The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven by Sherman Alexie Page B
Authors: Sherman Alexie
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said. “It’s a million-dollar blackout and I only need B-6. But the caller announces B-7 and everyone else in the whole damn place is yelling out, Bingo! ”
“Sounds more like the truth to me,” he said as she reached across him and turned on the light.
Victor was surprised. She had grown. She was the most enormous woman he had ever seen. Her hair fell down over her body, an explosion of horses. She was more beautiful than he wanted, more of a child of freeway exits and cable television, a mother to the children who waited outside 7-11 asking him to buy them a case of Coors Light. She sat on the bus traveling uptown to a community college. She sat on the bus traveling toward cities that grew, doubled. There was nothing he could give her father to earn her hand, nothing she would understand, remember.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, reaching for the light again, but he stopped her, held her wrist tightly, painfully.
“Why don’t you have any scars?” he asked, pulling her face close to his, her braids touching his chest.
“Why do you have so fucking many?” she asked him.
Then she was afraid of the man naked beside her, under her, afraid of that man who was simple in clothes and cowboy boots, a feather in a bottle.
“You’re nothing important,” he said. “You’re just another goddamned Indian like me.”
“Wrong,” she said, twisting from his grip and sitting up, her arms crossed over her chest. “I’m the best kind of Indian and I’m in bed with my father.”
He laughed. She was silent. She thought she could be saved. She thought he could take her hand and owldance her around the circle. She thought she could watch him fancydance, watch his calf muscles grow more and more perfect with each step. She thought he was Crazy Horse.
He got up, pulled on his Levi’s, buttoned his red-and-black flannel shirt, the kind some writer called an Indian shirt. He stepped into his cowboy boots, opened the tiny refrigerator, and grabbed a beer.
“You’re nothing. You’re nothing,” he said and left.
Standing in the dark, next to a tipi with blue smoke escaping from the fire inside, he watched the Winnebago. For hours, Victor watched the lights go on and off, on and off. He wished he was Crazy Horse.
THE ONLY TRAFFIC SIGNAL ON THE RESERVATION DOESN’T FLASH RED ANYMORE
“G O AHEAD,” ADRIAN SAID . “Pull the trigger.”
I held a pistol to my temple. I was sober but wished I was drunk enough to pull the trigger.
“Go for it,” Adrian said. “You chickenshit.”
While I still held that pistol to my temple, I used my other hand to flip Adrian off. Then I made a fist with my third hand to gather a little bit of courage or stupidity, and wiped sweat from my forehead with my fourth hand.
“Here,” Adrian said. “Give me the damn thing.” Adrian took the pistol, put the barrel in his mouth, smiled around the metal, and pulled the trigger. Then he cussed wildly, laughed, and spit out the BB.
“Are you dead yet?” I asked.
“Nope,” he said. “Not yet. Give me another beer.”
“Hey, we don’t drink no more, remember? How about a Diet Pepsi?”
“That’s right, enit? I forgot. Give me a Pepsi.”
Adrian and I sat on the porch and watched the reservation. Nothing happened. From our chairs made rockers by unsteady legs, we could see that the only traffic signal on the reservation had stopped working.
“Hey, Victor,” Adrian asked. “Now when did that thing quit flashing?”
“Don’t know,” I said.
It was summer. Hot. But we kept our shirts on to hide our beer bellies and chicken-pox scars. At least, I wanted to hide my beer belly. I was a former basketball star fallen out of shape. It’s always kind of sad when that happens. There’s nothing more unattractive than a vain man, and that goes double for an Indian man.
“So,” Adrian asked. “What you want to do today?”
“Don’t know.”
We watched a group of Indian boys walk by. I’d like to think there were ten of
“Sounds more like the truth to me,” he said as she reached across him and turned on the light.
Victor was surprised. She had grown. She was the most enormous woman he had ever seen. Her hair fell down over her body, an explosion of horses. She was more beautiful than he wanted, more of a child of freeway exits and cable television, a mother to the children who waited outside 7-11 asking him to buy them a case of Coors Light. She sat on the bus traveling uptown to a community college. She sat on the bus traveling toward cities that grew, doubled. There was nothing he could give her father to earn her hand, nothing she would understand, remember.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, reaching for the light again, but he stopped her, held her wrist tightly, painfully.
“Why don’t you have any scars?” he asked, pulling her face close to his, her braids touching his chest.
“Why do you have so fucking many?” she asked him.
Then she was afraid of the man naked beside her, under her, afraid of that man who was simple in clothes and cowboy boots, a feather in a bottle.
“You’re nothing important,” he said. “You’re just another goddamned Indian like me.”
“Wrong,” she said, twisting from his grip and sitting up, her arms crossed over her chest. “I’m the best kind of Indian and I’m in bed with my father.”
He laughed. She was silent. She thought she could be saved. She thought he could take her hand and owldance her around the circle. She thought she could watch him fancydance, watch his calf muscles grow more and more perfect with each step. She thought he was Crazy Horse.
He got up, pulled on his Levi’s, buttoned his red-and-black flannel shirt, the kind some writer called an Indian shirt. He stepped into his cowboy boots, opened the tiny refrigerator, and grabbed a beer.
“You’re nothing. You’re nothing,” he said and left.
Standing in the dark, next to a tipi with blue smoke escaping from the fire inside, he watched the Winnebago. For hours, Victor watched the lights go on and off, on and off. He wished he was Crazy Horse.
THE ONLY TRAFFIC SIGNAL ON THE RESERVATION DOESN’T FLASH RED ANYMORE
“G O AHEAD,” ADRIAN SAID . “Pull the trigger.”
I held a pistol to my temple. I was sober but wished I was drunk enough to pull the trigger.
“Go for it,” Adrian said. “You chickenshit.”
While I still held that pistol to my temple, I used my other hand to flip Adrian off. Then I made a fist with my third hand to gather a little bit of courage or stupidity, and wiped sweat from my forehead with my fourth hand.
“Here,” Adrian said. “Give me the damn thing.” Adrian took the pistol, put the barrel in his mouth, smiled around the metal, and pulled the trigger. Then he cussed wildly, laughed, and spit out the BB.
“Are you dead yet?” I asked.
“Nope,” he said. “Not yet. Give me another beer.”
“Hey, we don’t drink no more, remember? How about a Diet Pepsi?”
“That’s right, enit? I forgot. Give me a Pepsi.”
Adrian and I sat on the porch and watched the reservation. Nothing happened. From our chairs made rockers by unsteady legs, we could see that the only traffic signal on the reservation had stopped working.
“Hey, Victor,” Adrian asked. “Now when did that thing quit flashing?”
“Don’t know,” I said.
It was summer. Hot. But we kept our shirts on to hide our beer bellies and chicken-pox scars. At least, I wanted to hide my beer belly. I was a former basketball star fallen out of shape. It’s always kind of sad when that happens. There’s nothing more unattractive than a vain man, and that goes double for an Indian man.
“So,” Adrian asked. “What you want to do today?”
“Don’t know.”
We watched a group of Indian boys walk by. I’d like to think there were ten of
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