Read Online The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven by Sherman Alexie - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Sherman Alexie
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there’s been one or two guys who played just a few minutes of one game, just enough to show what they could have been. And there’s the famous case of Silas Sirius, who made one move and scored one basket in his entire basketball career. People still talk about it.
“Hey,” I asked Adrian. “Remember Silas Sirius?”
“Hell,” Adrian said. “Do I remember? I was there when he grabbed that defensive rebound, took a step, and flew the length of the court, did a full spin in midair, and then dunked that fucking ball. And I don’t mean it looked like he flew, or it was so beautiful it was almost like he flew. I mean, he flew, period.”
I laughed, slapped my legs, and knew that I believed Adrian’s story more as it sounded less true.
“Shit,” he continued. “And he didn’t grow no wings. He just kicked his legs a little. Held that ball like a baby in his hand. And he was smiling. Really. Smiling when he flew. Smiling when he dunked it, smiling when he walked off the court and never came back. Hell, he was still smiling ten years after that.”
I laughed some more, quit for a second, then laughed a little longer because it was the right thing to do.
“Yeah,” I said. “Silas was a ballplayer.”
“Real ballplayer,” Adrian agreed.
In the outside world, a person can be a hero one second and a nobody the next. Think about it. Do white people remember the names of those guys who dove into that icy river to rescue passengers from that plane wreck a few years back? Hell, white people don’t even remember the names of the dogs who save entire families from burning up in house fires by barking. And, to be honest, I don’t remember none of those names either, but a reservation hero is remembered. A reservation hero is a hero forever. In fact, their status grows over the years as the stories are told and retold.
“Yeah,” Adrian said. “It’s too bad that damn diabetes got him. Silas was always talking about a comeback.”
“Too bad, too bad.”
We both leaned further back into our chairs. Silence. We watched the grass grow, the rivers flow, the winds blow.
“Damn,” Adrian asked. “When did that fucking traffic signal quit working?”
“Don’t know.”
“Shit, they better fix it. Might cause an accident.”
We both looked at each other, looked at the traffic signal, knew that about only one car an hour passed by, and laughed our asses off. Laughed so hard that when we tried to rearrange ourselves, Adrian ended up with my ass and I ended up with his. That looked so funny that we laughed them off again and it took us most of an hour to get them back right again.
Then we heard glass breaking in the distance.
“Sounds like beer bottles,” Adrian said.
“Yeah, Coors Light, I think.”
“Bottled 1988.”
We started to laugh, but a tribal cop drove by and cruised down the road where Julius and his friends had walked earlier.
“Think they’ll catch them?” I asked Adrian.
“Always do.”
After a few minutes, the tribal cop drove by again, with Julius in the backseat and his friends running behind.
“Hey,” Adrian asked. “What did he do?”
“Threw a brick through a BIA pickup’s windshield,” one of the Indian boys yelled back.
“Told you it sounded like a pickup window,” I said.
“Yeah, yeah, a 1982 Chevy.”
“With red paint.”
“No, blue.”
We laughed for just a second. Then Adrian sighed long and deep. He rubbed his head, ran his fingers through his hair, scratched his scalp hard.
“I think Julius is going to go bad,” he said.
“No way,” I said. “He’s just horsing around.”
“Maybe, maybe.”
It’s hard to be optimistic on the reservation. When a glass sits on a table here, people don’t wonder if it’s half filled or half empty. They just hope it’s good beer. Still, Indians have a way of surviving. But it’s almost like Indians can easily survive the big stuff. Mass murder, loss of language and land rights. It’s the small things that
“Hey,” I asked Adrian. “Remember Silas Sirius?”
“Hell,” Adrian said. “Do I remember? I was there when he grabbed that defensive rebound, took a step, and flew the length of the court, did a full spin in midair, and then dunked that fucking ball. And I don’t mean it looked like he flew, or it was so beautiful it was almost like he flew. I mean, he flew, period.”
I laughed, slapped my legs, and knew that I believed Adrian’s story more as it sounded less true.
“Shit,” he continued. “And he didn’t grow no wings. He just kicked his legs a little. Held that ball like a baby in his hand. And he was smiling. Really. Smiling when he flew. Smiling when he dunked it, smiling when he walked off the court and never came back. Hell, he was still smiling ten years after that.”
I laughed some more, quit for a second, then laughed a little longer because it was the right thing to do.
“Yeah,” I said. “Silas was a ballplayer.”
“Real ballplayer,” Adrian agreed.
In the outside world, a person can be a hero one second and a nobody the next. Think about it. Do white people remember the names of those guys who dove into that icy river to rescue passengers from that plane wreck a few years back? Hell, white people don’t even remember the names of the dogs who save entire families from burning up in house fires by barking. And, to be honest, I don’t remember none of those names either, but a reservation hero is remembered. A reservation hero is a hero forever. In fact, their status grows over the years as the stories are told and retold.
“Yeah,” Adrian said. “It’s too bad that damn diabetes got him. Silas was always talking about a comeback.”
“Too bad, too bad.”
We both leaned further back into our chairs. Silence. We watched the grass grow, the rivers flow, the winds blow.
“Damn,” Adrian asked. “When did that fucking traffic signal quit working?”
“Don’t know.”
“Shit, they better fix it. Might cause an accident.”
We both looked at each other, looked at the traffic signal, knew that about only one car an hour passed by, and laughed our asses off. Laughed so hard that when we tried to rearrange ourselves, Adrian ended up with my ass and I ended up with his. That looked so funny that we laughed them off again and it took us most of an hour to get them back right again.
Then we heard glass breaking in the distance.
“Sounds like beer bottles,” Adrian said.
“Yeah, Coors Light, I think.”
“Bottled 1988.”
We started to laugh, but a tribal cop drove by and cruised down the road where Julius and his friends had walked earlier.
“Think they’ll catch them?” I asked Adrian.
“Always do.”
After a few minutes, the tribal cop drove by again, with Julius in the backseat and his friends running behind.
“Hey,” Adrian asked. “What did he do?”
“Threw a brick through a BIA pickup’s windshield,” one of the Indian boys yelled back.
“Told you it sounded like a pickup window,” I said.
“Yeah, yeah, a 1982 Chevy.”
“With red paint.”
“No, blue.”
We laughed for just a second. Then Adrian sighed long and deep. He rubbed his head, ran his fingers through his hair, scratched his scalp hard.
“I think Julius is going to go bad,” he said.
“No way,” I said. “He’s just horsing around.”
“Maybe, maybe.”
It’s hard to be optimistic on the reservation. When a glass sits on a table here, people don’t wonder if it’s half filled or half empty. They just hope it’s good beer. Still, Indians have a way of surviving. But it’s almost like Indians can easily survive the big stuff. Mass murder, loss of language and land rights. It’s the small things that
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