two bathrooms. I supposed the place would be packed on a weekend.
As it was, on a cold Thursday, there were only five Indians in the bar, other than the bartender, her old friend, and me.
Two obese Indian women shared a table in the back, an Indian couple danced in front of a broken jukebox, and one large and muscular Indian guy played pool by himself. In his white T-shirt, blue-jean jacket, tight jeans, and cowboy boots, he looked like Chief Broom from One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. I decided he could have killed me with a flick of one finger.
He looked up from his pool cue when he felt my eyes on him.
“What the fuck are you looking at?” he asked. His eyes were darker than the eight ball. I had no idea that “fuck” could be such a dangerous word.
“Nothing,” I said.
Still holding his cue stick, he walked a few paces closer to me. I was afraid, very afraid.
“Nothing?” he asked. “Do I look like nothing to you?”
“No, no, that’s not what I meant. I mean, I was just watching you play pool. That’s all.”
He stared at me, studied me like an owl might study a field mouse.
“You just keep your eyes to yourself,” he said and turned back to his game.
I thought I was safe. I looked down to the bartender, who was shaking her head at me.
“Because I just, I just want to know,” sputtered the big Indian. “I just want to know who the hell you think you are.”
Furious, he shouted, a primal sort of noise, as he threw the cue stick against the wall. He rushed at me and lifted me by the collar.
“Who are you?” he shouted. “Who the fuck are you?”
“I’m nobody,” I said, wet with fear. “Nobody. Nobody.”
“Put him down, Junior,” said the bartender.
Junior and I both turned to look at her. She held a pistol down by her hip, not as a threat, but more like a promise. Junior studied the bartender’s face, estimated the level of her commitment, and dropped me back onto the stool.
He took a few steps back, pointed at me.
“I’m sick of little shits like you,” he said. “Fucking urban Indians in your fancy fucking clothes. Fuck you. Fuck you.”
I looked down and saw my denim jacket and polo shirt, the khakis and brown leather loafers. I looked like a Gap ad.
“I ever see you again,” Junior said. “I’m going to dislocate your hips.”
I flinched. Junior obviously had some working knowledge of human anatomy and the most effective means of creating pain therein. He saw my fear, examined its corners and edges, and decided it was large enough.
“Jesus,” he said. “I don’t know why I’m even talking to you. What are you going to do? You fucking wimp. You’re not worth my time. Why don’t you get the fuck out of here? Why don’t you just get in your BMW, that’s what you drive, enit? Why don’t you get in your fucking BMW and get out of here before I change my mind, before I pop out one of your eyes with a fucking spoon, all right?”
I didn’t drive a BMW; I drove a Saab.
“Yeah, fuck you,” Junior said, thoroughly enjoying himself now. “Just drive back to your fucking mansion on Mercer Island or Edmonds or whatever white fucking neighborhood you live in. Drive back to your white wife. She’s white, enit? Yeah, blond and blue-eyed, I bet. White, white. I bet her pussy hair is blond, too. Isn’t it? Isn’t it?”
I wanted to hate him.
“Go back to your mansion and read some fucking Teletubbies to your white fucking kids.”
“What?” I asked.
“I said, go home to your white fucking kids.”
“Fuck you,” I said and completely surprised Junior. Good thing. He hesitated for a brief moment before he rushed at me again. His hesitation gave the bartender enough time to vault the bar and step in between Junior and me. I couldn’t believe how fast she was.
She pressed the pistol tightly against Junior’s forehead.
“Let it go, Junior,” said the bartender.
“Why are you protecting him?” Junior asked.
“I don’t give a shit about
As it was, on a cold Thursday, there were only five Indians in the bar, other than the bartender, her old friend, and me.
Two obese Indian women shared a table in the back, an Indian couple danced in front of a broken jukebox, and one large and muscular Indian guy played pool by himself. In his white T-shirt, blue-jean jacket, tight jeans, and cowboy boots, he looked like Chief Broom from One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. I decided he could have killed me with a flick of one finger.
He looked up from his pool cue when he felt my eyes on him.
“What the fuck are you looking at?” he asked. His eyes were darker than the eight ball. I had no idea that “fuck” could be such a dangerous word.
“Nothing,” I said.
Still holding his cue stick, he walked a few paces closer to me. I was afraid, very afraid.
“Nothing?” he asked. “Do I look like nothing to you?”
“No, no, that’s not what I meant. I mean, I was just watching you play pool. That’s all.”
He stared at me, studied me like an owl might study a field mouse.
“You just keep your eyes to yourself,” he said and turned back to his game.
I thought I was safe. I looked down to the bartender, who was shaking her head at me.
“Because I just, I just want to know,” sputtered the big Indian. “I just want to know who the hell you think you are.”
Furious, he shouted, a primal sort of noise, as he threw the cue stick against the wall. He rushed at me and lifted me by the collar.
“Who are you?” he shouted. “Who the fuck are you?”
“I’m nobody,” I said, wet with fear. “Nobody. Nobody.”
“Put him down, Junior,” said the bartender.
Junior and I both turned to look at her. She held a pistol down by her hip, not as a threat, but more like a promise. Junior studied the bartender’s face, estimated the level of her commitment, and dropped me back onto the stool.
He took a few steps back, pointed at me.
“I’m sick of little shits like you,” he said. “Fucking urban Indians in your fancy fucking clothes. Fuck you. Fuck you.”
I looked down and saw my denim jacket and polo shirt, the khakis and brown leather loafers. I looked like a Gap ad.
“I ever see you again,” Junior said. “I’m going to dislocate your hips.”
I flinched. Junior obviously had some working knowledge of human anatomy and the most effective means of creating pain therein. He saw my fear, examined its corners and edges, and decided it was large enough.
“Jesus,” he said. “I don’t know why I’m even talking to you. What are you going to do? You fucking wimp. You’re not worth my time. Why don’t you get the fuck out of here? Why don’t you just get in your BMW, that’s what you drive, enit? Why don’t you get in your fucking BMW and get out of here before I change my mind, before I pop out one of your eyes with a fucking spoon, all right?”
I didn’t drive a BMW; I drove a Saab.
“Yeah, fuck you,” Junior said, thoroughly enjoying himself now. “Just drive back to your fucking mansion on Mercer Island or Edmonds or whatever white fucking neighborhood you live in. Drive back to your white wife. She’s white, enit? Yeah, blond and blue-eyed, I bet. White, white. I bet her pussy hair is blond, too. Isn’t it? Isn’t it?”
I wanted to hate him.
“Go back to your mansion and read some fucking Teletubbies to your white fucking kids.”
“What?” I asked.
“I said, go home to your white fucking kids.”
“Fuck you,” I said and completely surprised Junior. Good thing. He hesitated for a brief moment before he rushed at me again. His hesitation gave the bartender enough time to vault the bar and step in between Junior and me. I couldn’t believe how fast she was.
She pressed the pistol tightly against Junior’s forehead.
“Let it go, Junior,” said the bartender.
“Why are you protecting him?” Junior asked.
“I don’t give a shit about
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