The Bird is Gone: A Manifesto

The Only Good Indian

ITHE ONLY GOOD INDIAN PINK EYE was all the rage. Itwas the new strain: only Indians could get it. Everyone else was white-eyes, pale face, headlights; not to be trusted. But there are ways. There are always ways. I bought the contacts in America, at the wig store, then got on the bus before dawn, crossed back over the border into Indian Territory. I was undercover now. The sun was so red that morning , my hair so blonde. The American next to me was rolling the spine of a goose feather back and forth between his index finger and thumb, so that it flashed black-and-white, black-and-white, an old movie cupped in his hands. 'You're nostalgic,' I told him, and he nodded, said he used to 44 I STEPHEN GRAHAM JONES live here. A house, a garage, a car. The newspaper slapping his front door every morning. 'You're Indian,' he said, touching his own eye instead of mine, and I shrugged, still in disguise. 'Part,' I lied. 'Enough, I guess.' 'It's okay,' he said. I looked at him. 'I don't hold it against you, I mean,' and then he turned back to the window. Maybe I would point this one out to Nickel Eye, I thought, as bait. Or maybe I wouldn't have to. 'Number forty,' I said, just loud enough. 'Excuse me?' Nothing. Just Fool's Hip rolling up over the dashboard, a coyote skulking behind the building, black lips pulled back in a satisfied grin. 'What does it mean?' the American asked the bus in general, me in particular. 'You don't know nostalgia,' I said. 'The coyote,' he said. 'It means something, though.' 'You never should have come back, that's what.' 'But I've got to see,' he said, 'Him.' And then he handed me the feather. I was the last one off the bus, but that was in a minute. First I used one of your tricks, Blue Plume: five American dollars in the tip can. 'Him?' I asked. 'Jesus,' the driver grunted, his voice modulating, shiftinggears, and then swished the doors closed behind me, blowing my synthetic hair over my face. I don't know what ever happened to that feather. He was the first one I saw through the glass doors-sitting at the bar in his olive green jacket, the frosted mug glinting through his hair in slender pieces, golden as wheat-and then I didn't look at him for two weeks. It was easy to get lost in Fool's Hip, to lose THE BIRD IS GONE I 45 yourself; to hide. My system adapted to refresco and deer sausage, to smoke and noise, to pins crashing all around, all the time. The American I rode inwith made itoutalive, after he sawMary Boy's shoulder-Jesus' blue face stained with blood, glistening. 'A miracle,' he whispered. 'Call the pope,' I whispered back. The girls of lane 15 laughed with me. They were all waiting for their turn with Denim Horse. We were a seething, blonde mass. Eddie Dial was my first friend. The Navajo consultant. He was supposed to know how to run a reservation. 'This isn't a reservation,' I told him, an introduction. 'Petting zoo,' he said back quietly, in his clipped way. It was what America called it-us; the Indian Territories. He touched my yellow hair. 'Please,' I said, pulling away. 'You're...' he led off, studying my cheekbones. 'Seminole,' I finished, another lie. 'But so blonde.' 'Todqy,' I said, ashing before I really needed to. Eddie Dial smiled, nodded; accepted me. This is how it's done: not with batting eyelashes or dropped names, but veiled hostility, a casual disregard . 'So who's the Red Indian?' I asked, angling my cigarette to Mary Boy, crossing the pit for the clan bowlers, pitcher in hand. 'His boss,' Eddie Dial said, directing me down to lane 2, LP Deal. Out past the foul line, down on fingertips and toes, ear to the hardwood, eyes closed; listening. This is how I'll always remember him: in the silence of no-one bowling, not even CatStand. They were all holding their breath, waiting for him. Yes, he nodded. Yes yes yes. Eddie Dial laughed. 'They're coming,' he interpreted for LP, and for a moment I could hear them too: the Councilmen, rolling heavy in their airbrushed EI...