Reservation Blues - Alexie Sherman (3 page)

Junior pretended his feelings were hurt so he could
storm off. He needed to drive the water truck down to the West End of
the reservation anyway but didn't want Victor to know how much he
cared about his job. The West End ran out of water every summer.
Indians and pine trees competed for water down there, and the trees
usually won.

"
Where you going?" Victor asked Junior.

"To the West End."

"Wait up, I'll ride with you," Victor said
and ran after Junior.

Thomas had received a pardon because of Victor's
short attention span. Still, Victor never actually hurt him too
seriously. Victor's natural father had liked Thomas for some reason.
Victor remembered that and seemed to pull back at the last second,
left bruises and cuts but didn't break bones. After Victor's father
died, Thomas had flown with Victor to Phoenix to help pick up the
ashes. Some people said that Thomas even paid for Victor's airplane
tickets. Thomas just did things that made no sense at all.

"I'll be back for you!" Victor yelled and
climbed into the water truck with junior.

"
The end of the world is near!"

"My ass is near your face!" Victor yelled
out the window as the truck pulled away.

The-man-who-was-probably-Lakota helped Thomas to his
feet. Thomas started to cry. That was the worst thing an Indian man
could do if he were sober. A drunk Indian can cry and sing into his
beer all night long, and the rest of the drunk Indians will sing
backup.

"Listen," the-man-who-was-probably-Lakota
said as he put his arm around Thomas's shoulders. "Go on home.
Glue the guitar back together. Maybe things will be better in the
morning. "

 
"You think so?" Thomas asked.

"
Yeah, but don't tell anybody I said so. It
would ruin my reputation."

"Okay. I'll see you tomorrow."

Thomas climbed into his blue van with that broken
guitar, wondered if he could fix it, and noticed his fingers were cut
shallowly, as if the first layers of skin had been delicately sliced
by a razor. The-man-who-was-probably-Lakota picked up a hand drum and
pounded it in rhythm with his words as Thomas drove away.

"The end of the world is near! It's near! It's
near! The end is near!"

* * *

Junior was a good driver. He kept that water truck
firmly on the road, negotiating the reservation obstacle course of
potholes and free-range livestock, as he made his way to the West
End. He had been driving truck since a few days after he had returned
from college. Victor had been riding with him all that time, falling
asleep as soon as his head fell back against the vinyl seat. On that
particular day, as the-man-who-was-probably-Lakota comforted Thomas,
Victor fell asleep before they passed the city limits. At least, his
eyes were closed when the nightmare came to him.

Victor fought against his nightmare, twisted and
moaned in his seat, as Junior drove the water truck. Junior, who had
always paid close attention to dreams, wondered which particular
nightmare was filling Victor's sleep. He had majored in psychology
during his brief time in college and learned a lot about dreams. In
Psychology 101, Junior had learned from Freud and Jung that dreams
decided everything. He figured that Freud and Jung must have been
reservation Indians, because dreams decided everything for Indians,
too. Junior based all of his decisions on his dreams and visions,
which created a lot of problems. When awake, he could never stomach
the peanut butter and onion sandwiches that tasted so great in his
dreams, but Junior always expected his visions to come true. Indians
were supposed to have visions and receive messages from their dreams.
All the Indians on television had visions that told them exactly what
to do.

Junior knew how to wake up in the morning, eat
breakfast, and go to work. He knew how to drive his water truck, but
he didn't know much beyond that, beyond that and the wanting. He
wanted a bigger house, clothes, shoes, and something more. Junior
didn't know what Victor wanted, except money. Victor wanted money so
bad that he aways spent it too quick, as if the few dollars in his
wallet somehow prevented him from getting more. Money. That's all
Victor talked about. Money. Junior didn't know if Victor wanted
anything more, but he knew that Victor was dreaming.

Victor tossed and turned in his sleep, pushed against
the door, kicked the dashboard. He spouted random words and phrases
that Junior could not understand. Junior glanced over at his best
friend, touched his leg, and Victor quieted a little.

Victor slept until Junior pulled up at Simon's house
on the West End. Simon stood on his front porch. His pickup, which he
only drove in reverse, was parked on the remains of the lawn.

"Ya-hey, Simon," Junior called out as he
stepped down from his truck.

"Ya-hey," Simon said. "Bringing me
some water?"

"Yeah."

"Good. I need water. My lawn."

Junior looked at the dusty ground and the few
struggling grass shoots.

"
Jeez," Simon said, "I really need
some water."

Junior nodded his head.

"Where are we?" Victor asked from inside
the truck.

"
At Simon's."

"That crazy backward driving old man?"
Victor said.

"
What are we doing here?"

"Water, " Junior said. "Can you help
me?"

Victor climbed out of the truck and helped Junior
insert the hose into Simon"s well. They pumped water for a few
minutes, then removed the hose and made as if to leave.

"Wait," Simon said. "Aren't you
thirsty? Don't you want something to drink?"

He was a good host.

"
Yeah," Victor said. "Do you got a
beer?"

"He don't drink like that," Junior said.

"I don't drink like that," Simon said.

"All he has is Pepsi and coffee," Junior
said.

"
All I have is Pepsi and coffee," Simon
said.

"Enit?" Victor asked.

"
Enit."

"Well," Victor said, "I'm feeling like
a beer. What do you think, Junior? Let's knock off early and head for
the tavern."

Junior ignored him.

"Come on," Victor said. "Let's go."

"
I've got work to do," Junior said. "I
need to finish. It's my job."

Junior climbed into the water truck. Victor sighed
deeply and climbed in, too. They'd had this same conversation for
years. Simon waved from the front porch and then ran over to the
truck. He stood on the running board and leaned into the truck.

"Hey," Simon said, "did you see that
black man the other day?"

Junior nodded.

"
What do you think?"

"I think it's bullshit," Victor said.

"What do you think?" Simon asked Junior,
who just shrugged his shoulders and cleared his throat.

"
Yeah," Simon said, shrugging his shoulders
and clearing his throat. "It's just like that, enit? That's what
I've been thinking, too. Just like that. You know, the whole
reservation's been talking. People think that Thomas is goofy."

"He is goofy," Victor said. "Now, get
down. We're heading out. Got work to do."

Simon stepped off the running board.

"See you," Junior said.

Simon waved again.

"Hey," Victor said, "how come you
don't walk backwards like you drive?"

"Because I'd bump into things."

"Oh," Victor said, "that makes a whole
lot of sense. You keep in touch, okay? We'll do lunch."

"Can't," Simon said. "I'm going out of
town. Headed to the coast to visit my relatives. Won't be back for a
while."

Junior smiled at the thought of Simon hurtling
backwards down Interstate 90, passing hundreds of cars, and pulling
gracefully into rest stops.

"Send us a postcard," Victor said.

"You take care," Junior said.

"
Jeez," Victor said as they pulled away,
"that man is crazy."

"
He's fine. He's fine."

"Whatever you say. Aren't you thirsty?"

Junior looked at his best friend.

"We°ve got five more houses to do. Then we can
go to the tavern."

"Cool. You're buying, enit?"

"Yeah, I'm buying."

* * *

While Junior and Victor got drunk in the tavern and
Thomas slept, Robert Johnson's guitar fixed itself. He had left it
outside by the smokehouse because he planned to burn it as firewood.
It had held together long enough for the Patsy Cline song but
completely fell apart before he got it home. He planned on smoking
some salmon anyway and figured the smoke from the burning guitar
would make salmon taste like the blues. But the guitar came together
overnight and waited for Thomas, who walked outside with salmon in
his hands.

"
Thomas," the guitar said. It sounded
almost like Robert Johnson but resonated with a deeper tone, some
other kind of music. Thomas wasn't surprised that the guitar sounded
almost like Robert Johnson.

"
Good morning," Thomas said. "How you
feeling this morning?"

"
Little sore, little tired."

"I know what you mean, enit?"

Thomas tried to hide the salmon behind his back, but
the guitar saw it.

‘
°We're plannin' on burnin' me up?" the
guitar asked.

"Yeah," Thomas said. He could not lie.

The guitar laughed.

"That's all right," the guitar said. "You
eat your fish. I'll just play some blues right here."

The guitar played itself while Thomas smoked the
salmon. Before she died, Thomas's mother, Susan, had draped the
salmon across a bare mattress frame, threw the frame over the fire,
and smoked it that way. Thomas didn't have the courage to do that, so
he cooked salmon in the old smokehouse that Samuel, his father, had
built years ago. Susan died of cancer when Thomas was ten years old;
Samuel had been drunk since the day after his wife's wake.

"The blues always make us remember," the
guitar said.

"They do, enit?" Thomas said.

"What do the blues make you remember?"

"My mom used to sing," Thomas said. "Her
voice sounded like a flute when she was happy, but more like glass
breaking when she was in pain."

Thomas remembered how she used to hold him late at
night, rocking him into sleep with stories and songs. Sometimes she
sang traditional Spokane Indian songs. Other times, she sang Broadway
show tunes or Catholic hymns, which were quite similar.

"
Was she pretty?" the guitar asked.

"Beautiful, I guess."

Thomas and the guitar sat in silence for a long time,
remained quiet until the salmon was cooked. King salmon. Thomas ate
it quickly, barely stopping to wipe his face and fingers clean.

"Can you play me a sad song?" Thomas asked.

The guitar played the same song for hours while
Thomas sat by the fire. That guitar sounded like Robert Johnson, like
a cedar flute, like glass breaking in the distance. Thomas closed his
eyes, listened closely, and wondered if Victor and Junior heard the
song.

"They hear me," the guitar said. "Those
two hear me good."

Victor and Junior were passed out in the water truck
on an old logging road. After they'd delivered water to the West End,
they spent a long night in the Powwow Tavern and ended up here. The
guitar's song drifted through the truck's open windows, fell down on
the two Indians, and worked its way into their skins. They both tried
to push the music away from their hangover dreams.

"They be comin' soon," the guitar said.

"
Why?" Thomas asked.

"Y'all need to play songs for your people. They
need you. Those two boys need you."

"What you talking about?" Thomas asked.

"The music. Y'all need the music."

Thomas thought he needed more money than music. Music
seemed to be a luxury most days. He'd received some life insurance
money when his mom died, but that was almost gone, and nobody on the
reservation ever hired him to work. Still, Thomas heard music in
everything, even in money.

"
Maybe you and me should go on the road,"
Thomas said.

"
On the road, on the road," the guitar
said. "We takin' those two with us. We startin' up a band."

"Those guys ain't going to play with me,"
Thomas said.

"They don't even like me."

The guitar played on and ignored Thomas's doubts.
Music rose above the reservation, made its way into the clouds, and
rained down. The reservation arched its back, opened its mouth, and
drank deep because the music tasted so familiar. Thomas felt the
movement, the shudder that passed through tree and stone, asphalt and
aluminum. The music kept falling down, falling down.