by Thomas King
“You going to strip?”
“No, I just do some background dancing. Look, why don’t you stay with this until school starts. The new job gives me more exposure. Probably pick up an acting job in no time.”
“Sure.”
For the rest of that summer, Charlie grunted and parked cars. On a good night, he could make up to fifty, sixty dollars, sometimes more. After work, on the weekends, he would walk over to the Four Comers and wait until his father finished his last set, and then the two of them would go out to Manny’s and have breakfast.
Nothing happened. Charlie lay there and pretended to be asleep, and nothing happened. The white woman and the chief were still in each other’s arms. Charlie put a pillow over his head and began counting horses, the kind of horses he and his cousins used to ride when he lived on the reserve.
In the background, filtered through the pillow, Charlie heard someone say something about soldiers and peace and love and then the white woman on the television began singing a song and all the horses in Charlie’s head turned into dancing Indians.
* * *
The Four Corners was a burlesque theater. It was only about eight blocks from Remmington’s, but the two were worlds apart. Remmington’s was in the middle of an old neighborhood that had been gentrified into fashionable office complexes, upscale boutiques, and outdoor cafés. The Four Corners was in the same neighborhood, but in a section that had escaped urban beautification. There were no mosaic sidewalks outside the Four Corners. No decorator trees in natural clay pots. No little shops that smelled of cedar and rosemary, where all the prices were written on soft, cream cards and attached to the various objects with colored yarn.
On one side of the Four Corners was a bar. On the other side of the Four Comers was a bar. That was the block. The rest of the buildings were deserted, their windows either broken or boarded.
The first night Charlie went to the Four Corners to meet his father, he didn’t know what to expect. He sat through three or four women who danced around on the runway and took off most of their clothes. It was smoky in the theater and so dark you could hardly see the dancers. There was a slightly pungent smell in the air, more than just the smoke, and as he shifted around in his seat, Charlie discovered that the floor was sticky.
Then a guy in a tuxedo came out, told a couple of jokes, and introduced the next dancer.
“And now, straight from engagements in Germany, Italy, Paris, and Toronto, that fiery savage, Pocahontas! Put your hands together for the sexiest squaw west of the Mississippi.”
The woman, tall and good looking, was dressed up as if she were going to park cars at Remmington’s. She walked around the stage as if she were lost, looked out into the audience with her hand shielding her eyes. And then, for no particular reason, she began to rotate her hips.
All of a sudden, Portland bounded onto the stage with a yell and grabbed Pocahontas. Charlie didn’t recognize his father at first. He was wearing a black mask and he had done something to his nose and had painted it red. He looked silly, and he looked scary as he danced around waving his tomahawk and grimacing and sneering at Pocahontas and the audience.
At first Pocahontas pretended to be frightened, but as the two of them danced, things got friendlier. Halfway through the routine, Portland began to take pieces of Pocahontas’s clothes off, first with his tomahawk and then with his teeth.
Just as Portland removed the last piece of clothing and the woman was standing on stage in just her pasties and G-string, another man, dressed up in a cowboy outfit, looking for all the world like one of the waiters at Remmington’s, leaped onto the runway. The cowboy and Portland fought a short fight with the cowboy winning, and as Portland crawled off the stage in defeat, the cowboy began dancing with Pocahontas, their groins pressed together tightly, the cowboy’s hands clutching the woman’s buttocks.
“It’s a dumb routine,” his father told him as they walked to Manny’s. “But that’s acting.”
“At least you don’t have to take your clothes off.”
“You’re not embarrassed with me working there, are you?”
“No. Like you say. Maybe someone will see you.”
Portland shoved his hands into his pockets and dropped his shoulders. “No one’s going to see me, son.”
A week later, Portland quit the Four Corners and went back to sitting in front of the television. In the mornings when Charlie got up, his father would be sitting in the chair in front of the television. When he left for work, his father would be there. Even after a long shift, Charlie would come home and find Portland sitting in the chair as if he had never moved.
C. B. took Charlie off to one side. “You know, your father isn’t doing so well. I mean, hey, it’s not really my place to say anything, but he’s my friend.”
“He just sits in front of the television.”
“It’s a young man’s game. That’s the problem. Portland left just as he was hitting the big money. No way he’s going to get back in like before. It’s a hard world, kid.”
“Why’d they leave?”
“Your mom and dad?”
“Yeah.”
“Don’t know. Portland found out your mother was pregnant, and a couple of months later, bingo, he was gone. I guess that was it.”
“What?”
“Maybe he didn’t want to raise a kid in the city. Can’t blame him.”
The next evening Charlie packed their stuff in the pickup. His father stood on the sidewalk and watched his son lash the suitcases to the top of the camper.
“If you could go anywhere in the world,” Charlie said to his father as he put the last bag on the truck, “where would you want to go?”
Portland looked at his shoes for a long time. When he finally looked up at Charlie, there were tears in his eyes.
“Anywhere in the world,” said Charlie.
“Hollywood,” his father said in a whisper. “I’d like to go to Hollywood.”
The next day Charlie caught a taxi downtown, put his bags on the bus, and headed home alone.
Charlie took the pillow off his face. The white woman was nowhere to be seen. Soldiers were building a barricade of logs and saddles. More soldiers were running back and forth, shouting at each other. Charlie turned the sound off and lay there with his eyes open.
Alberta turned back to the movie. The soldiers were trapped on one side of the river against a cliff face, and the Indians sat on their ponies on the other side. The chief whirled his horse around several times, held his rifle over his head, and all of the Indians began yelling and screaming, whipping their horses into the river. On the riverbank, four old Indians waited, their lances raised in the air.
Alberta hit the Off button. Enough. The last thing in the world she needed to do was to watch some stupid Western. Teaching Western history was trial enough without having to watch what the movie makers had made out of it.
But it was too late. As she closed her eyes, she could see Charlie mounted on a pinto, a briefcase in one hand, the horse’s mane in the other, his silk tie floating behind him.
And Lionel mounted on a bay, naked, except for the gold blazer that billowed and flapped as he lay against the neck of the galloping horse, and his shiny wing tips glistening in the sun.
Christian took off the other sock and dragged it along the edge of the couch.
“Is it over, Mom?”
Latisha watched as the cavalry charged into the river bottom. John Wayne took off his jacket and hung it on a branch. All around him, the other men were starting to cheer as the soldiers bore down on the Indians.
“Yes,” she said, “it is.” And she touched the remote control. And the screen went blank.
Lionel settled into the chair. Norma hadn’t let up, and Lionel had had to listen, once again, to his aunt’s opinions about his life, about Alberta, about his job. Everybody wanted to run his life for him, as if he couldn’t do it himself. Even the old Indians.
T
here was nothing on but a Western. Lionel settled farther into the chair and closed his eyes.
On the screen, an Indian danced his horse in the shallows of a river. On the bank, four old Indians waved their lances. One of them was wearing a red Hawaiian shirt.
But Lionel saw none of this. He lay in the chair, his head on his chest, the tumbling light pouring over him like water.
Charlie lifted the remote control and turned the sound on. The Indians were running their horses back and forth along the riverbank. On the other side, John Wayne and Richard Widmark waited behind a makeshift barricade of logs and saddles.
“Hear me, O my warriors,” shouted the chief. “Today is a good day to die.”
The chief spun his horse around in a circle, all the time grimacing and snarling into the camera, his long black hair flowing around his head, his wild eyes looking right at Charlie. But it was the voice that brought Charlie off the bed. He stood in the middle of the hotel room and watched as the chief rallied his men for the attack.
There on the screen, beneath the makeup, buried under a large rubber nose, was his father.
Chapter twenty-six.
Iron Eyes attacked the soldiers.
The cavalry came riding over the hill.
Etc., etc., etc.
Flip, flip, flip.
Eli tossed the book on the table, rolled up on his side against the cushions, and went to sleep.
Bursum took off his coat and put it on the back of the chair. On the screen, John Wayne pulled his pistol out of his holster and raised it over his head and was shouting, “Hooray! We got ’em now, boys,” as the cavalry came galloping into the valley.
Bursum stood in front of The Map and watched the spectacle of men and horses and weapons.
“Hooray,” he shouted, waving the remote control over his head and turning the sound up. “Hooray!”
Babo put the plate on the table and eased herself into the recliner. The day had been exciting. The police and all. Sergeant Cereno had been especially entertaining. Sort of like Mike Hammer or maybe Perry Mason.
Those Indians. Boy, could they cause a stir. You’d think they had stolen a rocket and flown to Mars, the way people ran around.
Even Dr. Joseph God Almighty Hovaugh himself had come down to the lounge to talk to her. It was no big deal. The Indians would be back. They always came back.
Now her car was a big deal. She had no idea where it had gotten to, but Martin was going to hear about it. Cereno could have cared less, but that nice patrolman, Jimmy, had taken down all the information and promised to do the best he could to see that it was returned.
Babo turned on the television and flipped through the channels. Nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing. Western. Nothing, nothing. It made the choices easier.
Babo put her feet up just as the chief spun his horse around in the river and raised his rifle to signal the attack. But it wasn’t the chief that caught Babo’s eye. In a small knot of Indians standing off to one side was an Indian in what looked to be a red shirt, and as Babo looked closer, she saw Hawkeye, Ishmael, Robinson Crusoe, and the Lone Ranger smiling and laughing and waving their lances as the rest of the Indians flashed across the river to where the soldiers lay cowering behind some logs.
“Well, now,” said Babo out loud to herself. “Isn’t that the trick.”
Dr. Hovaugh sat in the wingback chair and watched the chief spin his horse around and around in the water. Such a perfect symmetry of man and animal. Even though it was only a movie, Dr. Hovaugh was moved by the plight of the Indians, caught between the past and western expansion just as the soldiers were caught between the Indians and the sheer rock wall.
The horse must be an Arabian, Dr. Hovaugh reasoned, and the chief just might be an Indian. He knew that Hollywood used Italians and Mexicans to play Indian roles, but the man’s nose was a dead giveaway. Probably a Sioux or a Cherokee or maybe even a Cheyenne.
As Dr. Hovaugh watched, the chief raised his rifle over his head and charged across the river, the rest of the Indians right behind him, while on the riverbank four old Indians raised their lances, encouraging their comrades, cheering them on.
It didn’t reach Dr. Hovaugh all at once. When it did, he sat up in the chair.
“Oh, my God,” he said, and he put down the remote control and reached for the phone.
The Lone Ranger and Ishmael lay on one bed. Robinson Crusoe and Hawkeye lay on the other.
“Oh, boy,” said Robinson Crusoe, “it’s a Western.”
“But we have missed most of it,” said Ishmael.
“Isn’t this the one we fixed?” said Hawkeye.
“I believe it is,” said the Lone Ranger.
“Yes, look,” said Ishmael. “There we are.”
As the old Indians watched, the chief led his men across the river. The soldiers behind the logs began shooting. One of the men stood up and waved his pistol over his head, and on the bluff overlooking the river, a cavalry troop appeared on the skyline.
Robinson Crusoe looked at the Lone Ranger.
Hawkeye looked at the Lone Ranger.
Ishmael looked at the Lone Ranger.
“Oh, oh,” said the Lone Ranger. “Looks like we got to fix this one again.”
I know just the place to go, says Moby-Jane.
Where is that? says Changing Woman.
Florida, says Moby-Jane.
Is it warm?
Oh, yes, says Moby-Jane. That place is very warm and it is very wet. Just relax on my back, says that whale, and I’ll take you there.
So, Changing Woman stretches out on Moby-Jane’s back. Pretty smooth back, that one. Changing Woman presses herself against that whale’s soft skin and she can feel those waves rock back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth.
This is very nice, says Changing Woman.
Yes, it is, says Moby-Jane. Wrap your arms and legs around me and hold on tight and we’ll really have some fun.
It is marvelous fun, all right, that swimming and rolling and diving and sliding and spraying, and Changing Woman is beginning to enjoy being wet all the time.
“Hey, hey,” says Coyote. “That’s not what I thought was going to happen. Hey, hey, hey. What are those two doing?”
“Swimming,” I says.
“Oh . . .” says Coyote.
* * *
So.
Changing Woman and Moby-Jane swim around like that for a month. Maybe it is three weeks. Maybe not.
Then Moby-Jane sees some birds. Then that one sees some trees. Then she sees some land.
Oh, dear, says Moby-Jane. Here we are.
Perhaps we could swim some more, says Changing Woman.
That would be lovely, says Moby-Jane, but I have to get back and sink that ship again.
Moby-Jane and Changing Woman hug each other. Changing Woman is very sad. Good-bye, says Changing Woman. Have fun sinking that ship.
Changing Woman stands on the shore watching her friend swim away. So she doesn’t see the soldiers.
Gotcha, yells those soldiers, and two of them grab Changing Woman. What have we here? says another.
Call me Ishmael, says Changing Woman.
Ishmael! says a short soldier with a greasy mustache. This isn’t an Ishmael. This is an Indian.
Call me Ishmael, says Changing Woman again.
All right, says the short soldier. We know just what to do with unruly Indians here in Florida. And the soldiers drag Changing Woman down a dirt road.
Fort Marion, says the short soldier with the slimy mustache. Have a nice day.
Changing Woman looks around. There are soldiers with rifles everywhere. And there are Indians, too. There are Indians sitting on the ground drawing pictures.
This is quite interesting, says Changing Woman, but I’d rather be swimming with Moby-Jane.
“Fort Marion?” says Coyote. “The Lone Ranger is at Fort Marion.”
“That’s right,” I says.
&nb
sp; “Oh, good,” says Coyote. “I love stories with happy endings.”
“Happy endings?” I says. “You are one crazy Coyote.”
“But I am very useful.”
“Oh, boy,” I says. “It looks like we got to do this all over again.”
“Okay,” I says. “Let’s get started.”
“Is it time to apologize?” says Coyote.
“Not yet,” I says.
“Is it time to be helpful?” says Coyote. “I can be very helpful.”
“Forget being helpful,” I says. “Sit down and listen.”
“Okay,” said the Lone Ranger. “Whose turn is it now?”
“Well, who went last?” said Ishmael.
“You did.”
“Then it’s Robinson Crusoe’s turn.”
“What about me?” says Coyote. “I’d like a turn.”
“That doesn’t sound like a good idea,” said Hawkeye.
“No,” said Robinson Crusoe. “That sounds like a Coyote idea.”
“Anyway,” said Ishmael, “it’s Robinson Crusoe’s turn.”
“Maybe Coyote can turn on the light,” said Robinson Crusoe.
“Yes,” says Coyote. “I can do that.”
“Okay,” said Hawkeye. “Let’s get going.”
“Watch me,” says Coyote. “Watch me turn on the light.”
This according to Robinson Crusoe:
Thought Woman is walking. It is morning and Thought Woman is walking. So Thought Woman walks to the river.
Hello, says Thought Woman to the river.
Hello, says that River. Nice day for a walk.
Are you warm today? says Thought Woman.
Yes, says that River, I am very warm.
Then I believe I will have a bath, says Thought Woman.
That is one good idea, says that River, and that River stops flowing so Thought Woman can get in.
So that Thought Woman takes off her nice clothes, and that one gets into the River.
Whoa! says Thought Woman. That is one cold River. This must be a tricky River.
Swim to the middle, says that tricky River. It is much warmer there.
So Thought Woman swims to the middle of that River and it is warmer there.
This is better, says Thought Woman, and she lies back on the River and floats with the current. Thought Woman floats on that River, and that one goes to sleep.
