My Good Man, page 19
“Apparently he doesn’t work well enough to get you the storyteller job.”
“They offered. This keeps me in better shape than sitting around, making stuff up all day. I’m graduating next June and then it’s off to the Marines. Early acceptance.” The only people I’d heard talking about early acceptances were applying for “super competitive colleges.” For the military, I suspected almost any applicant with all limbs intact and a reasonably stable personality probably got early acceptance. But I chose not to say, trying to understand their world, where you didn’t say such things. “You ready to head up? This fire’s burning down, and if we put some more on, it’ll be another hour. We got lock duty tomorrow morning.”
“I guess,” I said. I’d been waiting for Randy and Johnnie to show back up. “One thing, though?” He sat back down. “That shirt? I just want to thank you for not saying—”
“Look, man. You think you’re the only kid in our school wearing secondhand clothes? You think bad news only wanders the reservation? Every single house has some kinds of secrets.” He threw one small length of wood on the fire, sparks shooting up into the night sky like a constellation, as he took in a deep breath and let it back out. “My mom bought me that shirt in England. I’d always wanted to get my picture taken in the crosswalk at Abbey Road, and when we were there, she got us tickets to see Rush. She was trying to find a way to tell me what she’d been diagnosed with a couple months before.
“Seeing it startled me. I tossed it in the garage sale when my dad put half our stuff up, to make room for the junk his new wife and her kids were dragging in.” He poked embers, and they bloomed swirling clouds of a thousand miniature suns, warming their own lonely solar systems. “Don’t know if I hated our house more when it felt too empty, or now that a bunch of someone else’s history fills in the gaps. You feel like their new laughs are gonna squeeze the ones you saved right out of that house, when it belonged to your real family. You know?”
I didn’t know what it meant to be alone in that same way. In Rez life, good or bad, you were never alone if you didn’t want to be. If you were mourning after a funeral, and you asked to be alone, you might get that wish respected for a day, but that would be the max. Someone would drop off a warm meal to see if you were okay, even for just a minute.
“Now we don’t need to talk about that ever again, right?” he asked, leaning against an ancient tree. I shook my head. The Rez part of me wanted to ask him some sly sideways questions, to see what he was holding back, if he really was done talking. But the part trying to learn his world was also learning to withdraw, and to respect others’ privacy. I had the feeling he hadn’t shared that story with many people.
“Gimme that guitar,” he said. “You might as well know how to use it. ‘Closer to the Heart’ ain’t hard. It’s a couple hard moves, but mostly just a few riffs, over and over, strung together, like our jobs.” It hurt my fingers. At breakfast, I asked the other maintenance guys if any knew how long it took to build calluses, and discovered Randy had already shared the story of his infamous prank.
Leonard didn’t join in busting my balls, but that next night, after lights out, he spoke: “Listen, I wanna be straight with you. I am kinda involved with Pastor Clyde’s church. I don’t follow the rules rigidly and all that blah blah. I ain’t ever gonna tell you it’s a sin, and I ain’t gonna rub my wrists together like those other guys, when we see a hot counselor.” Just as I was about to drift off, he added, “Every guy does it. Don’t let these lying jerks fool you.”
Through the first course of campers, we learned maintenance mostly worked places no campers were at any given time. We were largely invisible, but often had some emergency job. Some kids were so backwards, or something—I never asked—that they’d shit in the corner of the large communal shower room. Whenever Shit Patrol came over the walkie-talkie, Leonard and I immediately headed out, knowing Mr. Roy would never stoop so low. We switched duties exactly every time, one with a shovel and one with the pump canister of disinfectant. I offered to always be shovel man. Having an outhouse, I was as used to that job as anyone might be. He insisted we split bad tasks down the middle.
“So, what’s up for this week?” Leonard asked, as we got ready for bed the last night before the weeklong Fourth of July break. “A whole week of no Shit Detail.”
“Just hanging on the Rez. No car,” I added. It never failed to sound so ridiculous. It was almost like saying you didn’t have a phone, or running water. At least we had a phone. “There’s a Rez event I go to the weekend after, then it’s back here the next Monday. You?”
“Well, me …” he said, hanging his shirt and pants up. “Probably gonna sit around and try avoiding my new step-whatevers.”
“Brothers and sisters?” I asked, exaggerating.
“If you insist,” he grumbled. “I bet some of my stuff’ll already be packed up as they make plans for my room. And I’m still a year away. Fucking sharks,” he said. “Anything else?”
“No, just catching up on everything I didn’t get to do here,” I said, grinning.
“Busy social life or your busy solo life?” he laughed. “Need a ride home?” I nodded.
Randy took my acceptance of Leonard’s offer, somehow, as a rejection, so he invited me for an all-expenses-paid weekend to the National Picnic, the Rez event I’d mentioned to Leonard. If Randy tried jerk moves, I only lived a mile away and could walk. What would be the harm?
“Why you wasting time with that white kid?” Randy demanded immediately, picking me up in his dad’s car the Friday night the Picnic began.
“Just drive.” I had my first big paycheck in nine months, so I had a little to burn.
“Those Indian-white friendships don’t never work out,” he said. “They got no pride in who they are, no loyalty to who they been with. They don’t know what a treaty is. Always going for the easiest thing. No sense of history like us,” he added, when I didn’t respond. “Your buddy gets a bump in his paycheck if he gets you to Come to Jesus this summer. He tell you that? If he paid any attention to my stories, he’d know how fast you come, and he’d give up.”
“Shut up,” I said, punching him hard enough so he’d know it wasn’t in friendship.
“Easy! Easy! I’m driving here,” he yelled, faking a swerve, then actually pulling into the parking spot. “I gotta drop my dad’s keys off and he’s supposed to cash my check for me. And I got something for you.” Listening to rants was a cost of hanging with Randy. As with many things, he’d planned our adventure to the minute. His entire family seemed to function by manipulating others. So he led me to Exhibit A, proof of his philosophy about why Indians and white people just didn’t mix.
Outside the RV DogLips had won the use of in his dice game, burgers and dogs warmed on a Hibachi. You were supposed to buy food from the Nation vendors, but DogLips didn’t care about rules. When Randy opened the RV’s side door, a massive cloud of cackling laughter and cigar smoke hit us like a fog. “Take off your shirt,” Randy said. “I got a cooler one for you.”
I peeled off my sweaty T-shirt as he held up a new one, fresh from a stacked box. It had been printed, like a concert shirt. A cartoon Devil with long hair and a breechclout rode a mean-looking dog. Spread across the top, “The Dog Street Devils” was spelled in flaming letters.
“What’s this?” I asked. “I’m not in his band, and I don’t live on Dog Street.”
“Carson made them to sell at shows, doofus.” The name had started as a joke on Carson, and he’d somehow turned it around, as if it had been his idea in the first place. “Put it on. It’s clean. More’n I can say for this pus rag,” he said, tossing my shirt aside with his middle finger.
The RV was crowded with men who only gave us a glance. In the smoky dark, DogLips and other men rolled dice, drinking and shouting. Through the center strip, I had a clear shot at Christine Sampson’s dad, Tim, at the back, in a position I could barely comprehend. I thought it had to be a trick of the haze and gloom, but eventually, there was no denying the sight before me.
Tim swayed in rhythm, his left arm above him, bracing himself against the back cupboard. His work pants and white briefs stretched taut low around his hips, as he spread his legs to keep them from dropping. He slowly grunted and thrust forward, then back, gradually speeding up. In between thrusts, I could see a small woman I didn’t recognize, leaning forward in a chair before him. His breath caught and whistled as he sped up. As his knees buckled, the work pants dropped to his ankles. “He sure can fuck face,” someone said in admiration. The others cracked all at once, shouting “Fuck Face,” like a cheer, shoving each other in glee. So deeply engaged, Tim Sampson had no idea he’d finally gained a nickname among his Rez associates.
DogLips passed Randy a couple fifties, telling us to make sure we went to the store with whoever made our purchase. DogLips turned to me, his eyes narrowing slyly. “This here’s what happens if you keep getting caught with your pants down,” he said, laughing. “But I paid for the hour, if you want a turn …” The crowd blasted another explosive laugh as I bolted. The last thing I saw was the woman lean back and take a deep pull from a beer, as FF awkwardly squatted, trying not to moon everyone, yanking up his pants.
The Night family played by even higher stakes than I’d thought. I could blame Tim for being stupid, but the truth was, we’d both been set up by different versions of the same bit of blackmail that never expired. Once you’d been exposed, that was pretty much it.
“What was that all about?” I asked, as Randy caught up with me, still laughing a cackle like broken glass. “How can you even be laughing!”
“She’s from the city,” Randy said. “Calls herself Little Eva. Her specialty is round-robin poker parties and dice games like that. She’s, um, very popular on the party circuit. She’s something like forty, but claims she’s barely legal.”
“Why?” Of the five thousand questions I had, I couldn’t prioritize.
“When you’re paying someone to do that, you gotta come up with some story to make it seem okay. My dad set it up to look like a party gig, but Sampson was the only customer. My dad says lots of women out here he’d make a good man for, but that he needs to loosen up.”
“Your dad thinks Eee-ogg about Tim Sampson and a hooker is gonna make someone interested in him? Your dad better lay off the juice, man,” I said. “There isn’t a world I know of where that story makes any sense.”
“You’re just a kid. You don’t know oo(t)-gweh-rheh,” Randy said, trying to sound casual. Then he randomly punched me. “And don’t be talking shit about my dad. He knows what’s what. He said Sampson’s old woman, after Christine was born, that was it! She closed up shop like a Ziploc bag, so Sampson, he’s forgot what it feels like.”
“Yeah,” I said, “Like he doesn’t—”
“Not everyone’s like you,” he said. I punched him harder. “Ow! Easy with those fists,” he grumbled. “Don’t injure my talented hands,” he added, laughing. “But for real, it’s crazy. Seen it myself. He don’t even touch his pecker when he’s taking a leak. He undoes his belt, then the pants.” Randy told this story with glee, pantomiming as we crossed the parking field. “Slides the shorts waistband up under his nuts, with his thumbs. He’s mastered the touchless whiz!” He swiveled his hips, like it was December and he was spelling his name in the snow.
“You did not see that,” I said.
“Truth I did. Just once. Putting empties in the shed out back. He was so shitfaced, he barely made it out our back door before he started whizzing. Anyway, my dad’s getting him drunk and having Little Eva take care of him. I guess she’s like the Tutoring Center for getting off, so he’ll remember that people enjoy hooking up.” I just kept shaking my head, trying to play the scenarios where someone could be talked into what I’d just seen, but none added up. I wasn’t super experienced, or experienced at all, but it still seemed unlikely. “My dad figured if Sampson was drunk enough, and with the regular gang, he could get talked into anything.”
“And your ma thinks this is good plan too?”
“Don’t be a dildo. She’s in Ottawa, selling at some powwow. Quill work doesn’t move here, but she likes snipping barbs, so she goes to Canadian powwows.” Very few beadworkers I knew bothered with preparing porcupine quills.
“So your dad told her that while she was away, he was buying Tim Sampson a blowjob from a middle-aged uptown prostitute?” The summer before, I’d learned what hangovers felt like on mornings at their smoky kitchen table. DogLips and Kitten sipped coffee, looking at each other like two people who wanted to be together until one stepped out for good. People who couldn’t wait for the rest of us to leave so they could be alone. People who loved the smell of each other, even waking up in the morning. How could a fifty-dollar encounter compare to those silent smiles? These ideas didn’t exist in the same universe.
“Anyway, I knew you wouldn’t believe me, so I figured you’d have to just see for yourself. That’s a white guy for you. No fucking shame, no dignity. The same for your friend Leon.” I corrected him, but I could tell he was trying out new nicknames for Leonard, hoping to find the right burn. “He wants something from you. Probably just the Savior Bonus, but that puts it on you.” Randy’s logic was its own unique thing, and though I’d like to dismiss it, he had this way of searing ideas into your brain.
We arrived at the Smoke Dance competition. I couldn’t focus. Since I didn’t really know Tim Sampson, he was a bad example of white betrayal. I had no investment in his allegiance. But later that night, Christine showed up at Randy’s party, and while we partied in the deeper back yard, the adults all rolled dice at a table near the house. Tim Sampson was rolling like everyone else, not acting at all like he’d been the main attraction a few hours ago. The whole time, I felt like I was keeping a secret from Christine. Her dad’s private life was no business of hers, and for sure no business of mine, but he didn’t even seem interested in keeping his privacy private.
I couldn’t wash my brain of that scene. And beyond those complications, I’d become keenly aware that whenever I saw anything close to intimacy, something was poisoned in it. I kept wanting to believe that love might be out there somewhere, but I didn’t know how to find it. It was bad enough with the image of Moose-Knuckle Stew and Liz lodged into my head. Now I had this even weirder version of an encounter added.
When I wandered home Sunday morning, hungover, the rest of my weekend a blur, I discovered several hickeys on my neck and less money in my pocket than there should have been. I could already hear Randy crafting a story for anyone who’d listen, that I was dropping twenties left and right once we’d found a ride, trying to look like a big spender, couldn’t even keep track—in short, a sloppy drunk. Money lost was money lost, but I had to know one thing.
“Randy home?” I asked, when Tiffany answered. The line went dead. So, I called back, and it rang and rang, until finally Randy picked up. “Something wrong with your phone?”
“Tiffany just hung up on you after what you and Meduse pulled this weekend.” As soon as he said it, a hazy picture came to me. He and Christine had gotten me to believe that if she gave me hickeys, I could approach Tiffany and convince her she’d done it, herself. That she’d been too drunk to remember. Christine leaned in, with surgical precision, and worked one spot, then another, each time Randy cackling with fierce glee, seeing the fresh hickey. It sounds so moronic, in retelling here, but Randy had his dad’s way of making you believe in the stupidest ideas, and it was worse when you were impaired.
In this case, it only worked because he’d had an accomplice. I guess Christine was just trying to do me a favor in achieving my desires. But who would do that? She wasn’t remotely interested in me. Maybe she needed to be in Randy’s good graces more than I did. Tiffany had grabbed me and slammed me across the living room to the delight of everyone there. I’d apparently been the second bill on the DogLips Night Entertainment Line-Up for the Weekend. I didn’t bother asking how I’d arrived at Picnic with a full paycheck and by Sunday morning, had less than forty bucks left, mostly in fives and ones.
A little girl picked up the phone when I called Leonard on Sunday. “Suppose you’re looking for a ride,” he said, his voice chilly. I agreed I was hoping. “Well, tell ya what, I’ll pick you up the same place I did before.”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” I said. The Rez was between Leonard’s house and the campground. Human Services was in the city and would take him twenty miles of backtracking.
“My truck, my rules,” he said. “See you there?” I agreed. I’d learned from my ma to accommodate conditional rides. They indicated lower patience. So, she found me a ride uptown.
The security guard once again told me the time the Welfare office opened. “I happen to be getting a ride,” I said, “to my job. Where I’m paid minimum wage for manual labor, a lot less than you’re getting paid for sitting on your ass.” I don’t know what I was thinking, maybe that I was on public property and untouchable, but I was wrong. He escorted me off the property and told me that, if I stepped foot on again, even one more time, he was having me arrested for disorderly conduct. When Leonard appeared, he noticed our proximity.
“There a problem, officer?” Leonard asked, getting out.
“This wiseass with you?”
“Yes, sir,” Leonard said, fake respect in his voice. “We work with underprivileged children at a camp that helps them to learn better social skills,” he added, which was a total lie.
“How’s this wiseass going to help them with that? He don’t have any skills himself,” the guard said, pleased with his own cleverness.
“He’s our poor example,” Leonard said. “We show them the costs of engaging with authorities inappropriately.” The guard looked pleased that he’d recognized my social deficits. “And people with billy clubs. I’m his guardian. You know how it is with these Indians.”
