don’t never win. He go to the river, he lose a lot of money.”
“Uh huh. Uh huh. Uh huh. I know,” the younger said with considerable assurance.
“There’s the river bus right now.”
“Is it Eddie?”
“Naw. Eddie don’t drive that river bus no more. Eddie’s got a sister…”
“He got a sister? Eddie?” The younger man was finished with my boots now. He tapped each twice with the heel of his brush and pulled my cuffs down.
“Yeah. He got a sister…Now: you get in some water,” the old man said to me. “Go ahead, stand up to your cuffs,your feet gonna be as dry as the desert. That’s that woman driver driving today,” he said to his partner. “See her?”
“Yeah. I see her.”
“She’s down in Chicago,” he said.
“She is?”
I gave him ten dollars.
“That’s why he driving down in Illinois now,” he said.
“Go ahead and keep the change,” I told him.
“Thank you very much,” he said to me. “Her,” he told the other. “ Her, I’m saying. Eddie’s sister.”
I left them to feel their way through a forest of pronouns and approached the woman driver of the bus to Riverside. She sat hunched over her big flat steering wheel examining a notebook as I looked up at her through the open door.
I had a twenty in my fingers. “Can I just pay you and get on and ride?” I asked.
“That’s exactly how it works,” she said.
I got on board.
“I don’t need a ticket?”
“I got tickets. And they got tickets inside.” She made change. “And you can order tickets through the mail. The whole world wants to sell you a ticket on my bus.”
The bus was almost full of passengers, many of them probably going to the casino in Riverside. I sat next to a tiny old gentleman wearing sunglasses like the black bulging eyes of an insect. Across the aisle sat a small boulder of a man who revealed to me, as soon as the bus had swung onto the interstate highway out of town, that he played blackjack inRiverside several times a month; that his name was Vince; that until hard work had worn out his joints he’d made his living principally as a Sheetrocker, but now he survived on government disability checks supplemented by his natural good luck. Once he had my attention Vince kept talking, looking deeply into my face. Meanwhile where the tiny old man looked, from behind his black orbs, nobody knew. I understood that poker players often wore sunglasses to keep their emotions secret. I sensed he was being stoic about something enormous.
Getting aboard this bus had been a crazy impulse, but I’d actually been meaning to go to Riverside for some time now. A musician by the name of Smokey Henderson, a trumpeter who led a jazz trio and whom I’d met through Ted Mackey, had told me that as a regular thing his group played in a club attached to the Indian casino there. I’d enjoyed their music at Ted’s house once or twice, and it just seemed like the right kind of day to go looking for more of it.
Riverside lay forty-five miles out along the two-lane blacktop known around these parts as the Old Highway. I’d been told it was a quiet town, part of the reservation along the Sioux River.
I was expected later that afternoon at a small gathering of the History Department, a monthly coffee klatsch, but by getting on this bus I’d acknowledged that it didn’t matter anymore if I spent time among my colleagues or ended up dozens of miles away listening to jazz.
Our bus left the interstate and turned onto the Old Highway. My friend Vince across the aisle, who appeared tobe in his early fifties, was telling me about a friend who’d been on his mind a lot recently. “He died two years ago. Three years ago, I think. He destroyed, just destroyed, his liver. He swelled up bigger than a fucking toad. That’s the third guy I’ve seen do that. He swelled up this big around,” and so on. I didn’t mind very much. Vince had a colorful past, had been married often, worked at hazardous jobs, fought in the
“Uh huh. Uh huh. Uh huh. I know,” the younger said with considerable assurance.
“There’s the river bus right now.”
“Is it Eddie?”
“Naw. Eddie don’t drive that river bus no more. Eddie’s got a sister…”
“He got a sister? Eddie?” The younger man was finished with my boots now. He tapped each twice with the heel of his brush and pulled my cuffs down.
“Yeah. He got a sister…Now: you get in some water,” the old man said to me. “Go ahead, stand up to your cuffs,your feet gonna be as dry as the desert. That’s that woman driver driving today,” he said to his partner. “See her?”
“Yeah. I see her.”
“She’s down in Chicago,” he said.
“She is?”
I gave him ten dollars.
“That’s why he driving down in Illinois now,” he said.
“Go ahead and keep the change,” I told him.
“Thank you very much,” he said to me. “Her,” he told the other. “ Her, I’m saying. Eddie’s sister.”
I left them to feel their way through a forest of pronouns and approached the woman driver of the bus to Riverside. She sat hunched over her big flat steering wheel examining a notebook as I looked up at her through the open door.
I had a twenty in my fingers. “Can I just pay you and get on and ride?” I asked.
“That’s exactly how it works,” she said.
I got on board.
“I don’t need a ticket?”
“I got tickets. And they got tickets inside.” She made change. “And you can order tickets through the mail. The whole world wants to sell you a ticket on my bus.”
The bus was almost full of passengers, many of them probably going to the casino in Riverside. I sat next to a tiny old gentleman wearing sunglasses like the black bulging eyes of an insect. Across the aisle sat a small boulder of a man who revealed to me, as soon as the bus had swung onto the interstate highway out of town, that he played blackjack inRiverside several times a month; that his name was Vince; that until hard work had worn out his joints he’d made his living principally as a Sheetrocker, but now he survived on government disability checks supplemented by his natural good luck. Once he had my attention Vince kept talking, looking deeply into my face. Meanwhile where the tiny old man looked, from behind his black orbs, nobody knew. I understood that poker players often wore sunglasses to keep their emotions secret. I sensed he was being stoic about something enormous.
Getting aboard this bus had been a crazy impulse, but I’d actually been meaning to go to Riverside for some time now. A musician by the name of Smokey Henderson, a trumpeter who led a jazz trio and whom I’d met through Ted Mackey, had told me that as a regular thing his group played in a club attached to the Indian casino there. I’d enjoyed their music at Ted’s house once or twice, and it just seemed like the right kind of day to go looking for more of it.
Riverside lay forty-five miles out along the two-lane blacktop known around these parts as the Old Highway. I’d been told it was a quiet town, part of the reservation along the Sioux River.
I was expected later that afternoon at a small gathering of the History Department, a monthly coffee klatsch, but by getting on this bus I’d acknowledged that it didn’t matter anymore if I spent time among my colleagues or ended up dozens of miles away listening to jazz.
Our bus left the interstate and turned onto the Old Highway. My friend Vince across the aisle, who appeared tobe in his early fifties, was telling me about a friend who’d been on his mind a lot recently. “He died two years ago. Three years ago, I think. He destroyed, just destroyed, his liver. He swelled up bigger than a fucking toad. That’s the third guy I’ve seen do that. He swelled up this big around,” and so on. I didn’t mind very much. Vince had a colorful past, had been married often, worked at hazardous jobs, fought in the
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