Two younger workers came to the counter with trays full of food (several people’s orders?), and shouted a number. A couple ChameleIndian men got up from a table and came to the counter, but they hadn’t put their caps on yet. They took the trays and lip-pointed to a couple women, who came and took them back to the tables. The men stayed at the counter.
“What the hell, Juniper?” Carson’s dad nudged Albert. “Do something! Anything!” Albert stood firm. “Never mind, goddammit, I will!” He got close to Custard. “You’re taking my order! A … a …” He looked up at the menu board. “A Big Bighorn, hold the onions. Fill it.” I’d never heard a food order placed as a realistic threat before.
“Harvey, we came here for respect,” Albert said. “To accept the meal that this guy’s offered us, isn’t it? Isn’t it what we do? What you’re doing, that’s not the way we do things.”
“Damn straight, it ain’t,” Custard said, not backing down. Other men who’d already eaten gathered at the counter. “You fucking illiterate Indian. Read my goddamn joined the others and sign. If you can.”
“Think you fellas better leave,” one man in an Airborne jacket said. Albert looked at Carson, who’d joined the others and put his new custom cap on. Carson had convinced thirty to forty grown-up Indians to join his cause.
“I knew about your other sign,” Albert said, calmly, turning back to Custard, not a whisper but not a shout either. “And your poster full of dead Indians.” He cocked his head to the left. I hadn’t seen it before now, but it was exactly as Carson had described. “Most of us do. Grown-ups anyway. It’s why we don’t come here. Not to obey your cracker ass, but because we don’t need to put ourselves in that place.” He turned to the Airborne guy who’d come up to him. “You know that feeling?” The guy had looked like he was going to challenge Albert, but something now passed between them. He stayed silent.
“These kids. Sometimes they make mistakes, walk into places they maybe shouldn’t go and they see the poster and that sign. That one,” he said to Custard, pointing over the counter. “The one you slid down there, once you saw brown people with long hair. Me, turns out. Imagine if that was your kids seeing that about themselves? Imagine going into a restaurant that had a poster on the wall of a bunch of white guys being slaughtered by Indians.”
“Juniper, get the hell out the way. Let me handle this,” Carson’s dad said, pushing Albert.
“Jesus, Dad!” Carson suddenly yelled. “Sit your ass down and listen for once!” Carson’s dad whirled, raising his arm like he was going to take out his son. He stopped, seeing what was behind him. The whole spectrum of our Rez, wearing Carson’s red shirts and Marie’s amazing caps. Light, dark, long hair, short hair, straight hair, curly hair, even red and blond hair, pale skin, pink skin, ruddy skin, and brown skin. All glowing on these round-cheeked faces, not those stupid high mythical cheekbones every white person claims to have when they tell you they’re “part Indian.”
A rumble went through the crowd. Some people calculated if they could get out quick. Others held their breaths. Some women held on to kids, like they might have to make a break for it. What did they think was going to happen? What did I think was going to happen?
“Now, black people?” Albert said, continuing on as if nothing had happened, like he was trying to explain to a kid why Clean-Up Time was a part of playing with toys. “They know you use that word when they’re not in hearing distance. They know you probably say it the second they’re out of earshot. They know how visible they are. But you see, here,” he said, sweeping his arm again, “we don’t all look like the Indian of your imagination. We’re around you all the time. Might even say you’re surrounded, General Custard.”
“That sounds like a threat,” Custard growled.
“A fact is not a threat,” Albert said. “And really, you can’t refuse service to a group of people. You see, my nephew here,” he said, and Lewis joined him. “He taught me some things about civil disobedience and the civil rights movement a few years ago.”
“As groups, we’re not looking for civil rights,” Lewis said. “We have treaties in place, from when you took our lands in the first place. We’re Onkwehowe.”
“What the hell’s that mean?” Custard asked.
“The original people,” Lewis clarified. “But either way, you can’t refuse service to an identified group of people. No matter what kind of bullshit sign you put up.”
“Oh, can it, you little turd,” Custard said.
“You can shut down,” Lewis said, looking directly at Custard. “But we’re going to stay here, outside. And if you open up again today, we’ll be back. I want my uncle to get the meal you promised for his risking his life for your sorry ass. Are you even a veteran, General?”
“You can’t stay in my lot,” Custard said, ignoring Lewis’s question. “It’s private property. And in America, I get to say who’s on my private property.”
“I guess that’s a no to the veteran question,” Carson said. “That park over there isn’t private.” He turned to the room. “We got food and we’re gonna play music for as long as it takes.” He turned to Custard again. “If you open up before midnight, we’ll be back.” He turned back to the crowd. “You’re all welcome.”
“Fuck you, wahoo,” Custard said. That was the spark that did it. In a blur, Carson’s dad flash-punched Custard in the temple. Custard slipped in his boots, arms flailing. He hit the french fry warming racks, and fries flew like greasy confetti as he and the racks clattered to the floor. It was like a sign had lighted up. People started running, swinging, jumping up on booths, holding trays in front of them like shields, and heading for the doors. I guess the guys who’d already gotten their free meal felt like they had to defend Custard, or maybe they just wanted to.
A series of tinkling noises started filling my ears. Glass was smashing all around me, but it wasn’t noisy enough to have been the plate windows. Then I remembered the other poster on the wall: “Real Root Beer Served in Frosted Mugs.” This had suddenly gotten serious.
“No!” Carson yelled. “This was not how it was supposed to go!” He tried to drag his dad from the brawl’s center. “Peaceful! Damn it, Dad! Why couldn’t you listen to me?” His dad threw him off like he was a Construction Paper Cut-Out Guy from the posters.
Out of nowhere, someone yanked me from behind, pushing me through the crowd. I tried fighting but, though I hadn’t seen him when we entered, I knew I was no match for a full-grown man. “Are you crazy?” Jim Morgan asked as we neared the door. Jim was no veteran. He’d told me himself how he’d gotten out of it. I guess he and Custard did indeed know each other.
“Jim, let me go. I have to be here with my friends!” I said, almost free of his grip until he lunged forward one more time, wrapping an arm around my waist.
“Sorry. I can’t let a girl I love risk getting hurt for this bullshit,” he said. Even over the shouting and war whooping, and approaching police sirens, I’d heard him. “Cops are coming. I’m getting you out of here. Once you’re visible to law enforcement, you’re never invisible again. Come on!” I didn’t have much choice, with his forearm in the small of my back, and his hand latched solid on my hip. He hit the door with his back, and we fell in the gravel, me on top.
An explosion rocked the inside, then another, and another. The screaming crowd flew at us to the doors. “Oh, shit!” Jim said, rolling on top of me and trying to get us out of the crowd’s path. He pulled me aside him as we crawled along the foundation. We made our way to his Trans Am a couple rows back where cars were peeling out. “Get in!” he yelled, opening the door and lowering his hand to my butt, guiding it to the passenger’s seat. He released the lever, and the seat dropped to full recline. “And stay down.”
Maggi, what are you doing? Ghost Marvin said. Ditching people from the Rez to run off with some random old white guy? Even as I ignored the voice, I realized it had become Marvin’s regular voice, not the one he used to mock Dark Deanna. But, Marv, I said back to it,
he’s not random. He just told me he loved me! Doesn’t that count for something? And I’ve already been in this car before so just settle your ass down!
Jim ran around back as I unlocked his door. “I said stay down!” he said, jumping in. He dropped the Bandit into reverse. For a few brief seconds, I could see Custard kneeling on his counter, arms up in the air, fists gripping pistols. He was shouting something that looked like “Thanks! Thanks!” Some of the men who’d been there when we walked in stood in front of him, arms outstretched with hands spread wide, apparently not afraid.
“I can’t leave!” I said. “My sister’s in there. I gotta make sure she’s safe.”
“I’m sure she’s fine,” Jim said, driving as fast as he could without drawing attention (to the degree that was possible in a Bandit Trans Am). “Look, you can call from my place. Or we’ll stop at a pay phone.” Eventually, he put the brakes on at a stop sign, looking in the mirrors and ahead of us. He dropped it into park, and I could see he was breathing heavily.
“Jesus, I was so scared you’d get hurt,” he said, leaning over, taking my jaws into his hands and covering my mouth with his. I breathed in, sharply, accepted the kiss, opening my mouth to meet his parting lips, but then I pulled back.
“I know. That crazy asshole was shooting? What if someone got killed? Jim, I need to get home, to know what happened.”
“No, no, no,” he said, brushing his mustache against my neck for a second. “Those were blanks. He’s not an idiot. You can’t have a real loaded gun on you in that kind of job.”
“That’s not true,” I said, pulling back farther. “He shot someone, this spring. I don’t even know how he’s still around.”
“He’s still around ’cause,” he said, still holding my jaw, and gently turning my head to lock eyes with him, “they … were … blanks. Maybe Giorgio was closer to that idiot robber than he thought. But no one came in to any hospital around here with a gunshot wound. A blank can seriously mess you up if you’re close enough.” He let go of my face and sighed. “A mess. A serious friggin’ mess.”
“How do you know they were blanks?”
“’Cause he told me. I’ve known Giorgio for years.”
“Giorgio?”
“He says George, so he can do all that stupid General George Custard bullshit. Up until now, it’s been a gold mine.” Jim somehow couldn’t grasp that such a place would be screwed up to any Indian.
“What were you afraid of me getting hurt by then?”
“That fucking mob! What do you think?” He leaned in, squeezing me close, then let go.
“It wasn’t a mob!” I insisted. “It was a peaceful protest.” He dropped into drive.
“Peaceful protest, my ass. I saw that guy sucker punch Giorgio right in the face and drop him to the floor. That was no love tap.” We drove silently, passing both pay phones in Sanborn and the road his apartment was on. As we neared the Rez, I finally spoke.
“Jim? Thank you for, you know, looking out for me.” I did what he’d done, reaching up and touching his chin. It was rough with stubble. “And for what you said back there. I feel it too.” I felt so drawn to him, such longing to be with him, that the selfish part of me put all my other nagging questions in a tote like my mom used, and slid it to the bottom shelf of my brain.
“You do?” he said, pulling me close, even as he drove, my face against his chest. I nodded, and the chest hairs tickled my cheek. I was facing down and could see that, even in all this commotion, he was growing excited. I was too. I reached out and touched his thigh.
“Oh yeah,” he said, and shifted in his seat, raising his butt off the cushion so my hand slid closer to where he wanted it. He swallowed hard. “Assuming your friends aren’t in jail,” he said, breathing funny, “you still doing that Battle of the Bands thing in a couple weeks?”
“Jail,” I said, laughing, trying not to sound nervous. “Yes, we’re still doing it.” I tried to sit back up straight. “Why?”
“I signed up to be the only facilities guy,” he said. At first, he kept his arm around my shoulders, leveraging me in place against him. I tensed my mucles, pushing a little harder, and he let go. “I get there a couple hours early, unlock everything, make sure the lights are on, and I lock up at the end.”
“I’ve seen teachers there, at the last one.”
“Yeah, chaperones. They don’t go into the facilities area. Mostly when I do these, I crash in the break room. Our couch is pretty comfortable,” he said. “Ever try it?”
“Yes, goof,” I said. “I’ve sat on the break room couch. Nothing exactly remarkable.”
“I wasn’t talking about sitting. I could bring a couple bottles of wine. Some candles.”
“Jim, I need to tell you something,” I said, and he eased his foot off the gas.
“That the Polaroid camera that started the shit-show back there was mine?”
“No, not that,” I mumbled. “But … yeah, it was yours. I can get it back … tomorrow?”
“You can still hang on to it,” he said, sailing through the Rez. After a few heavy and silent minutes, he continued.
“So is it that you’re not seventeen?” My tiny gasp betrayed me. He looked over, with that typical Jim Grin. “I’m your boss. I have access to application records. Let’s see,” he said, and recited my full birthday. “Correct?”
“Correct. So I’m not legal. Yet?” I smiled, hoping that might be good enough. Like he didn’t know already, Ghost Marvin said, back to mocking our mom’s voice.
“It’s like smoking weed,” he said. “Only illegal if you get caught. I’m not gonna tell anyone if two people who love each other want to share that love all the way. You?”
“No,” I said, my voice shaky. “I don’t want to cause trouble?” Even I didn’t believe myself. There were issues with what we were considering. A voice louder than Ghost Marvin’s, though, told me to forget about the idea of what was legal or not. It was, maybe, the Maggi in Love Voice. But I didn’t want to do this wrapped in a lie. If this was the man I was planning to lose my virginity with, he should have at least considered these real complications.
“Well, there you go,” he said. “I mean, today? When you were in danger, I realized that I love you. That I want to share that love the way people do when they know. I hoped it was maybe mutual.”
I nodded, my throat suddenly dry.
“You weren’t just saying that because I did?” he asked. The pleading voice killed me.
I shook my head, trying to swallow, and took a deep breath. I put my hand back, a couple inches from that place he wanted it. He did the same thing to me, and that now familiar lightning bolt feeling came over me again. I couldn’t decide if it was awesome or terrifying. If we stayed much longer, I’d move my hand and begin that final path. I didn’t even know what that really would feel like. Was there a wrong way to touch it? Could you accidentally break it?
Just then, we turned onto Snakeline and we each brought our hands back into our own laps. I wondered if two weeks was enough time for Marie to tell me everything I needed to know about losing my virginity. Or if she’d even be willing.
You know why you’re not asking me anything? Ghost Marvin said.
Because you’re an even bigger virgin than I am? I said. Maybe that would shut the window in my head that my twin had somehow pried open. This was one of the weirdnesses of being a twin. I was close with Marie, but we were just regular sisters. Marvin and I were something else.
Wrong, Ghost Marvin said. You’re not asking me because I’ll tell you the truth instead of what you want to hear, what you think will make this seem like a good idea. The truth you’re afraid of, isn’t it?
Shut up, Marvin. And could you get out of my head when I’m with a guy? My guy? It’s seriously creepy. (I knew he wouldn’t, but I could hope. I wondered if it was worse for identical twins. Man, I shivered, thinking about what that would be like.) Ghost Marvin continued to tell me all the ways this was seriously wrong, and he didn’t shut
up until I climbed out of Jim’s Bandit and watched him leave. Silence! Finally!
When I came in the house, Real Marvin was watching one of his dumb shows. I almost expected him to tell me I was making a big mistake, but he didn’t say anything. I guessed that meant Marie hadn’t wound up in jail. A plus.
My stomach fluttered, but I couldn’t tell fully what the cause was. It had been a long day. Was this fear, excitement, or a little bit of both? Maybe Marie could tell me the truth about that too.
Yeah, right, Ghost Marvin said.
“You wanted to see me, Mrs. Marchese?” I stepped into the empty home ec cooking lab for a command performance, delivered on a pink piece of paper at the end of class: SEE ME!
“Carson Mastick,” she said. “Have a seat.” She pulled two stools out.
“I’m running kinda late, Mrs. Marchese. My band only has practice space for an hour and a half, and we’re still working on last-minute arrangements for Battle of the Bands tomorrow.”
“You don’t need to worry, Mr. Mastick,” she said, still smiling. Was it ever good when a teacher called you Mr.? It was almost always fake respect that meant the slap was going to be way harder when it came. She pulled clippings from last week’s papers out of a manila folder. “You’ve had quite a couple weeks, it seems.”
“Didn’t go exactly as I’d planned,” I said. I didn’t bother picking up the clippings she’d just let fan out onto the counter. I already knew what they said. My planned protest concert had turned into a psycho brawl inside a dive. We never played a single note and hauled ass out of there when Custard pulled out his guns and the cops showed.
The coverage had turned into mostly a wash. It started out supportive—the paper reported that Custard’s No Indians sign had been up for years, not just after he had his own “personal excuse” to discriminate. They gave Albert a few quotes, and when the reporter followed up, Custard admitted it was true. Then there was a side article about the long history of Indians serving in the military, even before the US had forcefully insisted we were citizens, and another about the “shadow of Southern segregation policies,” including side-by-side photos of Custard’s No Indians sign next to Whites Only signs from the civil rights news archives. They even wrote about the success of the Longest Walk from a couple years ago, a countrywide Indian protest march, going from San Francisco to DC, when activists discovered the federal government was developing bills to get rid of our status again.
Give Me Some Truth Page 27