A week or so before the start of fall trimester, I picked up a copy of The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fist Fight in Heaven. Admittedly, I asked one of the book store helpers to confirm that it was indeed on the list for the class, AMS 205. After receiving confirmation, I needed additional reassurance that the price listed on the used copy I had in hand was correct. Confirmation again received. On the jacket cover, I saw a salmon soaring across a basketball hoop. I like salmon and I like basketball, but could this really be collegey material? My Mom’s been gone for over a year now, and I’ve been an adult for 25, but I swear I heard her reprimanding me for judging a book by its cover. Unfortunately, the book store employee thought I was rolling my eyes at him.
I became a fan of Sherman Alexie’s two pages into his novel’s introduction. On page xii of the intro, I laughed out loud at the line “….so I chose the third most lucrative pursuit: small-press poetry.” I had just started reading the book and was already making mental snow angels (a reference to page xviii). Acknowledging that our weekly blogging assignments need to be a little more thought provoking than “I dig his style”, I’ll get back to business. My previous blog posts have been a mixture of reading assignment summarizations, personal interpretations, and research notes. This week, I was compelled to do something a little different. Other than The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven, my only other reading source was excerpts from Children of the Sun by David Wynecoop available at http://www.wellpinit.wednet.edu/sal-cos/cos_ch03.php. All of the short stories in Alexie’s novel influenced this blog post, but “A Train is an Order of Occurrence Designed to Lead to Some Result” caused the first key strokes on my Dell computer. I don’t know if it was right for me to include Thomas’ Story in completion of my blog. I feel a little like a virtual trespasser, and even whiter than I did the night I saw the 10:00 PM showing of “Boyz in the Hood”. But I’m hopelessly hopeful. And this spot belongs to me.
***
I make my living as a hotel maid. Every morning, I leave my tipi and wipe each room clean of dirt and waste. But the hotel owner keeps taking money from the drug dealers and prostitutes, not understanding that its warmth lasts no longer than a sip of whiskey, and inflicts equal the damage. “Why are you here, sister?” I asked the young Spokane women walking down the stairs. “I used to watch you jump so high that I knew you had enough medicine to soar above and beyond the reservation. Why did you never take flight?” I say to her, “Colonel Wright’s guilt is evident, but we are on trial.” I ask my tribesmen to drive past the hotel and join me by the fire. On this night, I will be your customer, but make one request: Dance with me. Dance with me. But only my own old, tired face can be seen in the flickering light. Not enough to awaken our ancestors. Not one buffalo stirs.
Some man-made things break down quickly. Once discarded, disappearing with the first heavy rain. Once the soul leaves flesh and blood of God’s creation, there is at least some physical proof left behind, signaling that life was once here. But what remnants can be found from broken spirit, or cultural decay? Where lay the death markers of our pride? We shield our bodies from the bone chilling winds that carry them. We close our eyes to what has become, so that we cannot see what once was. So, what to become of those full of wind and light? I, too, surrender to the west-bound train.
I’m at a great, long table. We are feasting. I recognize some of the faces, but can’t hold onto a single thought long enough to grasp a name or a place. My mouth is full of fresh meat. My stomach is full. I’m warm and dry, yet I am crying. Not from sadness or pain. I have forgotten how to speak to the people around me. Only tears. A man looks at me and laughs. The eldest woman brings more fry bread to the table and turns a reprimanding eye to the laughing man. “Leave him alone Wovoka”, she says. “He’s only just arrived.” The man named Wovoka stops laughing. Not suddenly, more like the ocean’s tide slowly pulling back from the beach before rejoining the rest of the water. He puts a hand on me and says, “Look at that distant light.” I strain my eyes but can’t quite determine what I’m looking at. Words now form in my throat. Is it a fire, I ask? “No, but one day it will be. That light you see is Thomas, your grandson. Listen to what he is saying to the gathering crowd.”
The Uprising, Thomas’ Story
The train derailment was the most exciting event in the boys’ young lives. There were men in suits, shaking their heads. “Craziest damn thing I’ve ever seen,” one of them said. “I didn’t think there were any wild herds left in these parts.” White police moved the reservation police forty yards from the scene of the accident. The reservation police moved the boys forty yards further.
“How did this happen?” one of the boys asked. Thomas pushed himself into the center of the circle and spoke. “I know what happened. I saw it all from my bed last night. My grandfather stood here, singing an ancient song, but I couldn’t understand the language. The ground started to tremble, and then shake. Large bones rose from crevices in the ground and started to take shape. Ribs attached themselves to other ribs. Legs joined shoulder and hip. They were horses…lots of them. My grandfather continued to sing, and the horses snorted and bucked. I could see their muscles twitching, and I thought that soon they would leave in a cloud of dust. Instead, they blew short bursts of smoke through their nostrils, and moved with purpose. The largest of the heard nudged my grandfather, who quickly took mount. He sat tall and proud at the front of the line with hand held high in the air. To the east of them was a small light that grew larger as it moved west. A soft roar became audible that grew louder with each passing second. When my grandfather’s hand dropped to his side, his horse reared back on his hind legs, and then leapt forward. All eight hundred and one of them charged in unison, towards the light. “
Thomas opened his eyes to see if anyone was still listening. The small boys stood there, mouths open, shivering with excitement. The older boys listened too, but tried to look disinterested. The smallest of the boys finally spoke. “Tell us another story, Thomas.” As Thomas closed his eyes again, one of the older boys said “You’re drunk, Thomas.” Another said “No, you’re just full of buffalo manure.” But they stayed. They all stayed.
I became a fan of Sherman Alexie’s two pages into his novel’s introduction. On page xii of the intro, I laughed out loud at the line “….so I chose the third most lucrative pursuit: small-press poetry.” I had just started reading the book and was already making mental snow angels (a reference to page xviii). Acknowledging that our weekly blogging assignments need to be a little more thought provoking than “I dig his style”, I’ll get back to business. My previous blog posts have been a mixture of reading assignment summarizations, personal interpretations, and research notes. This week, I was compelled to do something a little different. Other than The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven, my only other reading source was excerpts from Children of the Sun by David Wynecoop available at http://www.wellpinit.wednet.edu/sal-cos/cos_ch03.php. All of the short stories in Alexie’s novel influenced this blog post, but “A Train is an Order of Occurrence Designed to Lead to Some Result” caused the first key strokes on my Dell computer. I don’t know if it was right for me to include Thomas’ Story in completion of my blog. I feel a little like a virtual trespasser, and even whiter than I did the night I saw the 10:00 PM showing of “Boyz in the Hood”. But I’m hopelessly hopeful. And this spot belongs to me.
***
I make my living as a hotel maid. Every morning, I leave my tipi and wipe each room clean of dirt and waste. But the hotel owner keeps taking money from the drug dealers and prostitutes, not understanding that its warmth lasts no longer than a sip of whiskey, and inflicts equal the damage. “Why are you here, sister?” I asked the young Spokane women walking down the stairs. “I used to watch you jump so high that I knew you had enough medicine to soar above and beyond the reservation. Why did you never take flight?” I say to her, “Colonel Wright’s guilt is evident, but we are on trial.” I ask my tribesmen to drive past the hotel and join me by the fire. On this night, I will be your customer, but make one request: Dance with me. Dance with me. But only my own old, tired face can be seen in the flickering light. Not enough to awaken our ancestors. Not one buffalo stirs.
Some man-made things break down quickly. Once discarded, disappearing with the first heavy rain. Once the soul leaves flesh and blood of God’s creation, there is at least some physical proof left behind, signaling that life was once here. But what remnants can be found from broken spirit, or cultural decay? Where lay the death markers of our pride? We shield our bodies from the bone chilling winds that carry them. We close our eyes to what has become, so that we cannot see what once was. So, what to become of those full of wind and light? I, too, surrender to the west-bound train.
I’m at a great, long table. We are feasting. I recognize some of the faces, but can’t hold onto a single thought long enough to grasp a name or a place. My mouth is full of fresh meat. My stomach is full. I’m warm and dry, yet I am crying. Not from sadness or pain. I have forgotten how to speak to the people around me. Only tears. A man looks at me and laughs. The eldest woman brings more fry bread to the table and turns a reprimanding eye to the laughing man. “Leave him alone Wovoka”, she says. “He’s only just arrived.” The man named Wovoka stops laughing. Not suddenly, more like the ocean’s tide slowly pulling back from the beach before rejoining the rest of the water. He puts a hand on me and says, “Look at that distant light.” I strain my eyes but can’t quite determine what I’m looking at. Words now form in my throat. Is it a fire, I ask? “No, but one day it will be. That light you see is Thomas, your grandson. Listen to what he is saying to the gathering crowd.”
The Uprising, Thomas’ Story
The train derailment was the most exciting event in the boys’ young lives. There were men in suits, shaking their heads. “Craziest damn thing I’ve ever seen,” one of them said. “I didn’t think there were any wild herds left in these parts.” White police moved the reservation police forty yards from the scene of the accident. The reservation police moved the boys forty yards further.
“How did this happen?” one of the boys asked. Thomas pushed himself into the center of the circle and spoke. “I know what happened. I saw it all from my bed last night. My grandfather stood here, singing an ancient song, but I couldn’t understand the language. The ground started to tremble, and then shake. Large bones rose from crevices in the ground and started to take shape. Ribs attached themselves to other ribs. Legs joined shoulder and hip. They were horses…lots of them. My grandfather continued to sing, and the horses snorted and bucked. I could see their muscles twitching, and I thought that soon they would leave in a cloud of dust. Instead, they blew short bursts of smoke through their nostrils, and moved with purpose. The largest of the heard nudged my grandfather, who quickly took mount. He sat tall and proud at the front of the line with hand held high in the air. To the east of them was a small light that grew larger as it moved west. A soft roar became audible that grew louder with each passing second. When my grandfather’s hand dropped to his side, his horse reared back on his hind legs, and then leapt forward. All eight hundred and one of them charged in unison, towards the light. “
Thomas opened his eyes to see if anyone was still listening. The small boys stood there, mouths open, shivering with excitement. The older boys listened too, but tried to look disinterested. The smallest of the boys finally spoke. “Tell us another story, Thomas.” As Thomas closed his eyes again, one of the older boys said “You’re drunk, Thomas.” Another said “No, you’re just full of buffalo manure.” But they stayed. They all stayed.
Matt, this is awesome. I dig Alexie's style too, and I think you've captured its spirit in your story. I love the image of Thomas seeing his grandfather in a vision at the tracks. And is the derailment inspired by last week's *24* episode? Nice.
ReplyDelete"A Train is an Order of Occurrence Designed to Lead to Some Result" is one of my favorite stories from the collection. I find the cliffhanger ending -- accident or suicide? -- perfectly appropriate, given Samuel's despair and sense of uselessness (he is a horse in a world of automobiles).
It's a heartbreaking ending. But I like how you've redeemed it somewhat, as Thomas very well might do, through storytelling.