Tracklist:
Cowboys and Indians – Pearl Harbor & the Explosions
Familiar Spirit – Allen Bruce Ray
I Got Stripes – Johnny Cash
6
The ambulance slowed and took an exit ramp.
“Good idea, Lin,” said Dean. “After all that driving you need to stretch your legs.”
“I was worried about the fuel situation,” said Lin. “But now that you’ve brought it up, do you mind driving for a while?”
“Like gum on the seat of your best Sunday pants, that’s a sticky situation, Lin. If we’re going to make it to Charleston we won’t have time to stop, and that means I’ll need to save my driving energy for tonight. Unless, of course, one of our female stowaways has the ability and desire?”
Emerson shook her head. “I cannot, but during her youth Fanta drove a large tractor on cabbage farm.”
“I don’t think that helps, but thanks anyway.”
The ambulance swayed and creaked as Lin pulled into a gas station and stopped beside the pumps. She filled the ambulance with diesel while Dean and the two ladies pushed through the glass door of “Tony Montana’s Gulp ‘n Go.”
Like any number of refueling stops in the Sierra Nevadas, the service station was a log cabin filled with lacquered bric-a-brac and racks of miscellany that included flavors of Snapple long extinct from polite society, ten varieties of Combos, and locally-sourced, grass-fed fish jerky. A collection of Native American tomahawks, faded photographs, and eagle feathers lined the wall behind the cash register, and created a strange contrast with the nearby racks of cigarettes and cartons of smokeless tobacco. Apart from the hum of refrigeration compressors, the shop was as quiet as a tomb.
Fanta and Emerson scooped up crackling bags of food and essentials and broke the peaceful atmosphere. Dean walked to a rainbow array of Doritos and tried to decide what “extreme” tasted like. Rejecting the marketing blurbs that implied his manhood was non-existent if he ingested a different brand of corn chip, Dean grabbed the largest bag of Funyuns.
The two ladies piled armfuls of goods onto the counter. Dean balanced his bag on top and rang a tarnished bell beside the cash register. Ponderous steps vibrated the wooden floor.
A short and stocky Native American pushed through a beaded curtain. His black hair split down the middle like a crease from a cartoon bullet, and ended in two long braids. His red-and-white checked shirt could have been stolen from an Italian restaurant. A white patch over his chest pocket said Hi, I’m Tony, but the sour look on his face said You just interrupted “General Hospital” and it was getting really good.
“Hi, Tony,” said Dean.
The short Native American frowned. “Hello.”
He grabbed Dean’s bag of chips and tapped the price into the cash register with a machine-gun staccato.
“You don’t have a scanner?” asked Dean.
The attendant shook his head with a barely apparent jerk and continued to jab the prices into the register.
Dean’s gaze wandered to the tomahawks and other artifacts on the wall. He pointed to a photograph of a smiling young man in a feathered headdress.
“Is that you in the picture?”
Tony grabbed a can of Squirt from the pile and shook his head.
“Charlie Snaps His Fingers. That’s an odd name,” said Dean. “Please don’t think I’m being rude, of course. I’m one-sixteenth Cherokee, so I’ve the right to bring these things up. I’m the only one at the meetings who does.”
Tony slammed down the can of Squirt with a bang and reached beneath the counter for matches and a red-and-white package of Swisher Sweets. With slow, easy fingers he opened the cellophane, pulled out a cigarillo, and lit a match on the counter. Only after he’d touched the flame to the end of the narrow cigar and taken a few deep puffs did his eyes come back to Dean. He began to speak slowly and surely, like a funeral director in need of Vitamin B.
“It is a long and sad story. Charlie was born a member of the Kickapoo tribe in Horton, Kansas. Even from birth everyone saw that he was a strong and special boy, especially when he broke the doctor’s index finger like a twig. People say they had never heard a man scream like a woman before that day. When he was eight he could bend oak trees and run faster than a coyote with a fat chicken in its mouth. He won his first official race at twelve, and by sixteen had won the state championships in track and field. Singlehandedly he brought our baseball team to the nationals. He was the next Jim Thorpe, people said. Billy wasn’t just an athlete, he was a mathlete and spoke four languages including FORTRAN. Most people were impressed, considering the tribe owned not a single computer. Everyone thought Charlie was the pinnacle of human possibility––the boy who could be anything he wanted. All manner of men from outside the reservation began to knock on his door: colleges, major league baseball, NASA, even Amway. To paraphrase Al Pacino, the world was his.”
Tony picked up the can of Squirt and entered the price in the register.
“What happened?”
Tony tapped the end of the Swisher Sweet in an ashtray. “Charlie went to Harvard on a cricket scholarship. He might have become an international superstar, but nobody really knows, because nobody really knows what cricket is. His parents died in a tragic boating accident around the time Charlie graduated Harvard, and he disappeared. Some say he killed himself and his ghost wanders the Horton wheat fields at night, tossing a cricket ball in the air and singing ‘Home on the Range.’ Others ask why a ghost would sing that, even if it is the official state song of Kansas. Some people say Charlie changed his name, moved to Japan, and became MVP four years in a row playing for the Hiroshima Carp. Me? I think he wandered from Motel 6 to La Quinta to Quality Inn for years, until he finally rode a barge loaded with flour up the Ohio River and disappeared without a trace, as if Kichimanetowa himself had swallowed Charlie whole.”
“These theories are very specific, Tony. Pipe dreams, or might I say, ‘peace-pipe’ dreams?”
The short Native American grimaced but said nothing, as if he’d stubbed a toe in front of a librarian. He went back to the register keys, hitting them hard enough to make pennies fly from the Marlboro tray on the counter. After he finished ringing up the pile of items, he ran his tongue over the outside of his teeth and stared at the glowing end of the cigarillo in his hand.
“Anything else you need, Mister Cherokee?”
“There is, actually. I have to drive tonight and need something to keep me fresh and alert. I realize that’s a strange request in a convenience store along a major freeway, but as the kids say, ‘Whoop, there it is.’ ”
Tony shook his head. “You’re a strange cat, Cherokee. Just buy a can of Monster or 72-Hour Energy Swill.”
“I’m allergic to all that stuff. Last time I drank Monster I woke up in Fresno behind a Kia dealership. I sold a convertible and three sedans before they kicked me out.”
“Coffee?”
“Makes me homisuicidal. Not a good idea while driving.”
“Soda?”
“Gives me gas.”
Tony raised his index finger. “How about an old Indian home remedy? Freeze a pair of Little Debbie Swiss Rolls and put one inside each cheek, right against the gums.”
“I only like the banana-flavored ones.”
“In that case, there’s only one thing for it.”
Tony shuffled away through the beaded curtain and returned a moment later with a five-ounce bottle of fiery red liquid.
“This is my own special recipe,” said Tony. “One swallow and you won’t sleep for hours. Rub on the inside of your thighs for extra energy, but be careful. If the potion touches anything sensitive in the crotch area, you’ll produce more noise than Sekumbah the Rooster.”
Dean tilted the bottle in the glare of the overhead fluorescents. “This looks suspiciously like a bottle of Tapatio, but with a yellow Post-It note over the label and the words ‘Tony’s Red Indian Juice’ in crayon.”
“I’m still working on branding, and we are
forced to repurpose old bottles. Don’t worry––this is a natural herbal product. It’s also green and carbon-neutral.”
Dean twisted off the red plastic cap and sniffed the contents. “Even smells like Tapatio. Out of all the people on this planet, I know that smell.”
“You open it, you bought it,” said Tony. “$14.99 plus VAT.”