Real Indians

1. Blood Brothers

We weren't real Indians. We were half of a half breed. We were half of a half of an Indian, but we were enrolled members. We'd carry our cards around in the hidden folds of our wallets, behind the credit card slots, cards that say we're bonified, genuine, the real deals. In high school we used to carry our cards in our back pockets like loose change. Card carrying members of the Confederated Salish and Kootenai Tribes. But the Indians didn't buy it. We'd flash those real big Indians our cards when they would threaten us with broken bottles, and they'd look at us, reeling in their drunken stupors, in their alcohol vapors that like near killed us, but most times when asked we'd say, naw, we weren't Indians. Hell no. And we'd get into fights a lot. The Indians saying we weren't Indians unless they wanted our change, and the whites saying we were Indians until per capita rolled around.

2. Slow Days

One time we were bumming change for cigarettes outside of the Town Pump in Ronan and Kootenai George walks by. My man, my brother says to old George. My man, we're looking for a little change brother. Kootenai George tilted his head back, squinting, looking at us. No brother of mine, he says, and that's when Jay pulls out his card. Look here, he says. And George, he grabs both of our cards, and looks down at our pictures and then looks back at us, grinning. Jokes, old George says then, and tosses the cards over his shoulder.

3. Bar Memories

My brother and I would sit around the bar at the Ponderay with the white store owners in Polson and we'd run the Indians down. Sons of bitches, we'd say, wanting to tell us what to do. Damn dumb Indians we'd say to the white bastards. And the old white bastards would timber the house, and we'd drink 'till closing. We'd drink until we were Indians.

4. Hitchhiking the Big Sky

Late at night we'd stumble on past the shining lake with our thumbs held high into the glaring summer traffic and those people would pick us up sometimes. And we'd be what they wanted us to be - we'd be the lost tribe - we'd be the Mexican cherry pickers- we'd be the bored sons home for vacation. And no matter what we'd say those people would believe us. One middle-aged couple in a fading Cadillac, an old El Dorado with rattling doors trying to be something they weren't too, picked us up at the South Shore around midnight. The wife turns around to look at us closely. You say you're Indians, she said. I don't believe I've ever seen blue-eyed Indians. Oh yeah, Jay told her. Most of us Indians are blue-eyed these days. But my dad, he says, my dad was Jay Silver Heels. Maybe you heard of him, he says. And that woman crooked her neck round to take a good look at us. She snapped on the overhead and took a good long look. You don't say, she says, her hair three times the size of her head. She had that old lady smell about her, ten years of hair spray and Ambush. That's where I get my name, Jay. He pulled out his card to show her and she nodded, impressed. A card always impresses them. Tourists understand laminated cards. They understand credit. She pulls out her half-moon glasses and hums at him. But your last name isn't Silver Heels, she says. Hell no, Jay says to her, you can't just go giving away a name like Silver Heels, he says. No, a name like Silver Heels gotta be earned. A load short, the caddie daddy says, I guess that makes you...