Sherman Alexie - Reservation Blues

The market had entranced Coyote Springs and they forgot the time. The little curiosity stores and restaurants pulled them in and refused to let go. Thomas got all wrapped up in the magic store and practiced a few coin tricks.

“Jeez,” Thomas said suddenly, “what time is it?”

“About five,” Chess said.

“Oh, man. We’re going to be late for that soundcheck at the Backboard.”

“Where’s Victor?”

“Shit,” Junior said. “I don’t know. Hanging out with those drunks somewhere.”

“Man,” Thomas said, “we have to find him quick. We can’t be late. They’ll kick us out of the contest.”

“Okay,” Chess said, “let’s split up. Thomas and I will look in the market, and Junior, look outside.”

“We got to find him,” Thomas said again and looked desperate. Coyote Springs was about to break up to search for Victor when the music started.

“Wait,” Junior said. “Listen to that.”

Coyote Springs listened. They heard the city, the ocean, but something else, too. They heard a beautiful voice, just barely audible. The band couldn’t hear the lyrics but picked up the rhythm.

“Who is that?” Chess asked. “That’s the most beautiful voice I ever heard.”

Coyote Springs walked without talking, searched for the source of that voice. As they got closer, they also heard a guitar accompanying the voice. A nice, simple chord progression, but something hid behind it. Something painful and perfect.

“Shit,” Chess said. “I don’t believe it.”

As Coyote Springs turned a corner, they discovered the magical duo: an old Indian man singer and Victor, the guitar player. In a filthy brown corduroy suit and white t-shirt, the singer looked older than dirt. But his voice, his voice. A huge crowd gathered.

“Look at all the people,” Junior said.

Tourists and office workers stopped to listen to this ragged Indian version of Simon and Garfunkel. Those people who usually ignored street people threw money into the old Indian man’s hat. Chess noticed Victor was playing some shoestring guitar and figured it had to be the old man’s instrument. Bandaged and bloody, the old man’s hands fascinated Chess.

“Why’s Victor playing with that guy?” Chess asked.

Thomas also noticed the old man’s bandages. That old man could not play the guitar anymore, because he’d played it until his hands were useless. Thomas remembered Robert Johnson’s hands; he felt pain in his hands in memory of Robert Johnson’s guitar. Victor’s guitar now, he said to himself.

“Jeez,” Chess said. “Victor sounds pretty good on that guitar. That thing’s a mess though, enit? Looks like it’s made from cardboard.”

The old man’s guitar was constructed of cardboard, but the sound that rose from the strings defied its construction. Thomas watched the money fall into the old man’s hat. A hundred dollars, maybe two hundred.

“Thomas, we’re going to be late, remember?” Chess said.

“It can wait,” Thomas said, frightened, but needing to see the end of that little story in the market.

Victor played with the old Indian man for another hour. The money fell into the hat.

“Thomas!” Chess shouted. “We need to go.”

Thomas broke from his trance, rushed to Victor, stole the guitar away, and handed it back to the old man. It burned.

“We need to go,” Thomas said to Victor, who briefly reached for the guitar but pulled back. The crowd jeered Thomas.

“Shit,” Victor said. “What time is it?”

“After six.”

“Man, we got to go.”

Coyote Springs ran from the market, but Thomas looked back. The old Indian man picked up the hat full of money and smiled.

“We should’ve asked that old man to join the band, enit?” Junior asked.

“Maybe,” Victor said, and then he smiled at Chess. He really smiled. Chess was frightened. She wanted to go home; she wanted her sister. The blue van rolled down Mercer Street, beneath the Space Needle, and found the Backboard Club. Victor strapped on his guitar, cracked his knuckles, and led the band inside.

From Thomas Builds-the-Fire’s journal:

The Reservation’s Ten Commandments as Given by the United States of America to the Spokane Indians

1. You shall have no other forms of government before me.

2. You shall not make for yourself an independent and self-sufficient, government, for I am a jealous bureaucracy and will punish the Indian children for the sins of their fathers to the seventh generation of those who hate me.

3. You shall not misuse my name or my symbols, for I will impale you on my flag pole.

4. Remember the first of each month by keeping it holy. The rest of the month you shall go hungry, but the first day of each month is a tribute to me, and you shall receive welfare checks and commodity food in exchange for your continued dependence.

5. Honor your Indian father and Indian mother because I have stripped them of their land, language, and hearts, and they need your compassion, which is a commodity I do not supply.

6. You shall not murder, but I will bring FBI and CIA agents to your reservations and into your homes, and the most intelligent, vocal, and angriest members of your tribes will vanish quietly.

7. You shall not commit adultery, but I will impregnate your women with illegitimate dreams.

8. You shall not steal back what I have already stolen from you.

9. You shall not give false testimony against any white men, but they will tell lies about you, and I will believe them and convict you.

10. You shall not covet the white man’s house. You shall not covet the white man’s wife, or his hopes and opportunities, his cars or VCRs, or anything that belongs to the white man.

Back on the reservation, Checkers fell asleep on the couch in Thomas’s house. She always slept on couches when houses were empty. She dreamed of Father Arnold. In her dream, Father Arnold came into her bedroom in the shack in Arlee. Checkers lay under the covers, naked.

Let me see, Father Arnold said, so Checkers pulled back her covers.

You’re such a pretty girl, Father said.

Father dropped his robe to the floor. Naked. Checkers studied him. His penis was huge.

Can I lie with you? Father asked.

Checkers patted the sheet beside her, and Father lay down close to her. She felt his heat, his smell. He smelled like smoke and Communion wine.

You know I love you, Father said.

Checkers felt his penis brush against her thigh. It was so big she knew it would hurt her. Father touched her breasts, squeezed her nipples, moved his hand down her stomach.

I won’t hurt you, Father said. Not ever.

Father kissed Checkers gently, flicked his tongue between her teeth. Her jaw ached as he forced her mouth open wider and wider. He tasted strange, old, musty. She cried out as he forced her legs apart.

I forgive you, Father said.

Checkers held her breath as Father climbed between her legs and entered her roughly.

Yes, I forgive you, Father whispered inside her.

From a live interview on KROK, Seattle’s best rock:

Hello, this is Adam the Original, your favorite D.J. in Seattle for six years straight, coming to you live from the Backboard in the shadow of the Space Needle. Tonight, as you all know, was the Tenth Annual Battle of the Bands. After thirty acts, the judges chose a winner. And it’s a shocker, folks. The best band tonight happened to be a bunch of Spokane Indians from the Spokane Reservation on the other side of the mountain. The name of the band is Coyote Springs, of all things, and I have with me the lead singer, Thomas Builds-the-Fire. Now, Thomas, tell me about yourself.