We loaded Dirty Joe into the last car and checked his pockets for anything potentially lethal. “Indians ain’t afraid of a little gravity.” The carny looked at me, at Dirty Joe, back at me and smiled. “I’ll give you twenty bucks if you let my cousin here ride this thing all day.” “That’s a real shitty thing to do,” she said, laughed, grabbed his arms while I got his legs, and we carried him over to the Stallion. She smiled for the first time in four or five hundred years and got to her feet. I was just about to stand up when I heard a scream behind me, turned quick to find out what the hell was going on, and saw the reason: a miniature roller coaster called the Stallion. “Yeah, a quarter a head and we’d be drinking Coors Light for a week.”Īfter a while I started to agree with Sadie about leaving Dirty Joe to the broom and dustpan. “We should be charging admission for this show.” I was afraid of all of them, wanted to hide behind my Indian teeth, the quick joke. We sat there beside Dirty Joe and watched all the white tourists watch us, laugh, point a finger, their faces twisted with hate and disgust. We wear fear now like a turquoise choker, like a familiar shawl. But all the years have changed more than the shape of our blood and eyes. Eautiful, her face reflected in the river instead of a mirror.
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