Sherman Alexie - Reservation Blues

“This van don’t want to go to Seattle, enit?” Junior asked.

“Van might be the only smart one,” Chess said.

The van drove into downtown and found a Super 8 Motel, right next to the Pink Elephant Car Wash. Coyote Springs all strained their necks to look at everything: the Space Needle, the Olympic and Cascade mountains, the ocean. None of them had ever visited Seattle before, so the sheer number of people frightened them. Especially the number of white people.

“Jeez,” Victor said, “no wonder the Indians lost. Look at all these whites.”

Thomas parked the van at the motel, and the band climbed out.

“How many rooms should we get, Chess?” Thomas asked.

“How much money we got?”

“Not much.”

“Shit,” Victor said, “shouldn’t those guys at the Backboard be paying for all of this anyway?”

“Yeah, they probably should,” Chess said, forced to agree with Victor for the very first time.

Coyote Springs walked into the lobby and surprised the desk clerk. Up to that point, how many desk clerks had seen a group of long-haired Indians carrying guitar cases? That clerk was a white guy in his twenties, a part-time business student at the University of Washington.

“Can I help you?” the clerk asked.

“Yeah,” Thomas said. “We need a couple rooms.”

“And how will you be paying for your rooms?”

“With money,” Victor said. “What did you think? Sea-shells?”

“He means cash or credit,” Chess said.

“Cash, then,” Victor said. “What Indian has a goddamn credit card?”

“Okay,” the clerk said. “And how long do you plan on staying with us?”

“Three nights,” Thomas said. “But listen, I need to use your phone and call the Backboard club. They’ll be paying for our rooms.”

“The Backboard?” the clerk asked. “Are you guys in a band?”

“Damn right,” Victor said. “What do you think we have in these cases? Machine guns? Bows and arrows?”

“What’s your name?” the clerk asked, already learning to ignore Victor.

“Coyote Springs,” Thomas said.

“Coyote Springs? I haven’t heard of you. Got any CDs out?”

“Not yet,” Victor said. “That’s why we’re in Seattle. We’re here to take over the whole goddamn city.”

“Oh,” the clerk said. “Well, here’s the phone. Which one of you is the lead singer?”

“I am,” Thomas said, and the clerk handed the phone to him.

As Thomas dialed the number, the rest of Coyote Springs wandered around the lobby. Junior and Chess sat on couches and watched a huge television set in one corner. Victor bought a Pepsi from a vending machine. Chess watched him. She knew that kind of stuff tickled Victor. He looked like a little kid, counted out his quarters for pop and hoped he had enough change for a Snickers bar. He just stared at all the selections like the machines offered white women and beer.

“Hey, Victor,” Chess shouted. “That’s a vending machine, you savage. It works on electricity.”

“Hello,” Thomas said into the phone. “This is Thomas Builds-the-Fire. Lead singer of Coyote Springs. Yeah. Coyote Springs. We’re here for the gig tomorrow night. Yeah, that’s right. We’re the Indian band.”

Thomas smiled at Chess to let her know everything was cool.

“Yeah, we’re over at the Super 8 Motel by that Pink Elephant Car Wash. We got a couple rooms, and the clerk wondered how you were going to pay for it.”

Thomas lost his smile. Chess looked around the room for it.

“I don’t understand. You mean we have to pay for it ourselves? But you invited us.”

Thomas listened carefully to the voice at the other end.

“Okay, okay. I see. Well, thanks. What time should we be there tomorrow?”

Thomas hung up the phone and walked over to the rest of the band.

“What’s wrong?” Chess asked.

“They said we’re supposed to pay for it,” Thomas said.

“No fucking way,” Victor said.

“What’s happening?” Junior asked.

“I guess it’s a contest tomorrow,” Thomas said. “A lot of bands are going to be there. The winner gets a thousand dollars. The losers don’t get nothing. I guess I didn’t understand the invitation too well.”

“What are you talking about?” Coyote Springs asked.

“It’s a Battle of the Bands tomorrow. We have to play the best to get the money. Otherwise, we don’t get nothing.”

“Jeez,” Junior said. “How many bands are there going to be?”

“Twenty or so.”

“Shit,” Victor said. “Let’s forget that shit. Let’s go home. We don’t need this. We’re Coyote Springs.”

“We don’t have enough money to get home,” Thomas said.

“Fuck,” Victor said. “Well, let’s get the goddamn rooms ourselves and kick some ass at that contest tomorrow night.”

“We don’t have enough money to get the rooms and eat, too.”

“Thomas,” Chess said, “how much money do we have?”

“Enough to eat on. But we can’t afford the rooms.”

“Looks like Checkers was right in staying home,” Chess said and missed her sister.

“What are we going to do?” Junior asked.

“We can sleep in the van,” Thomas said, feigning confidence. “Then we go and win that contest tomorrow. A thousand bucks. We go home in style, enit?”

Coyote Springs had no other options. Thomas started the van without a word, pulled out of the motel parking lot, and searched for a supermarket. He found a Foodmart and went inside. The rest of Coyote Springs waited for Thomas. He came out with a case of Pepsi, a loaf of bread, and a package of bologna. Silently, Coyote Springs built simple sandwiches and ate them.

Checkers walked to the Catholic Church early Saturday to meet Father Arnold. She wanted to join the choir. Enough of the rock music. She needed to reserve her voice for something larger. She braided her hair, pulled on her best pair of blue jeans, red t-shirt, and white tennis shoes. Nike running shoes. Checkers always bought expensive tennis shoes, no matter how poor she was.

Go in the supermarket, Luke Warm Water had said to his daughters during one of their shopping visits to Spokane, and get some eggs, milk, and butter. Oh, and get yourselves some tennis shoes. They’re in that third aisle. Try them on first.

Checkers and Chess slumped into the store, sat in the third aisle, and tried on tennis shoes, those supermarket shoes constructed of cheap canvas and plastic. Other shoppers, white people, stared as the Warm Waters tried on shoes; Checkers saw the pity in their eyes. Those poor Indian kids have to buy their shoes in a supermarket. Both sisters cried as they paid for the essential food items and those ugly shoes. Ever since her father had gone, Checkers bought the most expensive pair of shoes she found.

Those shoes felt good on her feet as Checkers walked into the church. A small church. Four walls, a few pews, an altar. Jesus crucified on the wall. Mary weeping in a corner. It felt like home. Checkers crossed herself and kneeled in a pew. She folded her hands into a prayer.

“Please,” she whispered. “Let good things happen.”

She lost track of time as she prayed. Amen, amen. Coyote Springs entered her mind, and she thought of her sister, tried to send a few prayers over the mountains. She felt a little guilty for leaving the band, but they played well without her. Chess sang and played the piano better than her.

“Thank you, Lord,” Checkers whispered as she opened her eyes, surprised to see a priest sitting a few pews in front of her. Father Arnold.

“Hello, Father,” Checkers said.

Father Arnold turned and smiled. He was a handsome man, with brown hair and blue eyes. Slightly tanned skin. Even teeth. Checkers smiled back. She believed that every priest should be a handsome man.