Sherman Alexie - Reservation Blues

“Jeez,” Chess said. “That really happened?”

“Yeah,” Thomas said. “I still got that book at home.”

“That wasn’t Father Arnold who did that, was it?”

“No. This happened a long time before he got to the reservation. I don’t even know Father Arnold too much. I just see him around.”

“Is he a nice guy?”

“Why you want to know?”

“Checkers wants to go to church there, you know? Maybe I’ll start going when I get back.”

“But I thought you wanted to leave the reservation if we won this contest. You still want to leave, enit?”

“I don’t know. Maybe I just want Victor and Junior out of the band. I like your reservation. It’s beautiful.”

“You haven’t seen everything,” Thomas said.

Victor was a hundred miles from home. He was nine years old. He was at the Mission School for the summer. His mother and real father often sent him there for camp. Catholic summers, Catholic summers. Victor mopped the floors.

Victor missed his parents. He cried constantly for the first few weeks away from the reservation. After a while, he cried only late at night, when all the Catholic Indian boys tried to sleep in their dormitories. Victor muffled his cries in a pillow and heard the muffled cries of others.

But on that day when Victor was nine years old and mopped the floors, he lost himself in other thoughts. He remembered picking huckleberries with his family. He remembered climbing trees with his friends, other Indian boys allowed to stay on the reservation. Those Indian boys climbed the limbs off the trees every summer. Victor was still lost in his memories when the priest stormed into the room.

Victor! the priest shouted.

Victor jumped back, frightened, and knocked his bucket of water over. Even more terrified, he mopped frantically and tried to clean up that minor flood.

Stop it! the priest yelled.

Victor stopped, stood at attention, shivered.

What are you afraid of? the priest asked.

Victor was silent.

Are you afraid of God?

Victor nodded his head.

Are you afraid of me?

Victor nodded his head faster. The priest smiled and leaned down.

There’s no reason to be afraid, the priest said, taking a softer tone. Now why don’t we clean up this mess together?

Victor and the priest mopped up the water, mopped the rest of the floor clean, and put the supplies back in their places. The priest touched Victor’s newly shaved head.

It’s a shame we had to cut your hair, the priest said. You are such a beautiful boy.

Victor looked up at the priest and smiled. The priest smiled back, leaned over, and kissed Victor full and hard on the mouth.

From Checkers Warm Water’s journal:

I went to see Father Arnold today and I think I fell in love. He held me closely and I held him back and I think he might love me, too. He rubbed my back and whispered nice things to me. No man has ever held me that gently. He listened to me. Really listened to me. I don’t even know what to think or do. I’m afraid to breathe. I don’t want to tell Chess. I don’t want to tell anybody. There’s a reason I got in that fight with Victor. I didn’t know why I got so crazy at Victor. Couldn’t figure out what made me so mad. But now I know there’s a reason. God made me stay home so I could meet Father Arnold. God threw those punches at Victor! God wanted me to meet Father Arnold. But did God want me to fall in love with his priest? I don’t know what to do. All I know is, I still smell Father Arnold when I close my eyes. He smells like smoke and candles.

Coyote Springs woke, cramped and smelly, in a strange parking lot in downtown Seattle. The blue van groaned as the band stumbled out to stretch their backs in the cool morning mist.

“Jeez,” Junior said, “what’s that smell?”

“It’s the ocean,” Chess said. “It’s wonderful, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Junior said and tried to hide his excitement. “It’s all right.”

Thomas breathed deep. He tasted salt.

“So what’s the plan today?” Victor asked.

“I don’t know,” Thomas said. “How about that Pike Place Market. That’s supposed to be cool. What do you think, Chess?”

“Sounds good.”

Everybody climbed back into the van. With Thomas as driver and Chess as navigator, Coyote Springs soon found the market. Along the way, they noticed there were brown people in Seattle. Not everybody was white. They watched, dumbfounded, as two men held hands and walked down the street.

“Jeez,” Junior said, “look at that.”

“Those men are two-spirited,” Thomas said.

“They’re too something or other,” Victor said.

Coyote Springs parked the van and walked around the market, surprised by all of it. The market was old and beautiful, built by wood that had aged and warped. No amount of paint could change the way it looked now. There were flowers and fishmongers, old shops filled with vintage clothing and rare books. The whole market smelled like the ocean, which was just a few blocks away. Coyote Springs was even more surprised by the old Indian men there. Old drunks. Victor kept talking to them. Junior, too. Chess figured drunks talked to drunks like it was a secret club. An Indian liked to talk to anybody, especially another Indian. Chess knew those old Indians were a long way from home, trapped by this city and its freeway entrances and exits. She thought a few of those drunks looked familiar.

“Hey, nephew,” one of those old Indians called to Victor. “What tribe you are?”

Indians always addressed each other intimately, even when they were strangers.

“I’m Spokane Indian, uncle,” Victor said.

“Oh, yeah, huh? Had a buddy who was Spokane long time ago.”

“Who was that?”

“Amos Joseph.”

“That was my grandfather.”

“No shit. Who you?”

“Victor Joseph.”

“Hey, grandson. I’m Eddie Tap Water. Used to be Spring Water. But I’m Urban Indian now.”

“Good to meet you, grandfather.”

“Yeah, you, too. Where’d you get that shirt anyway? Think your grandfather wore one like that when we was dancing.”

The rest of Coyote Springs listened as Victor and Eddie traded stories, but nobody was all that surprised. The Indian world is tiny, every other Indian dancing just a powwow away. Every Indian is a potential lover, friend, or relative dancing over the horizon, only a little beyond sight. Indians need each other that much; they need to be that close, tying themselves to each other and closing their eyes against the storms.

“Goodbye, grandfather,” Victor said and gave him a dollar. Victor talked to most every drunk at the market. He spent all of his time with those old Indians, while the other band members roamed together. Junior left Victor to the drunks. Chess thought those drunks scared Junior. He might have seen himself in their faces. Junior wondered if their disease was contagious. A fall-asleep-on-a-heating-grate disease. Junior was frightened.

Victor should have been frightened. Drunks had always caused him to shake before. But some voice whispered in his ear and pushed him to the old Indians in the market. As a child, each member of Coyote Springs had run from drunks. They all still ran from drunks. All Indians grow up with drunks. So many drunks on the reservation, so many. But most Indians never drink. Nobody notices the sober Indians. On television, the drunk Indians emote. In books, the drunk Indians philosophize.

Lester FallsApart, the most accomplished drunk on the Spokane Reservation, was a tribal hero. Indians run from those tough and angry drunks, but they always flock to the kindest alcoholic on the reservation. One on every reservation, one on every reservation. Everybody on the Spokane Indian Reservation loved Lester so much they showed up at his dog’s wake and funeral. A couple hundred Spokanes mourned with Lester.