Sherman Alexie - Reservation Blues

Thomas shook his head, tried to wake up, but felt the heat increase instead. He closed his eyes inside his dream, opened them again, and found himself in a sweatlodge. Inside there, it was too dark to see, but Thomas knew the smell and feel of a sweatlodge. He could also sense the presence of others inside the lodge.

The next brother, please, a voice said out of the darkness.

Thomas knew he was supposed to pray next. He could pray silently, and that would be respected. He could pray aloud, scream and cry, and that would be understood. If he sang, his brothers in the sweatlodge would sing with him.

Brothers, Thomas said, I don’t have any traditional songs. I d on’t even know if I belong here. I don’t know if anybody belongs in here. People are listening to us pray. They have come into the sweatlodge to steal from us. We have to keep our songs private and hidden. There is somebody i n here now who would steal from us. I can smell him.

Somebody splashed water on the hot rocks in the middle of the sweatlodge. Steam rose; quiet laughter drifted. Thomas could barely breathe. He saw images of people just beyond his vision, heard strange voices, felt the rustle of an animal beside him. That animal brushed against Thomas and drew blood.

All my relations, Thomas cried out, and the door was opened.

Thomas, a feral voice cried out as Thomas escaped from the sweatlodge. He ran past the campfire, heard the animal crashing through the underbrush behind him. The smell, the smell. He tripped, fell for an immeasurable time, and woke up suddenly in the Catholic Church in Wellpinit.

“Welcome back,” Chess said to Thomas as he opened his eyes. “I didn’t think Catholics were that boring.”

Thomas shook his head, shrugged his shoulders.

“Peace,” Chess said as she left the pew.

“Peace,” Thomas said at her back.

“Peace be with you,” an old Indian woman said to Thomas, but he heard pleased to meet you.

“Pleased to meet you, too,” he said.

The old woman looked puzzled, then smiled.

“You’re that Builds-the-Fire, enit?” she asked.

“Yeah.”

“I’m glad to see you here. I’m glad you quit that band. That rock and roll music is sinful.”

Thomas nodded his head blankly.

“I can’t tell you how happy we were to see that Checkers in here last week. She was saved, she was saved. Now, you’ve come and her sister, too. People were starting to talk, you know?”

The old Indian woman knelt in the pew. Thomas knelt, with no idea where Chess had gone. Then he saw her with the Communion wafers. Father Arnold worked quickly.

“This is the body, this is the blood. This is the body, this is the blood. This is the body, this is the blood.”

“What are people saying about us?” Thomas asked the old woman.

“The Christians don’t like your devil’s music. The traditionals don’t like your white man’s music. The Tribal Council don’t like you’re more famous than they are. Nobody likes those white women with you. We spit in their shadows. We don’t want them here.”

“But what about Father Arnold? He’s white.”

“He’s a good white man. Those women in your band are trouble.”

“But everybody liked us before.”

“Before you left the reservation, before you left.”

The old woman rose to receive Communion, and Thomas followed her down the aisle. Checkers sang the Communion hymn wonderfully. Thomas knew she had to rejoin the band. Coyote Springs needed two Indian women, not two white women. If Checkers rejoined, Betty and Veronica could be voted out by a majority. Thomas had felt the change in the reservation air but ignored it. At the two rehearsals they’d held since they returned from Seattle, only Lester FallsApart had shown up.

“But we still live here,” Thomas said to the old woman.

“But you left. Once is enough.”

The old woman opened her mouth to take Communion; Thomas offered his cupped hands. Father Arnold placed the wafer gently in Thomas’s hands.

“Amen,” Thomas whispered, palmed the wafer, and pretended to eat it. He walked back to his pew but discovered that the old Indian woman had gone. He searched for some evidence of her but found nothing. He knelt in the pew again, made a quick sign of the cross. Then he ran outside, crumbled the wafer into pieces, and let it fall to the earth. The reservation swallowed those pieces hungrily. Not sure why he even took the Communion wafer in the first place, Thomas felt the weight of God, the reservation, and all the stories between.

Victor and Junior staggered into the Trading Post just a few minutes after the Catholic Church bells rang for the second time that morning. Both had been continually drunk since they returned from Seattle, spending their $200 prize money quickly and efficiently. They were rapidly depleting Betty’s and Veronica’s cash, too. The-man-who-was-probably-Lakota watched Junior and Victor and shook his head. He also noticed the two white women and offered them a silent prayer.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” Victor shouted. “Elvis is dead. Long live me!”

Victor and Junior stumbled around the Trading Post and searched for the beer cooler. Betty and Veronica gave up and walked back outside.

“What the hell are we doing here?” Veronica asked Betty.

“I don’t know.”

The white women had left their car in a garage in Seattle. They knew the price to get out rose a little higher with every hour that passed.

“The end of the world is near!” shouted the-man-who-was-probably-Lakota.

“We know,” Betty and Veronica said.

Inside the Trading Post, Michael White Hawk watched Victor and Junior stumble up and down the aisles.

“Dose fuckers think they cool,” White Hawk said to a loaf of bread as Victor and Junior finally found the beer cooler. They celebrated their discovery and pulled out a case of cheap beer.

“Do we got enough?” Junior asked.

“Enough’s enough,” Victor said.

“What the hell’s that mean?”

“Don’t know.”

Junior and Victor pooled their change and carried their beer to the cashier.

“We got enough, enit?” Victor asked.

“No sales tax, remember?” Junior said.

They paid for their booze, made their way outside, and shielded their eyes against the sudden sunlight. Michael White Hawk followed them, took advantage of the opportunity, and knocked the beer from Junior’s and Victor’s arms. A few cans split open and beer fountained out.

“Shit,” Victor said. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Fuckers!” White Hawk screamed. “Thinkin’ you better than us ’cause you fuckin’ white women. You ain’t shit.”

“I ain’t shit?” Victor said. “You ain’t shit.”

Junior picked up a beer can and popped it open.

“Jeez, Michael,” Junior said and offered him the can. “If you want a beer, just ask for one.”

“Don’t want shit from you,” Michael said and knocked the beer from Junior.

A crowd gathered suddenly, because people always circle around a potential fight quickly. Betty and Veronica joined the circle, frightened and excited.

“Make them stop,” Betty shouted, but nobody paid much attention to her.

“Come on,” White Hawk said. “Goin’ kick your ass.”

“Fuck you,” Junior and Victor harmonized.

White Hawk rushed them and knocked both to the ground. He kicked and stomped on Junior and Victor, who were too drunk to fight back. They just curled into fetal balls and waited for it to end. The crowd cheered. A few rooted openly for White Hawk; most celebrated the general violence of it all. Betty and Veronica attacked White Hawk, clawed and punched, but he fought them off. He threw Betty against the phone booth; he backhanded Veronica and broke her nose. White Hawk was blind with rage. He might have beat the shit out of everybody, but the-man-who-was-probably-Lakota stepped through a gap in the crowd and cold-cocked him with a stray two-by-four.