasts and thick hips. He wanted to tell of his plan, his need to kill the white man who was responsible for everything that had gone wrong. But she might misunderstand. John could not risk that. He had not meant to leave her behind, but he had to protect himself. He could have crushed the writer and cab driver, but that would ruin everything. There were too many eyes watching. John had to sacrifice his time with Marie so that he could live. He had to have priorities, make schedules, budget his time and energy. He had found his way to Big Heart’s because he knew he would be safe there. So many Indians. Though he knew he wasn’t a real Indian, John knew he looked like one. His face was his mask. John knew all of this to be true.

If John had happened to look at the Big Heart’s dance floor right then, he would have seen two Indian women, tired of waiting to be asked, dancing all by themselves. He would have seen dozens of other dancing couples, and large groups of single Indian men. Too shy to dance, they sat in large groups, whispering about their romantic intentions.

“Hey, you see that one?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m going to ask her to dance.”

“When?”

“Pretty soon. I’m taking my time.”

Those discussions went on for hours while the women waited, or danced with each other, or left the bar. When an Indian man finally found the courage to dance, he usually stood in place, shuffled his feet back and forth, snapped his fingers in time with the music. The only Indian men who danced with abandon were the same ones who danced traditionally during the powwows. Whenever a fancydancer or a grassdancer took the floor at Big Heart’s, he was the object of much curiosity.

John never danced. He barely talked. Indian women often approached him because he was a big, handsome buck with long, black hair. The women sat in dark corners and watched John.

“You see that big one over there? He looks like he just got off a horse.”

“Oh, yeah, enit? I think he’s Navajo. You know I’d comb his hair every night.”

The Indian women would laugh. They were always laughing. John wanted to laugh. He knew his laughter would make him feel more like a real Indian. He listened closely to the laughter, tried to memorize it. A booming belly laugh from a fat Lummi Indian. A low chuckle from Jim the Colville. A poke-to-the-rib-cage giggle from Lillian, a Makah. All kinds of laughter. All kinds of Indians. John would practice at home, stretch his mouth into those strange shapes called smiles, and laugh loudly enough to make his neighbors nervous.

John sat at the bar and laughed. Nobody paid much attention. It was not unusual for an Indian to sit alone at a bar and laugh.

“Hey.” A woman’s voice. John ignored it.

“Hey.” The woman again. John closed his eyes.

“Hey,” said the woman as she touched John’s shoulder. Frightened, he whirled in his seat. The Indian woman stepped back. John studied her for any signs of danger. She was tall and dark, her black hair cut into a stylish bob. Beautiful and confident. She wore a red shirt and blue jeans.

“You want to dance?” she asked.

John shook his head, turned back to his soda.

“Come on,” she said. “Shock me.”

She took John’s hand and led him onto the dance floor. He did not recognize the song, but it was too fast.

“My name is Fawn. I’m Crow,” she said, dancing a circle around John. She spun, shook her hips and hair. She put her hands around John’s waist and danced in closer.

“Who do you love?” she asked. It was more a step in her dance than a question or invitation. John raised his fist in the air the way that Marie had taught him. Fawn looked at his fist, at the ceiling. She laughed, raised her fist to the ceiling. Other dancers watched this happening. They raised their fists to the ceiling. Nobody knew why they were doing this. It just happened. One song blended smoothly into another, then another. John raised both fists. He pumped them into the air. One white guy was singing on the jukebox, then another, and a third. Song after song. Indians dropped quarters into the jukebox, punched the buttons, and waited for their songs to play. There were so many quarters in the machine, so many songs requested, that the jukebox would still be playing a few hours after closing time.