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But what if it’s his fault? What if he made all the decisions that led him to this sad-ass fate?

Fuck me, I think, and fuck this body I’m occupying.

“And fuck you,” I say to Pam and Paul. “And fuck your whiteness.”

Jesus, I wonder if this homeless guy understands the difference between white and whiteness. And then I wonder if I should be so condescending, considering that I am this homeless guy.

“Please,” Pam says. “We’re just trying to help.”

“Fuck you,” I say again. I don’t want to say it. Not really. But this homeless guy’s anger is even stronger than my anger. And anger is never added to anger. It multiplies.

“The ambulance will be here soon,” Pam says. “Please wait.”

“Did you tell them I was Indian?”

“Yes,” Paul says.

“Did you tell them I was homeless?”

“Yes.”

“Then they ain’t coming. Not for a long time, at least. I’m way down on their priority list.”

“But you’re important to us,” Pam says.

I laugh.

But I can tell she means it. And I hate her for meaning it. Her sincerity makes her weak and easily manipulated.

“You want to fuck me?” I ask.

“What?” Pam and Paul say together.

“Do you want to fuck me?” I ask again, slowly.

I can see the sudden anger in Paul. His eyes go lightning. His hands make beautiful fists. Good. He’s not a pussy. Great. I want him to hit me. I want to fight.

“Come on, Pam,” he says. “Let’s get out of here.”

“She doesn’t want to go with you,” I say. “She wants to stay here and fuck me.”

Paul takes a quick step toward me, but Pam grabs his arm.

“No,” she says. “Leave him alone. He doesn’t know what he’s saying.”

God, she’s tough. She won’t let me take away her compassion. Maybe she can’t be manipulated. Maybe I can’t defeat her with my rage and self-hatred.

Jesus, I don’t understand her.

“He can’t talk to you like that,” Paul says.

“It’s all he knows how to do,” she says. “Don’t let it get to you.”

He relaxes a bit. I can tell that he listens to her. He pays attention. He takes her advice. He seeks her counsel. He respects her.

I hate him for it. And I hate her for inspiring him.

“Hey, Paul,” I say. “Does she like it in the ass?”

She can’t stop him this time. He rushes toward me and punches me in the face.

Seventeen

I THINK HE BROKE my jaw.

I shamble through an alley, blood filling my mouth and nose, and wonder if a man can drown in his own blood. Well, yes, of course, a man can drown in his blood. But can he drown while walking? If I stay upright, will I stay alive?

This alley smells like rotten food. Huge Dumpsters and garbage cans line both sides. They’re filled with expired food and half-eaten meals. This must be an alley between rows of restaurants.

Other homeless folks forage. Flocks of sparrows, pigeons, and seagulls forage. And murders of crows bully the other birds and bully the humans, too.

I wish I’d wake up inside a crow.

Nobody looks at me as I stagger past. I’m not an uncommon sight. I’m a beaten bloody Indian. Who turns to look at such a man? There are other beaten bloody Indians in this alley.

What do you call a group of beaten bloody Indians, a murder of Indians? A herd of Indians? A bottle of Indians?

I want the other Indians to recognize me. To shout out my name. But they are hungry. And their pain is more important than my pain.

I don’t remember how I got here. I remember that Paul punched me. And then I remember stepping into this alley. I don’t remember the in-between. I have lost time.

Losing time: That’s all I know how to do now.

Jesus, I’m pathetic. Didn’t I just force that poor guy to hit me? Didn’t I want his violence? Fuck me. I’m leaving this alley.

I’m going to walk out of this sad-sack alley and find a bathroom. And I’m going to wash my face and clothes. No, I’ll steal some clothes. Good clothes. A white shirt and black pants. And I’ll steal good shoes, too. Black leather shoes, cap toes, with intricate designs cut into the leather. In good clothes, I can be a good man.

And so I shamble out of the alley. No, I suck in my stomach muscles, straighten my spine, and hold my head level and I strut out of the alley.

And I horrify my audience. People sprint around me. A few just turn around and walk in the opposite direction. One woman screams.

Jesus, I must look like a horror movie. But that doesn’t matter. I am covered with the same blood that is inside everybody else. They can’t judge me because of this blood.

“I want some respect,” I say.

Nobody hears me. Worse, nobody understands me.

“I want some respect,” I say again, louder this time.

A man walks around the corner, almost bumps into me, and then continues on. He didn’t notice me. He didn’t see my blood. I follow him. A gray man, he wears a cheap three-button suit with better shoes. He talks loudly into a Bluetooth earpiece.

“I want some respect,” I say to him.

He stops, turns around, and looks at me. He regards me.

“I want some respect,” I say.

“I’ll call you back, Jim, I got some drunk guy talking to me,” he says into his earpiece, and hits the hangup button. And then he asks me, “What the fuck do you want, chief?”

He thinks the curse word will scare me. He thinks the curse word will let me know that he once shot a man just to watch him die.

“I knew Johnny Cash,” I say, “and you ain’t Johnny Cash.”

The man laughs. He thinks I’m crazy. I laugh. I am crazy. He offers me a handful of spare change.

“There you go, chief,” he says.

“I don’t want your money,” I say. “I want your respect.”

The man laughs again. Is laughter all I can expect?

“Don’t laugh at me,” I say.

“All right, all right, chief,” he says. “I won’t laugh at you. You have a good day.”

He turns to walk away, but I grab his shoulder. He grabs my wrist and judos me into the brick wall.

“All right, all right, chief,” he says. “I don’t want you touching me.”

He could snap my bones if he wanted to. He could drive his thumb into my temple and kill me. I can feel his strength, his skill, his muscle memory.

It’s my turn to laugh.

“What’s so funny?” he asks.

“I’m just wondering how many white guys are going to beat my ass today.”

“Chief, you keep acting this way and we’re all going to beat your ass today.”

We both think that’s funny, so we laugh together. And we almost bond because of our shared amusement.

“I’m going to let you go,” he says. “And when I do, I want us both to act like gentlemen, okay?”

“I want some respect,” I say.

“Are you going to be a gentleman?”

“I want some respect.”

“How many times are you going to say that?”

“I’m going to say it until I get some respect.”

The man looks around. He realizes that he’s pinned a bloody homeless man against a brick wall. Not one of his prouder moments. But he’s scared to let me go.

“All right, all right,” he says. “How do I show you some respect?”

Shit, I don’t have an answer for that. And then I realize that respect isn’t exactly what I want. This body wants respect. I don’t know what I want. And I don’t know how to define respect, for me or for this homeless guy. So I take a guess.

“Tell me a story,” I say.

“You want me to tell you a story?”

“Yeah.”

“And that will give you respect?”