Reservation Blues - Alexie Sherman by Alexie Sherman

Author:Alexie Sherman
Language: eng
Format: epub

"Wait," Junior said. "Listen to that."

Coyote Springs listened. They heard the city, the ocean, but something else, too. They heard a beautiful voice, Just barely audible. The band couldn't hear the lyrics but picked up the rhythm.

"Who is that?" Chess asked. "That's the most beautiful voice I ever heard."

Coyote Springs walked without talking, searched for the source of that voice. As they got closer, they also heard a guitar accompanying the voice. A nice, simple chord progression, but something hid behind it. Something painful and perfect.

"Shit," Chess said. "I don't believe it."

As Coyote Springs turned a corner, they discovered the magical duo: an old Indian man singer and Victor, the guitar player. In a filthy brown corduroy suit and white t-shirt, the singer looked older than dirt. But his voice, his voice. A huge crowd gathered.

"Look at all the people," Junior said.

Tourists and office workers stopped to listen to this ragged Indian version of Simon and Garfunkel. Those people who usually ignored street people threw money into the old Indian man's hat. Chess noticed Victor was playing some shoestring guitar and figured it had to be the old man's instrument. Bandaged and bloody, the old man's hands fascinated Chess.

"Why's Victor playing with that guy?" Chess asked.

Thomas also noticed the old man's bandages. That old man could not play the guitar anymore, because he'd played it until his hands were useless. Thomas remembered Robert Johnson's hands; he felt pain in his hands in memory of Robert Johnson's guitar. Victor's guitar now, he said to himself .

"Jeez," Chess said. "Victor sounds pretty good on that guitar. That thing's a mess though, enit? Looks like it's made from cardboard."

The old man's guitar was constructed of cardboard, but the sound that rose from the strings defied its construction. Thomas watched the money fall into the old man's hat. A hundred dollars, maybe two hundred.

"Thomas, we're going to be late, remember?" Chess said.

"It can wait," Thomas said, frightened, but needing to see the end of that little story in the market.

Victor played with the old Indian man for another hour.

The money fell into the hat.

"Thomas!" Chess shouted. "We need to go."

Thomas broke from his trance, rushed to Victor, stole the guitar away, and handed it back to the old man. It burned.

"We need to go, " Thomas said to Victor, who briefly reached for the guitar but pulled back.

The crowd jeered Thomas.

"Shit," Victor said. "What time is it?"

"After six. "

"Man, we got to go."

Coyote Springs ran from the market, but Thomas looked back. The old Indian man picked up the hat full of money and smiled.

"We should've asked that old man to join the band, enit?" Junior asked.

"Maybe," Victor said, and then he smiled at Chess. He really smiled. Chess was frightened. She wanted to go home; she wanted her sister. The blue van rolled down Mercer Street, beneath the Space Needle, and found the Backboard Club. Victor strapped on his guitar, cracked his knuckles, and led the band inside.

***

From Thomas Builds-the-Fire's Journal:

The Reservation's Ten Commandments as Given by the United States of America to the Spokane Indians

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