Read Online The Toughest Indian in the World by Sherman Alexie - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Sherman Alexie
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Flagstaff and lost my moccasins in the river there. My auntie spanked me until I cried like ten Indians.
I am sorry for your pain, said Seymour.
They drove the speed limit down Third Avenue, past four hamburger joints and a liquor store. They stopped at a red light.
Do you think the police are following us? asked Salmon Boy.
If they’re not now, said Seymour, they soon will be.
Well, then, said Salmon Boy. He asked, Do you think we should kiss now?
It seems like the right time, don’t it? asked Seymour. He licked his lips.
Yes, it does, said Salmon Boy. He wished he had a mint.
They kissed, keeping their tongues far away from each other, and then told each other secrets.
Seymour said, When I was eleven years old, I made a dog lick my balls.
Did you like it? asked Salmon Boy.
No, I threw up all over that mutt, said Seymour, and then it ran away.
That’s what happens when you get too far into love.
That’s what happens.
When I was fifteen, said Salmon Boy, I stole eighty dollars from my grandma. My mom and dad never knew. But my grandma must have, she had to have, because she never talked to me again.
And then she died, said Salmon Boy.
Then the light was green and Seymour and Salmon Boy found themselves traveling south along a back road near Enterprise, Oregon. They had not slept in twenty-two hours.
They stopped when they saw a dead coyote nailed to a fence post.
That’s a bad sign, ain’t it? asked Seymour.
Yes, it is, said Salmon Boy.
What does it mean? asked the white man.
I have no idea, said the Indian.
They climbed out of the car and walked through the knee-deep snow to get to them: the fence post and the coyote.
They stared at the coyote the way the last two disciples stared at the resurrected Jesus.
The coyote had been there a long time, maybe for weeks, frozen stiff now, but certainly it had been freezing and unthawing, freezing and unthawing, during that unpredictable winter.
Seymour remembered the time, in the winter of 1966 or ’67, when he walked into his parents’ bedroom and caught them making love. Still naked, his father had jumped out of bed, taken Seymour by the hand, and led him down the hall. The hardwood floor was cold against Seymour’s bare feet. Back in his own little bedroom, Seymour listened as his naked father explained why he was naked and why he’d been doing that strange and wonderful thing to his wife, to Seymour’s mother.
See-See, his father had said to him, I’m doing it the best I can, so that your mother, your beautiful mother, will love me forever.
Salmon Boy, said Seymour as they studied the dead coyote, as they noticed one of his paws was missing, cut off and tucked into somebody’s hatband maybe, or rolling around in some wild dog’s belly perhaps.
Seymour said, My father had ambitions.
Salmon Boy smiled.
Like a good Indian, he knew when to talk and when to remain silent. Like a good Indian, he knew there was never a good time to talk.
We need to find a farmhouse, said Seymour, and we need to terrorize an old man and his wife. That is, he added, if we’re going to do this nonviolent killing spree thing the right way.
Salmon Boy pointed out over the dead coyote’s head. He pointed at the horizon where a red farmhouse sat like an apple on the white snow.
There it is, said Seymour, and Salmon Boy agreed.
Are we supposed to kiss now? asked Seymour, and Salmon Boy shrugged his shoulders.
I’m not sure I want to kiss you again, said Seymour. He said, But I will kiss you if you want it, because I don’t want to hurt your feelings.
My feelings are my feelings, said Salmon Boy, they belong to me, and you don’t have to worry about them at all.
All right then, we won’t kiss no more. At least, not until we’re sure about it.
Salmon Boy said, I believe in love.
Seymour and Salmon Boy climbed back into the car and drove down the plowed road toward the farmhouse. On both sides of them, the snowbanks rose high into the blue sky until it felt
I am sorry for your pain, said Seymour.
They drove the speed limit down Third Avenue, past four hamburger joints and a liquor store. They stopped at a red light.
Do you think the police are following us? asked Salmon Boy.
If they’re not now, said Seymour, they soon will be.
Well, then, said Salmon Boy. He asked, Do you think we should kiss now?
It seems like the right time, don’t it? asked Seymour. He licked his lips.
Yes, it does, said Salmon Boy. He wished he had a mint.
They kissed, keeping their tongues far away from each other, and then told each other secrets.
Seymour said, When I was eleven years old, I made a dog lick my balls.
Did you like it? asked Salmon Boy.
No, I threw up all over that mutt, said Seymour, and then it ran away.
That’s what happens when you get too far into love.
That’s what happens.
When I was fifteen, said Salmon Boy, I stole eighty dollars from my grandma. My mom and dad never knew. But my grandma must have, she had to have, because she never talked to me again.
And then she died, said Salmon Boy.
Then the light was green and Seymour and Salmon Boy found themselves traveling south along a back road near Enterprise, Oregon. They had not slept in twenty-two hours.
They stopped when they saw a dead coyote nailed to a fence post.
That’s a bad sign, ain’t it? asked Seymour.
Yes, it is, said Salmon Boy.
What does it mean? asked the white man.
I have no idea, said the Indian.
They climbed out of the car and walked through the knee-deep snow to get to them: the fence post and the coyote.
They stared at the coyote the way the last two disciples stared at the resurrected Jesus.
The coyote had been there a long time, maybe for weeks, frozen stiff now, but certainly it had been freezing and unthawing, freezing and unthawing, during that unpredictable winter.
Seymour remembered the time, in the winter of 1966 or ’67, when he walked into his parents’ bedroom and caught them making love. Still naked, his father had jumped out of bed, taken Seymour by the hand, and led him down the hall. The hardwood floor was cold against Seymour’s bare feet. Back in his own little bedroom, Seymour listened as his naked father explained why he was naked and why he’d been doing that strange and wonderful thing to his wife, to Seymour’s mother.
See-See, his father had said to him, I’m doing it the best I can, so that your mother, your beautiful mother, will love me forever.
Salmon Boy, said Seymour as they studied the dead coyote, as they noticed one of his paws was missing, cut off and tucked into somebody’s hatband maybe, or rolling around in some wild dog’s belly perhaps.
Seymour said, My father had ambitions.
Salmon Boy smiled.
Like a good Indian, he knew when to talk and when to remain silent. Like a good Indian, he knew there was never a good time to talk.
We need to find a farmhouse, said Seymour, and we need to terrorize an old man and his wife. That is, he added, if we’re going to do this nonviolent killing spree thing the right way.
Salmon Boy pointed out over the dead coyote’s head. He pointed at the horizon where a red farmhouse sat like an apple on the white snow.
There it is, said Seymour, and Salmon Boy agreed.
Are we supposed to kiss now? asked Seymour, and Salmon Boy shrugged his shoulders.
I’m not sure I want to kiss you again, said Seymour. He said, But I will kiss you if you want it, because I don’t want to hurt your feelings.
My feelings are my feelings, said Salmon Boy, they belong to me, and you don’t have to worry about them at all.
All right then, we won’t kiss no more. At least, not until we’re sure about it.
Salmon Boy said, I believe in love.
Seymour and Salmon Boy climbed back into the car and drove down the plowed road toward the farmhouse. On both sides of them, the snowbanks rose high into the blue sky until it felt
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