“Some Flathead,” he said. “In Arlee. He was supposed to be the toughest Indian in the world.”
“Was he?”
“Nah, no way. Wasn’t even close. Wasn’t even tougher than me.”
He told me how big the Flathead kid was, way over six feet tall and two hundred and some pounds. Big buck Indian. Had hands as big as this and arms as big as that. Had a chin like a damn buffalo. The fighter told me that he hit the Flathead kid harder than he ever hit anybody before.
“I hit him like he was a white man,” the fighter said. “I hit him like he was two or three white men rolled into one.”
But the Flathead kid would not go down, even though his face swelled up so bad that he looked like the Elephant Man. There were no referees, no judge, no bells to signal the end of the round. The winner was the Indian still standing. Punch after punch, man, and the kid would not go down.
“I was so tired after a while,” said the fighter, “that I just took a step back and watched the kid. He stood there with his arms down, swaying from side to side like some toy, you know? Head bobbing on his neck like there was no bone at all. You couldn’t even see his eyes no more. He was all messed up.”
“What’d you do?” I asked.
“Ah, hell, I couldn’t fight him no more. That kid was planning to die before he ever went down. So I just sat on the ground while they counted me out. Dumb Flathead kid didn’t even know what was happening. I just sat on the ground while they raised his hand. While all the winners collected their money and all the losers cussed me out. I just sat there, man.”
“Jeez,” I said. “What happened next?”
“Not much. I sat there until everybody was gone. Then I stood up and decided to head for home. I’m tired of this shit. I just want to go home for a while. I got enough money to last me a long time. I’m a rich Indian, you hear? I’m a rich Indian.”
The fighter finished his Pepsi, rolled down his window, and pitched the can out. I almost protested, but decided against it. I kept my empty can wedged between my legs.
“That’s a hell of a story,” I said.
“Ain’t no story,” he said. “It’s what happened.”
“Jeez,” I said. “You would’ve been a warrior in the old days, enit? You would’ve been a killer. You would have stolen everybody’s goddamn horses. That would’ve been you. You would’ve been it.”
I was excited. I wanted the fighter to know how much I thought of him. He didn’t even look at me.
“A killer,” he said. “Sure.”
We didn’t talk much after that. I pulled into Wenatchee just before sundown, and the fighter seemed happy to be leaving me.
“Thanks for the ride, cousin,” he said as he climbed out. Indians always call each other cousin, especially if they’re strangers.
“Wait,” I said.
He looked at me, waiting impatiently.
I wanted to know if he had a place to sleep that night. It was supposed to get cold. There was a mountain range between Wenatchee and his reservation. Big mountains that were dormant volcanoes, but that could all blow up at any time. We wrote about it once in the newspaper. Things can change so quickly. So many emergencies and disasters that we can barely keep track. I wanted to tell him how much I cared about my job, even if I had to write about small-town firemen. I wanted to tell the fighter that I pick up all Indian hitchhikers, young and old, men and women, and get them a little closer to home, even if I can’t get them all the way. I wanted to tell him that the night sky was a graveyard. I wanted to know if he was the toughest Indian in the world.
“It’s late,” I finally said. “You can crash with me, if you want.” He studied my face and then looked down the long road toward his reservation.
“Okay,” he said. “That sounds good.”
We got a room at the Pony Soldier Motel, and both of us laughed at the irony of it all. Inside the room, in a generic watercolor hanging above the bed, the U.S. Cavalry was kicking the crap out of a band of renegade Indians.
“What tribe you think they are?” I asked the fighter.
“All of them,” he said.
The fighter crashed on the floor while I curled up in the uncomfortable bed. I couldn’t sleep for the longest time. I listened to the fighter talk in his sleep. I stared up at the water-stained ceiling. I don’t know what time it was when I finally drifted off, and I don’t know what time it was when the fighter got into bed with me. He was naked and his penis was hard. I felt it press against my back as he snuggled up close to me, reached inside my underwear, and took my penis in his hand. Neither of us said a word. He continued to stroke me as he rubbed himself against my back. That went on for a long time. I had never been that close to another man, but the fighter’s callused fingers felt better than I would have imagined if I had ever allowed myself to imagine such things.
“This isn’t working,” he whispered. “I can’t come.”
Without thinking, I reached around and took the fighter’s penis in my hand. He was surprisingly small.
“No,” he said. “I want to be inside you.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I’ve never done this before.”
“It’s okay,” he said. “I’ll be careful. I have rubbers.”
Without waiting for my answer, he released me and got up from the bed. I turned to look at him. He was beautiful and scarred. So much brown skin marked with bruises, badly healed wounds, and tattoos. His long black hair was unbraided and hung down to his thin waist. My slacks and dress shirt were folded and draped over the chair near the window. My shoes were sitting on the table. Blue light filled the room. The fighter bent down to his pack and searched for his condoms. For reasons I could not explain then and cannot explain now, I kicked off my underwear and rolled over on my stomach. I could not see him, but I could hear him breathing heavily as he found the condoms, tore open a package, and rolled one over his penis. He crawled onto the bed, between my legs, and slid a pillow beneath my belly.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
“I’m not gay,” I said.
“Sure,” he said as he pushed himself into me. He was small but it hurt more than I expected, and I knew that I would be sore for days afterward. But I wanted him to save me. He didn’t say anything. He just pumped into me for a few minutes, came with a loud sigh, and then pulled out. I quickly rolled off the bed and went into the bathroom. I locked the door behind me and stood there in the dark. I smelled like salmon.
“Hey,” the fighter said through the door. “Are you okay?”
“Yes,” I said. “I’m fine.”
A long silence.
“Hey,” he said. “Would you mind if I slept in the bed with you?”
I had no answer to that.
“Listen,” I said. “That Flathead boy you fought? You know, the one you really beat up? The one who wouldn’t fall down?”
In my mind, I could see the fighter pummeling that boy. Punch after punch. The boy too beaten to fight back, but too strong to fall down.
“Yeah, what about him?” asked the fighter.
“What was his name?”
“His name?”
“Yeah, his name.”
“Elmer something or other.”
“Did he have an Indian name?”
“I have no idea. How the hell would I know that?”
I stood there in the dark for a long time. I was chilled. I wanted to get into bed and fall asleep.
“Hey,” I said. “I think, I think maybe — well, I think you should leave now.”
“Yeah,” said the fighter, not surprised. I heard him softly singing as he dressed and stuffed all of his belongings into his pack. I wanted to know what he was singing, so I opened the bathroom door just as he was opening the door to leave. He stopped, looked at me, and smiled.