Sherman Alexie - Reservation Blues

Ho, the Indians called out and left the office. The unpainted one left last with the white officer in front of him, the angry Indian behind him, and two soldiers on either side. The unpainted one followed the officer without question. They led him to a small building, and the unpainted one quickly pulled a knife when he saw the barred windows and chains. The angry Indian grabbed the unpainted one from behind. In that way, both staggered into the open.

He’s got a knife!

In Chess’s dream, the soldiers trained their rifles on the Indians who might help the unpainted one. The angry Indian knocked the knife away from the unpainted one and pinned his arms behind his back.

Kill the Indian!

A soldier lunged forward with his bayonet and speared the unpainted one once, twice, three times. The Indians gasped as the unpainted one fell to the ground, critically wounded. The angry Indian trilled. Nobody stepped forward to help the unpainted one; he lay alone in the dust.

He’s dying!

Then a very tall Indian man stepped through the crowd and kneeled down beside the unpainted one.

My friend, the tall Indian said, picked up the unpainted one, and carried him to a lodge. Other Indians sang mourning songs; the soldiers shook their heads. Dogs yipped and chased each other.

In Chess’s dream, the tall Indian sat beside the unpainted one as he bled profusely. The white doctor came and left without song, as did the medicine woman. The unpainted one tried to sing but coughed blood instead.

My father? the unpainted one asked.

He’s coming, the tall one said.

The tall one greeted the father when he arrived, and both watched the unpainted one die.

Chess woke from her dream with a snap. Unsure of her surroundings, she called out her father’s name. Checkers stirred in her sleep. Chess held her breath until she remembered where she was.

“Thomas?” she asked but received no response. He’s dead, Chess thought but was not sure whom she meant. Then she heard music, so she crawled from bed and made her way to the kitchen. Thomas sat at the kitchen table and wrote songs. He hummed to himself and scribbled in his little notebook.

“Thomas?” Chess said and startled him.

“Jeez,” he said. “You about gave me a heart attack.”

Chess sat beside him.

“When you coming back to sleep?” Chess asked.

“Pretty soon,” he said. “I’m sorry if I woke you up.”

“You didn’t wake me up. I had a bad dream.”

“It’s okay. You’re awake now.”

“Is it okay? Really?”

Chess smiled at Thomas, reached over and mussed his already messy hair. She took the guitar out of his hands and set it aside, then kissed him full and hard on the mouth.

“What was that for?” he asked.

She kissed him again. Harder. Put her hand on his crotch.

“Jeez,” he said and nearly fell over in his chair.

Their lovemaking was tender and awkward. Afterwards, in the dark, they held each other.

“We should’ve used some protection,” Chess said.

“Yeah. It was kind of stupid, enit?” Thomas asked. “Are you sure it’s okay?”

“I’m sure.”

“Next time.”

They lay there quietly for a long time. Chess thought Thomas fell asleep.

“Listen,” he said suddenly and surprised her.

“To what?” she asked.

“What do you hear?”

“The wind.”

“No,” Thomas said. “Beyond that.”

Chess listened. She heard the Spokane Reservation breathe. An owl hooted in a tree. Some animal scratched its way across the roof. A car drove by. A dog barked. Another dog barked its answer. She heard something else, too. Some faint something.

“Do you hear that?” Thomas asked.

“I hear something,” she said.

“Yeah,” Thomas said. “That’s what I mean. Do you hear it?”

“Sort of.”

Chess listened some more and wondered if it was her imagination. Did she hear something just because Thomas wanted her to hear something? She listened until she fell asleep.

Coyote Springs scheduled their first nonreservation gig in a cowboy bar in Ellensburg, Washington, of all places, and drove down I-90 to get there. The old blue van rapidly collected the miles.

“Thomas,” Victor yelled from the back. “I think it’s about time we picked up a new rig.”

Coyote Springs agreed with Victor, but Thomas wanted no part of it.

“This van is older than any of us,” Thomas said. “It has seen more than any of us. This van is our elder, and we should respect it. Besides, we have no money.”

Coyote Springs laughed, even Thomas, and kept laughing until something popped under the hood. The van shuddered and stopped in the middle of the freeway.

“Shit,” said Coyote Springs in unison.

A few cars honked at the five Indians pushing an old blue van down the road.

“Thomas,” Victor said. “We need a new rig.”

Coyote Springs pushed that blue van twenty miles down the road, across a bridge over the Columbia River, into a little town called Vantage. The band sprawled around the van in various positions and barely moved when the cop pulled up. That cop climbed out of his cruiser, pulled on a pair of those mirrored sunglasses that cops always wear.

“What seems to be the problem?” he asked.

“Our van broke down,” Thomas said.

The cop walked close to the van and looked inside.

“Is all of this your equipment?” the cop asked.

“Yes, sir,” Thomas said.

“Are you in a band or what?”

“Yeah,” Thomas said. “We’re Coyote Springs.”

The officer studied the band, tapped his foot a little, and took off his sunglasses.

“Where you guys from?” he asked.

“From Wellpinit. Up on the Spokane Indian Reservation.”

“How about you girls?”

“We’re Flathead Indians,” Chess said. “From Arlee, Montana.”

“Where you headed to?”

“Ellensburg,” Thomas answered. “We’re playing a bar called Toadstools.”

“I know that place. You sure you’re playing there?”

The cop waited briefly for an answer, then asked the band for identification. Thomas and the women pulled out their driver’s licenses. Junior offered his Spokane Tribal Driver’s License, and Victor lifted his shirt and revealed his own name tattooed on his chest.

“Are you serious about this tattoo?” the cop asked.

“Yeah,” Victor said.

“You all just wait here a second,” the cop said and walked back to his cruiser. He talked on his radio, while Coyote Springs counted the money for bail.

“We can take him,” Victor said. “He’s only one guy.”

“But he’s a big guy,” Junior said.

“Shut up,” Thomas said. “Here he comes.”

“Okay,” the cop said when he came back. “I called my cousin over in Ellensburg. He’s got a tow truck. He’s going to come over here and haul your butts to Toadstools.”

“Really?” Coyote Springs asked.

“Yeah, but it’ll cost you a hundred bucks. You got that?”

“Sure.”

“Well, you can pay my cousin directly, but you’re on your own after that.”

“Thanks, officer.”

“You’re welcome. By the way, what kind of music you play?”

“All kinds. The blues, mostly.”

“Well, good luck.”

The cop started to walk away, but stopped, turned back.

“Hey,” he said, “who’s the lead singer?”

Thomas raised his hand and smiled. The cop smiled back, put his sunglasses on, climbed into his cruiser, and left with a wave.

“Who the hell was that masked man?” Chess asked.

“I don’t know,” Junior said. “But if I find any silver bullets laying around here, I’m going to pass out.”