Read Online The Toughest Indian in the World by Sherman Alexie - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Sherman Alexie
Ads: Link
were told. This was the International House of Pancakes and its patrons were used to such things.
In control, and because he wanted to be charming and memorable, Seymour kicked open the door to the kitchen and told the cooks to keep flipping the pancakes and pressing the waffles, to make sure the bacon and eggs didn’t burn, and keep the coffee fresh.
This was Spokane, Washington, and he wanted the local newspaper to give him a name. Seymour wanted to be the Gentleman Bandit. He wanted to be the Man With Scotch Tape Wrapped Around His Broken Heart.
He was a white man and, therefore, he was allowed to be romantic. This ain’t going to take long, Seymour said to the cooks, and when it does end, everybody is still going to be hungry.
Seymour stood on top of a table. All of his life, he’d dreamed about standing on a table in the International House of Pancakes. He wondered if he would be remembered.
He wanted to be potentially dangerous.
Put your faces down, shouted Seymour to the diners, whose faces were already down. He said, I want you to put your lips on the floor and tell me what it tastes like.
He felt like he was capable of anything, like he might have to buy some bullets for his stolen pistol.
The money’s in the safe, the money’s in the safe, shouted one of the waitresses, but Seymour didn’t need his life to become more difficult than it already was. He didn’t want a thousand dollars or even a million dollars.
All I want is one dollar from each of you, said Seymour. He said, I know how hard it is to live in these depressed times, I just want a little bit of your hard-earned money.
He wanted to be kind.
From the floor, everybody held up a George Washington. On top of those human stems, the green bills bloomed and blossomed.
Good, good, said Seymour as he walked through the garden of money and collected forty-two dollars. Now, what I need, he said, what I need is somebody to run with me.
Where are you going? asked one of the cooks, a man who brought his own favorite spatula to work and carried it back home at the end of every shift.
Arizona, said Seymour, and the crowd oohed and aahed. He knew that everybody loves Arizona because Arizona is potentially dangerous. A man could strap a pistol to his hip and walk unmolested through the streets of Phoenix.
But I need somebody to go with me, said Seymour. He said, I aim to go on a nonviolent killing spree and I need somebody who will fall in love with me along the way.
From the floor, a fat Indian man raised his hand. He wore black sweatpants and a white T-shirt embossed with a photograph of Geronimo.
I’ll go with you, said the fat Indian.
Are you gay? asked Seymour. I’m not gay. Are you gay?
No, sir, I am not homosexual, said the fat Indian, but I do believe in love.
Seymour thought about that for five seconds. And then he asked, You’re an Indian, ain’t you?
Yes, I am, yes, I am. Do you have a problem with that?
Only if you’re one of those buffalo hunters. I can’t have a nomad in my car. You just can’t trust a nomad.
I come from a salmon tribe, said the fat Indian, and therefore I am a dependable man.
Well, then, you’re going with me.
Seymour jumped down from the table and helped the fat Indian to his feet. They stood together in the half-light of the International House of Pancakes.
This place smells like smoke, said the fat Indian.
Salmon Boy, said Seymour, giving the fat Indian a brand-new name, in this cruel world, we’re always going to smell like smoke.
Listen, said Seymour to the patrons still lying on the floor. He said, thank you for your kindness, tell them the Gentleman Bandit was here. Tell them it was the Man Who Was Looking For Love.
Seymour and Salmon Boy raced out of the restaurant and drove off in Seymour’s car, a 1965 Chevrolet Malibu that carried more than two hundred thousand miles on the odometer.
You ever been to Arizona? Seymour asked Salmon Boy.
Once, when I was a boy. I went to a powwow in
In control, and because he wanted to be charming and memorable, Seymour kicked open the door to the kitchen and told the cooks to keep flipping the pancakes and pressing the waffles, to make sure the bacon and eggs didn’t burn, and keep the coffee fresh.
This was Spokane, Washington, and he wanted the local newspaper to give him a name. Seymour wanted to be the Gentleman Bandit. He wanted to be the Man With Scotch Tape Wrapped Around His Broken Heart.
He was a white man and, therefore, he was allowed to be romantic. This ain’t going to take long, Seymour said to the cooks, and when it does end, everybody is still going to be hungry.
Seymour stood on top of a table. All of his life, he’d dreamed about standing on a table in the International House of Pancakes. He wondered if he would be remembered.
He wanted to be potentially dangerous.
Put your faces down, shouted Seymour to the diners, whose faces were already down. He said, I want you to put your lips on the floor and tell me what it tastes like.
He felt like he was capable of anything, like he might have to buy some bullets for his stolen pistol.
The money’s in the safe, the money’s in the safe, shouted one of the waitresses, but Seymour didn’t need his life to become more difficult than it already was. He didn’t want a thousand dollars or even a million dollars.
All I want is one dollar from each of you, said Seymour. He said, I know how hard it is to live in these depressed times, I just want a little bit of your hard-earned money.
He wanted to be kind.
From the floor, everybody held up a George Washington. On top of those human stems, the green bills bloomed and blossomed.
Good, good, said Seymour as he walked through the garden of money and collected forty-two dollars. Now, what I need, he said, what I need is somebody to run with me.
Where are you going? asked one of the cooks, a man who brought his own favorite spatula to work and carried it back home at the end of every shift.
Arizona, said Seymour, and the crowd oohed and aahed. He knew that everybody loves Arizona because Arizona is potentially dangerous. A man could strap a pistol to his hip and walk unmolested through the streets of Phoenix.
But I need somebody to go with me, said Seymour. He said, I aim to go on a nonviolent killing spree and I need somebody who will fall in love with me along the way.
From the floor, a fat Indian man raised his hand. He wore black sweatpants and a white T-shirt embossed with a photograph of Geronimo.
I’ll go with you, said the fat Indian.
Are you gay? asked Seymour. I’m not gay. Are you gay?
No, sir, I am not homosexual, said the fat Indian, but I do believe in love.
Seymour thought about that for five seconds. And then he asked, You’re an Indian, ain’t you?
Yes, I am, yes, I am. Do you have a problem with that?
Only if you’re one of those buffalo hunters. I can’t have a nomad in my car. You just can’t trust a nomad.
I come from a salmon tribe, said the fat Indian, and therefore I am a dependable man.
Well, then, you’re going with me.
Seymour jumped down from the table and helped the fat Indian to his feet. They stood together in the half-light of the International House of Pancakes.
This place smells like smoke, said the fat Indian.
Salmon Boy, said Seymour, giving the fat Indian a brand-new name, in this cruel world, we’re always going to smell like smoke.
Listen, said Seymour to the patrons still lying on the floor. He said, thank you for your kindness, tell them the Gentleman Bandit was here. Tell them it was the Man Who Was Looking For Love.
Seymour and Salmon Boy raced out of the restaurant and drove off in Seymour’s car, a 1965 Chevrolet Malibu that carried more than two hundred thousand miles on the odometer.
You ever been to Arizona? Seymour asked Salmon Boy.
Once, when I was a boy. I went to a powwow in
Similar Books
