“Naw, I can’t stand being cooped up on a boat. I guess I got a problem with that. I’d lose my shit way too easily with fishermen.”
Frank then realized the obvious: that Alaska couldn’t be acting as he was towards the squad solely because of his derision towards them as individuals. “Yeah, I know what you mean about people drivin’ ya crazy,” Frank said.
“Yeah, I always wanted to get a little business going. Maybe get a little espresso cart or somethin’ like my brother has.”
Frank pictured some unsuspecting customer of Alaska’s handing him a large bill for which Alaska lacked change. Alaska’s angry red face and expression of heightened frustration would undoubtedly shrivel the poor unsuspecting patron. Frank barely kept himself from laughing as he envisioned the man dropping his coffee and fleeing into moving traffic. “You really want to sell coffee to all those demanding customers every day?” he finally asked.
Alaska turned to look at Frank searchingly. “Just hafta sell ‘em coffee.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right.” Frank, feeling as if he was sitting at the base of an active volcano, decided to stop trying to advise the volatile man.
“I always dreamed of getting a job on a fire crew since I was a young kid. Fire Techs were big stuff where I came from. Yeah, when I was eighteen I got my chance, finally, and I thought my shit didn’t stink. No better job up there than being on a fulltime crew. I guess now I just want to work on my own, run something myself. Maybe a mechanic shop. I’ve always been good at fixing engines and cars and shit like that. Or... my other brother who’s got a job as an air traffic controller said he could get me a job doing what he does.”
“Kinda stressful, don’t you think?”
“Yeah, I guess it was my mother and this gal I used to go with who wanted me to do that. I still might, though.”
Frank decided that working as an air traffic controller, with the stress and pressure involved, would likely condemn Alaska to an early death. Frank was amazed that Alaska seemed to have so little conception of what paths through life suited him.
Alaska was staring wistfully at an object on the ground. “I dunno. I need to get back to Alaska, I guess. Too many people down here.”
“I hear that,” Frank said, borrowing a phrase from Scott.
“I was hoping that I would find a girlfriend down here first, though. Up there it’s about ten men to every woman. It sucks. I guess a fire crew isn’t really the place to meet ‘em, though.” Alaska’s face fell, and a look of dejection smothered him.
A familiar empathy began to swell inside Frank. Alaska had to feel incredibly lonely, especially after successfully alienating himself from his squad. It must be frightening for Alaska to be by himself and spinning without direction, his inner and outer worlds still undefined. It wasn’t surprising that he had such a tendency to explode.
Finally, the two boxes of lunches were placed on the table before the two waiting men. Frank thanked the woman, while Alaska sauntered off ahead of him, silently carrying his heavy burden.
After depositing his box of lunches on the bus and filling his pockets with candy bars, Frank again walked back to the crew’s sleeping area. He saw that Fast Horse was sitting on a log in the sun drinking coffee, his fire pack at his feet. Next to him sat Derrick, while Alice and Julio were seated on an opposite log. All were ready to go, but there was no hurry, as the day’s assignment had not yet been communicated. Frank sat down next to Alice, who offered him a melting smile. He let himself enjoy the warmth of the sun on his back and reveled in the easy flow of conversation among people haphazardly gathered at this spot for a brief moment in their divergent lives. He eased his head further into the center of conversation like a hummingbird poking its head into the petals of a flower.
“My father told me about another time when you guys went to a movie about chainsaws or something?” Derrick said to Fast Horse.
All eyes turned to Fast Horse, who basked in the attention. He smiled squint-eyed before accepting the reins being offered to him.
Fast Horse, speaking to the well-primed group, began the story. “Yeah, them days me and your ol’ man used to run a little wild. As soon as we could drive, or as soon as they let us drive, we’d rattle outta that reservation in the least run-down car we could get our hands on. And we’d head for the nearest town, not listenin’ to what all the old folks would say. You know what I mean, Derrick, when I say that on the Res everyone knows you, but outside you feel kinda... free. Now, we didn’t have much money... case of beer and a movie was more ‘an we could afford, so of course we picked the case of beer.” Fast Horse smiled, a familiar twinkle observable in his eyes. “Movies were for rich-town kids, but we did hang out in the big parkin’ lot behind the theater and do a little drinkin’ an’ yellin’ once and a while.
“Well, one night we was all drinkin’ in that same parkin’ lot and, Derrick, your ol’ man, Jumper, he gets this crazy idea he’s gonna see this movie that’s playin’. He’d heard all about it and said it was real scary, ‘bout people cuttin’ other people up with chainsaws and stuff like that. He asked if I’d go in, ‘cause I had a little nerve back then, and let the rest of ‘em in through the exit door. So I said ‘all right’ and we got a collection together and I dusted maself off and went on in.
“So after the movie started, I went to the exit and let everyone in real quiet -- no problem for an Injun.” Fast Horse’s smile shone brighter. “But I looked and, Derrick, your ol’ man wasn’t there. They told me he had just opened a fresh can of beer ‘round the corner and wanted to finish it first, and I was s’posed to let him in later when the chainsaw part was on. See, that was the only part he wanted to see anyway, he didn’t really like horror movies, said they weren’t scary enough.
“Anyway, this movie... it was horrible! People gettin’ butchered like cows and put up on big ol’ meat hooks by hillbilly freaks! I’d never seen nothin’ like it. I knew I wasn’t the only one that was pretty damn scared. I was also kinda feelin’ sick, to tell you the truth. I thought, Jumper sure as hell better see this one. It looked pretty damn real to me. Then the chainsaw part come on... This freak was chasing some other guy real fast through the woods, revving a chainsaw right at his ass. He was almost catchin’ him and the guy, he’d just baaarely get away. Wharrr! Wharrr!
“So I went to the exit real fast to get Jumper like I was s’posed to. He was there... only he looked really strange, even in the dark there. He’d let his braids out and had smeared some axle grease on his face, makin’ him look like he was on the warpath or somethin’. He just looked at me and gave me a big smile and went right on by. I knew he was up to somethin’, then the next thing I see is him runnin’ up on the stage in front of the screen! Right there in fronta everybody! I started yelling for him to get down, but he wasn’t listnin’ to nobody. And the movie... it still showed this psycho chasin’ that guy, shinin’ right on Jumper’s crazy Injun face. Shit, he looked about as wild as the freaks in that movie. Even more crazy-looking than the crazy Injuns you see white guys playin’ in the pictures.” Fast Horse took a deep breath to push his laughter back.
“Course, people started yellin’ for him to get down. And little Jumper... he just gives ‘em an eeevil lookin’ smile. The crowd, they all kinda jump in their seats when they see that. It looked like he meant some business. Some of them men yell that they’re gonna beat the crap outta him but he just stands there all the same... and for some reason he had one of his hands behind his back...
“You see, we’d been out cutting firewood earlier that day. We’d just left the stuff in the lock box in the truck. Well, little Jumper had gone into the box and got out the chainsaw. Well, he pulled that chainsaw out from behind his back and yanked on the pull cord as fast as a politician can tell a lie. Then he let out the wild kind of war cry you hear in them movies. AEEEIIIEEE!”
Fast Horse had to stop himself from laughing to finish the stor
y. “He lifts that saw up in the air and pulls the throttle. Wharrr! Wharr! Wharr! Just like the guy in the movie. But next to Jumper, that guy don’t look half as crazy as he had. Then he hops down and runs back and forth revvin’ the saw right at the people in the front. Shit! They all jump up and just stampeded outta there! Little Jumper, he just kept on crowin’ behind ‘em, makin’ the movie Indian sounds.” Fast Horse finally let himself join the others in a hard laugh. Barely able to get his words out he added, “Llooked like hhe was herherdin’ scared sheep.”
Fast Horse leaned on Derrick’s shoulder for support during a fit of laughter. Even Alaska was snickering, having come within listening range. The laughter finally ran its course, and the listeners managed to right themselves.
“So what happened next?” someone finally asked.
Fast Horse wiped a tear from his eye and resumed, “Pretty soon we was the only ones left in the theater. I tell ya, we were laughin’ so hard that we were on the ground and couldn’t even get up when the police came. Shit, I thought Jumper shoulda got one of them Academy Awards they give out or somethin’.” Fast Horse cast a squirrelly look around the group. “But you know, them police sure didn’t see it that way. They said he would have got some charge like ‘criminal mischief’ but he was too young. We didn’t seem to think that mischief was criminal, but them guys sure did. They told us to get back to the Res and promised to make it tough for us if we ever came back to town. Hell, we didn’t worry, Indians all look the same... All handsome devils, isn’t that right Alice?”
“Oh yeah.”
“So anyways, the next day the paper read ‘Wild Indian Rampages Through Cinema’. Yeah, ol’ Jumper was a hero for a time on the Res after that.”
After the laughter vanished entirely, but not the glow on the firefighters’ faces, Frank said, “I sure would like to visit a reservation sometime.”
“You never been to one before?” Fast Horse asked in surprise.
“Nope.”
Fast Horse leaned forward and spoke in a soft, gravely serious voice. “Just remember to wear a hat.”
“Why should I wear a hat?” Frank asked, preparing to be amazed by some mysterious piece of cultural information Fast Horse was going to impart.
Fast horse appeared dumbfounded by the question. He furrowed his brow as if in anger and said, “To keep the sun off your head! Why the hell else?” After a few seconds, Fast Horse’s eyes twinkled at Derrick and everyone’s laughter was rekindled.
Randy and Jim stopped and sat down just outside the circle of firefighters. Randy looked particularly interested in the conversation, in contrast to Jim’ forced expression of boredom.
“Naw, I’ll take you pheasant huntin’ sometime if you want, Frank. That’s a great time to see my Res.”
“That’d be cool.”
“Any of you wanna come out there in the off season just send me a note, or a smoke signal, tellin’ me when you’re comin’, and I’ll be waitin’.”
“Sounds good.” Frank said, knowing that Fast Horse’s offer was genuine, and that nothing more needed to be said.
“Yeah, I’d like to see it too someday,” Alice said, and paused before offering a story of her own. “My uncle was on a reservation once in Oregon. He was kinda... hunting in a new area for him.” Alice smiled at Fast Horse who smiled back, understanding that Alice’s uncle had been hunting illegally. “So he had this load of pheasants in the back. I guess he must’ve been in a hurry. Probably just thinking about his dinner; he’s kind of a, uh, big man. Anyway, I’m sure he was driving along pretty happy with himself for having got so many birds for dinner, when the last pheasant he shot kinda... ‘came back to life’ as he says. Flew at him with its spurs hammerin’, wings all over his face.” Alice laughed at the memory of the first time she heard the story. “He finally stopped the car kinda in a ditch and wrung the bird’s neck... then shot it with his .22 for good measure, as he said. He came home all bloody. Still tells everyone the bird spirit of the reservation got him.”
Fast Horse pulled on his reins, glad that Alice told a story he could appreciate.
“Could be what happened,” Derrick said seriously.
Randy, who felt outside the circle in ways beyond logistics, decided to toss out a story of his own. “One time me and Jim were hunting for... How long was it Jim? A few days or so?”
Jim shrugged his shoulders, inwardly cringing. Ordinarily he enjoyed the telling of this story, but now he pasted a blank look on his face. These were total strangers, and a lot different than the beer-drinking buddies to whom the story was usually told; and making matters worse was the fact that Randy was a poor storyteller. He was sure the story wouldn’t have the impact it deserved.
“Well, anyway,” Randy continued, “it seemed like we’d been out there hunting for a week, but we didn’t get our buck. The night we were driving back, just talkin’ huntin’ talk, you know, ‘bout the ones we’ were gonna get next time, this huge fuckin’ ten-point jumps into the middle of the road! And it just kinda freezes in my headlights.”
Jim kept his enthusiasm in check as he examined his nails.
Randy took the chance and delivered the rest of the story with more fervor, “I slammed on the brakes, but it was wet and we didn’t have time. The buck jumped in the same direction I had turned tryin’ to avoid him. The fuckin’ thing ends up landing flat on the hood of my pickup and somehow manages to roll through the goddamn windshield! Swear to God his ass was between us on the seat there.” Randy began to laugh, “Eeven laid partly on top of Jim!
“So we stopped and I looked over at Jim and then we both look at the deer, who is just dazed and layin’ there stickin’ half out of the windshield, but he seemed like he wasn’t hurt. Jim here opens the door, gets out, and that deer just jumps right on out after him, knockin’ his rack a few times against the door. Then it just runs away. Fuckin’ weirdest thing I ever seen! And the whole time our fuckin’ guns were sittin’ there in the rack behind us! Didn’t even think about usin’ ‘em!”
The story was a success. Many people expressed their amazement and laughed openly at the men for failing to kill the buck.
Fast Horse turned to Jim, shined on him a little, and said, “Is he tellin’ us a tale?”
Jim looked up and answered flatly, “Nope. That’s the way it happened.”
“The great white hunters,” Fast Horse said laughing, and looked at Randy, who shared another laugh.
Shroeder then emerged with the assignment, and the storytelling came to an abrupt end.
The Willamette crew sat in their bus, parked at a staging area near their new work location, and waited for further instructions from the Division Supervisor. The crew was finally less anxious about the nature of the day’s assignment, and casually flipped through old magazines the bus driver had brought for them from home.
George was thumbing through a celebrity magazine, grunting in displeasure. He was in his element. Having found the material objectionable, he tossed out his loud, hastily manufactured opinions, hitting all intended targets. “Fuckin’ Onyx! What a goddamn homo!” George shook his head to further convince those trying to ignore him that he was experiencing a deep feeling of revulsion towards one of America’s latest pop stars. “Sings like a fuckin’ chick, man. Walkin’ around on stage like he’s just asking for a dick in his butt.”
Some of Squad Two snickered ,and Alaska let out a laugh. George, much to his surprise, found himself with an audience’s backing, and flipped the pages with renewed vigor.
Scott, never particularly interested in anything George had to say, was now a little annoyed to find himself unwittingly subjected to his remarks. He was not alone. He thought about the fact that Onyx was a black man, and a musical innovator of sorts. Scott didn’t like to hear him slandered, especially without reason. He looked at Frank and decided to break his characteristic silence and stick up for someone from his r
ace, and for himself if the need arose. “Naw, Onyx is all right. Showy an’ all, but his music’s way ahead of its time, man. Way ahead. If you don’ know that, you just don’ know your music,” Scott said, firm but pleasant, anticipating the contrast.
George wasted no time in inviting an argument, being unable to retract anything he said without losing face. “Fuck Onyx! He’s a homo struttin’ around like a chick! No way is that shit good! You really call that music?” George looked around in vain for signs of support. He looked at Scott and met with a cold stare that made him recoil slightly.
Scott took a deep breath. Despite his aggressive posture, he was closer to being bored by the confrontation than excited by it. “Yes... I do,” he said in a deep serious voice. “You got a problem with that?”
George twisted into a panic. Not only was he a little frightened, but he was worried that he would soon look ridiculous, and knew that he could not resort to the usual threat of physical harm with Fast Horse on the bus and his job at stake. He almost instinctively tossed out some words with the shallow courage the group setting offered. “Man, he ain’t nothin’ but another bouncy fuckin’ nig...” George caught himself. Somewhere inside he knew some words should not be used unless a person was willing to fight; and this setting, he sensed, was one where he was likely to be judged at fault if such a fight did break out.
Scott smiled to himself. He had been ready for the unwelcome comment. He let anger soothe him and quickly recognized that he had achieved his objective. The confrontation could now escalate, and it would be George who would be seen as being in the wrong, which was the way it should be. “All your fuckin’ music came from us niggers, an’ anyone don’ know that is just an ignorant hillbilly fuck!” Scott growled, and leaned toward George threateningly.
The rustling of magazine pages had completely stopped as a tense silence swallowed the bus. All heads in the back half of the bus turned toward the two men.
George felt compelled to stand up and face Scott, but Randy reached his hand out, saving George from being sent home, or worse. George’s jaw tightened and his paralysis at that moment made him a pathetic sight. He saw the many eyes on him, and turned back to his magazine. “You can like some homo if you want. What you do in your own house is your business, I guess.”
When a Fire Burns Hot Page 22
