real?”
“Indians read books, on occasion.” Hell, some even memorize the Bible.
“I didn’t know you were Indian.” She sounds excited. “I thought Hispanic. I have a friend, Harpreet. She’s Punjabi.”
I start laughing.
She’s
refreshing. “I’m American Indian.”
“Oh, my God. I feel like an idiot.”
“I’ll call you Columbus.” My nephews and nieces start appearing at the windows, pointing and giggling.
“Please, don’t.”
“So, can I borrow Mr. Dreiser’s”—I flip to the back cover— “‘great American novel of insight into appetite and innocence’?”
“Sure.”
“You want to hang out sometime?”
“I have a boyfriend—in California.” She touches her necklace.
Of course she does. “I said hang out, not make out.”
I hope the third blush is a charm. It takes her a moment to respond. “It will have to be when my aunt and uncle are at church.”
“This evening then?” I suggest. “Same place? I’ll bring a lawn chair.”
“Yeah. The bench is kind of small—pathetic.”
“Solid, though.”
“A solitary stone.”
She’s—what do you call it?—witty. Or maybe just goofy. She’s cool.
“It looks lonely,” I observe.
“But not
too
homely.”
“In need of a friend,” I say.
“I
am
.” She smiles wide.
Damn. What was that?
----
I’m out of breath by the time I make it back inside my sister’s trailer, and not just because the kids locked the back door and then the front door and then the back door again. Little shits. Even the older boy, Kevin, who usually sides with me because I call him bro. That girl, Emmy, her name should be Emily. She reads books in gardens, for Christ’s sake, but, then again, not romances or books about prairie girls, but a revolution and a compromised girl. Has she been compromised? California girls. They do take your breath away. But no, she was born here. She blushes but tells me my cuss words are refreshing. I need a sweat lodge. Virgil built one in his garage in Omak. He’s an elder but doesn’t preach or ask questions or try to talk to me about my dad. As soon as my sister comes home for lunch, I’ll go for a hard run, but she’ll probably bring cheap tacos from the taco van, which are almost as good as “Indian tacos” made with fry bread. Hispanic? That’s what most white people around here think, with my short hair, or prefer to think. It’s easier for them to dislike immigrants than
be
the immigrants. An Indian from India? Oh, shit, that would bust my dad’s gut.
It’s the first time in a long time I’ve wanted to tell him something.
Most of the time I’m glad he’s not around anymore. He died when I was thirteen. I spent my whole childhood waiting for that man to come home or to sober up. Sometimes I see my dad’s ghost sitting next to me when I’m driving alone in his old truck: only on the rez, those long miles between towns and usually where the land opens up, and most often at dusk when everything’s gray. Of course that’s also the time of day most people in the area see Sasquatch. Dad used to claim, when he’d come home smelling, that he had a Sasquatch lover. My dad’s ghost likes to rummage through the glove box.
Sorry, old man, no whiskey
. I put my football picture in the glove box once, nothing else, so he’d have to look at it. He did. He even put it in his shirt pocket. The next day it was back in the glove box. If there’s a girl with me in his—my—truck, he doesn’t appear. “Give the boy some space,” he used to tell Mom.
----
“I picked up your dad the other day,” an elder said to me a year ago, when I was staying far out on the rez for a few nights with my aunt. “By Coulee Dam.”
“You don’t say?” How did he want me to respond? My dad’s restlessness had caused enough pain. And he wasn’t the first elder—and certainly not the first Indian—to have seen my dad’s ghost and stopped to tell me. I almost suggested he and the other elders start a column
“Indians read books, on occasion.” Hell, some even memorize the Bible.
“I didn’t know you were Indian.” She sounds excited. “I thought Hispanic. I have a friend, Harpreet. She’s Punjabi.”
I start laughing.
She’s
refreshing. “I’m American Indian.”
“Oh, my God. I feel like an idiot.”
“I’ll call you Columbus.” My nephews and nieces start appearing at the windows, pointing and giggling.
“Please, don’t.”
“So, can I borrow Mr. Dreiser’s”—I flip to the back cover— “‘great American novel of insight into appetite and innocence’?”
“Sure.”
“You want to hang out sometime?”
“I have a boyfriend—in California.” She touches her necklace.
Of course she does. “I said hang out, not make out.”
I hope the third blush is a charm. It takes her a moment to respond. “It will have to be when my aunt and uncle are at church.”
“This evening then?” I suggest. “Same place? I’ll bring a lawn chair.”
“Yeah. The bench is kind of small—pathetic.”
“Solid, though.”
“A solitary stone.”
She’s—what do you call it?—witty. Or maybe just goofy. She’s cool.
“It looks lonely,” I observe.
“But not
too
homely.”
“In need of a friend,” I say.
“I
am
.” She smiles wide.
Damn. What was that?
----
I’m out of breath by the time I make it back inside my sister’s trailer, and not just because the kids locked the back door and then the front door and then the back door again. Little shits. Even the older boy, Kevin, who usually sides with me because I call him bro. That girl, Emmy, her name should be Emily. She reads books in gardens, for Christ’s sake, but, then again, not romances or books about prairie girls, but a revolution and a compromised girl. Has she been compromised? California girls. They do take your breath away. But no, she was born here. She blushes but tells me my cuss words are refreshing. I need a sweat lodge. Virgil built one in his garage in Omak. He’s an elder but doesn’t preach or ask questions or try to talk to me about my dad. As soon as my sister comes home for lunch, I’ll go for a hard run, but she’ll probably bring cheap tacos from the taco van, which are almost as good as “Indian tacos” made with fry bread. Hispanic? That’s what most white people around here think, with my short hair, or prefer to think. It’s easier for them to dislike immigrants than
be
the immigrants. An Indian from India? Oh, shit, that would bust my dad’s gut.
It’s the first time in a long time I’ve wanted to tell him something.
Most of the time I’m glad he’s not around anymore. He died when I was thirteen. I spent my whole childhood waiting for that man to come home or to sober up. Sometimes I see my dad’s ghost sitting next to me when I’m driving alone in his old truck: only on the rez, those long miles between towns and usually where the land opens up, and most often at dusk when everything’s gray. Of course that’s also the time of day most people in the area see Sasquatch. Dad used to claim, when he’d come home smelling, that he had a Sasquatch lover. My dad’s ghost likes to rummage through the glove box.
Sorry, old man, no whiskey
. I put my football picture in the glove box once, nothing else, so he’d have to look at it. He did. He even put it in his shirt pocket. The next day it was back in the glove box. If there’s a girl with me in his—my—truck, he doesn’t appear. “Give the boy some space,” he used to tell Mom.
----
“I picked up your dad the other day,” an elder said to me a year ago, when I was staying far out on the rez for a few nights with my aunt. “By Coulee Dam.”
“You don’t say?” How did he want me to respond? My dad’s restlessness had caused enough pain. And he wasn’t the first elder—and certainly not the first Indian—to have seen my dad’s ghost and stopped to tell me. I almost suggested he and the other elders start a column
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