Reservation Blues - Alexie Sherman (17 page)

A huge white man stepped out of a stall.

"Who you talking to?" the white man asked
his son.

"This Indian. He's real."

Junior waved weakly to the man. Victor turned away
and pretended not to know Junior. But they were the only two Indians
in the bathroom. Both wore white t—shirts that had COYOTE SPRINGS
scribbled across the front, although Junior had on jeans and Victor
had on his purple bell bottoms.

"You're an Indian, huh?" the white man
asked.

"Yeah," junior said and prepared to run. On
a reservation, this white man would have been all alone. In America,
this white man was legion.

"
That's cool," the white man said. "Did
you know this rest area was named after an Indian?"

"
Yeah," Victor said and put his arm around
junior. "And you're looking at the grandsons of Indian John
himself."

"Really? What's your names?"

"
I'm Indian Victor and this is Indian Junior."

The white man almost believed them but came to his
senses and stormed away with his son in tow.

"What took you so long?" the white man's
wife asked.

"Just some Indians," the white man said.

"Just some Indians, " the little boy
repeated.

Victor and Junior grabbed a free cup of coffee from
the stand outside the bathroom. The Veterans of War offered free
coffee and donuts in return for donations. Junior dropped a dollar
into the box; Victor dropped sugar into his coffee. Both knew it was
too warm for coffee, but they drank it anyway and talked about the
price of guitar strings and drumsticks. They stood near the coffee
stand and dreamed about Seattle.

Chess and Thomas sat on the grass for a long time.
Neither wanted to rise and leave the rest stop, because Seattle
waited somewhere down the mountain. Seattle. Seattle. The word
sounded like a song.

"
It's named after an Indian, " Chess said.
"Seattle is named after a real Indian chief."

"Really?"

"Really. But I guess it was something like
Sealth. Chief Stealth. Or Shelf. Or something like that. Something
different."

"Seattle was his white name, huh?"

"Yeah, I guess. Jeez, you know his granddaughter
lived in some old shack before she died. They name the town after her
grandfather, and she lives in a shack downtown."

"Too bad."

"
Ain't it awful. You know, I was wondering where
your father was. Where'd he take off to anyway? I never even saw him
get off the table."

"
I don't know."

"You never told us who won that game between
your father and the Tribal Cops."

"Who do you think?" Thomas asked. "Who
you think won that game?"
 

5

My God Has Darla Skin

My braids were cut off in the name of Jesus
To make me look so white
My
tongue was cut out in the name of Jesus
So I
would not speak what's right
My heart was cut
out in the name of Jesus
So I would not try
to feel
My eyes were cut out in the name of
Jesus
So I could not see what's real

chorus:
And I've got
news for you
But I'm not sure where to begin
Yeah, I've got news for you
My
God has dark skin
My God has dark skin

I had my braids cut off by black robes
But I know they'll grow again
I
had my tongue cut out by these black robes
But
I know I'll speak 'til the end
I had my heart
cut out by the black robes
But I know what I
still feel
I had my eyes cut out by the black
robes
But I know I see what's real

(repeat chorus)

Chess wondered which member of Coyote Springs
most closely resembled the Cowardly Lion as they pulled into the
Emerald City, Seattle. The drive from Indian John Rest Area to
downtown Seattle took six hours, because the blue van refused to go
more than forty miles per hour.

"This van don't want to go to Seattle, enit?"
Junior asked.

"Van might be the only smart one," Chess
said.

The van drove into downtown and found a Super 8
Motel, right next to the Pink Elephant Car Wash. Coyote Springs all
strained their necks to look at everything: the Space Needle, the
Olympic and Cascade mountains, the ocean. None of them had ever
visited Seattle before, so the sheer number of people frightened
them. Especially the number of white people.

"Jeez," Victor said, "no wonder the
Indians lost. Look at all these whites."

Thomas parked the van at the motel, and the band
climbed out.

"How many rooms should we get, Chess?"
Thomas asked.

"How much money we got?"

"Not much."

"Shit," Victor said, "shouldn't those
guys at the Backboard be paying for all of this anyway?"

"Yeah, they probably should," Chess said,
forced to agree with Victor for the very first time.

Coyote Springs walked into the lobby and surprised
the desk clerk. Up to that point, how many desk clerks had seen a
group of long-haired Indians carrying guitar cases? That clerk was a
white guy in his twenties, a part-time business student at the
University of Washington.

"Can I help you?" the clerk asked.

"
Yeah," Thomas said. "We need a couple
rooms."

"And how will you be paying for your rooms?"

"With money," Victor said. "What did
you think? Seashells?"

"He means cash or credit," Chess said.

"Cash, then," Victor said. "What
Indian has a goddamn credit card?"

"Okay," the clerk said. "And how long
do you plan on staying with us?"

"Three nights," Thomas said. "But
listen, I need to use your phone and call the Backboard club. They'll
be paying for our rooms."

"
The Backboard?" the clerk asked. "Are
you guys in a band?"

"Damn right," Victor said. "What do
you think we have in these cases? Machine guns? Bows and arrows?"

"What's your name?" the clerk asked,
already learning to ignore Victor.

"Coyote Springs," Thomas said.

"Coyote Springs? I haven't heard of you. Got any
CDs out?"

"Not yet," Victor said. "That's why
we're in Seattle. We're here to take over the whole goddamn city."

"Oh," the clerk said. "Well, here's
the phone. Which one of you is the lead singer?"

"I am," Thomas said, and the clerk handed
the phone to him.

As Thomas dialed the number, the rest of Coyote
Springs wandered around the lobby. Junior and Chess sat on couches
and watched a huge television set in one corner. Victor bought a
Pepsi from a vending machine. Chess watched him. She knew that kind
of stuff tickled Victor. He looked like a little kid, counted out his
quarters for pop and hoped he had enough change for a Snickers bar.
He just stared at all the selections like the machines offered
white women and beer.

"Hey, Victor," Chess shouted. "That's
a vending machine, you savage. It works on electricity."

"
Hello," Thomas said into the phone. "This
is Thomas Builds-the-Fire. Lead singer of Coyote Springs. Yeah.
Coyote Springs. We're here for the gig tomorrow night. Yeah, that's
right. We're the Indian band."

Thomas smiled at Chess to let her know everything was
cool.

"Yeah, we're over at the Super 8 Motel by that
Pink Elephant Car Wash. We got a couple rooms, and the clerk wondered
how you were going to pay for it."

Thomas lost his smile. Chess looked around the room
for it.

"I don't understand. You mean we have to pay for
it ourselves? But you invited us."

Thomas listened carefully to the voice at the other
end.

"Okay, okay. I see. Well, thanks. What time
should we be there tomorrow?"

Thomas hung up the phone and walked over to the rest
of the band.

"What's wrong?" Chess asked.

"They said we're supposed to pay for it,"
Thomas said.

"No fucking way," Victor said.

"What's happening? Junior asked.

"
I guess it's a contest tomorrow," Thomas
said. "A lot of bands are going to be there. The winner gets a
thousand dollars. The losers don't get nothing. I guess I didn't
understand the invitation too well."

"What are you talking about?" Coyote
Springs asked.

"
It's a Battle of the Bands tomorrow. We have to
play the best to get the money. Otherwise, we don't get nothing."

"Jeez," Junior said. "How many bands
are there going to be?"

"Twenty or so."

"Shit," Victor said. "Let's forget
that shit. Let's go home. We don't need this. We're Coyote Springs?"

"We don't have enough money to get home,"
Thomas said.

"
Fuck," Victor said. "Well, let's get
the goddamn rooms ourselves and kick some ass at that contest
tomorrow night."

"We don't have enough money to get the rooms and
eat, too."

"Thomas," Chess said, "how much money
do we have?"

"Enough to eat on. But we can't afford the
rooms."

"
Looks like Checkers was right in staying home,"
Chess said and missed her sister.

"What are we going to do?" Junior asked.

"We can sleep in the van," Thomas said,
feigning confidence. "Then we go and win that contest tomorrow.
A thousand bucks. We go home in style, enit?"

Coyote Springs had no other options. Thomas started
the van without a word, pulled out of the motel parking lot, and
searched for a supermarket. He found a Foodmart and went inside. The
rest of Coyote Springs waited for Thomas. He came out with a case of
Pepsi, a loaf of bread, and a package of bologna. Silently, Coyote
Springs built simple sandwiches and ate them.

* * *

Checkers walked to the Catholic Church early Saturday
to meet Father Arnold. She wanted to join the choir. Enough of the
rock music. She needed to reserve her voice for something larger. She
braided her hair, pulled on her best pair of blue jeans, red t-shirt,
and white tennis shoes. Nike running shoes. Checkers always bought
expensive tennis shoes, no matter how poor she was. Go in the
supermarket, Luke Warm Water had said to his daughters during one of
their shopping visits to Spokane, and get some eggs, milk, and
butter. Oh, and get yourselves some tennis shoes. They're in that
third aisle. Try them on first.

Checkers and Chess slumped into the store, sat in the
third aisle, and tried on tennis shoes, those supermarket shoes
constructed of cheap canvas and plastic. Other shoppers, white
people, stared as the Warm Waters tried on shoes; Checkers saw the
pity in their eyes. Those poor Indian kids have to buy their shoes in
a supermarket. Both sisters cried as they paid for the essential food
items and those ugly shoes. Ever since her father had gone, Checkers
bought the most expensive pair of shoes she found.

Those shoes felt good on her feet as Checkers walked
into the church. A small church. Four walls, a few pews, an altar.
Jesus crucified on the wall. Mary weeping in a corner. It felt like
home. Checkers crossed herself and kneeled in a pew. She folded her
hands into a prayer.

"
Please," she whispered. "Let good
things happen."

She lost track of time as she prayed. Amen, amen.
Coyote Springs entered her mind, and she thought of her sister, tried
to send a few prayers over the mountains. She felt a little guilty
for leaving the band, but they played well without her. Chess sang
and played the piano better than her.

"Thank you, Lord," Checkers whispered as
she opened her eyes, surprised to see a priest sitting a few pews in
front of her. Father Arnold.

"
Hello, Father," Checkers said.

Father Arnold turned and smiled. He was a handsome
man, with brown hair and blue eyes. Slightly tanned skin. Even teeth.
Checkers smiled back. She believed that every priest should be a
handsome man.

"Hello," Father Arnold said. "You're
one of those sisters, aren't you?"

"Yes," Checkers said, thrilled. "I'm
Checkers Warm Water."

"
Checkers? That's an unusual name."

"Well, it's not my real name."

"What is your real name?"

"I don't think I'd even tell you that
in confession."

*

Father Arnold stood, walked back toward Checkers, and
sat beside her. He smelled like cinnamon.

"So," Father said. "How is the music
business?"

"Not too good. I quit the band."