Read Online The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven by Sherman Alexie - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Sherman Alexie
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hurt the most. The white waitress who wouldn’t take an order, Tonto, the Washington Redskins.
And, just like everybody else, Indians need heroes to help them learn how to survive. But what happens when our heroes don’t even know how to pay their bills?
“Shit, Adrian,” I said. “He’s just a kid.”
“Ain’t no children on a reservation.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard that before. Well,” I said. “I guess that Julius is pretty good in school, too.”
“And?”
“And he wants to maybe go to college.”
“Really?”
“Really,” I said and laughed. And I laughed because half of me was happy and half of me wasn’t sure what else to do.
A year later, Adrian and I sat on the same porch in the same chairs. We’d done things in between, like ate and slept and read the newspaper. It was another hot summer. Then again, summer is supposed to be hot.
“I’m thirsty,” Adrian said. “Give me a beer.”
“How many times do I have to tell you? We don’t drink anymore.”
“Shit,” Adrian said. “I keep forgetting. Give me a goddamn Pepsi.”
“That’s a whole case for you today already.”
“Yeah, yeah, fuck these substitute addictions.”
We sat there for a few minutes, hours, and then Julius Windmaker staggered down the road.
“Oh, look at that,” Adrian said. “Not even two in the afternoon and he’s drunk as a skunk.”
“Don’t he have a game tonight?”
“Yeah, he does.”
“Well, I hope he sobers up in time.”
“Me, too.”
I’d only played one game drunk and it was in an all-Indian basketball tournament after I got out of high school. I’d been drinking the night before and woke up feeling kind of sick, so I got drunk again. Then I went out and played a game. I felt disconnected the whole time. Nothing seemed to fit right. Even my shoes, which had fit perfectly before, felt too big for my feet. I couldn’t even see the basketball or basket clearly. They were more like ideas. I mean, I knew where they were generally supposed to be, so I guessed at where I should be. Somehow or another, I scored ten points.
“He’s been drinking quite a bit, enit?” Adrian asked.
“Yeah, I hear he’s even been drinking Sterno.”
“Shit, that’ll kill his brain quicker than shit.”
Adrian and I left the porch that night and went to the tribal school to watch Julius play. He still looked good in his uniform, although he was a little puffy around the edges. But he just wasn’t the ballplayer we all remembered or expected. He missed shots, traveled, threw dumb passes that we all knew were dumb passes. By the fourth quarter, Julius sat at the end of the bench, hanging his head, and the crowd filed out, all talking about which of the younger players looked good. We talked about some kid named Lucy in the third grade who already had a nice move or two.
Everybody told their favorite Julius Windmaker stories, too. Times like that, on a reservation, a basketball game felt like a funeral and wake all rolled up together.
Back at home, on the porch, Adrian and I sat wrapped in shawls because the evening was kind of cold.
“It’s too bad, too bad,” I said. “I thought Julius might be the one to make it all the way.”
“I told you he wouldn’t. I told you so.”
“Yeah, yeah. Don’t rub it in.”
We sat there in silence and remembered all of our heroes, ballplayers from seven generations, all the way back. It hurts to lose any of them because Indians kind of see ballplayers as saviors. I mean, if basketball would have been around, I’m sure Jesus Christ would’ve been the best point guard in Nazareth. Probably the best player in the entire world. And in the beyond. I just can’t explain how much losing Julius Windmaker hurt us all.
“Well,” Adrian asked. “What do you want to do tomorrow?”
“Don’t know.”
“Shit, that damn traffic signal is still broken. Look.”
Adrian pointed down the road and he was right. But what’s the point of fixing it in a
And, just like everybody else, Indians need heroes to help them learn how to survive. But what happens when our heroes don’t even know how to pay their bills?
“Shit, Adrian,” I said. “He’s just a kid.”
“Ain’t no children on a reservation.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard that before. Well,” I said. “I guess that Julius is pretty good in school, too.”
“And?”
“And he wants to maybe go to college.”
“Really?”
“Really,” I said and laughed. And I laughed because half of me was happy and half of me wasn’t sure what else to do.
A year later, Adrian and I sat on the same porch in the same chairs. We’d done things in between, like ate and slept and read the newspaper. It was another hot summer. Then again, summer is supposed to be hot.
“I’m thirsty,” Adrian said. “Give me a beer.”
“How many times do I have to tell you? We don’t drink anymore.”
“Shit,” Adrian said. “I keep forgetting. Give me a goddamn Pepsi.”
“That’s a whole case for you today already.”
“Yeah, yeah, fuck these substitute addictions.”
We sat there for a few minutes, hours, and then Julius Windmaker staggered down the road.
“Oh, look at that,” Adrian said. “Not even two in the afternoon and he’s drunk as a skunk.”
“Don’t he have a game tonight?”
“Yeah, he does.”
“Well, I hope he sobers up in time.”
“Me, too.”
I’d only played one game drunk and it was in an all-Indian basketball tournament after I got out of high school. I’d been drinking the night before and woke up feeling kind of sick, so I got drunk again. Then I went out and played a game. I felt disconnected the whole time. Nothing seemed to fit right. Even my shoes, which had fit perfectly before, felt too big for my feet. I couldn’t even see the basketball or basket clearly. They were more like ideas. I mean, I knew where they were generally supposed to be, so I guessed at where I should be. Somehow or another, I scored ten points.
“He’s been drinking quite a bit, enit?” Adrian asked.
“Yeah, I hear he’s even been drinking Sterno.”
“Shit, that’ll kill his brain quicker than shit.”
Adrian and I left the porch that night and went to the tribal school to watch Julius play. He still looked good in his uniform, although he was a little puffy around the edges. But he just wasn’t the ballplayer we all remembered or expected. He missed shots, traveled, threw dumb passes that we all knew were dumb passes. By the fourth quarter, Julius sat at the end of the bench, hanging his head, and the crowd filed out, all talking about which of the younger players looked good. We talked about some kid named Lucy in the third grade who already had a nice move or two.
Everybody told their favorite Julius Windmaker stories, too. Times like that, on a reservation, a basketball game felt like a funeral and wake all rolled up together.
Back at home, on the porch, Adrian and I sat wrapped in shawls because the evening was kind of cold.
“It’s too bad, too bad,” I said. “I thought Julius might be the one to make it all the way.”
“I told you he wouldn’t. I told you so.”
“Yeah, yeah. Don’t rub it in.”
We sat there in silence and remembered all of our heroes, ballplayers from seven generations, all the way back. It hurts to lose any of them because Indians kind of see ballplayers as saviors. I mean, if basketball would have been around, I’m sure Jesus Christ would’ve been the best point guard in Nazareth. Probably the best player in the entire world. And in the beyond. I just can’t explain how much losing Julius Windmaker hurt us all.
“Well,” Adrian asked. “What do you want to do tomorrow?”
“Don’t know.”
“Shit, that damn traffic signal is still broken. Look.”
Adrian pointed down the road and he was right. But what’s the point of fixing it in a
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