by Jessie Cooke
Atsa grew up in Tempe, but not on the side of the city where he currently lived in a high-rise apartment with Pam. He had grown up in one of the roughest neighborhoods in the city, Knoell Gardens. The population of the little neighborhood was less than three hundred, and despite its poor reputation, it was a tight-knit community; at least when Atsa lived there with his older sister and his parents it was. He had always been popular, he was their high school hero, the hometown boy who was off to college and did well for himself. Atsa had thankfully not let any of that go to his head. He knew that his good life as a kid hadn’t been due to his good looks or his athletic ability. It had been due instead to the hard work, sweat, dedication, and love of his family. His parents were both hard workers and they taught Atsa the work ethic that got him where he was today. Most importantly, his father had been a respected member of the community, a man who did odd jobs around the neighborhood for free, fixing a roof here and a front porch there. Every night his parents insisted the family have dinner together and that was when Atsa and his older sister were free to discuss anything that was on their minds. Their parents didn’t always agree with them, or give them what they wanted, but they were always willing to talk things through. He also watched his father strive to make sure his mother had everything she needed and most of what she wanted, and that was what he thought he’d been doing for Pam. What he realized now was that although his father was providing the life his mother wanted, his mother had never been willing to sit back and take without giving...and that was the difference.
He pulled off the road into a parking lot that had seen better days. The asphalt was cracked and completely broken and gone in places, and the most expensive vehicle in the lot had to be the Indian motorcycle parked up near the front of the dilapidated building. Atsa parked the bright red Maserati in between an 80s Chevy Nova and a later-model Ford Focus. As he got out he hit the lock key and the sharp tweet of the alarm being set caught the attention of two guys standing alongside the building, smoking a joint.
“What the fuck? Dude, you gotta be crazy leaving that car in this lot.” Atsa looked over his shoulder at the car and back at the young Hispanic guy and his pale, white friend and shrugged.
“It’ll be there when I come out, or it won’t. Whatever, it’s insured.” The two young guys stood staring at him for several seconds with their mouths open. Atsa could feel them still watching him as he went inside. He meant what he’d told them; he honestly didn’t care about the car and if they stripped it while he was gone, he probably wouldn’t even turn it into the insurance. Suddenly that car, the luxury apartment, and the fancy neighborhood he lived in all felt like weights around his neck.
The door shut behind him as he walked into the bar. It was loud and dark and filled with smoke. Once his eyes adjusted he made his way up to the rounded oak counter and took a seat on one of the cracked vinyl stools. The bartender was a heavyset white guy with a pockmarked face. He didn’t look like a chatty one and for that Atsa was grateful. He wasn’t in a chatty mood. “What can I get you?”
“Whiskey, I don’t care what kind. Leave the bottle.” He laid a hundred-dollar bill on the bar and it was quickly exchanged for a fifth of Jack Daniels and a glass. Atsa poured himself a drink and downed it. He was pouring a second one when the stool next to him was taken by an older man who looked Native American as well. He smiled and gave Atsa a little nod. Atsa nodded back and lifted his glass, trying to be polite, but hoping it wouldn’t invite the old guy to open up. The bartender sat a mug of beer down in front of the older man and he lifted it in Atsa’s direction before taking a sip. Then thankfully, he turned his stool so he could look out at the rest of the little bar and didn’t try to engage Atsa in unwanted conversation.
Atsa sat there for a while and drank his whiskey, blocking out all the background noise and losing himself in his own thoughts. He’d proudly thought of himself as a success only twenty-four hours earlier and now as he took stock of his life, he was coming up empty. He was thirty-five, single...again...childless— not where he wanted to be at this stage in his life. AJ was pulled out of his thoughts by the sudden cessation of the blaring music and a loud voice: “Hey! Whoever owns that fancy red Maserati out there, they’re stripping it.” Atsa turned and looked at the man standing near the jukebox holding the electrical cord in his hand. He was a black man, dressed in a dirty coat and a stained-up pair of jeans. His gloves had holes in them and the woolen cap on his head was fraying.
“It’s mine,” Atsa said.
“Man, they’re taking everything, you better hurry.”
Atsa stood up and all eyes were on him as he walked over to the man. He stopped about a foot in front of him and said, “Why aren’t you out there helping them?”
The man frowned. “Because I’m no thief.”
Atsa nodded and reached into his back pocket. He pulled out his wallet and the man watched as he opened it, revealing the hundreds of dollars in cash he had inside. Atsa thumbed through the cash and pulled out one of his cards. He handed it to the man and said, “You looking for work?” The man frowned again. He looked confused.
“Maybe.”
“This is my company. Call that number on there if you’re interested in some hard work with good pay and benefits.”
The man scratched the side of his head and stared at the card. “Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why offer me a job, especially if you don’t care about that car out there?”
Atsa shrugged and said, “I guess because you’re the first person that has done anything for me out of the goodness of their heart today with no other agenda and I think honest, hardworking men should be rewarded.”
“Oh...well, okay...thanks.” The man glanced back at Atsa’s wallet and then seemed to remember why he’d gone into the bar in the first place. “But dude, that car’s gonna be nothing but bones by the time you get out there.”
Atsa smiled. “That’s okay, I’m insured. Here,” he said, taking a fifty-dollar note out of his wallet. “For your trouble.”
The guy looked like he was going to say no, but finally took it out of Atsa’s hand and said, “Thanks, man.” He plugged in the jukebox and music once again began to blare through the room as he left. Atsa went over and took his seat back at the bar. After several minutes, the older man next to him said:
“You’re really not going to see what they’re doing to your car?”
Atsa shook his head and looked at the man in the mirror behind the bar. “Honestly, I wish people could boost your entire past sometimes, just take it, resell it or whatever and leave you to start over.”
The older man smiled. “You know...ah, never mind. I’m sure a man who drives a Maserati doesn’t need advice from an old Indian.”
Atsa smiled. “My dad moved to Florida about five years ago and then about three years ago, he and my mother both passed away. I’d give anything now for five minutes of that old Indian’s advice.”
“I’m sorry to hear about your folks.” Atsa nodded and the older man said, “But in that case, I’ll give you my advice and you can take it or leave it as you see fit. We can’t erase the past, but as long as the sun comes up every morning, there’s always another chance to start over.”
“I get that,” Atsa said. “The thing is, I wake up every morning as the same person I was when I went to sleep the night before. What if I make all the same mistakes over? I’m halfway through my life already; another thirty-five years of wrong choices and time’s up.”
The old man smiled. “Well, first off, I like to think I’m only about halfway through my life and you’re a hell of a lot younger than me.” He chuckled and Atsa smiled before he went on, “As far as making different choices, that’s all up to you, young man. Just because you’re the same man doesn’t mean you have to wake up and walk the same path each day. What’s most important is knowing yourself. You have to be able to answer just one single question, son, and that’s ‘What is my passion?’”
A
tsa looked at his own face in the mirror again. How well did he really know himself? Shouldn’t a man know what his passion is, without having to think about it? “I guess I don’t really know the answer to that,” he said. “When I was a kid I always had this idea that I’d do a lot of traveling when I got older. Things changed, my plans changed by the time I got out of college, and I haven’t gotten much further than California.” He laughed and said, “I used to imagine doing a cross-country trip on a motorcycle. My best friend in college had a Harley and he taught me how to ride it. I can’t even explain it, but I’ve never felt freer than I did when I was on the back of that bike.”
The man smiled knowingly and said, “You’re looking at a man who spent the bulk of his life on the back of his, so you don’t have to explain it to me.”
“That your Indian out front?”
“Yep.”
Atsa really looked at the man for the first time. That was when he realized he was wearing a leather vest. Across the front of it, it said “Rock” and there was a small patch on the other side with a picture of a tarantula. “You part of an MC?”
“Used to be,” Rock said. “It ran its course and the old lady and I settled down near Phoenix and took over a little store from my uncle. I just ran up here to Tempe today to see an old friend.”
Atsa was quiet for a minute, contemplating what the older man had said about finding his passion and then he said, “Can I ask you another question?”
“Sure.”
“Your old lady...have you been with her for a while?”
Atsa saw the old man’s eyes light up and he said, “Thirty-five years and counting. I pray every day that when our time comes, she’ll find me in the underworld and we can spend another lifetime together.”
The man reminded him of his father and his eyes filled with tears as he said, “That’s it. That’s my passion. I want a love like that.”
Rock put a big, gnarled hand on the Atsa’s shoulder and said, “Go find it, son, and don’t accept anything that doesn’t set your soul on fire.”
4
New Orleans, Louisiana
“Jolene, please think about what you’re doing.”
Jolene smiled at her mother. They stood outside her mom’s home and next to her Jeep. Jolene had just loaded the last of her things inside and her mother looked like she was about to have an anxiety attack. This trip had been planned for months and Jolene hoped by the time the day she left arrived, her mother would have gotten acclimated to the idea. No such luck, though; she could see the tears forming in her mother’s eyes.
“Mama, I’ve thought about doing something like this for years. It’s an incredible opportunity for someone so new to the craft. This has always been my dream, you know that. This is the reason I took all those photography classes in high school and the reason I got that expensive degree in photojournalism that you and Daddy worked so hard to pay for...”
“But alone, Jolene. Look at you! You’re as pretty as a picture. You shouldn’t be out there all alone. What if you break down in the middle of nowhere? These reservations, they’re off the beaten track...”
“Mom, please don’t cry. I promise to do everything possible to keep myself safe. Just think of how much I’ll be learning and at the same time doing something to help people. For too long the indigenous people have been all but forgotten. It’s about time someone took enough interest in them to do something like this.” Just talking about it excited Jolene. She got her first camera when she was five years old for Christmas and when she was finally old enough to get a cell phone like all of her friends were getting, she asked for a professional camera instead. She loved looking at the world from different angles and more than that, she loved that other people could see things they might never have been able to see, through her.
Her dream since she was thirteen years old was to be a travel photographer, traveling to all the exotic and even the out-of-the-way places that people might want to visit, but couldn’t. She’d worked hard to excel at her craft. She’d entered her photographs in contests and the county fair since she was a kid and she welcomed not only the compliments, but the criticism as well. She wanted to be the best at what she did even if it meant working a little harder. When she graduated college she got a job with a travel agency but so far all they’d had her do were photographs of New Orleans and the surrounding areas. She knew she was new, and young, and she was willing to wait for it to be her turn...but then opportunity had presented itself and she jumped at it.
Jolene had been invited by one of her old professors to take photographs at a Native American powwow they had at the University. She spent the weekend taking hundreds of photographs but one in particular had caught the eye of a historian who lived out west. It was a photograph of the gourd dance that preceded the main event. The gourd dance is danced by warriors and veterans and it is in honor of not only the warriors who have fought for their people, but the souls of the enemies they have defeated as well. The historian called her as soon as she saw the photos and told her she’d like to meet. She flew out to Louisiana and told Jolene that she felt like the young photographer had not only captured the moments of that dance, but the spirits of the men dancing. The historian was writing a book about Native Americans who were still in touch with their culture and heritage and what she wanted from Jolene were photographs of various tribes all across the United States. Two months later, Jolene had an itinerary that began on the west coast, in Arizona, and saw her traveling all the way back east to Maine. She also had an expense account and she’d be getting a monthly paycheck. None of it would make her rich, at least in dollars, but she couldn’t imagine a richer experience.
“I’ll call you all the time, Mama, I promise. I’ll be home for holidays too and stop by on my way back through.”
Her mother suddenly wrapped her up in her arms and pulled her in for a tight hug. “I don’t care if you’re twenty-five or fifty, you’re still my baby girl. Please don’t let anything happen to you, and please don’t find some man who wants you to settle down a thousand miles away. I want some ginger-haired little heathens running around here calling me Nana someday.”
Jolene laughed. Her mother was a beautiful olive-skinned brunette and Jolene had envied her since she was ten years old. She had gotten her father’s Nordic skin coloring and curly red hair. The only thing she’d gotten from her mother were her deep brown eyes, and Jolene had always thought they looked odd staring out of her too-white, freckled face. She could only hope the genes skipped a generation when she did decide to have children. Maybe her mother’s Italian heritage would step up then. “I promise not to have kids unless you’re close enough to spoil them, okay?”
She nodded and hugged Jolene again. Jolene was afraid she’d have to pry herself loose when she heard the booming voice of her father. “Turn that girl loose, her lips are blue.” Her mother let go of her and Jolene smiled up at her father. Her parents were a prime example of opposites attracting. Where her mother stood at a petite five feet two inches tall with features like a doll and bones like a tiny little bird, Jolene’s father was six-foot-five, over three hundred pounds, with unruly red hair and a wild beard and mustache to match. Where her mother was almost always serious, soft-spoken, and classy, her father was loud, always laughing or going out of his way to make others laugh, and he’d been called crass a time or two. He was a fisherman by trade and a hard worker, but he also played as hard as he worked. He was in love with life, and that was probably what Jolene loved most about him. As soon as her mother let go of her, her dad wrapped his giant arms around her and picked her up off her feet. “Gonna miss you, Red.”
“Gonna miss you too, Red Beard.” Jolene was no dainty woman like her mother. She stood five-foot-seven and although she wasn’t what anyone might refer to as fat, she had been called “voluptuous” on more than one occasion. Still, her father’s hug felt like it might break her and when he finally set her down on her feet she had to re-inflate her lungs.
Re
d Beard put his arm around his wife. Jolene had called him that for as long as she could remember. It was what everyone in their neighborhood and all the men he worked with called him. In return he just called her “Red.” “Call your mother, Red, a lot. If you don’t, she’ll drive me crazy with the visions in her pretty head about all the things that might be happening to you out there.” Her mother elbowed him in the gut but he just laughed. “You know it’s true Joyce.”
“I love you guys. I better get going.” After one last hug for both of them, Jolene finally got on the road. She cranked up the radio, rolled down the windows and headed out west...to document the lives of Native people, but hopefully in the process to find herself as well.
Tempe, Arizona
“What the hell happened to it?” The salesman walked around the little Maserati checking out the damage that the boys in the hood had done to it while Atsa was inside the bar. One of the fenders had been pulled off and all of the silver alloy wheels. Both sideview mirrors were missing but they hadn’t had enough time to take much more. If it didn’t have a state-of-the-art security system, Atsa didn’t doubt they would have taken the entire car but despite its sad appearance, he knew what was left was worth a hell of a lot of money.
“Parked in a bad neighborhood,” he said. “The motor and interior are all still intact and I’m sure you know what all that is worth.” Atsa didn’t need the trade-in value on the car but he’d woken up that morning with the idea that if he could at least get something back out of the past few years, it wouldn’t seem like such wasted time.
“Yeah, sure. I think we can give you something for it.”
Atsa laughed. The Harley he was looking at topped out at sixty-grand. What was left of the car was worth seventy at least. “Well you just go talk to your boss and I’ll make some calls and see if anyone else might be in the market for a car like this...slightly damaged.”