“Okay,” Chess said, “let’s split up. Thomas and I will look in the market, and Junior, look outside.”
“We got to find him,” Thomas said again and looked desperate. Coyote Springs was about to break up to search for Victor when the music started.
“Wait,” Junior said. “Listen to that.”
Coyote Springs listened. They heard the city, the ocean, but something else, too. They heard a beautiful voice, just barely audible. The band couldn’t hear the lyrics but picked up the rhythm.
“Who is that?” Chess asked. “That’s the most beautiful voice I ever heard.”
Coyote Springs walked without talking, searched for the source of that voice. As they got closer, they also heard a guitar accompanying the voice. A nice, simple chord progression, but something hid behind it. Something painful and perfect.
“Shit,” Chess said. “I don’t believe it.”
As Coyote Springs turned a corner, they discovered the magical duo: an old Indian man singer and Victor, the guitar player. In a filthy brown corduroy suit and white t-shirt, the singer looked older than dirt. But his voice, his voice. A huge crowd gathered.
“Look at all the people,” Junior said.
Tourists and office workers stopped to listen to this ragged Indian version of Simon and Garfunkel. Those people who usually ignored street people threw money into the old Indian man’s hat. Chess noticed Victor was playing some shoestring guitar and figured it had to be the old man’s instrument. Bandaged and bloody, the old man’s hands fascinated Chess.
“Why’s Victor playing with that guy?” Chess asked.
Thomas also noticed the old man’s bandages. That old man could not play the guitar anymore, because he’d played it until his hands were useless. Thomas remembered Robert Johnson’s hands; he felt pain in his hands in memory of Robert Johnson’s guitar. Victor’s guitar now, he said to himself.
“Jeez,” Chess said. “Victor sounds pretty good on that guitar. That thing’s a mess though, enit? Looks like it’s made from cardboard.”
The old man’s guitar was constructed of cardboard, but the sound that rose from the strings defied its construction. Thomas watched the money fall into the old man’s hat. A hundred dollars, maybe two hundred.
“Thomas, we’re going to be late, remember?” Chess said.
“It can wait,” Thomas said, frightened, but needing to see the end of that little story in the market.
Victor played with the old Indian man for another hour. The money fell into the hat.
“Thomas!” Chess shouted. “We need to go.”
Thomas broke from his trance, rushed to Victor, stole the guitar away, and handed it back to the old man. It burned.
“We need to go,” Thomas said to Victor, who briefly reached for the guitar but pulled back. The crowd jeered Thomas.
“Shit,” Victor said. “What time is it?”
“After six.”
“Man, we got to go.”
Coyote Springs ran from the market, but Thomas looked back. The old Indian man picked up the hat full of money and smiled.
“We should’ve asked that old man to join the band, enit?” Junior asked.
“Maybe,” Victor said, and then he smiled at Chess. He really smiled. Chess was frightened. She wanted to go home; she wanted her sister. The blue van rolled down Mercer Street, beneath the Space Needle, and found the Backboard Club. Victor strapped on his guitar, cracked his knuckles, and led the band inside.
From Thomas Builds-the-Fire’s journal:
The Reservation’s Ten Commandments as Given by the United States of America to the Spokane Indians
1. You shall have no other forms of government before me.
2. You shall not make for yourself an independent and self-sufficient, government, for I am a jealous bureaucracy and will punish the Indian children for the sins of their fathers to the seventh generation of those who hate me.
3. You shall not misuse my name or my symbols, for I will impale you on my flag pole.
4. Remember the first of each month by keeping it holy. The rest of the month you shall go hungry, but the first day of each month is a tribute to me, and you shall receive welfare checks and commodity food in exchange for your continued dependence.
5. Honor your Indian father and Indian mother because I have stripped them of their land, language, and hearts, and they need your compassion, which is a commodity I do not supply.
6. You shall not murder, but I will bring FBI and CIA agents to your reservations and into your homes, and the most intelligent, vocal, and angriest members of your tribes will vanish quietly.
7. You shall not commit adultery, but I will impregnate your women with illegitimate dreams.
8. You shall not steal back what I have already stolen from you.
9. You shall not give false testimony against any white men, but they will tell lies about you, and I will believe them and convict you.
10. You shall not covet the white man’s house. You shall not covet the white man’s wife, or his hopes and opportunities, his cars or VCRs, or anything that belongs to the white man.
Back on the reservation, Checkers fell asleep on the couch in Thomas’s house. She always slept on couches when houses were empty. She dreamed of Father Arnold. In her dream, Father Arnold came into her bedroom in the shack in Arlee. Checkers lay under the covers, naked.
Let me see, Father Arnold said, so Checkers pulled back her covers.
You’re such a pretty girl, Father said.
Father dropped his robe to the floor. Naked. Checkers studied him. His penis was huge.
Can I lie with you? Father asked.
Checkers patted the sheet beside her, and Father lay down close to her. She felt his heat, his smell. He smelled like smoke and Communion wine.
You know I love you, Father said.
Checkers felt his penis brush against her thigh. It was so big she knew it would hurt her. Father touched her breasts, squeezed her nipples, moved his hand down her stomach.
I won’t hurt you, Father said. Not ever.
Father kissed Checkers gently, flicked his tongue between her teeth. Her jaw ached as he forced her mouth open wider and wider. He tasted strange, old, musty. She cried out as he forced her legs apart.
I forgive you, Father said.
Checkers held her breath as Father climbed between her legs and entered her roughly.
Yes, I forgive you, Father whispered inside her.
From a live interview on KROK, Seattle’s best rock:
Hello, this is Adam the Original, your favorite D.J. in Seattle for six years straight, coming to you live from the Backboard in the shadow of the Space Needle. Tonight, as you all know, was the Tenth Annual Battle of the Bands. After thirty acts, the judges chose a winner. And it’s a shocker, folks. The best band tonight happened to be a bunch of Spokane Indians from the Spokane Reservation on the other side of the mountain. The name of the band is Coyote Springs, of all things, and I have with me the lead singer, Thomas Builds-the-Fire. Now, Thomas, tell me about yourself.
Like you said, I’m a Spokane Indian from the Spokane Indian Reservation. I play bass guitar and share vocals with Chess Warm Water. She’s a Flathead Indian from Montana, not Spokane.
I’ve talked to some people here tonight who said they’ve seen quite a few of your shows. They were really impressed. You’re not just a cover band, are you? When did you make the decision to play original material? And who writes your songs?
Well, we started out as a cover band. But it was sort of weird, enit? We covered great stuff, like Aretha Franklin and Alex Chilton, but none of those songs were Indian, you know? I mean, some of those songs we covered should’ve been written by Indians, but they weren’t. So I decided to write some songs myself. I write all the songs now. But I was wondering who heard of us before. We mostly played on the reservations. I didn’t see no Indians here tonight.
A couple people mentioned they saw you. But seriously, how does songwrit
ing make you feel?
Good.
I’ve noticed that you had two white women singing backup for the band tonight. That seemed sort of unusual. How do you think other Indians look at that? And how do you think it affects your sound?
I don’t even know those women all that well. They were waiting for us when we got here. I’ve seen them before though. They’ve been following us for a while, way back on the reservation even, then in Montana. I caught Junior and Victor, the drummer and lead guitarist, all naked with them a while back. They sound really good, enit? We took a quick vote to see if they would sing with us, and the vote was 2–2. So we flipped a coin, and the white women were in. It’s kind of tough, though. They only sang backup because they’re sleeping with Junior and Victor. I don’t know how it affected the music. But we won, didn’t we? I don’t know what Indian people will think about those white women. But hey, an Indian woman invented the blues a day before Columbus landed, and rock ’n’ roll the next day. We’re not stealing those white women or stealing the music. It’s not like we’re all white because we have white women in the band.
Well, if nothing else, the irony is incredible, isn’t it? And I was wondering who voted against the white women. And what are the white women’s names?
Chess and I voted against them. And their names are Betty and Veronica.
Really?
Really.
How would you assess their relationship with Junior and Victor?
I’m not like a therapist or something. But I don’t think it has much of a chance. I mean, I think they’re all using each other as trophies. Junior and Victor get to have beautiful white women on their arms, and Betty and Veronica get to have Indian men.
Do you think you could elaborate on that? Our listeners out there in the rock world would love to know.
Jeez, I just realized. Them two are the ones who saw us play before. They must really be following us around. That Betty and Veronica. Man. They are beautiful, enit?
Yes, they are. But what do Betty and Veronica have to gain in all of this?
Look at them. They got more Indian jewelry and junk on than any dozen Indians. The spotlights hit the crystals on their necks and nearly blinded me once. All they talk about is Coyote this and Coyote that, sweatlodge this and sweatlodge that. They think Indians got all the answers.
How long do you think that relationship will last?
Until the next slow song.
Well, I don’t know when that’s going to be. That Victor plays a wicked guitar. I’ve never actually seen a guitar set a table on fire, though. It’s a good thing that Chess had fire safety training, isn’t it?
We almost lost the whole damn thing because Victor got drunk. How did you know Chess had fire experience?
An amateur would never have put a fire out that quickly. Forgive me for asking, but I noticed that you and Chess seem to have a close relationship.
Jeez, getting personal, enit? She’s my partner. We’re in love, I guess. No. We are in love. She’s pretty amazing. I write songs for her, you know. She’s the first Indian woman who ever paid me much attention. That’s something special.
Well, I think you’ll be getting a lot of attention from all kinds of women now. Especially white women.
I don’t need that.
Well, I hope that’s true. I also heard that Chess has a sister who used to be in the band. Is that true?
Yeah, Checkers, her sister, stayed home on the reservation. She wants to sing in the church choir instead. They’re both Catholic women, you know?
Don’t you think that’s odd?
I don’t think it’s odd at all. I mean, I think God loves to dance as much as the rest of us. I think we’d all be better off if we put more rock music into our churches. Chess told me that God is a long ways up, and we need to be loud so God can hear us. What’s louder than rock ’n’ roll?
Do you believe in God?
Yeah, I do.
Do you believe in the devil?
I don’t know. I’m beginning to. Seems there’s more proof of the devil than proof of God, enit?
Is God a man or a woman?
God could be an armadillo. I have no idea.
Checkers stood in the back row of the choir; she was much taller than all the altos, baritones, and sopranos. She was taller than everybody in the church and wondered if Spokane Indian Catholics were short by nature. Easily distracted by the details, she tried to concentrate on the service. Father Arnold led the service with intensity and passion, like he was more Baptist than Catholic. Most priests just went through the motions, recited platitudes by rote, and turned Communion into a Sunday brunch.
“Let us pray together now,” Father Arnold said, “in the words Our Father gave us.”
Checkers held the hands of the choir members on either side of her, Nina and Maria Christopher. Checkers always loved this part most, the Lord’s Prayer, the holding of hands, the circling of the community. She recited the prayer and watched Father Arnold. He glanced around the church, made eye contact with his flock, and smiled.
“Let us now offer each other a sign of peace,” Father Arnold said.
“Peace be with you.”
“Peace be with you.”
“Peace, sister.”
“Peace, brother.”
The members of the choir hugged as they offered peace to each other. Nina and Maria hugged Checkers, but she held the hugs way past the comfort level of the Christophers.
“Peace to all of you,” Father Arnold said, outside the ceremony, and the community responded.
“Peace be with you.”
Father Arnold sang his prayers. A beautiful voice. Checkers wondered if he ever sang in a band. Maybe in college. He almost had soul. Catholics were supposed to save souls, not possess them.
“This is the body, this is the blood.”
Checkers greedily took Communion, happy to be one of the first. She opened her mouth, offered it to Father Arnold, who placed the bread gently on her tongue. She felt his fingertips, smelled his soft cologne. The ritual, the ritual. She smiled at Father, who smiled back, then looked past her.
“Amen.”
Checkers stepped past the Communion wine, though she still smelled the alcohol. She fought back memories of her father’s breath after he came home from a long night of drinking.
Checkers? Little one? Are you awake?
Checkers returned to her place in the choir. She hummed the hymn softly because she had forgotten the words. Beautiful, she felt beautiful in her twenty-year-old robe. The fringe was gone, the colors faded, but she knew how beautiful she was. Father Arnold had complimented her before mass.
“Checkers,” he said, “you look very nice.”
She held those words in her pocket, hidden beneath her robe, and often reached under to touch them. She closed her eyes and let the music enter her body. The organ was older than the church itself and sounded like a train, but that made no difference to Checkers. She just wanted the music to be loud.
“Before we go today, I wanted to make a few announcements,” Father Arnold said.
Checkers wanted the service to continue.
“We have a new member of the congregation,” Father Arnold said. “She’s a new arrival on our reservation, Checkers Warm Water. Some of you may know her as a member of Coyote Springs, but now she’s the newest member of our choir.”
Father Arnold motioned for Checkers to raise her hand. She waved to the church, and they all waved back. Polite applause and a few shouted greetings. Embarrassed, Checkers ducked her head and closed her eyes. She thought the Catholics were celebrating a new member, but they were actually relieved that she had been saved from the hell called Coyote Springs.
“Also, I want you to remember that we have a potluck dinner Tuesday night, right after the elders’ meeting. And Bessie, you remember to bring your fry bread.”
The crowd cheered. Bessie Moses had taken third place in the fry bread cook-off for the last ten years, fini
shing behind only Big Mom and the-man-who-was-probably-Lakota all that time. Since Big Mom and the-man-who-was-probably-Lakota weren’t members of the church, Bessie cooked the best Catholic fry bread on the reservation.
“One last thing,” Father Arnold said. “I know it’s really early, but basketball practice starts next week. Wednesday. I’m taking signatures. Remember, we only have room for ten players. We need to start practice early this fall. The Presbyterians and Assembly of God really kicked our butts last year. And remember, no matter what you see on television, God really doesn’t care if we win this or not. So, we have to do it by ourselves.”
The Spokane Indian Christian Basketball Tournament was held every November at the Tribal Community Center. The Assembly of God had won the tourney every year since its inception. Last year, the Assemblies had beaten the Catholics 126–105 in a run-and-gun shooting match. The Presbyterians had played a stall game and beat the Catholics 42–30.
“Now, I want you all to go out there, go into the community, and serve God,” Father Arnold said.
The congregation applauded and quickly filed out of the church. Catholics exited churches faster than any other denomination, but Checkers took her time because she wanted to have a few minutes alone with Father Arnold. The church was completely empty when Checkers finally came out of the dressing room.
“Checkers,” Father Arnold said. “I was wondering what happened to you.”
“I was changing,” Checkers said.
“Don’t change. I like you just the way you are.”
Checkers laughed too loudly at his little joke.
“You did really well today,” Father Arnold said.
“So did you. But I forgot some of the words to the hymns. It’s been a while.”
“Yeah, well, things will get better. I have faith in you.”
“Thanks.”
Checkers played with the hem of her t-shirt.
Reservation Blues Page 14