and farther, father and farther, 'til
we know
Father and farther, father and
farther, 'til we know
Sometimes, father, you
and I
Are like two old drunks
Who
spend their whole lives in the bars
Swallowing
down all those lies and lies and lies
Sometimes,
father, you and I
Are like dirty ghosts
Who wear the same sheets every day
As
one more piece of us just dies and dies and dies
(repeat chorus)
Sometimes,
father, you and I
Are like a
three-legged horse
Who can't get across the
finish line
No matter how hard he tries and
tries and tries
Coyote Springs returned to the Spokane Indian
Reservation without much fanfare. Thomas drove through the late night
quiet, the kind of quiet that frightened visitors from the city. As
he pulled up in his driveway, the rest of the band members woke up,
and the van's headlights illuminated the old Indian man passed out on
the lawn.
"Who is that?" Victor asked. "Is it my
dad or your dad?"
"It's not your dad," Junior said. "Your
dad is dead."
"Oh, yeah, enit?" Victor asked. "Well,
whose dad is it?"
"It ain't my dad," Junior said. "He's
dead, too."
Coyote Springs climbed out of the van, walked up to
the man passed out on the lawn, and rolled him over.
"That's your dad, enit?" Junior asked
Thomas.
Thomas leaned down for a closer look.
" Yeah, that's him," Victor said. "That's
old Samuel."
"Is he breathing?" Junior said.
"Yeah."
" Well, then leave him there, " Victor said.
Thomas shook his father a little and said his name a
few times. He had lost count of the number of times he'd saved his
father, how many times he'd driven to some reservation tavern to pick
up his dad, passed out in a back booth. Once a month, he bailed his
father out of jail for drunk and disorderly behavior. That had become
his father's Indian name: Drunk and Disorderly.
" He's way out of it," Victor said.
"He's out for the night," Junior said.
Junior and Victor shrugged their shoulders, walked
into Thomas's house, and looked for somewhere to sleep. Decorated
veterans of that war between fathers and sons, Junior and Victor knew
the best defense was sleep. They saw too many drunks littering the
grass of the reservation; they rolled the drunks over and stole their
money. When they were under age, they slapped those drunks awake and
pushed them into the Trading Post to buy beer. Now, when they saw
Samuel Builds-the-Fire passed out on the lawn, they crawled into
different corners of Thomas's house and fell right to sleep.
"Ain't they going to help?" Chess asked.
"It's my father," Thomas said. "I have
to handle this myself."
But Chess and Checkers helped Thomas carry his father
into the house and lay him down on the kitchen table. The three sat
in chairs around the table and stared at Samuel Builds-the-Fire, who
breathed deep in his alcoholic stupor.
"I'm sorry, Thomas," Chess and Checkers
said.
"Yeah, me, too."
Chess and Checkers were uncomfortable. They hated to
see that old Indian man so helpless and hopeless; they hated to see
the father's features in his son's face. It's hard not to see a
father's life as prediction for his son's.
"Our father was like this, too," Chess
said. "just like this."
"But he never drank at all until Backgammon
died," Checkers said.
" Where's your dad now?" Thomas asked.
" He's gone."
The word gone echoed all over the reservation. The
reservation was gone itself, just a shell of its former self, just a
fragment of the whole. But the reservation still possessed power and
rage, magic and loss, joys and jealousy. The reservation tugged at
the lives of its Indians, stole from them in the middle of the night,
watched impassively as the horses and salmon disappeared. But the
reservation forgave, too. Sam Bone vanished between foot falls on the
way to the Trading Post one summer day and reappeared years later to
finish his walk. Thomas, Chess, and Checkers heard the word gone shake the foundation of the house.
"Where's he gone to?" Thomas asked.
" He's just gone,"
we know
Father and farther, father and
farther, 'til we know
Sometimes, father, you
and I
Are like two old drunks
Who
spend their whole lives in the bars
Swallowing
down all those lies and lies and lies
Sometimes,
father, you and I
Are like dirty ghosts
Who wear the same sheets every day
As
one more piece of us just dies and dies and dies
(repeat chorus)
Sometimes,
father, you and I
Are like a
three-legged horse
Who can't get across the
finish line
No matter how hard he tries and
tries and tries
Coyote Springs returned to the Spokane Indian
Reservation without much fanfare. Thomas drove through the late night
quiet, the kind of quiet that frightened visitors from the city. As
he pulled up in his driveway, the rest of the band members woke up,
and the van's headlights illuminated the old Indian man passed out on
the lawn.
"Who is that?" Victor asked. "Is it my
dad or your dad?"
"It's not your dad," Junior said. "Your
dad is dead."
"Oh, yeah, enit?" Victor asked. "Well,
whose dad is it?"
"It ain't my dad," Junior said. "He's
dead, too."
Coyote Springs climbed out of the van, walked up to
the man passed out on the lawn, and rolled him over.
"That's your dad, enit?" Junior asked
Thomas.
Thomas leaned down for a closer look.
" Yeah, that's him," Victor said. "That's
old Samuel."
"Is he breathing?" Junior said.
"Yeah."
" Well, then leave him there, " Victor said.
Thomas shook his father a little and said his name a
few times. He had lost count of the number of times he'd saved his
father, how many times he'd driven to some reservation tavern to pick
up his dad, passed out in a back booth. Once a month, he bailed his
father out of jail for drunk and disorderly behavior. That had become
his father's Indian name: Drunk and Disorderly.
" He's way out of it," Victor said.
"He's out for the night," Junior said.
Junior and Victor shrugged their shoulders, walked
into Thomas's house, and looked for somewhere to sleep. Decorated
veterans of that war between fathers and sons, Junior and Victor knew
the best defense was sleep. They saw too many drunks littering the
grass of the reservation; they rolled the drunks over and stole their
money. When they were under age, they slapped those drunks awake and
pushed them into the Trading Post to buy beer. Now, when they saw
Samuel Builds-the-Fire passed out on the lawn, they crawled into
different corners of Thomas's house and fell right to sleep.
"Ain't they going to help?" Chess asked.
"It's my father," Thomas said. "I have
to handle this myself."
But Chess and Checkers helped Thomas carry his father
into the house and lay him down on the kitchen table. The three sat
in chairs around the table and stared at Samuel Builds-the-Fire, who
breathed deep in his alcoholic stupor.
"I'm sorry, Thomas," Chess and Checkers
said.
"Yeah, me, too."
Chess and Checkers were uncomfortable. They hated to
see that old Indian man so helpless and hopeless; they hated to see
the father's features in his son's face. It's hard not to see a
father's life as prediction for his son's.
"Our father was like this, too," Chess
said. "just like this."
"But he never drank at all until Backgammon
died," Checkers said.
" Where's your dad now?" Thomas asked.
" He's gone."
The word gone echoed all over the reservation. The
reservation was gone itself, just a shell of its former self, just a
fragment of the whole. But the reservation still possessed power and
rage, magic and loss, joys and jealousy. The reservation tugged at
the lives of its Indians, stole from them in the middle of the night,
watched impassively as the horses and salmon disappeared. But the
reservation forgave, too. Sam Bone vanished between foot falls on the
way to the Trading Post one summer day and reappeared years later to
finish his walk. Thomas, Chess, and Checkers heard the word gone shake the foundation of the house.
"Where's he gone to?" Thomas asked.
" He's just gone,"
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