I just ordered another, and I don't want to look at the goddamn note—the bill—the one in my pocket. Not again. I'm doomed. Oh well. Que sera sera.
The bar is almost empty. Sinatra croons out of speakers unseen about the “wee small hours of the morning.” And that's what these are, the maudlin hours. Midnight – when lonely souls hug inanimate pillows and beasts with venomous crotches prowl and thieve the light from once-wondrous eyes. But I'm not brooding on that now. I have the note in my hand, my hand in my pocket, and I'm about to read it again. ...
Close to $100,000 in the hole, it reads. Signed, -Your Masters and Bachelors Degrees. ... Shit. To hell with apple pie and baseball, Jack. American as debt. Right. ...
The bartender wipes down a glass with a rag, and then, with his fingers, gently massages a lipstick stain off one of them. Did he know her, the patron with the lips? The poor bastard. He's lovesick. I can spot these sad sacks by their red, rheumy eyes, their slouched backs and how they consistently eye their phones in a desperate hope that the love lost, the heartbreaker, will call any minute and say, "I love you. I made a mistake. Come home."
But no. That's not reality, folks. So he continues to wipe down the martini glasses, the shot glasses and now the bar, sniffling here and again. He's probably waited all night long, his shift, to let out a good wail, and it would appear that now I'm the only wiggy skull left between him and it. Time to go.... Yes. The poor bastard. Let it out, man. I've been there. We all have, and damn the liar who says he hasn't. The prat.
I hailed a cab, crawled in claws first and found a crumpled New York Times on the seat. Like a good friend with bad news the paper seemed to have been waiting for me, so I thumbed through it, ignoring the bill still in my pocket. "Where to, sir?" the cabbie said. "Her house!" I blurted. "She's expecting me." The driver examined me through his rear view mirror ... me, this excited passenger speaking in code and wrestling with a day-old paper in the back of his sullied cab. "Where?" he asked with a tinge of concern. "Her house, man! Her house. In Wash Heights. She does yoga. All hippies do."
"OK," he responded. "Take the West Side Highway then?"
"Good idea. Yes. The West Side Highway. Go now. We’re out of time! The hour is late and I have a date!"
And for 30 or so minutes the driver in red slammed on the gas of the yellow bee and zipped in and out of late-night New York City traffic, leaning on the horn and damning drivers and drunk jaywalkers in skirts and loosed ties until we got to the elevated freeway on the bank of the whipping Hudson.
We arrived to her apartment building with a loud shrill of the tires. The mad cabbie kicked me out of the car and, as quickly as he could, sped off into the bright lights of the city. He slowed the sedan as he approached an intersection—the red lights, but kept on his way, not stopping, only checking for traffic on either side, and then he was gone, a blur in the distance and a memory of mine to forget with all the rest of the trivial shit that happens in life.
I rang the buzzer to her shoebox apartment. No answer. Try again, I thought. No answer. Damn. No date then, and the bill continued to weigh heavily in my slacks. So I sat there on the corner outside of her flat for a bit and brooded intensely. Lie back on the concrete, maybe, stare at the stars, possibly, I thought – at least until the fuzz comes and barks at me to “move on” or a mutt comes to piss on me. And this is when the ugly ruminations chewed at my skull and dragged my mood into the gutter:
It’s a bastard of a situation when you’re $100,000 in debt to Uncle Sam yet insufferable citizens of the Know It All Nation continue to hit you over the head with, “Oh, you’re Native American? Well, shit then, you guys don’t have to worry about tuition. …”
I don't know if Woody Allen did it. I'd like to think the four-eyed filmmaker didn't sexually assault the girl, Dylan, but only he knows the truth, and she does, too – and maybe also the fly that was on the wall that fateful day in 1992.
This week I had a personal experience that was simultaneously painful and shocking, involving betrayal and a peculiar form of racism that exists in Indian country.
I'm in no mood to write today.
He limped into town in the middle of the night, beaten and bitter. He’s an asshole, really, and a good person.
As the holidays near, many Americans start planning how and where they will travel to meet up with family all around the U.S. It is a foreign concept to me.
As a researcher, I talk to other Native people about shared social issues. Sometimes we discuss the history and impact of federal Indian law, tribal politics, or the “real Indian” meme.
You have 24 hours, 1,440 minutes, or 86,400 seconds in a day—what do you do with your time? Do you find yourself spending it on the wrong priorities and activities? Time is precious. Once it’s gone, it’s gone. We can never get it back, but we can invest our time for the future.
I grew up in the white world. Anyone not white was a minority. In school we learned that Christopher Columbus was a hero who discovered America. Indians fought cowboys in the Old West, and Custer was tragically killed by a huge group of “bad savages."
If you spread it thin enough, a 40-ounce jar of peanut butter can last a long time. Ramen noodles can feed a whole nation for the cost of a box of Sailor Boy crackers.
It was summertime in the Chuska Mountains on the Navajo rez and everyone was living up in their sheep camps. There were some boys who had put in a full day of work and were heading back down to the valley below. It was 1968.
Hoskie woke up and could hear nothing and so he sat up. It was early, before light, still dark outside. He walked slowly to not make a lot of noise and could see that his wife was still sleeping and he decided to let her sleep.
When I heard of George Zimmerman’s acquittal, my thoughts went not to my 10-year-old son, but to my dad, when he was 18. I avoided coverage of the trial because I knew the unrepentant Zimmerman defense would blame his victim, Trayvon Martin, for his own death.
On a commuter jet now—US Airways flight 2128—New York City to Boston.