Sherman Alexie - Blasphemy - New and Selected Stories

I walked inside and greeted the pawnbroker, who looked a little younger than he had before.

“It’s you,” he said.

“Yes, it’s me,” I said.

“Jackson Jackson.”

“That is my name.”

“Where are your friends?”

“They went traveling. But it’s okay. Indians are everywhere.”

“Do you have my money?”

“How much do you need again?” I asked and hoped the price had changed.

“Nine hundred and ninety-nine dollars.”

It was still the same price. Of course it was the same price. Why would it change?

“I don’t have that,” I said.

“What do you have?”

“Five dollars.”

I set the crumpled Lincoln on the countertop. The pawnbroker studied it.

“Is that the same five dollars from yesterday?”

“No, it’s different.”

He thought about the possibilities.

“Did you work hard for this money?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said.

He closed his eyes and thought harder about the possibilities. Then he stepped into his back room and returned with my grandmother’s regalia.

“Take it,” he said and held it out to me.

“I don’t have the money.”

“I don’t want your money.”

“But I wanted to win it.”

“You did win it. Now, take it before I change my mind.”

Do you know how many good men live in this world? Too many to count!

I took my grandmother’s regalia and walked outside. I knew that solitary yellow bead was part of me. I knew I was that yellow bead in part. Outside, I wrapped myself in my grandmother’s regalia and breathed her in. I stepped off the sidewalk and into the intersection. Pedestrians stopped. Cars stopped. The city stopped. They all watched me dance with my grandmother. I was my grandmother, dancing.

For their editorial advice, insults, and friendship, I want to thank Jess Walter, Shann Ferch, and Kevin Taylor.

I also send loving trash talk out to the Thursday and Sunday night basketball boys. You know who you are.

I certainly thank Elisabeth, Deb, Judy, and Morgan for twenty years of joy.

For their support and patience, I extend special thanks to Reagan Arthur and Megan Tinley.

To my agent hero, Nancy Stauffer, I send all the love and respect in the world.

With her brilliant legal mind, Susan Grode has always been way ahead of the rest of the world when it comes to a rapidly changing publishing world. I am lucky to call her my friend and colleague.

To Rosalie Swedlin, I sing an honor song for her guidance.

And, of course, to my mother and siblings for loving my stories even when they probably reveal too many family secrets.

And most of all, I want to thank my wife, Diane, and my sons, Joseph and David. It’s hard to live with a writer but they manage to survive me with beauty and grace. I cherish them.