“What’s Seattle like?” Junior asked.
“It rains there,” Chess said. “It rains a lot.”
The blue van rolled through the wheat fields of eastern Washington, across the central desert, and into the foothills of the Cascades. They climbed Snoqualmie Pass and stopped at the Indian John Rest Area.
“Who is this Indian John?” Victor asked as they parked the van.
“I’m Indian John,” Junior said.
Chess and Thomas sat on the grass and shared a warm Pepsi. Victor and Junior walked to the bathroom. Inside, a little white boy stared at them.
“Hello there,” Junior said.
“Hello,” the boy said.
“What’s your name?”
“Jason. Are you an Indian?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Hey, Daddy, there’s a real Indian out here.”
A huge white man stepped out of a stall.
“Who you talking to?” the white man asked his son.
“This Indian. He’s real.”
Junior waved weakly to the man. Victor turned away and pretended not to know Junior. But they were the only two Indians in the bathroom. Both wore white t-shirts that had COYOTE SPRINGS scribbled across the front, although Junior had on jeans and Victor had on his purple bell bottoms.
“You’re an Indian, huh?” the white man asked.
“Yeah,” Junior said and prepared to run. On a reservation, this white man would have been all alone. In America, this white man was legion.
“That’s cool,” the white man said. “Did you know this rest area was named after an Indian?”
“Yeah,” Victor said and put his arm around Junior. “And you’re looking at the grandsons of Indian John himself.”
“Really? What’s your names?”
“I’m Indian Victor and this is Indian Junior.”
The white man almost believed them but came to his senses and stormed away with his son in tow.
“What took you so long?” the white man’s wife asked.
“Just some Indians,” the white man said.
“Just some Indians,” the little boy repeated.
Victor and Junior grabbed a free cup of coffee from the stand outside the bathroom. The Veterans of War offered free coffee and donuts in return for donations. Junior dropped a dollar into the box; Victor dropped sugar into his coffee. Both knew it was too warm for coffee, but they drank it anyway and talked about the price of guitar strings and drumsticks. They stood near the coffee stand and dreamed about Seattle.
Chess and Thomas sat on the grass for a long time. Neither wanted to rise and leave the rest stop, because Seattle waited somewhere down the mountain. Seattle. Seattle. The word sounded like a song.
“It’s named after an Indian,” Chess said. “Seattle is named after a real Indian chief.
“Really?”
“Really. But I guess it was something like Sealth. Chief Stealth. Or Shelf. Or something like that. Something different.”
“Seattle was his white name, huh?”
“Yeah, I guess. Jeez, you know his granddaughter lived in some old shack before she died. They name the town after her grandfather, and she lives in a shack downtown.”
“Too bad.”
“Ain’t it awful. You know, I was wondering where your father was. Where’d he take off to anyway? I never even saw him get off the table.”
“I don’t know.”
“You never told us who won that game between your father and the Tribal Cops.”
“Who do you think?” Thomas asked. “Who you think won that game?”
5. My God Has Dark Skin
MY BRAIDS WERE CUT off in the name of Jesus
To make me look so white
My tongue was cut out in the name of Jesus
So I would not speak what’s right
My heart was cut out in the name of Jesus
So I would not try to feel
My eyes were cut out in the name of Jesus
So I could not see what’s real
chorus:
And I’ve got news for you
But I’m not sure where to begin
Yeah, I’ve got news for you
My God has dark skin
My God has dark skin
I had my braids cut off by black robes
But I know they’ll grow again
I had my tongue cut out by these black robes
But I know I’ll speak ’til the end
I had my heart cut out by the black robes
But I know what I still feel
I had my eyes cut out by the black robes
But I know I see what’s real
(repeat chorus)
Chess wondered which member of Coyote Springs most closely resembled the Cowardly Lion as they pulled into the Emerald City, Seattle. The drive from Indian John Rest Area to downtown Seattle took six hours, because the blue van refused to go more than forty miles per hour.
“This van don’t want to go to Seattle, enit?” Junior asked.
“Van might be the only smart one,” Chess said.
The van drove into downtown and found a Super 8 Motel, right next to the Pink Elephant Car Wash. Coyote Springs all strained their necks to look at everything: the Space Needle, the Olympic and Cascade mountains, the ocean. None of them had ever visited Seattle before, so the sheer number of people frightened them. Especially the number of white people.
“Jeez,” Victor said, “no wonder the Indians lost. Look at all these whites.”
Thomas parked the van at the motel, and the band climbed out.
“How many rooms should we get, Chess?” Thomas asked.
“How much money we got?”
“Not much.”
“Shit,” Victor said, “shouldn’t those guys at the Backboard be paying for all of this anyway?”
“Yeah, they probably should,” Chess said, forced to agree with Victor for the very first time.
Coyote Springs walked into the lobby and surprised the desk clerk. Up to that point, how many desk clerks had seen a group of long-haired Indians carrying guitar cases? That clerk was a white guy in his twenties, a part-time business student at the University of Washington.
“Can I help you?” the clerk asked.
“Yeah,” Thomas said. “We need a couple rooms.”
“And how will you be paying for your rooms?”
“With money,” Victor said. “What did you think? Sea-shells?”
“He means cash or credit,” Chess said.
“Cash, then,” Victor said. “What Indian has a goddamn credit card?”
“Okay,” the clerk said. “And how long do you plan on staying with us?”
“Three nights,” Thomas said. “But listen, I need to use your phone and call the Backboard club. They’ll be paying for our rooms.”
“The Backboard?” the clerk asked. “Are you guys in a band?”
“Damn right,” Victor said. “What do you think we have in these cases? Machine guns? Bows and arrows?”
“What’s your name?” the clerk asked, already learning to ignore Victor.
“Coyote Springs,” Thomas said.
“Coyote Springs? I haven’t heard of you. Got any CDs out?”
“Not yet,” Victor said. “That’s why we’re in Seattle. We’re here to take over the whole goddamn city.”
“Oh,” the clerk said. “Well, here’s the phone. Which one of you is the lead singer?”
“I am,” Thomas said, and the clerk handed the phone to him.
As Thomas dialed the number, the rest of Coyote Springs wandered around the lobby. Junior and Chess sat on couches and watched a huge television set in one corner. Victor bought a Pepsi from a vending machine. Chess watched him. She knew that kind of stuff tickled Victor. He looked like a little kid, counted out his quarters for pop and hoped he had enough change for a Snickers bar. He just stared at all the selections like the machines offered white women and beer.