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The Business of Fancydancing
- Dartmouth College Press
- Chapter
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ART SHERMAN ALEXIE The Business of Fancydancing After driving all night, trying to reach Arlee in time for the fancydance finals, a case of empty beer bottles shaking our foundations, we stop at a liquor store, count out money, and would believe in the promise of any man with a twenty, a promise thin and wrinkled in his hand, reaching into the window of our car. Money is an Indian Boy who can fancydance from powwow to powwow. We got our boy, Vernon WildShoe, to fill our empty wallets and stomachs, to fill our empty cooler. Vernon is like some promise to pay the light bill, a credit card we Indians get to use. When he reaches his hands up, feathers held high, in a dance that makes old women speak English, the money for first place belongs to us, all in cash, money we tuck in our shoes, leaving our wallets empty in case we pass out. At the modern dance, where Indians dance white, a twenty is a promise that can last all night long, a promise reaching into back pockets of unfamiliar Levis. We get Vernon there in time for the finals and we watch him like he was dancing on money, which he is, watch the young girls reaching for him like he was Elvis in braids and an empty tipi, like Vernon could make a promise with every step he took, like a fancydance could change their lives. We watch him dance and he never talks. It’s all a business we understand. Every drum beat is a promise note written in the dust, measured exactly. Money is a tool, putty to fill all the empty spaces, a ladder so we can reach for more. A promise is just like money. Something we can hold, in twenties, a dream we reach. It’s business, a fancydance to fill where it’s empty. ...