Sherman Alexie - Reservation Blues

Hey, Indian men said to white men. You may have kicked our ass in the Indian wars, but we got your women.

But that was too easy an explanation, and Junior knew it. He knew he loved to walk around with Betty and Veronica. Especially on the reservation. He loved to have something that other Indians didn’t have. He’d had his first white woman back when he was in college in Oregon.

Junior had met Lynn when he had spent a Christmas break in the dorms; neither of them could afford to go home. All during the break, Junior read books and stared out the window into the snow. He watched cars pass by and wondered if white people were happier than Indians.

They met each other while checking their mail the day after Christmas.

“So,” Lynn had asked, “what’s it like being the only Indian here?”

“It gets pretty lonely, I guess.”

“Do you drink much?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I see you at parties. You seem to drink a lot.”

“Yeah, maybe I do.”

Lynn studied Junior’s face.

“You know,” she said, “you’re very pretty.”

“You’re pretty, too.”

They walked around campus for hours, talking and laughing. Then Lynn suddenly stopped and stared at Junior.

“What?” he asked.

“Listen,” she said and kissed him. Just like that. Junior had never kissed a white woman before, so he used his tongue a lot, and tried to find out if she tasted different than an Indian woman.

“Irish,” said Lynn as she broke the kiss. “I’m Irish.”

“Who’s Irish?” Victor asked Junior and pulled him from his memories.

“What?” Junior asked.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“What do you mean?”

“You said you were Irish.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Yeah, you did,” Victor said. “Where the hell were you? On another planet?”

“Yeah,” Junior said. “On another planet.”

From the night report, 34th precinct, Manhattan:

12:53 A.M. Two Native Americans, Thomas Builds-the-Fire and Chess Warm Water, reported disappearance of two friends, Victor Joseph and Junior Polatkin. All are from Wellpinit, Washington, and are in a rock band called Coyote Springs, along with a Checkers Warm Water, who is waiting at the band’s hotel. The disappeared supposedly took off on drinking binge after confrontation at record company. Took down stats on the missing but informed others that we couldn’t do much unless there was some evidence of foul play. Joseph and Polatkin will probably stagger into hotel at dawn. Builds-the-Fire was lead singer of the band.

Checkers waited in the hotel room and stared out the window, at the clock, at the door. She was afraid for the rest of Coyote Springs, because she knew that Indians always disappeared. She knew about Sam Bone, that Indian who waved to a few friends, turned a corner, and was never seen again.

“Please,” Checkers said, her only prayer. She lay on the bed, closed her eyes, and prayed. She prayed until she fell asleep, and then she dreamed.

Checkers? asked the voice, like a knock on the door.

Chess, Checkers whispered as she rushed to the door and opened it.

Hello, said Phil Sheridan as he pushed his way into the room.

What do you want? Checkers asked.

I came to apologize, Sheridan said. Where is everybody?

They all just left. They’ll be back soon.

You’re alone?

For just a little while, Checkers said and edged back toward the door. Sheridan stepped around her, shut the door, and locked it. He stared at Checkers. His eyes were wild, furtive.

You guys really blew it, Sheridan said.

What do you mean?

You blew it by acting like a bunch of goddamn wild Indians. I might have been able to talk Mr. Armstrong into listening to you again. He might have given you another chance. But not after that shit you pulled in the studio. You caused a lot of damage.

We didn’t start it.

That’s what you Indians always say. The white men did this to us, the white men did that to us. When are you ever going to take responsibility for yourselves?

Sheridan paced around the room, lit a cigarette, and waved it like a saber.

You had a choice, Sheridan said. We gave you every chance. All you had to do was move to the reservation. We would’ve protected you. The U.S. Army was the best friend the Indians ever had.

What are you talking about? Checkers asked. We’re not in the army. We’re a rock band.

Checkers made a move for the door, but Sheridan grabbed her.

This is just like you Indians, Sheridan shouted in her face. You could never stay where we put you. You never listened to orders. Always fighting. You never quit fighting. Do you understand how tired I am of fighting you? When will you ever give up?

Sheridan threw Checkers to the floor. He pulled off his coat and necktie.

Listen, he said and tried to regain composure. I don’t want to hurt you. I never wanted to hurt anybody. But it was war. This is war. We won. Don’t you understand? We won the war. We keep winning the war. But you won’t surrender.

Sheridan kneeled down beside Checkers and tied her hands behind her back with his necktie.

I remember once, he said, when I killed this Indian woman. I don’t even know what tribe she was. It was back in ’72. I rode up on her and ran my saber right through her heart. I thought that was it. But she jumped up and pulled me off my mount. I couldn’t believe it. I was so angry that I threw her to the ground and stomped her to death. It was then I noticed she was pregnant. We couldn’t have that. Nits make lice, you know? So I cut her belly open and pulled that fetus out. Then that baby bit me. Can you believe that?

I don’t know what you’re talking about, Checkers said.

You know exactly what I’m talking about. You Indians always knew how to play dumb. But you were never dumb. You talked like Tonto, but you had brains like fucking Einstein. Had us whites all figured out. But we still kept trying to change you. Tried to make you white. It never worked.

Mr. Sheridan, what are you going to do to me?

I don’t know, Sheridan said and sat on the floor beside Checkers. I never know what to do with you.

Sheridan studied Checkers. He had watched her during the last few centuries. She was beautiful. But she was Indian beautiful with tribal features. She didn’t look anything at all like a white woman. She was tall with narrow hips and muscular legs. Large breasts. She had arms strong as any man’s. And black, black hair that hung down past her shoulders. Sheridan wanted to touch it. He had always been that way about Indian women’s hair.

You know, Sheridan said, you’re more beautiful than your sister.

She didn’t listen. She didn’t really care one way or the other. She just wanted help.

I don’t care what you think, Checkers said. I don’t believe in you.

What?

I don’t believe in you. I’m just dreaming. You’re a ghost, a dream, a piece of dust, afoul-smelling wind. Go away.

Sheridan reached across the years and took Checkers’s face in his hands. He squeezed until she cried out and saw white flashes of light.

Do you believe in me now? he asked.

Thomas and Chess walked into Carson’s All-Night Restaurant on the Lower East Side. They had been lost on the subway for hours, sure they were going to be mugged at any time.

“Why aren’t we dead?” Chess asked Thomas as they sat in a booth.