Thomas Builds-the-Fire’s stories climbed into your clothes like sand, gave you itches that could not be scratched. If you repeated even a sentence from one of those stories, your throat was never the same again. Those stories hung in your clothes and hair like smoke, and no amount of laundry soap or shampoo washed them out. Victor and Junior often tried to beat those stories out of Thomas, tied him down and taped his mouth shut. They pretended to be friendly and tried to sweet-talk Thomas into temporary silences, made promises about beautiful Indian women and cases of Diet Pepsi. But none of that stopped Thomas, who talked and talked.
“I got a better idea,” Victor added. “If you can’t play the song, then you have to stop telling all your fucking stories.”
“Okay,” Thomas said, “but you have to let me go first.”
Victor released Thomas from the headlock but picked up the guitar and smashed it against the sidewalk. Then he handed it to Junior, who shrugged his shoulders and gave it back to Thomas. Indians around the Trading Post watched this with indifference or ignored it altogether.
“There,” Victor said. “Now you can play the song.”
“Oh, yeah, enit,” Junior said. “Play it now.”
Thomas looked around at the little country he was trying to save, this reservation hidden away in the corner of the world. He knew that Victor and Junior were fragile as eggs, despite their warrior disguises. He held that cracked guitar tenderly, strummed the first chord, and sang that Patsy Cline song about falling to pieces.
Victor looked at Thomas, looked at Junior, sat on the sidewalk again. Thomas managed to sing that song pretty well, but Victor had been looking forward to the silence. He might have to kick Thomas’s ass anyway. Victor, fresh from thirty-two years of fried chicken lunches, ran his hands along his greasy silk shirt and tried to think.
“Jeez,” Junior said, “that was pretty good, Thomas. Where’d you learn to sing?”
“Shut the fuck up,” Victor said. “I’m thinking.”
The-man-who-was-probably-Lakota watched these events unfold. He walked over to the trio of Spokane Indians on the sidewalk.
“The end of the world is near!”
“When is that going to happen?” Junior asked. “I need to set my alarm clock.
“Don’t mock me,” the-man-who-was-probably-Lakota said. “The end of the world is near!”
“Why don’t all of you shut up?” Victor said.
Junior pretended his feelings were hurt so he could storm off. He needed to drive the water truck down to the West End of the reservation anyway but didn’t want Victor to know how much he cared about his job. The West End ran out of water every summer. Indians and pine trees competed for water down there, and the trees usually won.
“Where you going?” Victor asked Junior.
“To the West End.”
“Wait up, I’ll ride with you,” Victor said and ran after Junior.
Thomas had received a pardon because of Victor’s short attention span. Still, Victor never actually hurt him too seriously. Victor’s natural father had liked Thomas for some reason. Victor remembered that and seemed to pull back at the last second, left bruises and cuts but didn’t break bones. After Victor’s father died, Thomas had flown with Victor to Phoenix to help pick up the ashes. Some people said that Thomas even paid for Victor’s airplane tickets. Thomas just did things that made no sense at all.
“I’ll be back for you!” Victor yelled and climbed into the water truck with Junior.
“The end of the world is near!
“My ass is near your face!” Victor yelled out the window as the truck pulled away.
The-man-who-was-probably-Lakota helped Thomas to his feet. Thomas started to cry. That was the worst thing an Indian man could do if he were sober. A drunk Indian can cry and sing into his beer all night long, and the rest of the drunk Indians will sing backup.
“Listen,” the-man-who-was-probably-Lakota said as he put his arm around Thomas’s shoulders. “Go on home. Glue the guitar back together. Maybe things will be better in the morning.”
“You think so?” Thomas asked.
“Yeah, but don’t tell anybody I said so. It would ruin my reputation.”
“Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Thomas climbed into his blue van with that broken guitar, wondered if he could fix it, and noticed his fingers were cut shallowly, as if the first layers of skin had been delicately sliced by a razor. The-man-who-was-probably-Lakota picked up a hand drum and pounded it in rhythm with his words as Thomas drove away.
“The end of the world is near! It’s near! It’s near! The end is near!”
Junior was a good driver. He kept that water truck firmly on the road, negotiating the reservation obstacle course of potholes and free-range livestock, as he made his way to the West End. He had been driving trucks since a few days after he had returned from college. Victor had been riding with him all that time, falling asleep as soon as his head fell back against the vinyl seat. On that particular day, as the-man-who-was-probably-Lakota comforted Thomas, Victor fell asleep before they passed the city limits. At least, his eyes were closed when the nightmare came to him.
Victor fought against his nightmare, twisted and moaned in his seat, as Junior drove the water truck. Junior, who had always paid close attention to dreams, wondered which particular nightmare was filling Victor’s sleep. He had majored in psychology during his brief time in college and learned a lot about dreams. In Psychology 101, Junior had learned from Freud and Jung that dreams decided everything. He figured that Freud and Jung must have been reservation Indians, because dreams decided everything for Indians, too. Junior based all of his decisions on his dreams and visions, which created a lot of problems. When awake, he could never stomach the peanut butter and onion sandwiches that tasted so great in his dreams, but Junior always expected his visions to come true. Indians were supposed to have visions and receive messages from their dreams. All the Indians on television had visions that told them exactly what to do.
Junior knew how to wake up in the morning, eat breakfast, and go to work. He knew how to drive his water truck, but he didn’t know much beyond that, beyond that and the wanting. He wanted a bigger house, clothes, shoes, and something more. Junior didn’t know what Victor wanted, except money. Victor wanted money so bad that he always spent it too quick, as if the few dollars in his wallet somehow prevented him from getting more. Money. That’s all Victor talked about. Money. Junior didn’t know if Victor wanted anything more, but he knew that Victor was dreaming.
Victor tossed and turned in his sleep, pushed against the door, kicked the dashboard. He spouted random words and phrases that Junior could not understand. Junior glanced over at his best friend, touched his leg, and Victor quieted a little.
Victor slept until Junior pulled up at Simon’s house on the West End. Simon stood on his front porch. His pickup, which he only drove in reverse, was parked on the remains of the lawn.
“Ya-hey, Simon,” Junior called out as he stepped down from his truck.
“Ya-hey,” Simon said. “Bringing me some water?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. I need water. My lawn.”
Junior looked at the dusty ground and the few struggling grass shoots.
“Jeez,” Simon said, “I really need some water.”
Junior nodded his head.
“Where are we?” Victor asked from inside the truck.
“At Simon’s.”