He sat on a curb outside the Trading Post, hungry and ready to eat, just as Victor Joseph and Junior Polatkin walked up. Victor was the reservation John Travolta because he still wore clothes from the disco era. He had won a few thousand dollars in Reno way back in 1979, just after he graduated from high school. He bought a closet full of silk shirts and polyester pants and had never had any money since then to buy anything new. He hadn’t gained any weight in thirteen years, but the clothes were tattered and barely held to his body. His wardrobe made him an angry man.
“Ya-hey, Builds-the-Shithouse,” Victor said.
“Ya-hey,” Thomas said.
“Is that your guitar?” Junior Polatkin asked.
“That’s his woman,” Victor said.
Junior Polatkin was Victor’s sidekick, but nobody could figure out why, since Junior was supposed to be smart. A tall, good-looking buck with hair like Indians in the movies, long, purple-black, and straight, Junior was president of the Native American Hair Club. If there had been a hair bank, like a blood bank or sperm bank, Junior could have donated yards of the stuff and made a fortune. He drove a water truck for the Bureau of Indian Affairs and had even attended college for a semester or two. There were rumors he had fathered a white baby or two at school.
A job was hard to come by on the reservation, even harder to keep, and most figured that Victor used Junior for his regular income, but nobody ever knew what Junior saw in Victor. Still, Junior could be an asshole, too, because Victor was extremely contagious.
“This isn’t my guitar,” Thomas said. “But I’m going to change the world with it.”
Victor and Junior sat beside Thomas, one on either side. The three Spokane Indians sat together on the sidewalk in front of the Trading Post. Everybody likes to have a place to think, to meditate, to eat a burrito, and that particular piece of accidental sidewalk mostly belonged to Thomas. He usually sat there alone but now shared it with Victor and Junior, two of the most accomplished bullies of recent Native American history.
A few years earlier, after the parking lot for the Trading Post was built, the BIA contractor had a little bit of cement left over. So he decided to build a sidewalk rather than lug the cement all the way back to the warehouse and fill out complicated, unnecessary, and official government papers. Thomas was watching the BIA workers pour the cement and never saw Victor and Junior sneak up on him. Victor and Junior knocked Thomas over, pressed his face into the wet cement, and left a permanent impression in the sidewalk. The doctors at Sacred Heart Hospital in Spokane removed the cement from his skin, but the scars remained on his face. The sidewalk belonged to Thomas because of that pain.
“You named that guitar?” Junior asked.
“It’s a secret name,” Thomas said. “I ain’t ever going to tell anybody.”
Victor pulled Thomas into a quick headlock.
“Tell me,” Victor said and cut off Thomas’s air for a second.
“Come on,” Junior said. “Take it easy.”
“I ain’t letting you go until you tell me,” Victor said.
Thomas was not surprised by Victor’s sudden violence. These little wars were intimate affairs for those who dreamed in childhood of fishing for salmon but woke up as adults to shop at the Trading Post and stand in line for U.S.D.A. commodity food instead. They savagely, repeatedly, opened up cans of commodities and wept over the rancid meat, forced to eat what stray dogs ignored. Indian men like Victor roared from place to place, set fires, broke windows, and picked on the weaker members of the Tribe. Thomas had been the weakest Indian boy on the whole reservation, so small and skinny, with bigger wrists than arms, a head too large for its body, and ugly government glasses. When he grew older and stronger, grew into an Indian man, he was the smallest Indian man on the reservation.
“Tell me the name of your goddamned guitar,” Victor said and squeezed Thomas a little harder.
Thomas didn’t say a word, didn’t struggle, but thought It’s a good day to die. It’s a good day to get my ass kicked.
“Come on, Victor,” Junior said. “Let him go. He ain’t going to tell us nothing.”
“I ain’t leaving until he tells us,” Victor said, but then had a brainstorm. “Or until he plays us a song.”
“No way,” Junior said. “I don’t want to hear that.”
“I’ll make you a deal,” Thomas said. “If I can play your favorite Patsy Cline song, will you leave me alone?”
“What happens if you can’t play the song?” Victor asked.
“Then you can kick my ass some more.”
“We’ll kick your ass anyway,” Victor said. “If you can’t play the song, we get the guitar.”
“That’s a pretty good deal, enit?” Junior asked.
“Enit,” Victor said. “It’s better than hearing another one of his goddamn stories.”
Thomas repeated stories constantly. All the other Indians on the reservation heard those stories so often that the words crept into dreams. An Indian telling his friends about a dream he had was halfway through the telling before everyone realized it was actually one of Thomas’s stealth stories. Even the white people on the reservation grew tired of Thomas’s stories, but they were more polite when they ran away.
Thomas Builds-the-Fire’s stories climbed into your clothes like sand, gave you itches that could not be scratched. If you repeated even a sentence from one of those stories, your throat was never the same again. Those stories hung in your clothes and hair like smoke, and no amount of laundry soap or shampoo washed them out. Victor and Junior often tried to beat those stories out of Thomas, tied him down and taped his mouth shut. They pretended to be friendly and tried to sweet-talk Thomas into temporary silences, made promises about beautiful Indian women and cases of Diet Pepsi. But none of that stopped Thomas, who talked and talked.
“I got a better idea,” Victor added. “If you can’t play the song, then you have to stop telling all your fucking stories.”
“Okay,” Thomas said, “but you have to let me go first.”
Victor released Thomas from the headlock but picked up the guitar and smashed it against the sidewalk. Then he handed it to Junior, who shrugged his shoulders and gave it back to Thomas. Indians around the Trading Post watched this with indifference or ignored it altogether.
“There,” Victor said. “Now you can play the song.”
“Oh, yeah, enit,” Junior said. “Play it now.”
Thomas looked around at the little country he was trying to save, this reservation hidden away in the corner of the world. He knew that Victor and Junior were fragile as eggs, despite their warrior disguises. He held that cracked guitar tenderly, strummed the first chord, and sang that Patsy Cline song about falling to pieces.
Victor looked at Thomas, looked at Junior, sat on the sidewalk again. Thomas managed to sing that song pretty well, but Victor had been looking forward to the silence. He might have to kick Thomas’s ass anyway. Victor, fresh from thirty-two years of fried chicken lunches, ran his hands along his greasy silk shirt and tried to think.
“Jeez,” Junior said, “that was pretty good, Thomas. Where’d you learn to sing?”
“Shut the fuck up,” Victor said. “I’m thinking.”
The-man-who-was-probably-Lakota watched these events unfold. He walked over to the trio of Spokane Indians on the sidewalk.
“The end of the world is near!”
“When is that going to happen?” Junior asked. “I need to set my alarm clock.
“Don’t mock me,” the-man-who-was-probably-Lakota said. “The end of the world is near!”
“Why don’t all of you shut up?” Victor said.
Junior pretended his feelings were hurt so he could storm off. He needed to drive the water truck down to the West End of the reservation anyway but didn’t want Victor to know how much he cared about his job. The West End ran out of water every summer. Indians and pine trees competed for water down there, and the trees usually won.
“Where you going??
?? Victor asked Junior.
“To the West End.”
“Wait up, I’ll ride with you,” Victor said and ran after Junior.
Thomas had received a pardon because of Victor’s short attention span. Still, Victor never actually hurt him too seriously. Victor’s natural father had liked Thomas for some reason. Victor remembered that and seemed to pull back at the last second, left bruises and cuts but didn’t break bones. After Victor’s father died, Thomas had flown with Victor to Phoenix to help pick up the ashes. Some people said that Thomas even paid for Victor’s airplane tickets. Thomas just did things that made no sense at all.
“I’ll be back for you!” Victor yelled and climbed into the water truck with Junior.
“The end of the world is near!
“My ass is near your face!” Victor yelled out the window as the truck pulled away.
The-man-who-was-probably-Lakota helped Thomas to his feet. Thomas started to cry. That was the worst thing an Indian man could do if he were sober. A drunk Indian can cry and sing into his beer all night long, and the rest of the drunk Indians will sing backup.
“Listen,” the-man-who-was-probably-Lakota said as he put his arm around Thomas’s shoulders. “Go on home. Glue the guitar back together. Maybe things will be better in the morning.”
“You think so?” Thomas asked.
“Yeah, but don’t tell anybody I said so. It would ruin my reputation.”
“Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Thomas climbed into his blue van with that broken guitar, wondered if he could fix it, and noticed his fingers were cut shallowly, as if the first layers of skin had been delicately sliced by a razor. The-man-who-was-probably-Lakota picked up a hand drum and pounded it in rhythm with his words as Thomas drove away.
“The end of the world is near! It’s near! It’s near! The end is near!”
Junior was a good driver. He kept that water truck firmly on the road, negotiating the reservation obstacle course of potholes and free-range livestock, as he made his way to the West End. He had been driving trucks since a few days after he had returned from college. Victor had been riding with him all that time, falling asleep as soon as his head fell back against the vinyl seat. On that particular day, as the-man-who-was-probably-Lakota comforted Thomas, Victor fell asleep before they passed the city limits. At least, his eyes were closed when the nightmare came to him.
Victor fought against his nightmare, twisted and moaned in his seat, as Junior drove the water truck. Junior, who had always paid close attention to dreams, wondered which particular nightmare was filling Victor’s sleep. He had majored in psychology during his brief time in college and learned a lot about dreams. In Psychology 101, Junior had learned from Freud and Jung that dreams decided everything. He figured that Freud and Jung must have been reservation Indians, because dreams decided everything for Indians, too. Junior based all of his decisions on his dreams and visions, which created a lot of problems. When awake, he could never stomach the peanut butter and onion sandwiches that tasted so great in his dreams, but Junior always expected his visions to come true. Indians were supposed to have visions and receive messages from their dreams. All the Indians on television had visions that told them exactly what to do.
Junior knew how to wake up in the morning, eat breakfast, and go to work. He knew how to drive his water truck, but he didn’t know much beyond that, beyond that and the wanting. He wanted a bigger house, clothes, shoes, and something more. Junior didn’t know what Victor wanted, except money. Victor wanted money so bad that he always spent it too quick, as if the few dollars in his wallet somehow prevented him from getting more. Money. That’s all Victor talked about. Money. Junior didn’t know if Victor wanted anything more, but he knew that Victor was dreaming.
Victor tossed and turned in his sleep, pushed against the door, kicked the dashboard. He spouted random words and phrases that Junior could not understand. Junior glanced over at his best friend, touched his leg, and Victor quieted a little.
Victor slept until Junior pulled up at Simon’s house on the West End. Simon stood on his front porch. His pickup, which he only drove in reverse, was parked on the remains of the lawn.
“Ya-hey, Simon,” Junior called out as he stepped down from his truck.
“Ya-hey,” Simon said. “Bringing me some water?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. I need water. My lawn.”
Junior looked at the dusty ground and the few struggling grass shoots.
“Jeez,” Simon said, “I really need some water.”
Junior nodded his head.
“Where are we?” Victor asked from inside the truck.
“At Simon’s.”
“That crazy backward driving old man?” Victor said. “What are we doing here?”
“Water,” Junior said. “Can you help me?”
Victor climbed out of the truck and helped Junior insert the hose into Simon’s well. They pumped water for a few minutes, then removed the hose and made as if to leave.
“Wait,” Simon said. “Aren’t you thirsty? Don’t you want something to drink?”
He was a good host.
“Yeah,” Victor said. “Do you got a beer?”
“He don’t drink like that,” Junior said.
“I don’t drink like that,” Simon said.
“All he has is Pepsi and coffee,” Junior said.
“All I have is Pepsi and coffee,” Simon said.
“Enit?” Victor asked.
“Enit.”
“Well,” Victor said, “I’m feeling like a beer. What do you think, Junior? Let’s knock off early and head for the tavern.”
Junior ignored him.
“Come on,” Victor said. “Let’s go.”
“I’ve got work to do,” Junior said. “I need to finish. It’s my job.”
Junior climbed into the water truck. Victor sighed deeply and climbed in, too. They’d had this same conversation for years. Simon waved from the front porch and then ran over to the truck. He stood on the running board and leaned into the truck.
“Hey,” Simon said, “did you see that black man the other day?”
Junior nodded.
“What do you think?”
“I think it’s bullshit,” Victor said.
“What do you think?” Simon asked Junior, who just shrugged his shoulders and cleared his throat.
“Yeah,” Simon said, shrugging his shoulders and clearing his throat. “It’s just like that, enit? That’s what I’ve been thinking, too. Just like that. You know, the whole reservation’s been talking. People think that Thomas is goofy.”
“He is goofy,” Victor said. “Now, get down. We’re heading out. Got work to do.”
Simon stepped off the running board.
“See you,” Junior said.
Simon waved again.
“Hey,” Victor said, “how come you don’t walk backwards like you drive?”
“Because I’d bump into things.”
“Oh,” Victor said, “that makes a whole lot of sense. You keep in touch, okay? We’ll do lunch.”
“Can’t,” Simon said. “I’m going out of town. Headed to the coast to visit my relatives. Won’t be back for a while.”
Junior smiled at the thought of Simon hurtling backwards down Interstate 90, passing hundreds of cars, and pulling gracefully into rest stops.
“Send us a postcard,” Victor said.
“You take care,” Junior said.
“Jeez,” Victor said as they pulled away, “that man is crazy.”
“He’s fine. He’s fine.”
“Whatever you say. Aren’t you thirsty?”
Junior looked at his best friend.
“We’ve got five more houses to do. Then we can go to the tavern.”
“Cool. You’re buying, enit?”
“Yeah, I’m buying.”
While Junior and Victor got drunk in the tavern and Thomas slept, Robert Johnson’s guitar fixed itself. He had left it outsid
e by the smokehouse because he planned to burn it as firewood. It had held together long enough for the Patsy Cline song but completely fell apart before he got it home. He planned on smoking some salmon anyway and figured the smoke from the burning guitar would make salmon taste like the blues. But the guitar came together overnight and waited for Thomas, who walked outside with salmon in his hands.
“Thomas,” the guitar said. It sounded almost like Robert Johnson but resonated with a deeper tone, some other kind of music. Thomas wasn’t surprised that the guitar sounded almost like Robert Johnson.
“Good morning,” Thomas said. “How you feeling this morning?”
“Little sore, little tired.”
“I know what you mean, enit?”
Thomas tried to hide the salmon behind his back, but the guitar saw it.
“We’re plannin’ on burnin’ me up?” the guitar asked.
“Yeah,” Thomas said. He could not lie.
The guitar laughed.
“That’s all right,” the guitar said. “You eat your fish. I’ll just play some blues right here.”
The guitar played itself while Thomas smoked the salmon. Before she died, Thomas’s mother, Susan, had draped the salmon across a bare mattress frame, threw the frame over the fire, and smoked it that way. Thomas didn’t have the courage to do that, so he cooked salmon in the old smokehouse that Samuel, his father, had built years ago. Susan died of cancer when Thomas was ten years old; Samuel had been drunk since the day after his wife’s wake.
“The blues always make us remember,” the guitar said.
“They do, enit?” Thomas said.
“What do the blues make you remember?”
“My mom used to sing,” Thomas said. “Her voice sounded like a flute when she was happy, but more like glass breaking when she was in pain.”