Sherman Alexie - Reservation Blues

“Jeez,” Chess said. “I thought they were going to scalp us.”

Chess, Checkers, and Thomas sat at a table with Big Mom. They all waited for the feast to officially begin. But the term feast was a holdover from a more prosperous and traditional time, a term used before the Indians were forced onto the reservations. There was never a whole lot of food, just a few stringy pieces of deer meat, a huge vat of mashed potatoes, Pepsi, and fry bread. But the fry bread made all the difference. A good piece of fry bread turned any meal into a feast. Everybody sat at the tables and waited for the cooks to come out with the meal, the fry bread. They waited and waited. Finally, when there was no sign of the meal, Big Mom stood and walked into the kitchen.

“What’s taking so long?” Big Mom asked the head cook.

“There’s not enough fry bread,” said the head cook.

“You’re kidding. How much do we have?”

“We have a hundred pieces of bread and two hundred Indians out there waiting to eat.”

“Do we have enough venison and potatoes?” Big Mom asked.

“Yeah.”

“How much Pepsi do we have?” Big Mom asked.

“Enough.”

“Well, you take the deer, potatoes, and Pepsi out there. I’ll bring the fry bread.”

“But there’s not enough bread,” the head cook said. “There’ll be a fry bread riot. And you remember what happened during the last fry bread riot.”

Big Mom remembered.

“Just serve the meal,” Big Mom said.

The head cook and her helpers served the Pepsi and the rest of the meal, but that only made the Indians more aware of their fry bread deficiency.

“Fry bread, fry bread,” chanted the mob.

Chess and Thomas looked at each other; Checkers and Chess looked at each other. They were ready to run.

“It’s going to be a fry bread riot,” Thomas whispered.

Just as the feast was about to erupt into a full-fledged riot, Big Mom walked out of the kitchen with a huge bowl of fry bread. The crowd, faithful and unfaithful alike, cheered wildly.

“Listen,” Big Mom said after the crowd had quieted a little. “There’s not enough fry bread.”

Indians angrily rose to their feet.

“What are you going to do about it?”

“There are only one hundred pieces of fry bread,” Big Mom said, “and there are two hundred of us. Something needs to be done.”

The crowd milled around, stared each other down, picked out the opponent they would fight for their piece of fry bread. More than a few people had planned on jumping the surviving members of the band. Thomas, Chess, and Checkers ducked under their table.

“But there is a way,” Big Mom said. “I can feed you all.”

“How?” asked somebody.

Thomas, Chess, and Checkers peered from under the table, listening for the answer.

“By ancient Indian secrets,” Big Mom said.

“Bullshit!”

“Watch this,” Big Mom said as she grabbed a piece of fry bread and held it above her head. “Creator, help me. I have only a hundred pieces of fry bread to feed two hundred people.”

Big Mom held that fry bread tightly in her huge hands and then tore it into halves.

“There,” Big Mom said. “That is how I will feed you all.”

The crowd cheered, surging forward to grab the fry bread. There was a complete feast after all.

“Big Mom,” Thomas asked later as they were eating, “how did you do that? What is your secret?”

Big Mom smiled deeply.

“Mathematics,” Big Mom said.

Robert Johnson was walking toward the Longhouse when he saw the-man-who-was-probably-Lakota sitting on a rock beside the road.

“Ya-hey,” Robert Johnson called out. He was learning.

“Ya-hey,” answered the-man-who-was-probably-Lakota. “Where you headed?”

“Over to the feast. I’m getting hungry.”

“Enit? I guess I’ll come with you.”

Johnson and the old man walked toward the Longhouse. They didn’t say much. Johnson carried his cedar harmonica, and the old man carried a hand drum. They arrived at the Longhouse just as Big Mom tore the fry bread into halves.

“Ya-hey,” Thomas said when Johnson and the old man walked into the Longhouse. “Look who it is.”

“Thomas,” Johnson said as he sat at the table, “it’s good to see you.”

“You look great,” Thomas said, could scarcely believe this was the same man he had met at the crossroads all that time ago.

“Big Mom’s been good for me,” Johnson said as a means of explaining his appearance. “She even made me this ribbon shirt.”

Johnson was wearing a traditional Indian ribbon shirt, made of highly traditional silk and polyester.

“So, what are you doing here?” Thomas asked. “Do you want to leave with us?”

Johnson looked up at the-man-who-was-probably-Lakota, looked to Big Mom.

“I’m goin’ to stay here,” Johnson said. “On the reservation. I think I jus’ might belong here. I think there’s been a place waitin’ at this Tribe’s tribal for me. I think this Tribe’s been wait-in’ for me for a long time. I’m goin’ to stay right here.”

Big Mom smiled.

“Why do you want to do that?” Checkers and Chess asked.

“I don’t know. Seems like the right thing to do. I think these Indians might need me. Maybe need my music. Besides, it’s beautiful here. And Thomas, I have seen everythin’.”

Johnson took Thomas’s hands in his own.

“We both have places we need to be,” Johnson said.

“Yeah, Thomas,” Chess said, “we have places to be. We need to get going. It’s late.”

Thomas looked at Big Mom.

“We have to go,” he said.

“Okay,” Big Mom said. “But hold on a second. You need some start-up money. That operator job won’t pay you much. And you need first month, last month, and deposit to move into an apartment.”

“We’ll manage,” Chess said.

“You’ll do more than that,” Big Mom said and stood. She cleared her throat, and the feast crowd turned all their attention to her.

“Listen,” Big Mom said. “Thomas, Chess, and Checkers are leaving the reservation today. They need some money. We need to have a collection.”

“Bullshit!” shouted somebody.

“Now, I know some of you aren’t happy with how this all turned out,” Big Mom said, “but think of poor Junior Polatkin. Think of how hard these kids worked. Think of your tribal responsibilities.”

“Think of getting them off the goddamn reservation,” shouted a voice in the back. It was David WalksAlong. He threw a hundred dollar bill into his cowboy hat and sent it around the room. “We’ll never have to see their faces again. We won’t have to hear any of their stink music.”

The cowboy hat made its way around the room. Some Indians gave money out of spite; some gave out of guilt; a few gave out of kindness. There was a few hundred dollars in the hat when it finally made its way to Big Mom.

“There you go,” Big Mom said and dumped the cash in front of Chess, Checkers, and Thomas. “It ain’t a whole lot. But that should be enough to get you started.”

“You better take care of it,” Thomas said to Chess. She stuffed the bills into her pockets.

“Well,” Big Mom said, her voice breaking a little, “I guess this is it.”

“Jeez,” Chess said, “we ain’t going that far. Just to Spokane. It’s an hour away.”

“Anywhere off the reservation,” Thomas said, “is a long ways from the reservation.”

Thomas, Chess, and Checkers left the Longhouse. A few Indians waved goodbye. Big Mom, Robert Johnson, and the-man-who-was-probably-Lakota followed them outside.

“We’ll see you soon,” Thomas said but knew he was lying.

“Just call information,” Chess said, “and maybe I’ll be your operator.”