Sherman Alexie - Reservation Blues

But Johnson was still not comfortable in his safety. He dreamed of that guitar he had left in Thomas Builds-the-Fire’s blue van. He couldn’t decide if he had left it there on purpose. Certainly, he had tried to leave it behind before, on trains, in diners, on the roadside. He buried that guitar, he threw it in rivers, dropped it off tall buildings. But it always came back to him.

Sometimes, the guitar took weeks to find him. Those were glorious days. Johnson was free to wander and talk to anybody he wished. He never searched for the Gentleman’s eyes hidden behind a stranger’s face. The Gentleman was just a ghost, just a small animal dashing across the road. When that guitar was gone, Johnson had even considered falling in love. But the guitar would eventually find him. It always found him.

Johnson had to work the minimum jobs, washing dishes, sweeping floors, delivering pizzas, because he could never play music for money. Never again. And just when he began to allow himself hope, he would come home from his latest job to find that guitar, all shiny and new, on the bed in his cheap downtown apartment. Johnson had wept every time. He had considered burying himself, throwing himself into the river, jumping off a tall building. That guitar made him crazy. But he didn’t know what would be waiting on the other side. What if he woke up on the other side with that guitar wrapped in his arms? What if it weighed him down like an anchor as he sank to the bottom, a single chord echoing in his head over and over again?

That guitar would never let Johnson go, until he left it in Thomas Builds-the-Fire’s blue van. Johnson felt free and guilty at the same time. The guitar would never let go of those Indians now. It held onto Victor even harder than it ever held Johnson.

Robert Johnson rocked in Big Mom’s chair and studied his hands, scarred and misshapen. All the wounds had healed, but he could still feel the itching deep down. The itch that can never be scratched. Sometimes he missed the guitar. Johnson closed his eyes against the tears and opened his mouth to sing:

Mmmmm mmmm

I’s up this mornin’

Ah, blues walkin’ like a man

I’s up this mornin’

Ah, blues walkin’ like a man

Worried blues

Give me your right hand

Then the music stopped. The reservation exhaled. Those blues created memories for the Spokanes, but they refused to claim them. Those blues lit up a new road, but the Spokanes pulled out their old maps. Those blues churned up generations of anger and pain: car wrecks, suicides, murders. Those blues were ancient, aboriginal, indigenous.

In his bed, Thomas Builds-the-Fire had recognized Robert Johnson’s voice as those blues drifted down from Big Mom’s mountain. But Thomas also heard something hidden behind the words. He heard Robert Johnson’s grandmother singing backup. Thomas closed his eyes and saw that grandmother in some tattered cabin. No windows, blanket for a door, acrid smoke. Johnson’s grandmother was not alone in that cabin. Other black men, women, and children sang with her. The smell of sweat, blood, and cotton filled the room. Cotton, cotton. Those black people sang for their God; they sang with joy and sorrow. The white men in their big houses heard those songs and smiled. Those niggers sing-in’ and dancin’ again, those white men thought. Damn music don’t make sense.

Thomas listened closely, but the other Spokanes slowly stretched their arms and legs, walked outside, and would not speak about any of it. They buried all of their pain and anger deep inside, and it festered, then blossomed, and the bloom grew quickly.

From The Wellpinit Rawhide Press:

Open Letter to the Spokane Tribe

Dear Tribal Members,

As you all know, Coyote Springs, our local rock band, has just returned from Seattle with two white women. They are named Betty and Veronica, of all things. I’m beginning to seriously wonder about Coyote Springs’s ability to represent the Spokane Tribe.

First of all, they are drunks. Victor and Junior are such drunks that even Lester FallsApart thinks they drink too much. Second, the two Indian women in the band are not Spokanes. They are Flathead. I’ve always liked our Flathead cousins, but Coyote Springs is supposedly a Spokane Indian band. We don’t even have to talk about the problems caused by the white women.

I know the band was great when it started. I even went to a couple of their practices in Irene’s Grocery, but things have gotten out of hand. We have to remember that Coyote Springs travels to a lot of places as a representative of the Spokane Tribe. Do we really want other people to think we are like this band? Do we really want people to think that the Spokanes are a crazy storyteller, a couple of irresponsible drunks, a pair of Flathead Indians, and two white women? I don’t think so.

Rumor has it that Checkers Warm Water has quit the band and joined the Catholic Church Choir. We can only hope the rest of the band follows her. They could all use God.

Sincerely,

David WalksAlong

Spokane Tribal Council Chairman

Nervous and frightened, Thomas walked with Chess and Checkers to church early Sunday morning. He wondered if the Catholics had installed a faith detector at the door, like one of those metal detectors in an airport. The alarms would ring when he walked through the church doors.

“Thanks for coming,” Chess said.

Thomas smiled but said nothing and fought the urge to run away.

“Yeah,” Checkers said. “This will be great.”

When the trio came within sight of the Catholic Church, Thomas was suddenly angry. He remembered how all those Indians bowed down to a little white man in Rome.

“Chess,” Thomas said, “no matter what, I ain’t ever going to listen to that Pope character.”

“Why should you? I don’t.”

Father Arnold greeted Thomas, Chess, and Checkers at the door. He shook their hands, touched their shoulders, made eye contact that felt like a spiritual strip search.

“Checkers,” Father Arnold said, “I’m so happy to see you again. And this must be your sister, Chess. And Thomas, of course. Welcome.”

Thomas waved weakly.

“Well,” Father Arnold said, “I’m so glad you’ve all come. I certainly hope you’re considering joining our little community. Maybe you’ll even sing in the choir?”

“Maybe,” Thomas said and looked to Chess and Checkers for help. Checkers stared at Father Arnold and failed to notice Thomas’s distress. Chess smiled back at Thomas and grabbed his hand. She held it tightly as they made their way into the church and found seats. Checkers went to the dressing room to change into her choir robe. Father Arnold shook hands up to the front of the church.

“Are you okay?” Chess asked.

Thomas nodded his head and pulled at the collar of his shirt. The church was hot, and he grew dizzier by the second. He nearly fainted as Father Arnold began the service. After all those years, Thomas still remembered the words to all the prayers and whispered along, more by habit than faith. Chess whispered beside him, and he loved the sound of their harmony.

“Lord, hear our prayer.”

Checkers sang loudly in the choir. Thomas watched her closely. She watched Father Arnold.

“You’re right about her,” Thomas whispered to Chess. “She’s nuts about him.”

“Enit?” Chess said. “I told you so.”

Thomas wished for a glass of water as Father Arnold began the homily. At first, Thomas followed the words, something about redemption, but his vision soon faded. He had never felt this way before. When he opened his eyes again, he was in a different, darker place.

Thomas, Father Arnold said, although Thomas knew the priest was still back in the church. Thomas, why are you here?