With his John Lennon-type wire-rim glasses balanced over a small pointed nose that held a conspicuous bouquet of blond nose hairs, Dr. Plees was curious about what I had written—in particular, anything about BEC and Twintowns. He intimated that since this was “home” for his family, it would be good to know my perspective, even if it was “make-believe.” I didn’t buy it, though; he knew the Black Eagle Child slants inside out. I visualized him commenting at length on my work, translating some of the cryptic passages, over cheese, crackers, and wine at the Indian Acres country club.
“Oh, I’m sure it’s fictional, but everything in art has a foundation.”
“Not my art,” I said. “Not when it’s the suspected source of my headaches, fatigue, and anxiety.”
“Maybe your inability to structure your themes on what is currently at your disposal is doing this?”
“Is that a question?”
Resembling a giant rat, he came at me with his tongue depressor and nearly tripped. His demeanor was shifty and impulsive, reminding me of some weird composite character from Alice in Wonderland.
“I was wondering,” he questioned, “was your last collection of verse ever reviewed?”
“Yeah,” I answered.
“May I ask where?”
“No problem. In most literary periodicals. Magazines you probably haven’t heard of.”
He rounded the examining table with his stumpy legs and stuck a lighted probe into my ear. I winced in pain and jerked away.
“Hey, geez!” I protested. “Aren’t you going to ask what’s wrong with me?”
“You know, people read your work and they talk about it.”
“That’s what books are for,1 Doctor.”
“Correct. But when books misportray or give a single version of events, it isn’t fair.”
“That’s why we have freedom of speech, Doctor.”
In his white smock he took a step backward, took a good look, and smirked.
“You have a mouth, don’t you?”
“Listen, Doc, I’m in a jam and—”
“Do you ever unhinge your mouth and let the internalized bitterness ooze out; boy?”
“Hey, look, being a writer is bad enough.”
“Anyone with a smart-ass attitude should suffer. The source of the affliction should be lanced.’
“Oh, incidentally, that’s what I’m here for. That’s what you get paid for. I’m suffering. It feels like a concrete bridge is sitting on my chest and it’s about to crash through.”
“That can be fixed, son,” he said. “A proper lancing to the jugular.”
That’s how we last interfaqed. He supposedly wrote out a prescription for antidepressants. Whatever it was, if I think about it now, my hands sweat profusely. Tharfk God for the invisible stone knife, the one Grandmother gave me to wear before the train ride to Southern California in 1970. Similar to an antibugging device, the spike-tip stone warns me of ill intention or malice. Enclosed in a brass locket and strung on a short leather string that was secured with a safety pin to the inside of my shirt, the charm didn’t react kindly to Dr. Plees. In my doubt-afflicted state I ingested the pharmaceutical concoctions until I recalled word for word what Grandmother had said on that train depot platform: “This past spring as the swamp buds were on the verge of poking through dead leaves and weeds, I found this stone knife and prayed for it. Take it with you; it will protect you. In each adversity you encounter—whether or not you are aware of it—it will point like an invisible knife in front of you.”
I reached the conclusion that Dr. Plees had intentionally over-prescribed, that the pills might be harmful to me, and by extension to others. In my fathers sweat lodge and under a blanket of stars, I rid myself of the toxins. Besieged with twisted meditations, I saved the pills and the plastic container they came in. Inside and folded up were two notes, one with Jake Sacred Hammer-like instructions: “these, along with insurmountable indecision and academia, will be determined as the cause of my insanity, please keep my body away from dr. plees. advise selene I love her still and to feed the dogs.”
And the other a poem:
Parallel Yellow could move strange
bullet-shaped lumps from
one arm to the other
travelling under
the skin of his
chicken pox-
scarred back
The conical lumps made
tiny squeaking
noises convincing
skeptics that an
extraterrestrial
had surgically implanted
two metallic tracking
devices
in his lower spine
and left gonad
shrinking
expanding
in accordance
to telepathic
messages sent
Twice he saw
them overlap
popping through
leaving the acrid
aroma of carpet
cleaner and a trail
of blue smoke
Dime-sized
the UFOs roared like
Caterpillar engines
as they sped over
the Red-Hatted
Grandfather’s Valley
of Mushrooms
The Ramada Inn
That doesn’t seem like long ago. Imprinted still are mental pictures of events and the capricious manner in which they unfolded. Ted’s loss didn’t engulf me until I had had my bitter fill of county law enforcement agencies. I learned even the most insignificant detail, like the lettering on a can of oranges or the graphic minutiae of a kitchen tablecloth, languished in this hideous timeless state, the gradual realization of a traumatic loss.
Maybe that’s why recollections seem vivid and nearby.
Upon receiving news at home that Ted had been killed in a vehicular accident, I took a shower to clear my senses. There, in the steamed reflection of the bathroom mirror, I asked whether he required my involvement. And when Selene’s brother, Octavius Buffalo Husband, replied in the other room, sounding amazingly like Ted, I took it as a paranormal signpost. Thrust upon a catlinite surfboard that was hydroplaning over unearthly waves, I pulled down the navigator’s goggles and crouched low behind the watchdog effigy masthead before rationality returned. But the fact of the matter was, and this is how revelations conceal themselves through coincidence, Octavius—at that very second—was giving advice through Selene who was on the telephone with their younger sister. He thought it was best to “pull her kids” from an ineffective bilingual/bicultural curriculum.
A week afterward, under duress, I donated Hawaiian Punch at the tribal health clinic. A month later I was traveling on behalf of the Facepaint family to Minneapolis to meet with Junior Pipestar. I remember being in that motel room with my parents. It was on a Superbowl day, and I was perspiring heavily between the fingers. In the blue flickering light of the RCA television set, Pipestar’s teenage apprentice was unraveling the bundles of dry goods and purifying them with cedar bough smoke a small cord of muscles below the thigh bone began to shake. Regardless of the fact that it was also a long-awaited reunion, there was every reason to believe the realms of perception would somehow be altered. As with everything imperfect, revelation would arrive in a bungling “Keystone Cops” manner. Sure enough, at the height of the psychic inquisition there was a disturbing blast of humor at the thought of grown men, the infamous “Hyena brothers” wearing dresses and masks. Is there such a thing as a comedy-riddled death? I asked.Or is this all a delusion precipitated by mourning postponed? Why this sarcastic urge to smile back at the Kansas City Chiefs football player, another insignificant detail, on the surreal cereal box ad? Whatever the origin of these thoughts I quickly shook myself free of them, blaming the purported fathers of the Hyenai. Even when they were told their children had non-Indian features at birth, they Signed the paternity and enrollment papers. As a result, the cross-dressing Hyenai were considered legitimate members of tribal c
itizenry in the eyes of Black Eagle Child government.
Late in their life the Hyena brothers, a.k.a. Mathylde “Patty Jo” Hi-na’s sons, were urged by Brook Grassleggings, the photogenic hermaphrodite, to stop fighting their effeminate desires. The brothers found solace in Brook but they misinterpreted her messages. They took her sympathy as a blessing to victimize those who didn’t understand the full ramifications of their enigmatic sexual discovery.
A group of Settlement winos known for their homegrown intellect once theorized these “mixed-bloods” were so paranoid, thanks to their illegal bloodline, that Other personae took over. Especially when they gathered into a mangy pack, downing gallons of Mad Dog 20/20 and popping “speed.” The winos predicted a flesh-taking transgression was in the offing. With their translucent marble eyes reflecting in the car headlights of all-night parties, lectured Dr. Crockston, they’ll subdue anyone who hints at their biological shortcomings. Documented full-bloods, especially those they had had run-ins with, like Ted Facepaint, became priority targets for their wrath.
Sketches of their shape-shifting were drawn on shoebox lids by wino-artists and passed around for all to study. The Hyenai were graphically depicted in werewolflike transformations by Professor Crockston and his graduate assistant, Dean Afraid, the daytime robber of the only Italian-owned grocery store in Why Cheer.
The shoebox lid sketches thumbtacked to the door held back little: Their bladders bloated up like balloons and grew from within, distorting and enlarging their exterior appearances until the predominant feature was a froth-speckled sneer that had yellow teeth protruding through grape-colored nostrils.
The winos, under the guidance of Professor Crockston, were never far from being correct. Amid the picturesque crown of hills, the Black Eagle Child people were surrounded with the pounding waves of an invisible ocean called eventuality. Not only did lives occasionally lose their footing and tumble headfirst into the surf, but personalities were ostensibly altered. Brook Grassleggings, as a prime example, single-handedly made Junior Pipestar go on a religious quest twenty-one years ago. While Brook wasn’t quite a woman, biologically speaking, she/it convinced Pipestar to become an apprentice to Jack Frost, a legendary Canadian Indian medicine man. Abstinence, of course, was a requisite, as were sobriety and an unwavering diligence to learn paranormal skills.
But on occasion I would ruminate that if Pipestar’s life had been predetermined all along, then a womanless devotion to God was inevitable. In other words, it would have evolved eventually, but who would have figured that it would happen prematurely and under compromising conditions?
The most embarrassing thing that could happen back then was being pushed by a clan priest down a rocky hill for being a belligerent drunk inside the ceremonial earthlodge. But not for Junior Pipestar. For him, the world vanished the night he met an Indian equivalent of “Lauren Bacall.” Possessing a rock-stippled face that would remind tribal members one had attended a feast under the influence was a minuscule burden compared to Pipestar’s misfortune.
Ted Facepaint and I, as it turned out, were indirectly involved in that encounter. Yet Pipestar never attributed blame to anyone other than himself. Nor was he angry. And how could he be? Too much happened from one reckless, isolated decision. His. Like a shiny plump fish he swam willingly toward the long beak of a calculating, androgynous heron. The “Brook person” in spurious minxlike mannerisms retreated into the shadows with a lit cigarette in its lipsticked mouth. The motions of a harmless firefly were imitated, and unsuspecting passersby, like Pipestar,! mistook it for such.
In making the arrangements for our meeting with Pipestar, his young apprentice specified over the telephone that it would be impossible for him to visit the Black Eagle Child Settlement because of his schedule. But Minneapolis was fine. “The Ramada Inn wherecrime-conjuring phantasms were part of the accommodations,” I later recorded in my journals.
There, in the cafeteria, Pipestar explained: “The past is always near. It is as near as the presence of someone sleeping beside you in bed when you know you are alone! Memory has a breath. In the strangest hour it decides to leap atop your chest to breathe in syncopation with you. Conjoined, so to speak. Inseparable and mimicking. And then you recall—in every sensor detail.”
We did, on different levels.
It was 1968. A humid summer night with a couple of cases of Leinenkugel’s long-neck beers. We were all on a hunt, like honorable American presidents, in a divining rod kind of pose, organ-led and not heedful of the rapacious flame that raged within and warmed the recesses of our bellies. Facepaint and I were there being hosts to Junior Pipestar and his sister Charlotte. Because of our careless adolescence, Brook Grassleggings, a young and attractive half woman and half man, was able to hoodwink Pipestar into a near-sexual encounter. Captivated by Brook’s husky but enticing “Lauren Bacall” voice and a slim physical stature to match, Pipestar had been lured away by a giggling group of cigarette-desperate girls. Someone who was courteous, accommodating, and curious was all Brook needed to initiate the public embarrassment that would make Pipestar split Tama County forever.
Originally, Facepaint and I commiserated with his despair, but we also advised him that people would forget about what happened at the old Grassleggings log cabin. He argued he had survived “the shenanigans of a deviate and gunfire from the county sheriff, some deputies, and assorted vigilantes.” No one will care, we pleaded. “I was the one who was there with Brook,” he protested. “Factor that into the dreadful equation.” It was true. How could anyone who only seconds before was caressing a firm nubile breast in one hand and the shocking male protuberance of Brook in another survive after coming to under a volley of bullets and photographers’ flashbulbs?
The last discussion before Pipestar’s exodus ended in hysterics.
“Jesus Christ!” he cried. “Just put yourself in my place. Would you even go anywhere and show your bloody face?”
For the sake of argument we nodded yes but later concurred in secret it would be difficult to live an event like that down. From any perspective. The photograph taken of him in underwear after being roused by the posse, however, made the incriminating maple sugar pie calcify. No Houdini, not even in resurrection, could escape the award-winning newspaper photograph with a caption that read: “A BUCK BUCK NAKED.” With mud-stained arms raised up to the night-sky as if in homage or surrender, Junior—hoodwinked by an oddity— participated unwillingly in his own despicable representation. This near-sexual encounter compelled Junior Pipestar to bid his Claer, Iowa, family members adieu and hitchhike northward to Canada in search of identity. Most forgot about him, as Facepaint and I predicted. In a way, everyone became an infinite part of the process, of moving on, forgetting.
Today, in the strangest irony of all, we were insignificant next to what Junior Pipestar had become under the tutelage of Jack Frost, the legendary medicine man of Horned Serpent Lake. We, those living and deceased, were dependent upon their supernatural seeing powers.
In the company of saviors, to whom and to what do you humbly give thanks? Unbridled lust, maybe? A pack of Camel cigarettes? Three thousand American dollars?
What Held the Night’s Attention
The following audiotape recording was sent from Pinelodge Lake, Canada, in April 1990. It was addressed “To the Friends and Family of Ted Face-paint.” In a mixture of English and the ancient dialect of the Ontario tribe, a language that he vowed to speak one day, Junior Pipestar, medicine man, discussed new findings about the murder of Ted Facepaint.
We were instructed hy letter to seal the ceremonial room in the oblong-shaped house also known as the Well-Off Man Church from daylight and purify it. Sitting in the darkness on new folded blankets and pillows brought to mind that it had been nearly twenty-five years since Ted and I attended the first of what would be four Star-Medicine-chewing ceremonies. A quarter of a century had passed.
By flashlight Clayton Carlson Facepaint, Ted’s elderly war hero uncle, the one invited to
fly bomhing missions with the RAF, turned on the Panasonic tape recorder. In the background there were the unavoidable sounds of furniture being moved, the brushing of clothes from people walking by, a crackling fire, along with a drum and a rattle being jostled about. When Junior Pipestar cleared his throat to speak, we listened, and everything else thereafter became silent. . . .
Na ka-me ko-ne bya no ta kwa-ki ka ne na na-en ne ba a ni. Again our friend has come to me in my sleep. Ma ni tta e no we tti: ba ki-me ko-na ko ta ki to-e ba wi-ka ski-na kwa wa ni. A kwi ke-e i ki-na ta wi-ko ta ki a ki ni-tti na e ma ki. Ne te ba na wa ki-be ki. Tte na-wa ba ta mo wa sa-ke te na-we ne a-ta na ki i kwe ni. This is what he said: “I am greatly distressed at not heing ahle to leave this earth). And I also do not want to cause the same distress for my relatives. I care for them greatly. But they should look for whoever planned to assail me.”
Ki ye wa ki-o no ke na ni-ki wa na te se ni wa ni-i ya ma-o ta kwi-ma-e o wi ki ye kwi. His shadow is still confused over there where you live. Ki ye wa ki-me ko-ki wa na to se wa-wa ni na wi. He is still roaming in a confused state everywhere. Ma ni tta-ma ni-e tti-ne no ta ma ni: Ko tti-e se mi e ko-kwe ni-i yo-ne a bi-i kwe wa ni-tte na-a kwi-ka sko be ne na tti ni-ni be ki sa na ni tti-o no ka nwa wa ni. This is the way I understand this situation: A medicine woman tried to help him hefore hut she couldn’t facilitate the release of his shadow. I ni tta-we tti-bya tti-na wi i tti. That is why he is visiting with me.
Since I have started helping him and yourselves, his relatives and people who care about him still, I have looked into the red-hot center of the Fire. I have also looked into the frozen part of Ice. It wasn’t easy. There were—and still are—many forces with different agendas at work, and they all seemed to converge within the minds of three deranged men at the same time.
Through the benevolent Supernaturals I was shown the items you seek: what these people used to attack him, the sharp-pointed instruments. We know what happened; we saw them together through the element of Smoke and the Hand-ally.
Remnants of the First Earth Page 25