Give Me Some Truth

by Eric Gansworth

  “Nope, tell me the truth, right now, or I’m going back to my music and the costume kids. I just finished being happy with a warm gun,” he said, standing. “And now I’m gonna flip that album over and get friendly with my dear Martha. Unless you got something real to say—”

  “Okay. What were you fighting for? In Vietnam?”

  “Me? Nothing, man. I didn’t sign up. I was drafted. Wasn’t smart enough to get a diploma, but I guess I was smart enough to hold an M-16. When your life depends on it, you can get smart pretty fast.” I was beginning to understand this, myself. “I was fighting to survive.”

  “Exactly. That’s what I’m doing, and what Lewis is doing. Our band.”

  “Your cover band, you mean?”

  “All bands start off as cover bands. And we’re different. We got a water drum player.”

  “Who’s that now? The one from The Bug’s party?” Suddenly, Albert was interested, which struck me as weird. He never seemed all that Traditional to me. I was just trying to show him we weren’t like everyone else.

  “Maggi Bokoni. Her family just moved back from the city this summer.”

  “That girl they call Stinkpot? The one Lewis moons over? I told him he can borrow my girlfriends,” he said, laughing. Albert and my dad shared taste in recreational magazines. “They’re a lot easier to deal with.”

  “No, that’s her sister. Maggi’s younger. The one with the twin brother.”

  “Oh yeah. That’s the one works with him, right? The garage girl?”

  “Yeah, she’s working at the school now, but her. Lewis likes the other one. Marie.”

  “Mr. Underdog, my nephew. This band one’s cuter, I bet. If you compare, side by side.”

  “Yeah,” I said, all poker face. “Guess you could say that.”

  “And does he really like the other one, or is it ’cause you like this one? This another one of your Stay Out of My Territory, Lewis moves?”

  “No,” I said, looking down. Was this that weird mind-reading thing Albert did to Lewis?

  “ ‘No’ means ‘yeah,’ isn’t it? This the one that was with you in the car that night? That Sanborn Field Day night?” I nodded. “She gonna be part of your plans?”

  “Supposed to be,” I said. “But I gotta get a lot of things together, and you’re Part One. If you’re not there, the rest falls apart.”

  “Is your thing gonna be outside? Veterans Day’s late in the year. Always cold and gray. No one ever comes out to those Honor the Vets things. Is that what this thing is?”

  “Something like that, but important for you, specifically. And there’s other people I wanna ask, but I need your help. You still got any of your army clothes?” He nodded. “I’d like you to wear—I don’t know. You got a shirt with your name patched on it? To remind—”

  “Me that I used to belong? You think I need symbols? That I’m that messed up?”

  “No, to remind … to show others you belong. That you served. Like the way Lewis still wears that jacket you gave him. He still wears it to show you how important you are to him. To be connected to you.” The album cover in his hands gave me an idea, even all split-edged and stained with a ghost of the vinyl inside. “Like that there. I know the numbering thing was kind of a joke. A limited edition of a few million—how limited is that? But you know what? They don’t make them like that anymore. The photos inside? Now they’re on flimsy paper.”

  “I know,” he said, pointing to a new copy on the shelf. “Anything limited disappears. Makes me worry about the future of Indians. What happens if young people forget to learn our stories? If they count on someone else? On older people, like me. Like old albums, we wear out.”

  “I’m not getting to what I mean,” I said, but I had to get going if I was going to pull this off right. “Trust that it’s important? I’ll come back tonight. I want us to go down to Moon Road, with a proposal. A couple hours down there, you’ll be back here, looking at your girlfriends and I’ll be out of your hair. You’ll have all the private time you need with them.”

  “I got all the time in the world for my gals,” he said. “I plan to be around long enough for the Beatles to smarten up and get back together.”

  “Wouldn’t hold my breath about that one.” I lifted my shirt and pulled out a 45 record, with a glossy sleeve. A brand-new single that had been getting a little airplay, but somehow, Lewis hadn’t mentioned it. Maybe he didn’t know it existed yet?

  “Keeping a 45 in your undershorts waistband. Like your Hamburglar brother, isn’t it?”

  “Funny,” I said. He wouldn’t have given me the jab if he weren’t on my side. He was trying to find the joke in our heartbreak, just like Deloria said. “Just make sure Lewis sees this when I drop you guys off, tonight, okay?”

  I handed the 45 over, and Albert studied the picture sleeve closely. He squinted hard, trying to make sure his eyes weren’t telling him lies. I grinned, trying for casual and cocky, but failing. “Yup! Can you believe it? New John Lennon. Coming out of his five-year retirement. But, um, it doesn’t look like he has any reunion on his mind.”

  “ ‘(Just Like) Starting Over,’” Albert said, studying the sleeve. “Kind of funny, isn’t it. Maybe he’s secretly an Indian. Lewis didn’t think that Stinkpot girl—jeez, what’s her real name? I can’t be thinking of her that way. Marie.” I nodded. Decent recall for Albert. “Anyways, Lewis didn’t think … Marie would come back, but here she is. Big as life. Starting over.”

  “But this is the Rez. Everyone always comes back,” I said. “Eventually.”

  “Don’t I know it,” he said, sitting down. I thought I was going to have to argue some more, but just as I took a deep breath in, he flicked the stereo switch off and reached for his boots. “What time we going to Moon Road?”

  I picked up Lewis for a ride home and told him of my plan. When I went to their place that night, he was waiting, with Albert, carrying his guitar case. I had two cold chill packs of beer in the trunk, which would buy me maybe twenty minutes to make my case when we got there.

  As soon as we turned down Moon Road, a ton of chrome winked in the dark. There was no electricity down there, so it had been the Default Party Road since before Lewis and I had been born. It looked like people were getting into it deep. I pulled slowly among the twenty or so cars there, some running, all tuned to the same station with their windows down. At a quick glance, it didn’t seem like Derek was there.

  We got out and set the chill packs on the Chevelle’s hood, opening a couple. We saw people from school and some older folks we knew, and Albert started making slow rounds to key people. Eventually he stood in the middle of the road and gave a giant war whoop that carried into the woods. “All right, then!” he said when he figured he had everyone’s attention. “Everyone here knows about what happened with the Hamburglar. You all been chasing that Eee-ogg for months now. But you don’t know everything, isn’t it? These boys want to say something, and if it matters to anyone … if it makes your heart lean one way or the other, I’m in with them. I’m gonna do it.” People stirred, some reaching in car windows to shut off radios.

  “I guess that’s where I come in,” I said.

  “You need an invitation?” someone said, everyone cackled, and I knew we’d be fine.

  “So you all know what happened. What you maybe don’t know is that he had reasons.”

  “He wasn’t just hungry?” someone in the dark said, making that weird mumble sound that the real Hamburglar did in TV commercials. Some of the crowd laughed.

  “All right, then,” Albert said, sharp. “Let these boys talk.”

  “Custard’s Last Stand,” I said. “You know by the name that place ain’t gonna be friendly to Indians. I mean, General Custer himself, the real one. The dead one from the Battle of the Greasy Grass. Supposedly the greatest Indian Killer of all time, because he knew how to work publicity. And still a hero to white people.”

  “I’m already out of school,” someone shouted. “What’s your brothe
r’s dumb-ass move got to do with me?”

  “If you leave the Rez at all, it’s got everything to do with you,” I said. “That place? It’s got a big poster up inside, some fancy art that shows Custer as a champion, like he’s won, surrounded by dead Indians he’s killed and a whole bunch more he’s in the process of killing. I went to the library and looked it up. Was given out by Budweiser, the company you all love so much. And they say it’s one of the most popular pieces of art in the country. It’s a poster that celebrates the idea of massacring Indians.”

  “Well, what about it?” someone else yelled, cracking a Bud, as if that meant nothing.

  “There’s all kinds of places like Custard’s,” I said. “You know, like I know. Mostly, we just don’t go. We don’t … but other people do. Some of you probably saw this in the Cascade,” I said, passing out Xeroxes of the Columbus Day fund-raiser from the Chevelle’s trunk. “Listen, I’m not asking for a lot, and if you don’t want to help me for me, at least help me for your kids. You want them wandering into a place that has a No Indians sign at the counter?”

  Albert stepped up, making eye contact with the men he’d talked to when we arrived. “I came down here with these boys to let you all know I’m in. Like I said before. I’m going.”

  I’d been smart to bring Albert. In all the ways people knew my dad screwed people over, they knew Albert would go the extra mile. He’d helped most of these guys chop and stack cordwood when they couldn’t afford to pay him; he’d moved furniture with them, painted barns, stacked hay bales, braided corn, you name it. He was finally asking for something in return.

  “Okay, look,” I started again. “You should be as pissed as I am.”

  “Hamburglar’s not my brother,” someone said from the dark, where it was easy to be invisible. Lewis leaned in and flicked on my headlights, putting me in the spotlight.

  “I know,” I said. “His Ass Toothache and our dad’s contributions to it are our problem.” A few more people laughed. This time, with me. Lewis helping me be visible was working. “But if any of you’ve seen the TV, you know that guy dresses up like Custer, every damned day. Even now they’re trying to rewrite history.”

  “School’s over for us,” another guy mumbled from the dark, less bold.

  “My report card says I’m not a big fan either,” I said, to another surge of laughs. “But for this? You should care.” I paused, waiting to see if another smart-ass rose from the shadows. “Because? Custard just sponsored a Knights of Columbus fund-raiser. I don’t need to tell you that guy in the warbonnet on the Cascade’s front page isn’t from the Rez. Think about this! What’s the only thing Custer and Columbus have in common? It ain’t a sense of fashion.”

  “Oh, just like you, isn’t it?” Albert said, putting his arm around my shoulder. “Come on, now, let’s tell these folks what you want to say and let them get back to their thing.”

  “Got it,” I said. “Okay, listen, just for a minute. You know who the real Custer was?”

  “Indian killer,” came through as a grumbly chorus.

  “A not very successful Indian killer, as it turns out,” I said. “There’s that big Bud poster, and history class. Even the little you know seals that reputation.” I stomped around in my highbeam spotlight. “Custer! The Greatest Indian Killer!” I boomed, and then I switched back, pausing.

  “But it’s bullshit. The real Custer, staking out his place in history, botched up his last try and got himself and his men killed. The whole Cavalry group, all six hundred, felt the burn of the last Indians they were pushing onto Rezzes. Other dumb-ass Indians guided him. They thought they were gonna be treated right in the end.”

  “Assholes got what they deserved!” someone yelled.

  “Maybe, or maybe they saw what was coming. I know a lot of you didn’t pay attention to this shit in school, or dropped out, like my brother. But it doesn’t end there. All of this! I mean, Jesus! The country just celebrated Columbus Day, for his ‘discovering’ this place, like we didn’t exist at all! Add to that the ‘Founding Great White Fathers,’ and every other lie and the silence about our almost being wiped off the face of this planet. Some of you have grandparents who were forced to go to the Boarding Schools.” The crowd noises were changing. A few people war-whooped in a way I’d never quite mastered, their voices carrying out across the fields.

  “No one even bothers to pretend it was an accident. We live on a reservation, where the government still tries to find ways to make us disappear.” I got quieter. “And sometimes … we help, by closing our eyes. We let them dismiss us. Erase us. Our lives don’t even seem to matter if this asshole can brand his business to celebrate a history that didn’t exist.

  “But now, when I close my eyes,” I said, wrapping up, “I don’t just see darkness. I see the people at that drive-in, that idiot in his fake Cavalry outfit with his real guns, keeping alive one of the country’s most celebrated Indian killers. I see his ghost still doing it a hundred years after he finally pushed us too far. No, I ain’t Sioux. A couple families out here claim they got some Sioux ancestors, from the boarding-schools years, but not mine. Just the same, I understand now why my brother couldn’t let it go, even one more day. And I almost never understand.” A good laugh came through. They were still listening. “I understand why he tried to do something for all of us, as dumb-ass and half-cocked as it was.”

  The murmur swelled, starting with guys Albert had helped, but catching among others.

  “Let’s get there, right now. Smash those giant windows,” one of Derek’s friends said.

  “No,” I said. “Not like that. He’ll be expecting us tonight. He’ll be expecting tricks, and we sure don’t want the treats he has to offer. And besides, I don’t want you guys getting in any trouble. You got too many mouths to feed. Even those of you who don’t admit you belong on the Old-Men’s Fireball Team.” They laughed again, as a group, my tiny joke breaking the tension. Only guys who’d gotten someone pregnant were considered “Old Men,” for competition games, so a lot of young guys got teased about that. Their laughing made me realize I was never teased in that way. Somehow everyone knew I was still a damned virgin!

  “He thinks he can do this because he thinks we all look alike. You saw the news when it happened. He said he knew it was an Indian, because the guy had long hair and a hooded sweatshirt and a beaded cap. Now,” I said, pausing, “it turned out he was right, that time. And now he thinks he can put up his No Indians sign and feel like a badass to his friends because he thinks he can see us all coming, and then he can swipe it off the counter before any of us sees it.”

  “How do you know there’s a sign?” Lewis asked.

  “I’ve seen it. I’ve been back inside.” Everyone knew what I was saying. Some were ChameleIndians, like me.

  I told them I wanted to make a peaceful protest, in the town park across the road from Custard’s Last Stand. Our band would play, and I’d provide food and cook on a few grills. I asked them to join us, but I also asked them if they could go a little further.

  Custard was heavily promoting his Veterans Day Celebration. In honor of General George Armstrong Custer, impossibly brave US Cavalry Veteran and West Point Graduate, he was picking up the tab of any veteran who came in for food on that day. It was less than two weeks away, so I was hoping that was quick enough that these guys wouldn’t forget.

  It was going to be a simple protest. I asked them to spread the word across the Rez and to any City Indians they knew, and for anyone with room to give a ride to someone without a car. I wanted them to wear hooded sweatshirts and trucker caps, and to wait in their cars in Custard’s parking lot until I got there, with Lewis, Albert, and, toughest of all, my dad. I told them I’d have a surprise for them when we got there, a gift to acknowledge their help. It would be worth their while.

  My plan was to have the ChameleIndian veterans enter first, have a seat, order their food, and wait. The more obvious-looking Indians would hang back, until Lewis, my dad, Albert, and
I entered. I wanted as many witnesses there as possible to see what happened when Albert, at the super-Indian end of the Indian-looking spectrum, stepped up to order his Free Veterans Day dinner. And no matter what happened next, they would know we had not gone anywhere, that Indians were still here, and more important, we were here to stay.

  When I dropped Albert and Lewis off, I headed back to the school, alone. I had to get my dad to see that, as stupid as Derek’s plan had been, there was real thought behind it. Was I afraid to ask Derek if he’d known there would be bullets in Custard’s gun? No matter what, I had to conquer the fear of being at our house, if I was going to do anything about changing the world beyond its walls.

  I suddenly knew how to show off Maggi’s talents too. It had been four months since she’d revealed she was a drummer, and already, we were a tight, almost magical band. As if it was meant to be. At the protest, I’d ask her to sing the Standing Quiver Dance song in front of everyone. It wasn’t exactly a War Dance Song. We didn’t have something formally designated that way. Not a War Dance, but a Letting You Know We’re Ready If We Have to Go to War Dance. It was a song of people standing together, identifying as a group and maybe even sacrificing as a group. A love song.

  At the school, I dismantled my hideout, reclaimed all my belongings, and lowered them to the ground. I detached the rope ladder and let it drop into the mulch around the hedges. Maybe some other desperate kid would find it when he needed a place to go to. I walked back and looked at the ghost image left where my tarp had been protecting the brittle, flat tar roof. That was all I left behind as I took a running shot, thinking about Maggi’s and Marie’s boldness. My hands hit the stone half wall as I launched myself out into the air for the last time, seeing how far I could go, letting physics do its thing.

  Marie, Ben-Yaw-Mean, and I leaned on the Trabant in Custard’s parking lot. The place was draped in red, white, and blue bunting. Poster boards with Magic-Markered WELCOME, VETERANS! YOUR MEAL IS ON US! sat on top, flanked by a couple of cardboard eagles.